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

[Fellow Human]

I need a different perspective of Mikail from the angle of other nations or from the opposite side or from the angle of the people.

Click to shrink...

That will come, the problem in the Mussolini fic was it was repetitive bunch of talks going welp we can't do anything about that bastard.

The problem now is it seems like the central commitee is not doing anything, everything is done by SI. We know it isn't so, though he clearly is the most important, but there is a lack of perspective as it's only the SI talking and others reacting.

There's also a couple missing scenes. The Kornilev's defeat was just implied, never shown or explained, felt like I missed a chap.
Then the falling out with Trostsky. One chapter MC says to Stalin, we'll be great friends or I'll have to kill him. The next chap, he keeps dissing him in the commitee meetings.

It's implied that Trotsky proved too ideological and inflexible, but there wasn't a transition, or MC talking with Stalin where they decided to go against Trotsky.

 

[Alenco98]

"Any of you have any last words? No? Come now, don't be shy—this is the part where you beg for God's mercy or mine, though I'll admit I've had none for a long time. Would you like a cigarette before you meet your virgins in paradise? I hear Afghan tobacco is quite good for calming the nerves before I turn your skull into a Picasso painting. No takers? What about an imam to bless you? I can fetch one if you insist. I've got one on retainer these days—very cost-effective, really. I pay him by the corpse. Anyone? Anyone at all?"

— General Mikheil Jugashvili addressing a group of bound Saqqawist rebels in Charikar, Afghanistan, moments before personally executing them, January 16, 1929.

-----

January 7, 1918
Finland Station
Petrograd, Russia

The train gave that low metallic groan, the kind it makes before it decides to haul several dozen tons of steel and men across a frozen country. Outside, steam hissed in lazy bursts from the engine, wrapping itself around the platform like cigarette smoke from a giant's mouth.

I lit another cigarette. Aleksandra would have hated it — she used to wave her hands in front of her face and mutter about how the smell clung to people that smoked it. Funny thing is, I hated it too. Always did. My last life taught me what smoking does to your lungs, and it's not exactly a secret in this one either. That's why I tried to stop Joe from lighting up in my apartment back then. That's why I never touched them.

But now? What's the point?
The one person I'd kept myself clean for was in the ground, in a box, surrounded by frozen dirt.

Keke was still alive. Joe was still alive. The kids were still alive. But without Aleksandra, it was like someone had taken the part of me that cared and tossed it off a cliff. Everything since her death felt like an echo.

In front of me, the train loomed — the one that would carry me to Moscow. More raids. More purges. More… fun, if you could call it that.

The last six days had been mechanical. Wake up. Eat something tasteless. Round up the condemned. Shoot them. Spend the evening with the family — enough to keep them from thinking I'd gone completely mad with grief which I clearly was — then back to work. No breaks. No soft edges. Just rinse, repeat.

Yesterday had been more of the same. Church in the morning, executions in the afternoon, dinner in the evening. The Lord's work and my work — neatly compartmentalized.

Today was different. Today was her funeral. Father Patruchev led it, his voice even but his eyes looking anywhere but at me. The rest of my family stood together, bundled against the cold, while the wind blew snow over her grave as if the world was in a hurry to forget her.

I didn't cry — not like Joe had for Kato years ago, when the man jumped into her grave like he was trying to sink into the earth and die with her. My grief had already been burned into something else. Something harder.

Now, it was time to leave. I'd hugged the kids at Smolny. Kissed Keke on the cheek. Told them all I loved them in that voice that pretends it's steady. Then I left.

Only Joe and Aleksander came to see me off. I hugged them both — hard enough that they'd remember it. "Don't get yourselves killed while I'm gone," I told them. "Bulletproof vests and helmets. Guards at all times. And make sure Keke and the kids wear theirs too. I don't care if they complain — they comply. Make sure Yagoda keeps them safe, or I'll hang him with his entrails."

Joe just nodded, grim and silent. Aleksander gave me his usual verbal assurance: "I'll make sure they're always protected."

