My brothers keeper, an OC/SI as the twin of Stalin

[Angry_Crustacean]

Well, I think it would be a happier ending if she had her baby in hiding and the MC maybe went to visit sparingly. It is kinda bad to wish the death of a young woman after all.

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I mean yeah, but I don't like her. Oh! making my prediction now, she looses it in a gas attack

 

[Project Black Souls]

Inside, though? I was screaming. Cursing at myself for not pulling out.

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Mikheil: 'I SHOULD HAVE PRACTICED PULLING OUT....!!!!!!'

 

[Alenco98]

Excerpt from a January 17, 1983 Interview with Ridley Scott, following the release of Blade Runner

Interviewer: Let's move to the next question, Mr. Scott. The city architecture itself, primarily in regards to the upper levels. Where exactly did you get your ideas from when designing the upper levels of Los Angeles?

Scott: Moscow.

Interviewer: Moscow?

Scott: Yes, Moscow. Around early to mid-1980, May, if I remember correctly. Alien had just come out the year before. I was still getting over my brother's death, and I'd just walked away from Dune. Frankly, I needed a breather. Too much bloody chaos. My wife Sandy said, "Why not go to Russia?"

He pauses, adjusting his cigarette between two fingers.

Scott: So we did. Tickets at the embassy, booked a flight, and suddenly we were there. Part of me thought it was a mad idea. Sure, the Soviets had been open to tourists for decades, but it's still Russia. Still authoritarian, still Stalin's family and shadow ruling over everything like some bloody red Czars. And yet… as the plane descended, I saw Moscow glowing at night — neon bleeding through the haze, the towers lit like something out of science fiction. Especially the 3 towers of the World Soviet Center. That cluster of 450 meter tall monoliths. It was like looking at the future built by a different hand.

He smiles, faintly.

Scott: We spent two weeks walking the city. Always doing something new. We'd go to a public bath one day. An amusement park on the others. Walk through Mikheil's gardens the next. Visit the Kremlin another day and watch the Kremlin guard regiment on parade. The climax was when we went up Stalin Tower in the Soviet Center, then ate at a McDonald's on the top floor — which, trust me, was surreal. You're in the beating heart of the USSR, and you're eating a cheeseburger with neon flooding through the windows while a Red Army parade rumbles below. That contradiction — that was the hook.

Scott: The subways, the vast mosaics, the mix of baroque Stalinist stone, the bloody CCTVs at every corner, and brand-new glass towers — all of it felt oppressive and beautiful at the same time. The kind of place where you look up and think, "They're watching me." That was the feeling I wanted. Not just Los Angeles, but a Los Angeles haunted by Moscow. Neon, rain, smoke, the weight of industry crushing down. I didn't copy it outright, but I folded it in, bent it until it belonged to Blade Runner's world. The city you see on screen is LA, yes… but it's Moscow's shadow draped across it.

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October 17, 1918
Finnish army headquarters
Vaasa, Finland

Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim sat behind his desk, the lamp throwing long shadows across the maps and papers that cluttered its surface. His face was drawn, pale beneath the neatly trimmed mustache. Before him stood Lieutenant Jörn Magnusson and the two other men who had returned from Toijala—emissaries of horror, voices of a truth almost too grotesque to believe.

They had finished their account only moments before: how Jugashvili had assembled the captured Finns, given them the mockery of a choice—cigarettes, last rites, or both—before forcing them to slaughter each other with stones, knives, or whatever was at hand. Those who obeyed were then compelled to bury their comrades before being shipped like cattle to Helsinki, condemned to toil in the Reds' factories. And Magnusson, along with the other two, had been selected to witness it all and return as messengers.

The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall. At last, Mannerheim exhaled sharply, the words escaping his lips in Finnish like a curse:

"Animals."

He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The word hung in the air, cold and final.

Until recently, Jugashvili had been little more than a name carried by rumor and report. A Georgian firebrand in Moscow, infamous for purging Left SRs with bullets and terror. A ruthless opportunist who had stormed Murmansk, scuttled the fleet, and spat in the faces of the Entente. Mannerheim had dismissed him as another provincial warlord—half brigand, half zealot—one more marauder in Russia's endless chaos.

But first Hameenlina, then Toijala, and now Tampere, told a different story.

Jugashvili was not merely a madman in uniform. He was something more dangerous: a man with a crude but undeniable eye for strategy. He understood fear, and he wielded it like a saber. Brutality was not random with him; it was calculated, orchestrated, and carried out with theatrical precision. The atrocities were not excesses—they were weapons. And with those weapons, he had captured Tampere.

Mannerheim leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, staring at the young officer who had brought him this grim tale. Magnusson's eyes were hollow, his face pale with the memory of what he had seen. The boy was barely more than twenty—an age at which one ought to be thinking of studies, marriage, or harvests, not murder by stone and shovel.

"Get some rest, Lieutenant," Mannerheim said quietly, his voice betraying none of his inner turmoil. "You have done your duty. Leave the rest to us."

Magnusson saluted stiffly, almost mechanically, and left the office with the other two survivors. The door closed behind them, and the silence returned.

