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

[LysanderArgent]

I love the tragicomedy nature of this fic. It wouldn't be half as fun to read without the humour.

 

[Xodarap]

So historians look back on Mikheil as the Gomez adams of Revolution.
Such Chad energy against the serious dour leaders of Revolution.

Does Germany ask for Kiev perhaps St Petersburg?

 

[Alenco98]

So historians look back on Mikheil as the Gomez adams of Revolution.
Such Chad energy against the serious dour leaders of Revolution.

Does Germany ask for Kiev perhaps St Petersburg?

Click to shrink...

I was going for a more Hank Scorpio vibe but this is good too

 

[Siryapsalot]

Fellas if any of us were in that room we would be getting a visit from the KGB or Revolutionary Guard for "dissident" laughter.

 

[Alenco98]

August 26, 1917
A Church near the Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

Father Sergey Eldarevich Patruchev stood beneath the stone arch of the church entrance, as he did every Sunday and feast day, his cassock brushing against the steps as he greeted the faithful one by one. Their faces carried the same mixture of weariness and desperate devotion that had become so common in Petrograd ever since the war started. Some crossed themselves hurriedly, others muttered greetings, but all seemed eager to escape the turbulence outside and find a measure of peace within the gilded, candlelit nave.

Then he heard it—the sound that always preceded them. A syncopated rhythm of boots, precise yet almost mocking, like a parody of military discipline. Goose-step. A grim herald of a presence his parishioners had come to recognize too well.

The Revolutionary Guard.

The Bolsheviks' shock troops. Enforcers, black-clad arbiters of order and terror, whose rifles gleamed like icons of a darker faith, who protected and taxed every brothel, opium den, and other criminal activities to arm, fund and supply not only themselves, but the nascent Soviet military and national guard. They filed into the church with unnerving confidence, helmets painted a crude blood-red, adorned with skull and crossbones as though they were not men but heralds of the angel of death itself. At the door they broke their rigid march, relaxing into something looser, as though stepping into the house of God required a casual posture. All while they left their rifles nearly stacked at the door. Outside the church, another battalion, probably 200 or so formed a protective perimeter around the church.

Not only to protect his parishioners of course, but him and his family.

Comrade Makarov. Mikheil Jugashvili. The man whose name whispered through taverns and barracks, half curse, half incantation. He entered not like a warlord but like a genial neighbor arriving at a family gathering. His wife, Aleksandra, on his arm. His children clustered around him: Iosif, eight years old and already sharp-eyed; little Ekaterina, seven years old solemn as a nun; Alyosha, recently turned five who clutched at his father's coat; and the baby—Bessarion—who his friend Anatoly over in the outskirts had baptized earlier this year, despite the irony of christening a child of such a man.

Behind them came Mikheil's mother, old Ekaterina, pious to the bone and stubborn as the stone icons in the church walls. He had come to love her simple devotion, the way her trembling hand clung to the cross at her chest. Then followed his brother-in-law Alexander, stiff and humorless, already scanning the pews for threats. And lastly, the one absent figure loomed like a shadow: Stalin. The twin. The "Man of Steel." The Central Committee member. Sergey had never seen him in person, but he felt his presence whenever Mikheil entered, as though the brothers carried each other's weight like two halves of the same coin.

At least Mikheil believes, Sergey thought, not without bitterness. At least he still bends his knee to God, even if only in appearances.

"Father Patruchev!" Mikheil greeted him warmly, flashing the same disarming grin he used, Sergey suspected, moments before pulling a trigger or extorting a smuggler. That smile—open, easy, almost charming—hid the truth that last week alone he had shot three men dead, broken two jaws in an alley, and shaken down every pimp, gambler, and opium den from the Neva to the Vyborg side. He would no doubt sit across from Sergey in the confessional after Mass and recount whatever atrocities he had done with the breezy tone of a man describing errands.

Mikheil clasped his hand firmly. "Has any of the Revolutionary Guards, the National Guard, or the army been troubling you this week? None of my boys, I hope? Do you need more rations for your soup kitchen?"

The priest forced a nod, half grateful, half afraid. "No, Comrade. Your men have done a… wonderful job keeping the hooligans away from the church. The believers feel safe here. And the soup kitchens—" he swallowed, "—they run well enough, for now."

