My brothers Keeper, an SI as the twin brother of Stalin (Reworked)

[Alenco98]

December 8, 1907 (old style)
Tbilisi, Georgia

I woke up on the living room couch, stiff as hell, the kind of pain you only get from furniture designed by a sadist who hated vertebrae. Dawn was leaking through the window, painting the city in that scarlet glow that screams "romance" in Paris but just means "cholera" in Tbilisi.

I sat up, yawned, noticed the couch was empty. No surprise. Nobody sane would still be lying on this damned thing. Then I heard it: muffled sobbing from the kitchen. Along with the unmistakable smell of reheated khachapuri. Cold, reheated cheese bread: the true breakfast of the grieving proletariat.

I shuffled in and found my sister in law Aleksandra, sleeves rolled up, banging around the oven like it had personally insulted her. Meanwhile at the table sat my brother, Iosif, or Joe as I liked to call him. Red eyes. Sunken sockets. Expression of a man who had stared too long into the abyss and found the abyss had terrible customer service. In front of him: one lonely khachapuri, like an emotional support carb.

"Joe," I said, nudging the plate closer, "eat before you cry yourself into a puddle. Nobody wants to mop up grief and snot before breakfast."

He blinked at me. Rage, sorrow, indigestion—it was all in there. Then back to the floor he went, like the linoleum had all the answers.

And yeah, the guy had earned his misery. His wife, Ekaterina, Kato, had just died of typhoid. Quick, cruel, efficient—like German engineering but with more diarrhea. She was the one bright thing in Joe's life, which tells you everything about Joe's life.

By the way—hello. My name is Mikheil Jughashvili. Call me Mika. I'm Joe's younger twin by nine minutes, but I stole all the good genes in the womb. Immune system? Check. Face unscarred by smallpox? Check. Sense of humor? Oh, triple check. Joe, on the other hand, looks like a clay bust someone left in the rain.

We're both "party men," technically. Joe runs with the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party, the Bolshevik faction—don't worry, you're not supposed to understand what that means. I'm technically in it too, but my day job is being a cop. Yes, that means I occasionally arrest my coworkers. Yes, that means I also warn Joe before I do it whenever I can. Yes, that means I'm corrupt as hell. That's called work-life balance.

Now, before you start thinking I'm some loyal revolutionary, let me confess: I don't actually care about any of this shit. Why? Because I'm from the future. Yeah. Reincarnated. Born in the late 20th century, died tragically in 2025, woke up screaming in a Georgian cradle. Long story short: I fell off a roof trying to fix a leak with my stepdad. Toolbox, gravity, splat. OSHA would've had a field day.

Back then, life was great: Roth IRA maxed every year, 401k humming, two vacations to Europe annually, dental hygiene like you wouldn't believe. Now? I'm battling lice, scrubbing with cold water, and watching my twin spiral into depression over his dead wife. Ten out of ten, do not recommend.

But hey, I've got a plan. Make money, get out. America's the goal. I'll drag Mom, my wife Maria, a couple in-laws, and maybe Joe if he ever stops crying. Set up a proto-McDonald's, invest early, short the market before the 1929 crash, retire rich. The American Dream, but with more bribery and typhus along the way.

Speaking of dreams, Joe clearly wasn't having any. He looked like he'd swallowed a fistful of sorrow pills. So I'd already confiscated his revolver and ammo—last thing we needed was him doing a Russian Hamlet routine and leaving Yakov an orphan. Kid doesn't need the Bruce Wayne treatment.

"She wouldn't want you to starve," I said, breaking off a gooey piece of khachapuri and feeding it to him like he was a grumpy toddler. He actually ate it. Progress.

Aleksandra kept bustling around. Cute, honestly. Great ass. Too bad she was married. Luckily, I married her sister Maria, who had the same genetic blessings and fewer legal entanglements. Balance, again.