Mannerheim rose and walked to the large wall map of Finland. His eyes traced the thick red line now drawn across the heart of the country. Tampere was gone—lost to the enemy, as the reports from the day before had confirmed. Reinforcements he had dispatched lingered on the outskirts, intercepted by the red cavalry and forced into a bloody slog only a few kilometers from Tampere. The Reds were not the disorganized rabble of the spring, a mob of poorly armed workers and peasants. No, they had been reshaped, hardened into something resembling an army. Jugashvili's army.

And the Czechoslovaks—mercenaries, adventurers, men with no stake in Finland's fate—were his spearhead. Looters and opportunists, yes, but terrifyingly effective ones.

Mannerheim's jaw tightened. He felt disgust—at the barbarism, the wanton cruelty, the way Jugashvili had perverted Christian rituals into tools of terror. But alongside that disgust came something far more dangerous: respect. The Georgian understood something most men of his ilk never grasped. War was not won by honor, nor by restraint, but by fear, iron, and will.

He got the bell from his desk, ringing it. A few minutes later his adjutant, a boy of 16 named Julian Bjornsson came in. "Sir?" He saluted.

"Get the general staff together, as well as general Knox. As soon as possible."

"Yes sir." Bjornsson saluted and left the room, leaving Mannerheim alone again.

They started streaming in, Ignatius, Lofstrom, Wilkama and the others, either German aligned or entente aligned. And finally, general Alfred Knox of the British armed forces.

He wasted no time and stood up once they were seated. "Gentlemen." He said as he cleared his throat. "We have suffered a setback now that Tampere has fallen. But this is not the beginning of the end. We've only just ended the first act."

"Let me first address a pressing issue. The war in Europe is over. This means of course, German assistance, supplies, cash, and what few volunteers they could spare will no longer enter Finland." Several of the generals, the Jaeger aligned ones primarily scowled. But they could scowl all they wanted, it was the truth, plain and simple. And he'd never liked the Germans anyways.

There were some in the government that had outright called for an intervention by Germany. For a moment he'd seriously considered launching a coup. But he knew that would cause more harm than good. And fortunately, Germany was too busy throwing everything it had west to even consider mounting a serious intervention. Not that they didn't try, supplies, money, a few volunteers, mostly officers came to assist them.

But it didn't matter, Germany was gone, defeated. And now he could finally fully lean on general Knox. He'd only arrived a month ago, much to the displeasure of the Jaeger officers. But he'd bought rifles, supplies and money. And even the Jaeger's couldn't turn that down.

He'd sat in at meetings, saying nothing and only speaking to him in private and giving him reccomendations on military strategy. Now however, with Germany gone and Jugashvili pressing in, he had to take him up on what he'd been offering these last weeks in private. British troops, ammo, equipment, supplies, and funds. He needed all 3, but especially the troops; too many of his men, especially the conscripts were deserting. Jugashvili that damn Georgian offered amnesty to deserters, even the threat of executions didn't deter them, if anything it just killed morale and he'd been forced to stop.

"Let me introduce you all to general Alfred Knox of the British armed forces." The Jaegers scowled even more but he ignored them. "The British government like us shares a strong enmity towards the reds. They are offering us troops, supplies, ammunition, and funds for us to carry on the fight. I will not mince words gentlemen, we need these. More troops are coming in from Russia, with Tampere gone the reds will surely advance on Vaasa next. And we're losing more men every day, not to bullets, or hunger, or disease or wounds. But fear, fear of Jugashvili and his methods. You've all heard what he's been doing by now I assume."

They all spoke among themselves, nodding in agreement eventually. "I refuse to let Finland fall to the reds." He continued. "If the British can give us the help we need. Then we must take it. It's either that, or there won't be a real Finland to serve anymore. Only a Bolshevik vassal."

The table murmured in agreement. "General Knox. Please describe what assistance Britain is willing to give in detail."

Knox cleared his throat, his translator readying himself. He stood as Mannerheim gestured toward him. The tall, broad-shouldered Englishman adjusted his tunic with that clipped precision only the British seemed to master. His face was carved into a mask of calm severity, though the corners of his mouth hinted at the frustration of a man forced to explain himself to provincial allies who might not grasp the scale of the game being played.

"Gentlemen," Knox began after Mannerheim sat down, his words measured and sharp. His translator repeated them in Finnish, though most of the officers caught the meaning without aid. "Let us not deceive ourselves. Finland is now the front line against Bolshevism. Britain can no longer rely on Murmansk, not since Jugashvili seized our fleet and scuttled it like a pirate burning his own prize. Nor can we fall back on Archangel—our agents there report the port was burnt by the local red garrison and winter's arrival will mean it'll be out of our hands. Which leaves only Finland."

The room stirred, the Jaeger-aligned officers shifting uncomfortably, some scowling outright. Knox pressed on.

"Britain intends to use Finland as its staging ground for intervention in Russia. The Bolsheviks must not be allowed to consolidate power—neither in Moscow, nor here on your soil. For that reason, His Majesty's government is prepared to provide you with what Germany no longer can: ammunition, rifles, artillery, funds, and above all, men. British soldiers will fight beside you. Naval support will keep your coasts secure. And with our backing, the Whites in Russia may yet find the strength to ensure the Bolsheviks are beaten."