Mikheil's face lit up. "That's a relief." He patted the priest's shoulder as though reassuring a nervous clerk. "Well then, I'll see you in confession after the service. Don't worry, Father. I'll bring you something good today." He winked, as if sin itself were a gift to be offered.

And just like that, he turned, striding into the nave with his family, settling into the pews as if they had come for a picnic. Aleksandra smoothed her skirt, the children squirmed, and old Ekaterina crossed herself three times as though to cleanse the air around her son.

Father Patruchev exhaled heavily, his hand tightening around the brass cross that hung from his neck. A gangster masquerading as a revolutionary, he thought, and yet a man who kneels at the altar, who prays, who confesses. What kind of faith is this? What kind of world is this, where wolves come dressed not in sheep's clothing, but in skulls and bones, and still kneel beside the lambs?

He sighed, bracing himself for the strange intimacy of the confessional, where Mikheil would unburden himself with a laugh, recounting murders, thefts, and extortions as casually as a farmer speaks of weather.

Patruchev longed, then, for the simple solace of his home that awaited him later today: his wife's stroganoff waiting on the stove, the quiet weight of his newborn son in his arms. Simple joys. A kind of holiness untouched by politics or death. Yet even there, the shadow of men like Mikheil crept in. The soviets practically ran the city ; the provisional government was paralyzed, fighting a losing war on one front while the Bolsheviks built a parallel army in the capital. Something was going to happen. He knew it, his parishioners knew it as well.

As the bells tolled and the choir began their hymn, Father Patruchev closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Not for his flock—though they needed it. Not even for himself. But for Mikheil. For the smiling devil who walked into his church each week like he owned both heaven and hell.

And in the corner of his mind, he wondered—does he?

------------

The incense still hung in the air when the last hymn faded. Parishioners drifted out with hurried bows and murmured prayers, until only a few stragglers remained kneeling in the pews. Father Patruchev moved toward the confessional, every step heavy, as though he were walking into a tomb. He slid into his place, crossing himself quickly, steeling his mind.

The curtain on the other side rustled, and there it was—the faint scent of wine, leather, and blood.

"Bless me, Father," came the familiar voice, cheerful as a man greeting a friend at a tavern, "for I have sinned."

Patruchev shut his eyes, gripping the edge of the seat. O Lord, grant me patience.

"I'll start with the big one," Mikheil said, lowering his voice to something conspiratorial. "Remember General Kornilov? That proud Cossack rooster who tried to march on us? Well—I organized a little parade for him and his boys. Made them march through the streets, stripped of their dignity, while everyone jeered. Marvelous optics, Father. Very festive. If you'd been there, you'd have sworn it was a carnival. Only with more spit and contempt."

Patruchev's hand twitched toward the cross at his neck. He murmured, "This is a grave humiliation of your fellow man."

"Yes, yes, grave humiliation, sinful pride, what have you. Write it down. Now, the second thing. You'll like this—it's very… theological." Mikheil chuckled. "I've been building a little program for the aristocrats, the nobles, even the royal family if we can nab them. Think of it as… rhetorical exercises! They'll get daily instruction in Marx, Engels, Lenin. If they resist? Well, we still have their families. Insurance, you understand. They'll either come out good little Marxists or… their families and themselves will die. Efficient, eh?"

Father Patruchev's mouth went dry. His mind screamed, This is not catechism, this is coercion, this is torture! But aloud, he whispered only, "The Lord teaches mercy."

"Oh, I give them mercy. Submit or die. That's mercy, isn't it?" Mikheil laughed, and the sound rang hollow in the tiny box.

He leaned closer, lowering his tone. "We're also working on something bigger. Don't spread this one around, Father." A pause, then, in a stage whisper: "We're going to surrender to Germany. Just as soon as we seize power, I already planned a coup a while back. Sign the peace, send the Germans packing back to France. Everyone will scream that we're traitors, puppets, but who cares? We'll win the coming civil war while the Allies and the Kaiser bash each other's skulls in. By the time Germany falls—and they will fall, mark my words—we'll be the only power left standing. Smart, eh? Then we'll go and reconquer whatever those Hun bastards took from us. Call it a, strategic retreat."

Patruchev nearly bit his tongue to stop himself from gasping. Dear God in Heaven. He's boasting of treason as if it were clever bookkeeping.