I turned toward Tukachevsky, who was already by the carriage steps, his posture screaming discipline. I climbed aboard and headed straight to my quarters. I'd be sharing the space with him and the rest of my staff — not that it mattered.

I sat on the cot, reached into my coat, and pulled out the wedding photo. The two of us smiling, hands clasped, the world still open in front of us. A few tears threatened, but I swallowed them back.

Couldn't look weak. Not here. Not now. I had thousands to kill. I couldn't afford it.

---

January 16, 1918
Moscow Nikolayevsky Railway Station
Moscow, Russia

I was the last one to step off the train, partly for dramatic effect, partly because I didn't trust the station crowd not to be full of knife-wielding SR lunatics, and partly because I'd been making sure my bulletproof vest was sitting comfortably under my coat. My wife's photograph rested against my ribs in the inner pocket—a reminder of her, it was all I had left. Everyone else but my family was nothing but numbers to me now.

The platform stank of wet wool, coal smoke, and the faint moral decay that comes from centuries of autocracy followed by three years of war. I scanned the crowd and found Tukachevsky, talking to some thin, fox-eyed fellow in a cap that looked like it had seen too many meetings and not enough laundry.

"Tukachevsky," I called, stepping over a puddle of melted snow that looked suspiciously red in the morning light. "Who's this?"

The stranger straightened. "Grigory Aleksandrovich Usievich. I take it you're Commander Jugashvili?"

"I am," I replied. He nodded, taking in my appearance the way one might size up a suspicious meat pie.

"You're shorter than I expected."

"Doesn't prevent me from murdering my enemies," I said, shrugging. My tone was casual; theirs wasn't. I gestured, and one of my men—bless him—tossed me a rifle. I caught it without looking, because what's the point of building a reputation if you can't punctuate it with theatrical nonsense? "Did Dzerzhinsky's men deliver the lists to you? Are the local Red Guards ready?"

"They are," Usievich said slowly, like each word had to be weighed for its possible role in a future tribunal. "I admit, though, comrade… it seems rather excessive, don't you think?"

"Excessive?" I repeated, widening my eyes as if he'd just told me water was wet. "Comrade, I am a member of the Central Committee—same as Lenin, same as Trotsky, same as my brother Stalin. An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. The SRs have made it perfectly clear they'll keep trying. Either we kill them all, or they'll overthrow us and hand us gift-wrapped to the reactionaries. Your hesitation is touching, but frankly, the graveyard is full of men who respected proportionality."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I still think it's a bad idea."

"And I respect your opinion," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Unfortunately, respecting it is all I'll be doing with it. Now—status of the Left SRs?"

Usievich's expression was the same one you'd see on a man about to hand over bad news to someone with a reputation for shooting messengers.

"They know you're here," he said flatly. "Your little Petrograd purge… word spread before you even got halfway. Most of their leadership in Moscow's already gone underground. We've identified about a dozen safe houses—some confirmed, some just suspected—but they're moving between them constantly. They've stopped holding meetings, no more public agitation, no speeches, no leaflets. When they move, they move in twos and threes, and they're armed. If you want to find them now, it's house-to-house work."

I tilted my head, I was almost amused. "Any arrests so far?"

"A few," Usievich admitted. "A dozen local organizers, both grabbed on the street. We've got them in holding. The rest? We've been sweeping apartments and warehouses since yesterday, but they're spooked. Even their rank-and-file are ditching papers and weapons. They know the second we catch them with something, they're done for."

I couldn't help but grin. Finally, a challenge. Something to point the gun at besides my own mouth when I felt particularly sjitty.

"They're running? Good," I said, flicking ash onto the slush. "Makes the hunt more interesting. I didn't come all the way from Petrograd for a polite conversation."

I patted the stock of my rifle like a loyal dog. "I've got five thousand Revolutionary Guards with me — and not the parade-ground kind. These are the ones who smile while they're bayoneting someone. We'll dig in here, recruit more men, help your men spread our net across the whole city."