Then Yakov started crying from the other room. Perfect timing, like a Greek chorus with diaper rash. I went in, scooped him up. Poor kid had Kato's eyes—warm, soft hazel—and Joe's hair, thick and sooty. I whispered, "Easy, little comrade. The world's already shit, no need to scream so loud." Maria stirred in bed, looking way too much like her dead sister for anyone's comfort. Awkward.

Back in the kitchen, Joe was still chewing the same piece of bread like it was the last edible thing on Earth. He looked up at Yakov in my arms, then back down. Stoicism, weaponized.

"You know," I told him, "this kid needs a real home. Not some safehouse full of dynamite. You can't just stuff him in a satchel and carry him into your little revolutionary shoot-outs."

Joe finally met my eyes. Fear, anger, grief. The whole tragic buffet.

"I'll raise him," I said. "Me and Maria. Normal family. Stable life. No bombs under the crib. That's what Kato would've wanted."

"You're going to play house now on top of playing cop?" Joe croaked. His voice cracked like a bad record. "Leave him here. Stop working for those Tsarist pigs and fully commit to the cause. He'll be safe."

I shook my head. "Joe, you know my dream is America, not the party. I only joined your little club to keep you alive. But the kid needs more than a terrorist for a father. He needs a father who's alive."

Joe's lips trembled. He looked away. For the first time, I saw him doubt himself.

"I'll make sure he knows about her," I added softly. "And you. I'll tell him his parents loved him. That you loved him."

Outside, the funeral bells started tolling. Deep, heavy, final. Like God was slamming the world's worst alarm clock.

And all I could think was: I need to figure out whether American banks will even let me open a savings account if my name is Jughashvili.

December 8, 1907 (old style) Later that day
Tbilisi, Georgia

Joseph stood beside me, looking less like a man and more like a granite statue someone had left out in the rain. His fists were so tight I thought he might strangle oxygen itself. He hadn't said a word since the funeral service, which was impressive because normally Joe could brood in three languages at once.

The mourners gathered in their usual Tbilisi cluster formation: crying relatives, exhausted comrades, the guy who always shows up to funerals for the free food. And then, hanging in the back, a few men in suspiciously clean coats with suspiciously even haircuts. The Okhrana. The Tsar's very own secret police. Because nothing says "respect the dead" like a few narcs hiding behind a tree, scribbling in notebooks about the emotional stability of the Jughashvili family.

Then came the burial.

The ropes creaked as the coffin went down, and I swear it sounded like God himself sighing, "Yep, that's one less taxpayer." The first shovelfuls of dirt landed with hollow thuds—like someone was drumming on my ribcage from the inside. It was melodramatic as hell. And then Joe snapped.

He let out a sound somewhere between a sob, a roar, and a cow being strangled. Before anyone could react, he threw himself into the grave. Into. The. Grave. Like he was auditioning for the part of "Hamlet: Underground Edition." Dirt flew everywhere, mourners gasped, one babushka fainted. Joe clung to the coffin as if he could wrestle Kato back into existence with sheer Georgian stubbornness.

"Kato! Kato, don't go—"

I cursed, kicked off my shoes, and slid in after him like this was the world's worst amusement park ride. Mud up to my knees, my coat ruined, my dignity circling the drain. I grabbed him under the arms and tried to haul him out, but grief turns men into oxen. He fought me like a man possessed, and for one horrible second I thought he'd stay down there and make the coffin a double feature.

So I did the only thing I could. I whispered his name.

"Joe… Joe… she's gone. Come back, man. She's gone."

He froze, then collapsed into me, shaking, sobbing, leaking grief all over my shirt. With the help of two comrades who clearly regretted their life choices, we dragged him out and flopped into the slush beside the grave like freshly landed fish.

Meanwhile, the Okhrana were having the time of their lives. No tears from them, just subtle whispers and meaningful glances. One of them reached into his coat, and I thought, Great. Joe throws himself into a grave and I get to join him.

"You have to go," I hissed at him. "Now. They're here."

His eyes locked on mine. Haunted, wet, but clear now. "You'll take care of him?"

"I swear on my life."

We stood, covered in mud, looking like deranged grave-robbers. He hugged me tight, like we were the last two men left on Earth.