"And of course," Mikheil went on, breezily, "the usual business. I shot 10 people this week for stealing supplies. Not personal, Father—just policy. If you let one man steal bread, tomorrow ten men steal rifles. And about fifteen others roughed up on my orders for not paying their taxes. Don't worry, nothing too serious. Broken teeth, cracked ribs. All fixable."

The priest's hands trembled in his lap. Each word felt like another stone dropped into his soul. And yet Mikheil spoke with the casual tone of a man listing errands: bread bought, boots polished, executions carried out, atrocities and plots being planned.

Patruchev whispered, voice breaking, "These are not sins you confess lightly, my son. These are the gravest of sins. They are… they are the ruin of souls."

Silence from the other side, then a sigh. For a moment, Father Patruchev thought—hoped—Mikheil had been struck by remorse.

Then Mikheil said warmly, almost tenderly, "I know, Father. That's why I bring them to you. Catharsis. Better in your ears than rattling around in my head and drive me mad, eh? Besides, you're the only man I can tell all this to who won't try to shoot me or praise me afterward."

He laughed again, soft and genial, as though they were discussing fishing or the weather.

Father Patruchev pressed the cross to his lips, whispering a prayer so faint it barely escaped him. For mercy. For strength. For the strength not to scream at this man who brought sin into God's house like contraband smuggled in a coat pocket.

"Anything else?" he asked at last, his voice a thin thread.

Mikheil thought for a moment. "Oh, right—nearly forgot. I may have spanked Aleksandra during a dance the other night. Inappropriate, perhaps? Though she smiled, so maybe not a sin at all." He chuckled. "Still, best to be thorough. I think that's all for this week though. Just remember, if anyone gives you or your people trouble, come to me, I'll have them hung before sundown. Or just a stern talking to and a threat to execute them next time if you don't feel like having blood on your hands. As for your soup kitchens, I'll have my men deliver the usual food rations tomorrow and guard your kitchen. Let me know if you need more men to protect them."

Patruchev closed his eyes. For a wild moment he imagined standing, throwing open the curtain, and striking Mikheil across the face. But instead he murmured the absolution, his words trembling as though spoken by someone else.

When Mikheil left, the priest remained in the box long after, clutching his cross, fighting the nausea that rose in him. He prayed for forgiveness—not for Mikheil, but for himself, for being too weak to cry out.

August 26, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia
Afternoon

The smoke was thick enough to choke a horse. Everyone had a cigarette, a pipe, or, in Stalin's case, a half-burned cigar that looked like it had been gnawed rather than smoked. Trotsky was pacing, spectacles glinting under the weak lamps. Lenin sat with his head in his hands, listening more than speaking. Dzerzhinsky leaned against the wall like a statue carved out of exhaustion.

And then there was me, Mikheil. Leaning back, legs spread, looking like I owned the place. Which, if you counted who actually held the guns in Petrograd, I more or less did.

"Comrade Makarov," Trotsky began—he always used that damned false name when he wanted to be cold with me—"Attending church again." His lip curled on the word as though it had a smell. "It undermines us. It sends the wrong message. Religion is—"

I cut him off. "Yes, yes, the opium of the people. I can quote Marx better than you, Bronstein." I leaned forward, fixing them all with a grin. "What's the full line, eh? 'Religious suffering is, at one and the same time, the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.'"

I spread my arms. "So what do you want me to do Lev? Shoot the sigh out of them? Ban the soul out of their conditions? Confiscate the only bloody opium keeping them sane until we build the paradise we keep promising?"

Lenin rubbed his temple. Trotsky looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

"I don't see in the Communist Manifesto where Marx said 'shoot priests.' I've read it cover to cover, more than once. Nor do I recall a footnote that says 'burn down soup kitchens if the clergy run them.' What I do recall," I jabbed a finger at Trotsky, "is that we need the people. And the people like their churches."

Zinoviev shifted nervously. "But it gives an image of superstition. Of backwardness. The revolution must be—"

"Must be alive first, Grigory," I said sharply. "Alive, fed, and not rioting against us because we closed the only place that gave them bread and hope. My men stand guard outside and protect Father Patruchev's church and every fucking church in Petrograd every Sunday. You know what that does? It makes babushkas cry with joy, and makes people think twice before smashing windows. Good optics. Very good optics. Even the priests bless us. Imagine that: the men of God bless the men of Marx."

Kamenev gave a thin smile. "You sound almost proud, Mikheil."