I stepped closer to Usievich, lowering my voice like I was about to share a dinner recipe. "Immediate curfew. Anyone caught outside after dusk officially is to be seized, but in reality, I want your men to tail them. Let's see who they meet, where they sleep, what they hide. Safehouses first, arrests second. We're not just plucking weeds here, we're burning the field."

I could see he didn't like where this was going, which only made me smile wider. "The ones we've already got in holding? We start with them. Today. I want to begin with a bang. Something Moscow will tell their grandchildren about, if they live long enough to have grandchildren. I'll personally put them down — clean, deliberate, in full view. Makes the rest of the Bolsheviks safer, too. If they want revenge, they'll come for me instead of everyone else. I'm generous like that."

I looked past him, toward the skyline, the red walls of the Kremlin glaring through the winter haze. "Clear out the space outside the Kremlin. I want them kneeling there before sunset. Get me a priest — last rites for the condemned, or a cigarette if they want, a courtesy they denied my wife."

I turned away, lighting another cigarette, already picturing the smoke curling through the frigid air as the shots echoed off the Kremlin's stones. Aleksandra would have hated the smell. I'd make sure the priests stood close enough to taste it.

January 16, 1918
Right outside the Kremlin
Moscow, Russia

The sun was bleeding into the horizon, casting long red shadows over the cobblestones. Appropriate, I thought — Moscow's sky was doing half my propaganda work for me.

A dozen of them stood in a neat line, hands bound, faces somewhere between pale terror and defiant stupidity. Left SRs, Moscow's finest pests. The crowd had been herded into place, shoulder to shoulder, craning for a view like this was the Tsar's coronation.

I stepped forward, my boots crunching on the frost, and held my hands behind my back like a man greeting guests at a formal dinner.

"Comrades," I said, my voice carrying over the cold air, "you've all been given the same choice. A priest, or a cigarette. I recommend both if you're superstitious — spiritual insurance and something to take the edge off."

One or two muttered cigarettes. Most asked for the priest. Not Father Sergey this time, he was back in Petrograd, someone needed to run religious affairs after all— today I had a local one, older, with a face that said he'd been watching men walk to their deaths since before I was born. He went down the line, muttering prayers and making the sign of the cross.

I waited until he stepped back, then drew my pistol. No speeches now. One step forward, one shot each. The sound cracked against the Kremlin walls like a drumbeat, the bodies dropping in neat succession. I took my time, no rush — they'd waited their whole lives for this moment, whether they knew it or not.

By the last shot, the square was so quiet you could hear the brass casing roll on the stone.

I turned to the crowd, my breath visible in the fading light. "As of this moment," I said evenly, "membership in the Left Socialist-Revolutionary Party is a capital offense. You have one day — twenty-four hours — to come forward, renounce your allegiance, and confess your associates. After that, you will be hunted down and executed without exception."

I let the silence hang before continuing. "A curfew is now in effect. After dark, no one leaves their home without a permit. If you're caught without one, you will be detained and questioned. Resist, or act suspiciously, and you'll meet the same fate you've just witnessed. And I'll personally shoot you."

The priest crossed himself again. The crowd didn't move. Good — fear freezes people in place.

I holstered my pistol and stepped over a corpse on my way back toward the Kremlin gates, the last light of day dying behind me.

January 16, 1918
Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
Night time

The Kremlin was quiet in that way only a fortress can be — thick walls keeping the cold out but letting the silence in. My quarters were barely warm, the kind of room where a man could hear his own thoughts whether he wanted to or not.

I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the photograph from my coat pocket. Aleksandra on our wedding day — smiling like she had no idea she'd eventually marry a man who'd become the executioner of Moscow. I kissed the photo, slowly, like it might kiss back if I did it just right.

"Evening, Sashiko," I murmured, pretending the still air between us was her voice answering back. "How was your day? Mine? Oh, you know… a bit of light killing, some administrative work, a priest… the usual."

I laughed at my own joke, the kind of laugh that dies halfway out of your mouth and leaves a bad taste. "You would've told me to stop smoking. And I would've done it if you hadn't died."