The translator's voice carried through the hall, and the effect was electric. The Jaegers muttered angrily, their loyalty to Germany flaring up even in defeat. Ignatius leaned to Löfström and whispered something sharp. But Mannerheim lifted a gloved hand, silencing the room before Knox could be drowned out by nationalist bickering.

"At present, Britain can commit a brigade—four to five thousand men—supported by naval detachments. Additional troops can be dispatched from the Home Isles as the situation demands. You will also receive rifles, machine guns, and artillery in significant quantity. Ammunition, uniforms, and medical supplies are en route already. In short, we can stabilize your front and prevent Jugashvili from overrunning western Finland."

The translator's words hung heavy in the air. Some of the Jaegers shifted uneasily, but they said nothing.

"And Britain will not act alone," Knox added. "France has pledged support. American assistance, too, is in preparation. The French will send officers and matériel, the Americans engineers and technical specialists—railway units, medics, men who know how to build and sustain an expeditionary force. Together, we mean to suffocate Bolshevism before it can spread."

This time the murmur was louder. The idea of Anglo-French-American support settling on Finland like a great net—some officers looked relieved, others alarmed. Mannerheim could practically hear the thoughts racing through their heads: Finland, a pawn on the chessboard of empires.

He rose again, cutting through the mutters with the weight of his presence.

"You see, gentlemen," Mannerheim said evenly, "the world has not abandoned us. Finland is not alone. Britain, France, and even America now look to us as their anchor in the north. This is no humiliation—it is necessity. And necessity, however bitter, is the only thing that wins wars."

The Jaeger officers bristled. "Better alone than under the thumb of England," Wilkama muttered.

Mannerheim fixed him with a cold stare. "And what then? Better a Finland swallowed whole by Jugashvili? Better our men cut down or captured, forced to kill each other with stones for his amusement?" His words struck like a lash. "No, gentlemen. I have seen war in many forms, and now here. I tell you plainly: we cannot defeat Jugashvili without allies. He is a barbarian, yes—but not a fool. His methods are savage, but effective. He turns terror into discipline. Loot into loyalty. And the Czechoslovaks fight for him with a zeal we cannot ignore."

There was a murmur of reluctant agreement.

Mannerheim pressed on, his voice rising slightly, though still measured with aristocratic restraint. "I despise his methods. They are the methods of beasts, not soldiers. But they succeed. And every day, more Finns desert to him, not because they love Bolshevism, but because they fear his wrath more than they fear us."

A silence followed. The officers shifted in their seats, some unable to meet his eyes.

Knox spoke again, voice ironclad. "Britain is not asking you to become our vassals. We are offering you partnership—supplies, soldiers, and security. We will make Finland the bastion against Bolshevism it must be. But you must decide quickly. Delay, and Jugashvili will march on Vaasa. Delay further, and Britain may decide Finland is too weak a foundation to build upon."

The translator's words hung in the air like smoke. The threat was clear, even softened as it was.

Mannerheim let the silence linger a moment longer, then rose to his full height. He leaned forward on the table, hands spread across the map of Finland, his aristocratic bearing imposing even in weariness.

"You have heard him," he said quietly but firmly. "The time for dithering is over. We either accept Britain's aid, or we consign Finland to Jugashvili's tender mercies. I will not see this nation—our nation—reduced to a Bolshevik province. I urge you: set aside whatever dislike you have of Britain. Swallow your pride, as I have. The alternative is death."

The table erupted in murmurs. Some officers looked grim but nodded, others looked as though they'd swallowed poison. Still, there was no denying the truth of it.

For Mannerheim himself, the decision tasted bitter. He loathed relying on foreigners. He loathed Jugashvili even more. Yet beneath the disgust there was also, unwillingly, respect. The Georgian understood the brutal arithmetic of war better than most professional soldiers. That made him dangerous. But it also clarified the choice: to defeat a barbarian, one needed allies.

The room broke into argument the moment Mannerheim finished speaking. The Jaeger-aligned men, Ignatius loudest among them, slammed their fists against the table.

"Relying on Britain will make us little better than a protectorate!" Ignatius barked. "Germany may be defeated, but her honor remains. Do we now trade Berlin's leash for London's?"

"Berlin's leash is broken," Mannerheim replied coldly. "Would you have us cling to the corpse of a dead empire while Jugashvili strangles Finland alive?"

Others joined in—Löfström muttering about national pride, Wilkama warning about "British ambitions." The murmurs grew into a wave of resentment, echoing through the chamber. Knox stood silent, his face a polite mask, though his eyes betrayed faint irritation.

Mannerheim let the din go on for a moment before speaking again.

"Gentlemen," he said firmly, though his voice carried a note of weary pleading beneath the steel. "Listen to me. I know what it is to despise relying on foreigners. I served under the Tsar. And we all know he never had Finland's interests at heart. And yet—here we are, facing annihilation. You may rail against Britain all you wish, but they offer us something Germany cannot: ships, rifles, funds, and men. Without them, we will lose."

