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.