I leaned the photo against my pillow and lay down beside it, like we were back in our old room in Smolny. "They all think I'm doing this for the Revolution," I whispered. "But it's really for you. Every bullet is a love letter written in gunpowder. And the best part? It scares the hell out of them. Keeps the rest alive. Keeps Joe alive. Keeps the kids alive. Keeps Keke alive." I swallowed. "But it doesn't keep you alive, does it?"

For a moment, I imagined she was there — warm beside me, her hair brushing my cheek. But I knew better. The bed was cold. The photo didn't move.

"You know, Sashiko… sometimes I hope an assassin gets me quick. Just one clean shot, and I'll be back with you. I'll stop smoking—we can make love everyday. I'll sing you those stupid songs you love, massage your back, hold you tightly in my arms and never let you go again. But not yet. There's still work. Still lists to check. There's still thousands that need to die. Maybe if there is a heaven and hell, you're probably in heaven. And lets be honest, given my track record, I doubt I'd ever join you, even if I took last rites. So maybe that day was the last time we saw each other." I sighed then looked up at the ceiling.

I stayed like that until the silence pressed so hard against me it cracked something inside. Then it came — not the clean sob of a grieving widower, but the uneven, ugly crying of a man who's been killing too much and sleeping too little. The kind you try to smother into the pillow so the guards outside don't hear.

Eventually, the tears stopped. I fell asleep with the photograph still in my hand, my face turned toward her, half-expecting her to still be there when I woke up.

But she wouldn't be.

Ever again.

 

[a guy1013]

Author is super motivated hope they don't burn out too soon and ouch MC lost his waifu

 

[Siryapsalot]

DAMN IT!!!!!!!!????????? we all know the Mikheil crashout but what about Aleksander man lost both his baby sisters Kato dying fine unavoidable but Aleksandra nah he probably doesn't give two shits about that dude's entire family getting merked.

Author is super motivated hope they don't burn out too soon and ouch MC lost his waifu

Click to shrink...

Trust me bro his crazy click on his profile and ignore this one look at his last two stories the completed one is 330k words and he only started it in April the other 140k JUNE 1ST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

[a guy1013]

DAMN IT!!!!!!!!????????? we all know the Mikheil crashout but what about Aleksander man lost both his baby sisters Kato dying fine unavoidable but Aleksandra nah he probably doesn't give two shits about that dude's entire family getting merked.

Trust me bro his crazy click on his profile and ignore this one look at his last two stories the completed one is 330k words and he only started it in April the other 140k JUNE 1ST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Click to shrink...

i also look at his profile in ao3, some of his stories they literally told us they lost interest or something, but again im just hoping as this seems to be a fun read

 

[death734]

Thanks for the chapter, wordsmith.

 

[Alenco98]

Excerpt from a 1965 foreign Cadre Training Course Manual from the USSR:

Comrades,

We must once again emphasize, with utmost seriousness, that all self identified communists who attend these trainings and reside outside currently designated Frontline States in Asia, Latin America and Africa are strictly prohibited from initiating or participating in armed struggle within the territory of their current country of residence. The reckless use of arms outside approved theaters of operation serves only to slow down the march towards world communism, invite repression, and undermine the carefully cultivated work of the international proletarian cause.

If you reside in a nation where the Communist Party is legal, your path is clear:

Join your local Party immediately.

Work to strengthen it from within: raise funds for its activities, recruit new members, and establish membership in factories, universities, and communities.

Enter trade unions—these are fertile grounds for recruitment and agitation. Build influence among the workers and ensure the union's struggle aligns with Marxist-Leninist principles.

Engage in lawful activism: organize meetings, publish legal literature, participate in elections, and monitor parliamentary activity. In such states, your vote is more powerful than your rifle—use it to advance the revolutionary agenda.

If no Communist Party exists and it is not outlawed in your nation, you are to:

Register a Communist Party without delay.

Establish the party's foundational structure: a central committee, regional branches, and a clear program rooted in Marxism-Leninism.

Seek legal recognition where possible, and pursue political legitimacy through disciplined organizing.

If the Communist Party is outlawed in your country:

Maintain extreme caution. Operate only with individuals you have absolute trust in.