He paused, his hand resting heavily on the map, pressing down as though to keep Finland itself from slipping away.

"Do you not see it?" he continued, his voice dropping low, almost intimate. "The Reds are not rabble anymore. Jugashvili has forged them into an army, one built on fear, terror, and mercenaries who plunder like wolves. He disgusts me. His methods disgust me. But they work. Tampere has fallen. Men desert every day, not to the Whites, not to Germany, but to him—because he offers them survival from a position of strength while we offer only punishment from a position of weakness. You cannot discipline an army into existence with fear when we are weak."

He looked from face to face, his aristocratic mask slipping just enough to reveal the desperation beneath.

"I will not stand by and watch Finland vanish into Bolshevik hands. I will not see our people humiliated, our children raised under Jugashvili's shadow. If I must beg you, I will: take the aid. Accept the British. For if we refuse, then all we defend here—the flag, the army, the very idea of Finland—will be reduced to ashes."

Silence fell. Ignatius scowled but said nothing. Wilkama looked down at the table. Even the most diehard Jaegers shifted uneasily, pride warring with reason.

At last, Löfström muttered, "Damn you for making me do this…"

"What other choice do we have?" Mannerheim said, his voice sharper now, iron returning to it.

One by one, the reluctant nods came. Grim, sour, but nods all the same.

Mannerheim exhaled slowly, allowing himself the faintest release of tension. He inclined his head toward Knox. "Then it is settled. General Knox, tell your government you will have Finland's cooperation."

Knox gave a curt bow, his translator murmuring the confirmation.

The decision was made—not with enthusiasm, not with triumph, but with the heavy inevitability of men staring down a choice between humiliation and annihilation.

Mannerheim sat and sank back into his chair, his gloved hand brushing the map again. He felt no triumph, only the bitter taste of necessity.

Note: Time skips will be starting now, I'll jump forward s few months as I wanna finish the civil war. The chapters will be fat though.

 

[OverseerEX]

though you can call me comrade Makarov. Yes, that Makarov. No, not the one with the psychotic monologues and evil plans—though I do appreciate the comparison.

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I liked this man, before grief took him from us. Damn, I thought this story would have a happy ending, not that I dislike the realism, but damn.

Our rules were simple: no robbing, no raping, no killing. Break the rules, you get hung from a lamppost. Just like that.

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You break the law in Soviet Russia, comrade, and the law breaks you! In the end, the only thing left of you will be a folded shirt given to your family so they have something left to bury.

Honestly, if this whole communism thing didn't work out, I could pivoted to military fashion design if I'm not shot.

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As later demonstrated, either you're shot, or you lose a part of yourself.

As Frank Underwood once said in my previous life: Shake a man's hand with one hand, hold a rock in the other.

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I love this reference, a fellow Underwood scholar, eh.

Then we create a commissariat—call it the Commissariat of Religious Affairs.

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Very modern china-esque. From the looks of it, that's not the only idea our guy Makarov "borrowed". I'm curious if he'll leave plans for a Cyberspace Administration or equivalent so the USSR is prepared for the Information Era.

I am not here, not really. I am from the future. A place more advanced, slightly more civilized, slightly less violent. Only slightly. I am above you all.

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Well, that arrogance got struck hard. Fuck.

I glanced over and caught sight of Joe—my brother Stalin—chatting with some of the Guards. I waved like a friendly idiot.

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Where is my friendly idiot? I'd like to have him back, please. I hope after "the Purge" and after the power is consolidated, he can relax a bit with his family and plan for the future of the Union. Though I'm not sure how his family would view him basically taking another wife. That is also another opportunity for the Party to tighten the leash on him.

It truly is telling, how little foresight every other member of the Party has, that they instantly destroy the Triangle of Paranoia and oversight that kept the Revolution stable, and burned bridges with the man half responsible for that revolution for one act.

"Revolution Betrayed"? No. You betrayed it, along with every other member in that meeting whose humanity was weaker than even their will to live. The reprimand would have sufficed. There is an expectation of giving a chance for atonement. "A cornered animal will fight to the death." If for every single mistake a Party member made, they got the harshest punishment, there would be no one left in the Party.

truly Georgian women were superior, no wonder Joe was sad when Kato died, what zero Georgian pussy does to an mfer. I too would commit mass murder if I didn't have a cutie Georgian waifu.

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What a prophecy. I wish he wrote that somewhere or did an interview later so someone gets to record those exact words, lmao.

History doesn't wait — and neither do I

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That's his catchphrase. He's said it multiple times now.

Then I would kill them. I would erase them so thoroughly that even the archives would forget their existence. A lesson. A demonstration. A warning. Cross Mikheil Jugashvili and you invite annihilation.

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Damnatio Memoriae. Can't wait. Honestly one of the best alternate history stories I've ever read.

 

[Alenco98]

July 15, 1906
Tiflis, Georgia
Russian Empire

I stepped out of the Svanidze house into the muggy Georgian air, casting one last look back at Keke and the others. They were bustling about inside like a pack of hens before a wedding feast, wringing hands, muttering blessings, smothering one another in their nervous piety. I gave them a half-smile and said, "I'll get him."