"Stay safe," I muttered. "And don't do anything stupid."

He gave me half a smirk, which on his face looked more like a stroke. "No promises."

And just like that, he disappeared into the crowd, vanishing before the final prayers were done. Classic Joe—always leaving before the bill arrives.

I stayed, of course. Why shouldn't I? On paper, I was a model cop: punctual, reliable, corrupt in all the right ways. Leaving would've looked suspicious. So I stood there, ankle-deep in mud, mourning alongside Maria and Aleksandra, while the Okhrana made notes like they were shopping for revolutionaries at a farmer's market.

March 4, 1917 (Old Style)
Petrograd, Russian Empire

I peeled the curtain back an inch with the precision of a man about to peek at his neighbor's Wi-Fi password. Pistol in hand, cocked and ready. What did I see? People. Just people. Civilians wandering around like they'd all taken part in a fire sale on history itself. Some were armed, because apparently the only thing scarier than bread lines is unarmed bread lines.

"About fucking time," I muttered, letting the curtain slap shut. "Looks like things are calm."

Behind me, Maria—Mariko, as everyone else insisted on calling her, because apparently pet names are in vouge—sat on the sofa, nursing our one-year-old, Besarion. Baby fat rolls, oblivious grin, not a clue that the outside world was currently eating itself alive. Lucky bastard.

Then the door creaked open. Out came my mother, Keke, yawning like the fall of the Romanovs was just a minor inconvenience between naps.

"Is everything alright out there?" she asked, like she was in a cathedral. Or a morgue. Both equally plausible.

I nodded. "Quiet. For now. How are the kids?"

"Still asleep. Yakov, Kato, Joseph, Alyosha… all dreaming peacefully, unlike the Tsar."

"Good. If they wake up, tell them I'll be back soon. I need to check the situation. And send a letter."

I shoved the ratty couch aside, pried open the floorboard, and revealed my life savings. Not rubles. Not bonds. No. Boxes of gold coins, dried food, contraband ammo, and more ammo. Honestly, it looked less like a family man's emergency fund and more like the starter kit for a failed coup.

I took some ammo for my pistol and put it in my pocket. Maria gave me the look. You know the one: Why did I marry this lunatic? She'd given it to me so often I could see it with my eyes closed. Fair. She had a point.

In my defense, I used to be a cop. Key words: "used to." Once soldiers started mutinying and the Tsar's authority slipped like a drunk on black ice, the badge lost its resale value. So I planned to begin my career pivot—from "law enforcement" to "radical revolutionary." Lateral move.

But let me rewind a bit.

When Joe disappeared years ago, I focused on family life. Raised Yakov, filled the house with more children—Iosif, Kato, Aleksander, Besarion—because apparently contraception wasn't invented yet. On the books, I was a model cop. Never late, always professional. Off the books? I was so corrupt I made the Roman Senate look like Quakers. Guns, bribes, smuggling, hush money—I had more side hustles than a modern crypto bro.

And it was working. I had almost saved enough for the dream: America. McDonald's before McDonald's, investments before the crash, real toilets. But then came the catch.

Joe.

Turns out Joe wasn't just my grieving twin who once tried to bury himself alive. Joe was Stalin. Yeah. That Stalin. Thanks, American public schools, for skipping over the fun fact that Joseph Stalin's birth name wasn't actually "Joseph Stalin." I thought it was just some scary Russian brand name. Like Ikea but with gulags.

When Joe wrote me about his new pseudonym in Pravda, my stomach dropped. My twin brother, the grave-diver, was about to become the Iron Fist of Russia. Which meant my American dream was officially fucked. You can't exactly move to Chicago with your wife and kids when your twin brother is committing mass murder under a catchy stage name. People, and by people I mean resentful Russian exiles would put two and two together: "Hey, aren't you Stalin's twin? You look like him, except less pockmarked and slightly less terrifying." Boom. Dead.