Form small, discreet study groups, introducing theory gradually.

Avoid public displays of ideology; patience is essential. The underground struggle requires years, even decades, to bear fruit.

For those unable to suppress the desire for armed struggle—and only those ready to accept full responsibility for their actions:

Report to the nearest Soviet diplomatic mission or accredited fraternal embassy and declare your intent to volunteer for the Internationalist Soviet Legion.

Understand that upon enlistment you will be subject to the full authority of military law and discipline.

You will be trained and deployed where the Party deems necessary—not where you wish to go.

Acts of cowardice, desertion, or insubordination will be treated as serious offenses punishable by death.

Comrades, the revolution advances not only through the barrel of a gun, but also through the discipline of the mind, the endurance of the body, and the loyalty of the heart. Know your role. Fulfill it with honor.

---

January 17, 1918
Moscow, Russia
The House of Anarchy

The convoy rolled to a stop outside what used to be a merchant's house, now proudly defaced into the "House of Anarchy" by the Moscow Federation of Anarchist Groups. Charming name. Really subtle. The place looked like someone had taken the dignity of the building out back and beaten it to death with black paint and slogans about "freedom."

I stepped out first, flanked by my guards—towering men in helmets and bulletproof vests who made the anarchists posted at the door look like they were about to piss themselves. I raised a hand to them, not the kind you wave with but the kind that says "I could have you gutted before breakfast, but I won't… for now."

"At ease," I said. "I'm only here to talk to your leader. I trust my envoy explained the terms?"

They nodded stiffly. One of them spoke up. "You must come in without your guards."

"Fine by me," I said. Behind me, my men looked at me like I'd just announced I was going to swim across the Neva in January.

I turned to them and grinned. "If I'm not out in an hour, call the men and tell them to burn this place to the ground. Kill everyone inside. Not just the men—women, children, the cat, the wallpaper, all of it. If they take me hostage, ignore it. Storm it anyway. If I'm dead, Voroshilov takes over. Doesn't really matter now, does it?"

The anarchist guards froze. Their expressions went from nervous to "this motherfucker is crazy" in about two seconds. To drive the point home, I unslung my rifle and tossed it to one of them.

"Go inside and tell your friends exactly what I just said," I told him. "Let them know I don't mind dying, but I do like being theatrical about it. Adds flavor."

I pulled a cigarette from my coat, lit it, and leaned casually against the wall beside the door. Smoke curled up into the Moscow cold. The other guard stayed outside with me, eyes darting between me and my men. Poor bastard looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

"Cigarette?" I asked, offering the pack.

"No thanks, I don't smoke," he muttered.

"Good man," I said, nodding. "This stuff will kill you. My wife hated it—why she al—" I stopped. My throat caught. The memories punched their way in again. My eyes stung. I turned away, blinking fast, but a few tears slid out anyway.

"Sorry," I muttered, wiping them away with the back of my glove. "SRs tried to kill me, hit her instead. Now it's my life's mission to kill as many of them as possible. Funny how that works out. Tell me, boy—are you married? Got a lover?"

"A lover," he said cautiously. "Just started seeing her."

I smirked without humor. "Love her. Hold her tight. Never let her go. You never know when she might die. Or you. Hell, maybe both. Depends on how today goes, really." I studied him. "What's your name?"

"Ivan. Ivan Kazachenko."

"Ohh, Ivan. Good name. You from Moscow?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "From Samara. My family moved here when I was a boy."

"I see."

We kept talking—small talk, of all things. A 19-year-old anarchist chatting with a man who might personally murder him and everyone he knows within the next two hours. Surreal, but then again, my whole life had become surreal. Isekai'd as Stalin's twin brother, married, widowed, and now casually walking into an anarchist stronghold without a weapon. Yay, I guess.

Eventually, the first guard came back out. "He's ready to see you."

"Perfect," I said, smiling like this was a tea party instead of a potential bloodbath. "Lead the way."

And I followed him in—no gun, no armor beyond the vest under my coat as well as my helmet and no fear worth mentioning. If they killed me, fine. If not, well… that would be the smartest choice they made today.