Joe. Today was his big day — marriage day. My scarred, brooding twin was about to legally bind himself to Kato Svanidze, and all of us were expected to clap like trained seals about it. Don't get me wrong, I was happy for him — genuinely. But underneath the cheer sat a sour little pit of jealousy. Because once upon a time, before he swooped in with his soulful eyes and revolutionary brooding, I'd been the one courting Kato.

I first met her through her brother Alyosha, a fellow conspirator in the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party. To Joe, Alyosha was little more than a political errand boy and occasional drinking buddy. To me, he was a friend and fellow literary snob. We'd down cheap wine, argue about Tolstoy, hum a bit of Beethoven when we were feeling cultured — the sort of bonding rituals men adopt when there's no internet, no television, and not even a gramophone to rot the brain. Born too early for City pop and Freddie Mercury, but just in time for the 1880s equivalent: melancholy violin quartets and revolutionary pamphlets. Lucky me.

"Joe?" I called into the street, scanning the shadows. No response. Of course not. On the happiest day of his life, he'd decide to vanish like a nervous bride.

I wandered down an alley where Alyosha sometimes chain-smoked with him. And there he was — slouched against the wall, cigarette dangling between his fingers, looking like a condemned man waiting for the firing squad. "There you are," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You know that shit's bad for you, right?"

He gave me the look — that half-resentful, half-vacant stare he'd perfected. "You know I hate it when you call me Joe."

"And you know I'm your twin brother who dragged you out of trouble more times than I can count. Brotherly privilege." I grinned, jerking my thumb toward the house. "Come on, man. It's time. And trust me, I just saw Kato — and fuck me with a broom, she looks radiant. You lucky bastard. She's impatient, too, so move it before she comes out here herself and throttles you. Happiest day of your life, Joe. Try to act like it."

The irony wasn't lost on me. Kato and I had only gone out a few times — long walks, food, some harmless chatter. Nothing dramatic, but enough to convince me she was special. Though she she never let me escalate beyond that, saying it wouldn't be right. Then Joe cornered me one night, confessing he'd met this beautiful girl through Alyosha. Naturally, I asked for details, and naturally, the universe spat in my face. Her name was Kato. He'd been going out with her for months before I even met her.

I won't lie: I wanted her. Badly. She had that mix of innocence and sharpness — a woman who could look at you as if she knew all your sins and still laugh at your jokes. But Joe, with his pockmarked face and endless revolutionary scowls, wasn't exactly Casanova material. For him, Kato wasn't just a crush; she was a goddamn miracle. And what kind of brother would I be if I kept her for myself?

So I helped Joe out. I nudged her more towards Joe, made sure the gears meshed, and stood back as they unfolded. And here we were — July 15, 1906. The day my twin brother was about to marry the woman I'd fantasized about.

"I can't go through with it," Joe muttered, dragging on his cigarette like he was trying to burn a hole through his lungs. His voice had that hollow, end-of-the-world quiver to it.

"Come on, man." I clapped him on the back. "Cold feet. Pre-wedding jitters. Standard issue. You told me once you dream about her every night, right? Holding her, breathing her in like perfume? Well, now's your chance to make the dream real. Don't flinch now."

"You don't get it," he muttered, eyes darting like a trapped animal. "I… I… I saw another woman."

I chuckled. "Really? Since when are you Casanova of the Caucasus?"

"Shut the fuck up." He shot me a glare sharp enough to kill a priest mid-Mass. Another drag, another plume of smoke.

"Alright, alright. Confession booth is open. Father Jugashvili is open for business. Tell me what happened."

"I was drinking last night. One bar closed, I went to another. And then… she came in. Red dress. Beautiful. Unbelievable. We talked, and then…" He exhaled, trembling.

"And then you fucked," I said flatly.

His silence was answer enough. Then the sob hit — quiet, pathetic.

I sighed, patting him on the shoulder. "Joe, you were drunk. It doesn't count. Would you have done it sober?"

He shook his head.

"Then it didn't happen."

"It did," he hissed. "I loved it. It felt… good. Better than with Kato." His face twisted, shame and ecstasy rolled into one.

"Alcohol makes everything better," I said, dry as dust. "Even sex. Especially sex. Get drunk with Kato, problem solved."

"No, you don't get it. The way her body moved. The things she did with her tongue—"

"Where was this bar?" I cut in.

"The Ivory Sparrow."

And that's when it hit me. Like a lightning bolt. I had to cover my mouth to keep from snorting. My chest shook. I bent over, laughing until my ribs hurt.

"What?" he demanded. "What?!"

I wiped at my eyes. "Tell me, Joe — were there any other women there?"

He thought, frowning hard. "I… I don't think so. She was the only one. And she chose me." His voice cracked on the word chose.

"Yeah." I nodded, biting my lip to stop the grin splitting my face. "Then you've really got nothing to worry about."

His eyes narrowed. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

I coughed into my fist, trying to straighten up. "Nothing, nothing. Just… trust me. This is one sin you'll never have to confess to a priest."