So I made a new plan: leverage. Emotional blackmail. Family ties. If the world was going to be stuck with Stalin, I had to be the one man alive he wouldn't dare kill. I needed to make myself indispensable—brother, protector, maybe even his guilty conscience.

Which is why I bribed half the police force and got myself transferred to Petrograd. All that gold I'd saved for America? Gone in a haze of bribes, vodka, and forged paperwork. Did I feel bad? Yes. But Petrograd's corruption was so spectacularly rich that within a year I'd made it back. This city was basically a vending machine for bribes.

I went to the bedroom, pulled open the drawer, and took out the letter I'd written two days earlier, the second I saw the army turn on the Tsar. Simple message: "There's a place for you here. You're welcome anytime."

I folded it, slid it into my coat pocket.

Back in the living room, I paused. Maria glanced up at me, Besarion snoring against her chest. Keke stood beside her, face like granite, worry lines etched deep.

I kissed Maria. Kissed the baby's head. Hugged my mother. Tried not to look like a man walking into history with a gun in his coat and delusions in his head.

"I'll be back," I said. "Don't open the door unless you're absolutely sure it's me. And if I don't come back… find Joe. He'll come for you."

She nodded. No tears, no collapse, just iron resolve. Stronger than I'd ever given her credit for.

I opened the door, took one last look at them. My family. My reason for putting up with this empire-wide mental breakdown.

And stepped out into the cold, collapsing empire—armed, ambitious, and catastrophically unprepared.

The snow hadn't gotten the memo that it was mid-March; it fell like lazy, wet apologies from the sky, each flake dragging a little more damp into the world. I cinched my collar up like I was trying to hide from the Petrograd chill, which has the persistence of a petty bureaucrat with a vendetta: it gets into your bones and stays to file paperwork.

I picked my way down the narrow alley behind our building—no main boulevards for me. Too many faces, too many bored soldiers with trigger fingers that needed employment and no clue who was in charge. Half of them looked like they'd have soldier-arrested their own boots for suspicious loafing. I kept to the side streets and the half-frozen canals, the city's back alleys where history comes to have a smoke and forget its lines.

I gave the Winter Palace a wide berth. That place was a hornet's nest of theatrical panic and buttoned-up officers clinging to the idea of empire like a man clinging to a barstool: embarrassing, delusional, and almost certainly sticky. The last thing I needed was to be stopped, searched, and "accidentally" removed from the gene pool for looking vaguely interesting. My face has always done wonders for me; I didn't need help.

My destination was the Tauride Palace—majestic, bruised, and smelling faintly of damp wallpaper and resolved ideology. Once a glittering aristocrat, now playing host to a motley of revolutionaries who changed real estate like they changed their slogans. The Petrograd Soviet lived here for now; revolutionary tenure is by definition temporary, like bad roommates or bad governments.

The irony landed like a lead boot. I'd spent years "assisting" the Okhrana—by which I mean I helped sabotage certain investigations so I could run guns and make a tidy margin on smuggling. Now I walked into the place where those same troublemakers were running the show. Ex-cop, current gun-toter, tentative revolutionary socialite. Bold? Yes. Stupid? Also yes. But technically I had party papers somewhere in a drawer. Probably under a receipt and three unpaid fines.

A knot of guards clustered at the gate: unshaven, wide-eyed, the exhausted look of men who'd spent their shifts policing paranoia. One of them stepped forward like a man built from raw suspicion—bald, square-jawed, and assembled in a vodka-soaked factory that combined Jason Statham and an angry chair.

"Name and business," he barked in a tone that implied he'd punch you through a wall and then work the paperwork later.

I straightened, tried to look like someone who belonged inside the building and not deep in the "suspicious loiterer" column. "Mikheil Vissarionovich Jughashvili. I'm here to deliver a letter."

He blinked once, like he was calibrating whether I was a person or a paperweight. "This is the headquarters of the Provisional Government and the Soviet. Not the post office."

The other guards snorted. Fine. Laugh it up. They clearly hadn't read my LinkedIn.