They led me through several narrow, creaking hallways reeking of damp wood, cheap tobacco, and that peculiar musk of unwashed coats in the Russian winter. Posters of Bakunin and Kropotkin stared down at me like disappointed relatives, and I stared right back.

The door opened into a modest room with a big desk shoved against the far wall. Behind it sat Lev Chernyi, the secretary of the Moscow Federation of Anarchist Groups. Tall, wiry, glasses slipping down his nose, and a beard that looked like it had been shaped with a bayonet. His eyes measured me the way a doctor might measure a tumor.

"Commander Jugashvili," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I didn't sit immediately. I took a slow drag from my cigarette, flicked the ash onto the floor—deliberately—and then sat down.

"Lev," I began. "Let's make this quick. I have nothing against the anarchists. In fact, I respect you. Not just as fighters, but as thinkers. You've got fire, and the Bolsheviks need fire. But let me be clear—every last SR in Moscow is going to die by my hand. If they're breathing now, they won't be by the end of the month."

His eyes narrowed. He didn't interrupt.

"As long as you don't shoot at Bolsheviks and you stay peaceful, you can carry on doing your thing. Hand out pamphlets, organize your little workers' circles, drink tea and argue about philosophy—I don't care. We'll even look the other way when you break minor laws, so long as it's not our people bleeding."

I leaned in. "Lenin's edicts have been clear. Land reform and redistribution—three acres and a shovel for every man who works it. Nationalization of the big industries and factories. Eight-hour workdays. Safety regulations. Paid time off. Minimum wage. You know what that means, Lev? It means the workers are getting what they wanted without having to set the city on fire every two weeks. You've got a freer hand than you've ever had."

Chernyi's voice was calm but firm. "We've noticed. But your methods, Mikheil… they alarm my people. Mass executions in the street don't exactly build solidarity."

I chuckled, though it came out more like a cough from somewhere deep in my chest. "Lev, let me reiterate if we catch any of your people helping the SRs, we'll hunt you down like we're hunting them now. I don't want to do that. I genuinely like you folks. Hell, if you've got grudges against the SRs, join us. I'll even let you pick which ones to shoot."

I leaned back in my chair, casual, but my voice sharpened. "Before I came in here, I told my men: if I'm not out within an hour, burn this place down and kill everyone inside. Men, women, children—doesn't matter. If you take me hostage, they storm the building anyway. Ever since my wife died, Lev… I don't care if I live or die. So I dare you—try something."

The room went still.

After a beat, Chernyi folded his hands. "We're not aligned with the SRs. Their path is not ours. But I can't promise my people won't… react if they see you executing men in Red Square again."

"You don't have to promise perfection," I said, my voice low. "Just keep a leash on them. I've got enough pull in the Central Committee to draw the heat off you. But the moment one of your men steps out of line? It's over. No speeches, no trials, no appeals."

He studied me for a long moment, the kind of look that measures how close a man is to snapping. Then he gave a slow nod. "Understood. We'll stay out of your way. But don't expect us to clap for the hangman."

I smiled thinly. "I never ask for applause. Just silence."

We shook hands. His was dry and tense, mine steady. I got up, stubbed my cigarette out right there on his desk, and walked out without waiting to be shown the door.

The air outside was sharper than when I'd walked in, the kind of cold that stings your ears and makes the city feel hollow. My boots hit the wooden steps hard enough to echo, and I could feel every set of eyes in the building boring into my back through the windows. No shouting, no last-minute theatrics—just the dead, uncomfortable silence you get when people can't decide whether to shoot you or pray for you.

My guards straightened as soon as I appeared, relief flickering across their faces. One of them, a younger lad who'd probably been rehearsing his obituary, muttered, "We were about 15 minutes from storming the place, comrade."

"Shame," I said, fishing out another cigarette. "Would've been a hell of a massacre."

Behind me, I could see silhouettes pressed against the upstairs glass—anarchists watching me walk away like they were studying some strange animal that had wandered into their kitchen. I gave them a little wave just to make them more nervous.