"What the hell does that mean?!"

"Shhh." I pressed a finger to his lips, still fighting the laughter threatening to boil out. "Bride's waiting. Time to get you married."

And I dragged him back toward the Svanidze house, still choking down the hysterics. Poor Joe. He thought he'd betrayed his bride. Truth was, the only thing he'd betrayed was his own ability to tell the difference between a woman in a red dress and a very friendly man.

 

[Ampharos_Lord]

So Joe fucked a femboy ?

 

[Master Chef]

I'd been the one courting Kato.

That's a contridiction with the main story in one of the early chapters MC stated that Stalin met her first

 

[Project Black Souls]

I think this is a reference but I didn't get it, what happened?

 

[Alenco98]

November 1, 1918
Soviet Army Field Headquarters
Sunniemi, outskirts of Pori, Finland

Mikhail Tukhachevsky stood at the edge of the forward encampment, boots sunk into the half-frozen mud, cigarette smoke curling lazily around his sharp features as the thunder of artillery rolled across the countryside. The sky was a low, oppressive gray, the kind of sky that promised winter's hand would close soon and choke the life from men too slow to move. From here, he could see the distant outlines of Pori trembling under the pounding of Red guns. Shell bursts lit up the horizon in dull flashes, each one accompanied by the steady rattle of machine-guns.

The advance had been relentless—town after town swallowed whole, defenders shattered and scattered before they could regroup. Tukhachevsky had driven them forward with a speed that felt almost intoxicating. To pause, to breathe, to wait for wagons and provisions, that was death. Momentum was everything. He was not Jugashvili; he did not believe in waiting for bread loaves and warm boots to catch up before striking the enemy. War, as he saw it, was a concerto of violence, and hesitation ruined the tempo.

He had, of course, tried to bring Jugashvili around. The man listened, politely even, acknowledged his concerns, then responded with that maddeningly cautious refrain: supplies, supplies, always supplies. "That's fucking reckless," Jugashvili had said, with that irritatingly calm voice of his. "Its Finland man, there's forests everywhere, next thing you know the trees start talking Finnish and our supply trains suffer."

Tukhachevsky exhaled smoke through his nose, his jaw tightening. Supplies. What good were wagons of food and ammo when the enemy was already broken? Tampere had gutted the reactionaries—their hub lost, their morale shattered, their men running ragged. Yet still Jugashvili insisted on measured advances, deliberate consolidations, creeping forward as though the Whites had the strength to strike back. Reports claimed Jugashvili's forces were only halfway to Vaasa. Halfway! When the road to the coast could have been taken in a week with proper daring.

He took another long drag, the ember burning bright in the dim light, then sighed and flicked the butt into the mire. The sound of hooves and wheels drew his attention: a tachanka rattled past, drawn by a weary horse, its Maxim gun bouncing ominously as it clattered toward the firing line. Dust and cold mist clung to the air in its wake.

Moments later, a soldier approached him—one of Jugashvili's men, sent along with his detachment for this operation. The man wore one of those foul-smelling soaked rags over his face, the improvised masks the troops used against gas and smoke in the storming of the city. Some stuffed them with wood charcoal; others swore by urine. Tukhachevsky preferred the former, if only because it smelled less like fear. The soldier snapped a salute, his rifle still slung across his shoulder.

"Sir." His voice was muffled by the cloth.

"At ease," Tukhachevsky replied coolly, brushing imaginary ash from his glove. His eyes, sharp and impatient, fixed on the man. "Report. What is the status of the battle?"

"We've begun the push into the town proper," the runner panted, the words clipped by the cloth over his mouth. "We've punched through several points in their outer defenses. There's heavy resistance, but we'll break them."

Tukachevsky watched him with the unreadable patience of a man who could wait a second and still be the faster thinker. He listened for the cadence of truth in the voice, the steadiness that meant confidence rather than bravado.

"How long?" he asked, as if ordering a brandy.

"A day or two. Maybe less, according to the officers at the front."

Tukachevsky's mouth twitched—a smile the way a blade twitches in its scabbard. "Tell them they'll have reinforcements from the reserves. Pour the reserves into the breaches. Have them wheel around the defenders and hit them in the rear. I want the town taken as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir." The runner snapped a salute and vanished again into the churn of men and mud, swallowed by the life of couriers—coming, going, carrying small pieces of destiny on their backs. Tukachevsky watched him retreat, imagining the boy stumbling across a shell crater in an hour and wondering, briefly, whether the boy's life mattered more than momentum. Then he finished his cigarette, ground the butt under his boot, and stepped back toward the command tent. Orders waited. Wars did not pause for pity.

He moved through the camp like a conductor. Soldiers parted for him without thinking; in their eyes he saw the intoxicating reflection of authority. At twenty-five he was already a lieutenant-colonel: an aristocrat's posture in a sergeant's boots, brilliance braided with impatience. He felt the old hunger—more ranks, more maps, more mouths to feed on his name. Here was the world he wanted: forward, decisive, beautiful in its efficiency.