I kept my voice flat. "My brother is a member of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party—the Bolsheviks, if they'll let you call them that without starting a fight. They have offices in here, I believe. I am also a member. Inactive, sure—bureaucratically dormant, but useful." I held up the envelope like a peace offering or a small, formal bomb. "This is for him."

The envelope sat in their eyes for a long beat, regarded like a suspicious artifact—maybe it was a trap, maybe it was an IOU, maybe it was lunchtime.

Finally, the bald man gave a curt nod. "All right. Come on in. We're not the Bolsheviks, but their offices are in this palace. Cause trouble and there will be consequences."

"Thank you," I said, tucking the letter back into my coat like contraband and stepping through gates that felt both gilded and oddly optimistic.

I walked into the Tauride like a man who'd accidentally wandered into a philosophy lecture and decided to stay for the snacks. The place was a hive: guards, clerks, soldiers with faces that had given up on sleep, and civilians who looked like they hadn't had a proper meal since the nineteenth century. I asked around for the Bolshevik offices and collected a few hostile glares—the kind that say, we'll watch you until you confess to a crime you didn't commit. Then I said the magic line: "I'm a Bolshevik… and Stalin's brother."

The hostility didn't evaporate so much as recalibrate to a peculiar Russian setting: I still think you're the problem, but maybe you're our problem. Which is not a compliment, but it's a hiring decision. Somebody pointed me toward a cramped office where, apparently, the revolution did most of its paperwork.

Inside sat a man with round spectacles and a stubby mustache, like a human interruption. He peered at me. "Who are you?"

"Mikheil Jughashvili," I said, trying to sound modest and not like a man holding an envelope full of sins. "I've a letter for my brother—Joseph Stalin."

The name landed like a coin on a tin roof. His face shifted from politely annoyed to suspiciously curious. "Stalin?" He tapped his jaw. "He mentioned a twin once. You do resemble him."

"I'm the better-looking one," I said, half-smile engaged. "Makes the resemblance less uncanny and more tasteful."

The man snorted—thankfully, someone here hadn't lost their sense of humor. He offered a hand.

"Vyacheslav Molotov," he said.

Molotov. I filed the mental image under "things that sound like they were invented for conflict." A nice, volatile name. I handed him the letter. He turned it over like it might detonate or ask for a bribe.

"You say you're a Bolshevik? Never heard of you," he muttered.

"Not exactly front-line material," I admitted. "Mostly helped Joe when he needed it—safe houses, donations when he was exiled down in Siberia. My day job was police work, and smuggling on the side."

That killed whatever thaw we'd been engineering. Temperature dropped. Someone should have offered tea.

"A cop?" he said, eyebrows doing the little arithmetic of trust.

"Yeah." Shrug. "Not great I know. But I have kids to feed. And I'm raising Joe's kid. Try keeping a cranky toddler on revolutionary slogans and stale rye."

"Joe?" Molotov raised an eyebrow.

"Childhood nickname," I said quickly. "Don't use it. He hates it. He tolerates it only from me."

Molotov chewed on that—eyes scanning me like I was a map missing a few landmarks. "I'll read it before I hand it over. Your background doesn't inspire confidence."

"Fair," I said. "It's a note saying he's welcome at my place. If you've got work—supply runs, parcel deliveries—I'll do them. Revolution's here; might as well earn my keep."

"Earn your keep, huh?" Molotov reclined slightly, measuring me like a butcher testing meat. "We're re-establishing Pravda. We need supplies moved to the office. Can you do that without phoning the Okhrana that nobody cares about anymore?"

"Supplies?" I smirked. "Love a delivery. Beats starving. Point me to the guy who needs me."

"Petrenko, down the hall," Molotov said.

And just like that, I'd graduated from "untrustworthy ex-cop" to "revolutionary errand service." History's grand drama, and there I was—about to lug boxes like a very reluctant porter. Perfect.

Patch notes: Reworked the dates to fit the old style of Russian dates before the revolution, also, after some research I found that Mikheils wife in the old story was married by the time of Kato's death so he will be married to another one of her sisters. Also cut down chapter size.