Tukachevsky was leaning against the convoy's lead car, arms crossed, reading my expression. "How'd it go?"

"They'll behave. Or they'll die. Either way, it doesn't matter." I climbed into the car, settling in with the wedding photo in my coat pocket pressing against my ribs like a reminder that none of this really mattered.

As the engines started and the convoy rolled away, I glanced back at the House of Anarchy disappearing into the frost. Inside, Chernyi was probably explaining to his people that I wasn't bluffing about the children. And all around me, my men were probably wondering how much longer before I picked a fight big enough to end me.

Truth was, I was wondering the same thing and hoping it was soon.

-----

February 14, 1918
Moscow, Russia
Outside the Kremlin

I stood in front of a little over 2000 left SRs, on Valentine's day of all. Well, technically it was February 1, but we had a new calendar. Just like the western calendar. But it didn't matter now.

We'd picked the unfortunate bastards standing in front of me yesterday. Our little "curfew" having worked wonders. My men shadowed SR couriers, not arresting them right away—just following, waiting, watching them scuttle to their nests. We'd mapped the whole network: safehouses, meeting spots, arms caches, the names of their mistresses, and the taverns where they liked to drink too much and talk too loud.

By the end of two weeks, the tail-and-track method had worked like a dream. And then, like pulling a trigger, it all happened at once.

At dawn, Moscow woke to the sound of boots and truck engines. Thousands of my revolutionary guards fanned out through the city. Red armbands flashing, rifles at the ready. The targets didn't even have a chance to scatter.

By mid-morning, Red Square was packed wall-to-wall with captured SRs. I'd ordered them brought in by the hundreds, each batch flanked by guards. Some were still in their nightshirts, shivering under the winter sky; others tried to look defiant, spitting and shouting slogans that didn't matter anymore.

I stepped out of the Kremlin flanked by my personal guard regiment, the bells of the Kremlin towers echoing above us. I lit a cigarette as I walked toward the makeshift holding pens we'd built along the edge of the square. "Well," I said loud enough for the nearest batch to hear, "I suppose this is what efficiency looks like."

One of my adjutants jogged up beside me. "We've got over 2000 confirmed SRs here, comrade. A few hundred suspected sympathizers too. Still bringing in more from the outer districts."

"Good," I said, blowing smoke into the frozen air. "We'll start sorting them. Today they'll learn how generous I can be."

I could feel eyes on me from every direction—my men, the SR prisoners, random Muscovites who had dared to peek from alleys. And I made sure to project it all: the man who was both in total control and completely willing to die. And the man who killed hundreds of these cretins back in Petrograd. But I was on a schedule, I had Czechoslovaks to escort, this was a side quest.

"Clear the square," I told my guards. "We're going to need space for the executions. I want the Kremlin in the background. Make sure the photographers get a good angle—it's not just about killing them, it's about making it a memory. Let the counter-revolutionaries shit their pants at the name Mikheil Jugashvili."

They nodded and moved off, already barking orders.

I took one last drag of my cigarette, flicked it into the snow, and thought of Aleksandra. If she were alive, she'd probably slap me for all this. But she wasn't, and that made everything so very simple.

A little later, the SRs stood in long, uneven rows, their breath steaming in the frozen air, their faces caught between rage and fear. I stepped forward, coat collar up, cigarette in one hand, pistol in the other, and projected my voice so even the ones in the back could hear.

"I'm feeling charitable today," I began, smiling like a priest about to hand out candy to children. "You're all here because you've committed crimes—treason, conspiracy, terrorism. But…" I dragged the word out and let the silence build, "…I am offering you a chance. A clean slate. A new life."

Murmurs ran through the crowd. Some of them tried to stand taller; others wouldn't meet my eyes.

"If you renounce your membership in the Socialist Revolutionary Party," I said, "you will walk to the right. Do so, and you will prove your loyalty by killing the ones who refuse." I paused, savoring the shift in their expressions. "Yes, that's right—your friends, your comrades, your lovers. Show me you're willing to spill their blood instead of mine."

A ripple of shock went through them.