Inside the tent, maps were unfolded and re-folded like the lives of men. The officers snapped to attention. Pyotorevich, who still smelled faintly of cordite and boiled cabbage, spoke up.

"Sir," Pyotorevich began. "We can push the reserves through the breaches, but many of the Finns were left behind during our advance. Our trailing companies are still straggling up. Supplies are still working their way forward."

Tukachevsky's jaw went hard. He could hear Jugashvilli's ghostly, smug caution echoing in his skull—supplies, supplies, always supplies. He hated that voice almost as much as he hated indecision.

"Are you saying we lack men or ammunition?" he asked, each word precise, like a drill.

"We have enough," Pyotorevich said, and then, as if admitting a private sorrow, "but only for two—maybe three—days of sustained action if we stretch it. If we fail to take the town by then, we'll be forced into close-quarters fighting."

Tukachevsky closed his eyes for a fraction of a second and did the arithmetic in the light behind his lids: manpower flows, the cadence of rations, the burn rate of shells, the distance to the front, the time before ice and mud made movement a joke. Pori was not just another town; it was the last significant knot of reactionary resistance in the south. Take Pori and the south of Finland was theirs. Take Pori and his name would ride the wave towards victory with Jugashvilli. Take Pori and he would not be content merely to be brilliant—he would be indispensable.

He pictured the headlines he wanted: Tukhachevsky, the audacious stormer of Pori; Tukhachevsky, the man who seized the initiative and turned a stuttering campaign into a sprint. He felt the old, aristocratic contempt for anyone who thought rules mattered more than results. He could imagine Jugashvilli restored to the central commitee, playing the part of patron while the real work—daring, imaginative, ruthless—fell in his lap. And when, not if Jugashvilli rose, so, inevitably, would those attached to him: Mikheil's friends elevated—quick political currency for a postwar world.

Tukachevsky nodded once, not to the map, not to the officers, but to the possibility itself. "Then we do it," he said. "We can ration shells, we can throw every fresh man at the breaches, and we can sharpen bayonets for the eventuality. Send the reserve companies now—no parade, no pause. Concentrate them in the sectors we've opened. Artillery moves up in echelon with them; the machine-guns leapfrog in. We surround, we close, we do not dither."

"And if the supplies run low?" Pyotorevich pressed.

"We move faster," Tukachevsky replied coldly. "If the logistics can't keep pace, we make the ground speak for itself. We live off the country. We seize everything around the town and scavenge from the dead. If that fails, we use bayonets. But sitting and counting bullets is how wars are lost."

His voice had the smooth cruelty of someone who believed in beautiful solutions to ugly problems. The officers exchanged looks—fear braided with a sort of admiration. Tukachevsky knew the look. He had worn it himself when a plan had worked. He thrived on it.

"Prepare the men," he ordered. "I want a decisive assault: the breaches widened, flanks closed, reserves funneled in like water into a broken dyke. No single unit is to be pinned without artillery support; if a sector stalls, the nearest reserve must push through. Pyotorevich—coordinate with the cavalry on the eastern approach. We'll turn Pori into the grave of the reactionaries in the south."

"Yes, sir."

He allowed himself a small, private grin. If Pori fell within the week, as he intended, the war would not merely bend in favor of the Bolsheviks—it would bend in a shape he recognized and liked: clean, forward, and stamped with his signature. He had the plan, the will, and, for now, the advantage of surprise. That was enough.

"Make it so," he said, and the tent snapped into a flurry of movement. Men went to their tasks, maps were rewritten, runners were flung back into the night. Tukachevsky watched them go, a general already rehearsing his victory speech in the quiet of his mind.

November 6, 1918
Town Square
Pori, Finland

Tukhachevsky walked the length of the square as the prisoners were being funneled into place, his boots crushing cigarette butts and the last scraps of autumn into the frozen mud. The town smelled of smoke, cordite, and unwashed bodies; the Kokemäenjoki gleamed a cold pewter at the square's edge, carrying the husk of the day away. Yesterday was still raw under everyone's boots.

They'd taken the town the day before—Pyotorevich had been half right and half wrong. Their supplies had, miraculously, held for four days; when the rounds finally ran low there had been no choice but to fight with knives and fists. It had turned into a grind: waves of men pushed across the single causeway to the little peninsula in the river, where the remaining Whites had made their last stand. The Finns had fought like men possessed; for every man they felled they cost the Reds five. Tukhachevsky had ordered boats; men had been landed at dawn around the island, landing parties cutting in from unexpected quarters until the defenders' lines folded like bad paper.

The numbers had been ugly and precise, like ledger entries for a world ending. He had been given twelve thousand men for the operation—ten thousand Red Finns and two thousand of Jugashvilli's seasoned troops. The quartermaster's tally now read three thousand dead, two thousand wounded. He heard the figures more as punctuation than grief; they were the price of speed.

Men marched past him now in ragged columns, some with faces slack as if they'd left a part of themselves on that peninsula. Others glared—eyes flame-bright—at the prisoners as if daggers were easier to wield than words. Jugashvilli had given him instructions in that peculiar, performative tone he reserved for public cruelty: no executions, ship them back to Helsinki, keep the factories full. "Leave the terror to me," Jugashvilli had said before dispatching him, smiling around his own brand of theatrical menace. "My name should make the whites piss their pants; they'll run to surrender to my subordinates like yourself rather than face me."

It would have been simple to agree: mercy in theory, efficiency in practice. But Tukhachevsky read the room and knew what his men wanted. Legs were trembling with hunger for something more than bread; the Finns and the Russians alike wanted retribution for the hell they'd endured. He weighed Jugashvilli's theatrical cruelty against the raw need for control and found the necessity of mercy today lacking.

He watched a line of prisoners—a ragged knot of men—being marched up from the riverbank. Some were stripped to the waist; some still had their caps. Their faces were small, human things that did not quite match the enormity of the decision to come. One of them held his head high as if dignity could be a shield. Another whimpered when a soldier kicked his elbow; one spat into the mud and cursed in Finnish. The street swallowed the noise: boots, a bell from the old church, the dull metallic tapping of a man checking his rifle. It all fit into the blunt geometry of what needed doing.

Tukhachevsky sighed once, a controlled, aristocratic exhalation—more habit than emotion—and called for his adjutant. The man appeared within a minute, breathless and wide-eyed, the professional anxiety of a runner stuck in his face.

"Sir?" the adjutant said, snapping a salute that was more reflex than feeling.

"Execute the prisoners," Tukhachevsky said, flat as a ledger entry. "Let the men have their fun, but make it quick. I want the town and the approaches from Tampere locked down."

"Sir!" The adjutant's voice fractured between obedience and the knowledge of what the order meant. He ran toward the town hall where the staff were assembling the lineup, disappearing into a whirl of shouted commands and toggled belts.

Tukhachevsky stood and watched the square rearrange itself into something functional and terrible in the next several minutes. Officers barked, squads formed, and his men—some with resigned eyes, some with hungry ones—shouldered their rifles and took stations. He felt, with a clarity that could be nauseating or exhilarating depending on the day, the exact geometry of power: a man can be moved by orders, and orders could bend circumstance. He allowed himself no theatrics, no flourish. This, he told himself, was not cruelty for pleasure but administration in hard times.

The prisoners began to be lined up—shoulder to shoulder, the river behind them, the town square wide and indifferent. A hush fell as if the world were holding its breath. Tukhachevsky, hands clasped behind his back, watched with the kind of calm that comes from certainty. Orders had been given; the machine began to turn.

It did not take long. The first volleys cracked across the square, harsh and final, echoing off the stone facades and into the cold November air. One burst of sound after another, punctuated by the dull thud of collapsing bodies. This was not Jugashvilli's kind of performance—no last cigarettes, no last rites. No theatre. This was cleanup. Quick, simple, merciless. An operation of mathematics, not poetry.

By the end of an hour, it was finished. The line of prisoners had dissolved into heaps of stillness, their eyes glassy, their mouths slack in frozen shock. Detail squads moved in with the efficiency of men who had learned to treat death as logistics. The corpses were dragged toward the Kokemäenjoki and pitched into the current with mechanical rhythm. Splashes rose, then silence, as the river claimed its new burden. More food for the fish; more silence for the living; more widows; more grieving mothers, sisters, and lovers.

Tukhachevsky stood a moment longer, observing the square as if he were inspecting the results of a well-drilled maneuver. Around him his men looked different—faces no longer pinched with hunger for vengeance but slack with something resembling satisfaction. The tension had drained out of them, replaced by that eerie calm soldiers feel when a blood-debt has been paid. Order restored, morale steadied. Discipline by catharsis. Anger sated.

He turned on his heel and strode into the town hall. The corridors smelled of wood smoke, dust, and the lingering musk of officers who had bivouacked here for days. Guards stiffened as he passed, salutes snapping up like clockwork. He acknowledged them with the barest inclination of his head, not out of rudeness but because he was already thinking three steps ahead.

The office that had been commandeered for him was waiting: a desk cluttered with maps, requisitions, and the quartermaster's blood-soaked figures. He removed his gloves with a precise tug, dropped them on the desk, and sat. The room was quiet except for the scratching of his pen as he began to compose his report.

Pori taken. The south secure. Enemy resistance broken. The words came easily, each one a milestone, each one laying another stone in the road toward command. His request followed naturally, flowing from his ambition to the page: Permission to rejoin the advance on Vaasa. Forces intact, momentum unbroken. Recommend immediate exploitation of victory before the season closes the roads.

As he wrote, he allowed himself one private indulgence. He pictured it again: the dream of a general's rank, the deference of subordinates, his name inked into dispatches as the man who helped to reconquer Finland. He imagined the glow of recognition, the inevitability of rising above those who hesitated while he pressed forward. It made him smile—just faintly—as he leaned back in his chair.

The square outside was still wet with the echo of executions, but for him it was already behind, another step in a march he knew was only beginning.

 

[sports-information]

I'm starting to think they'll actually win this — OTL, the Finnish Workers' Republic collapsed in March, and these guys are well beyond its greatest territorial extent if they're halfway to Vaasa.