I gestured, and a crate was brought forward. My men tipped it, and stones tumbled out into the snow. "No guns, no knives. Stones. You'll bash their skulls in with your own hands. Up close. Personal. It will tell me everything I need to know about your commitment to this new… arrangement."

Silence. Even the city seemed to hold its breath.

Finally, I tilted my head and chuckled. "You think I'm joking? Gentlemen—when my wife was shot, I learned something important: sentiment is a luxury for people who get to die in bed. So make your choice now. Right for life, left for death."

One or two began to move. Then more. About a third crossed to the right, eyes darting toward the rest.

I stepped back, letting my guards hand out the stones. The first blow would be the hardest; after that, I knew from experience, momentum took care of the rest.

The snow crunched under my boots as I stepped forward again, the divide now clear—those who had chosen survival stood to my right, clutching their stones; the condemned stood to my left, silent and pale.

"Before we begin," I said, voice carrying across the frozen expanse, "I'm going to offer you one last courtesy. Cigarettes… last rites… or both?"

I gestured to my men, who stepped forward with cartons and dozens of priests in tow. The condemned looked between them and me, as if weighing whether dignity mattered at this point. Some stepped forward to take a cigarette, some crossed themselves as the priest muttered Latin in the icy air, some did both.

I gave them another moment, then called out: "This is your final chance. If you want to save your skin, step right—kill your friends, prove your loyalty. If you hesitate…" I patted my pistol. "…I will put a bullet through your head myself. And believe me, I've got enough ammunition to make sure no one gets a pass."

A few more crossed over, faces twisted in shame.

I smiled thinly. "Good. Now—let's get this over with. The ones on the right—start."

The first swing was always the hardest. A few faltered, looking away, their stones trembling in their hands. I raised my pistol and, without hesitation, shot the first man who hesitated through the forehead. His blood steamed against the snow.

"That," I said, holstering my pistol, "is what hesitation gets you. Keep going."

The air filled with the sickening crunch of stone against bone, mingled with shouts, sobbing, and the occasional gunshot when someone froze up. My guards didn't wait for orders; they knew the drill by now.

I lit another cigarette, the smoke mixing with the fog of my breath, and thought briefly of Aleksandra. You'd hate this, my love. Then I exhaled and watched the slaughter really begin.

The killing went on in waves—stones rising, bones breaking, snow turning into a brown-pink slush beneath boots. I just stood there, cigarette dangling from my lips, watching as they did my work for me.

For a moment, I stopped seeing them. I saw her. Aleksandra in that blue dress she wore the summer before the revolution, laughing at some stupid joke I'd made. The way she'd swat my arm and roll her eyes when I teased her. Her hair in the lamplight. Her scent.

It hit like a rifle butt to the gut. My chest tightened. My throat burned. I sniffed hard and turned away for a moment, wiping my face with my glove. A few tears escaped anyway.

Then I straightened up, lit another cigarette, and forced a smile.

Without thinking, I began to hum—then sing—the Russian lyrics to Fly Me to the Moon, the Evangelion version I remembered from a life that no one else here would ever know existed. My guards stared at me, caught between awe and confusion, while a prisoner mid-swing froze just long enough for a blow to catch him in the side of the head.

I didn't care. I sang louder, the melody drifting through the square like some deranged requiem.

When I finished, I gave a mock little bow toward the piles of bodies.

"That," I said, gesturing grandly, "was for my wife. A proper send-off, don't you think?"

Silence. No one dared answer.

I pointed to the survivors—the ones still breathing, spattered in gore. "Burn them," I ordered flatly. "Every last one. You touch nothing else until this is ash."

They obeyed without hesitation.

By the time the flames were licking at the heaps, I had already turned on my heel and headed for the Kremlin. Tukachevsky was in the corridor outside my office when I got back.

"Make arrangements," I told him, brushing past. "Tell Usievich to handle the remaining SRs they capture the way we just did. In the meantime, we leave for Ukraine in 2 days. We're picking up the Czechoslovaks… and then we drag them to Murmansk. And if they complain about the cold, they can die for all I care."