"I am," I shot back. "We run our soup kitchens, the priests run theirs while we protect them. We look like protectors, not looters. Even Christ himself would have liked it." I smirked, couldn't resist it. "After all, who was it that chased the moneylenders from the temple? Who said it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven? Sounds like a good Bolshevik to me."

The room went quiet. Lenin pinched his nose, muttering something about blasphemy. Trotsky, meanwhile, was practically shaking.

"So you suggest," Trotsky spat, "that we attend mass? That we, Marxists, sit in pews like good little Christians for the sake of 'optics'?"

"I don't see why not." I said with a shrug. "Stand there, arms crossed, looking solemn while Father Patruchev talks about loving thy neighbor. Then afterward, we go back to planning how to murder and/or reeducate every noble and their families in Russia. Two birds, one stone. They see us in church, they trust us more. They hear us quoting Christ against the rich, they trust us more. And when we finally confiscate the estates, they'll say, 'ah well, Jesus warned the rich, didn't he?'"

That got a few uneasy laughs. Even Dzerzhinsky cracked half a smile before coughing into his sleeve.

Lenin finally looked up, eyes sharp but weary. "You're turning religion into a tool."

"What about it?" I asked. "And tools are useful. Unlike useless debates."

Trotsky slammed his fist on the table. "This is opportunism! It is—"

"It is pragmatism, Lev." I interrupted again, leaning back with my hands behind my head. "And unless you'd like me to pull my men from the churches and let them get smashed to pieces by hooligans, I suggest you shut your mouth, Bronstein. The people love their priests. And for now, the priests love me. That's worth more than your rousing speeches."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the scratch of Stalin's cigar. He hadn't said a word the whole time, just sat watching me with those narrow eyes of his, unreadable, like a man studying a horse before deciding whether to shoot it or ride it.

Trotsky looked furious, Zinoviev and Kamenev almost as livid, Lenin conflicted. Dzerzhinsky looked like Dzerzhinsky. And me? I was grinning like a boy at his first communion.

Because I knew I had them. They couldn't touch me. Not with my men holding the guns, and not with the people whispering thanks to me in their churches.

------

Later that night
Smolny Institute
Lenin's office

The committee had dispersed, most muttering about vodka or cursing me under their breath. But not me. Oh no. I got the invitation: a little private talk.

It was just the four of us. Lenin, pale and thin, looking like a corpse who'd sat up for one last argument. Stalin, slouched in the corner, smoking and staring at me like he was trying to decide whether to strangle me or shake my hand. And Dzerzhinsky, leaning against the wall, hands folded like a patient undertaker, which wasn't far from his day job.

And me—Mikheil, a ghost from the future, gangster, revolutionary, amateur stand-up comedian.

Lenin started, voice sharp but tired:
"You create problems, comrade. The Party cannot look like it encourages religion."

I grinned. "Not encourage—control. There's a difference. You shoot them, they become martyrs. You fund them, you own them. That's my point."

Lenin squinted. Stalin blew smoke rings. Dzerzhinsky blinked slowly, like a reptile.

I leaned forward, hands spread like a salesman unveiling a shiny new product:
"We confiscate their wealth, their lands, their valuables. Then we create a commissariat—call it the Commissariat of Religious Affairs. Every church, mosque, synagogue, temple, buddhist monastery—they all have to register. They want to build a soup kitchen? They ask us. They want candles for Christmas? They ask us. They'll be eating from our hands. We'll own them."

Dzerzhinsky raised an eyebrow. "So you propose to subsidize superstition."

"Subsidize? No. We leash it. You can murder men all day, Felix, but an idea is harder to strangle and bullets are expensive. This way we hold the leash. We make religion a pet. Harmless, declawed, fed just enough to survive."

Stalin finally chuckled, low and humorless. "Like a dog on a chain."

"Exactly," I said. "A very holy dog. We let it bark, maybe even wag its tail at us, but it never bites. And if it does? Off with its head. Simple."

Lenin tapped the desk with his fingers, thinking. The man looked half-dead, but his brain still whirred like a machine. "It is… pragmatic. The people will not give up their faith overnight. You suggest to control it."

"Of course," I said. "You use what you have. Jesus condemned the rich. Mohammed preached against usury. Buddha renounced wealth. They're practically writing Party leaflets for us already. Why waste bullets and men putting down rebellion and shooting priests when we can quote scripture?"

Stalin's eyes narrowed. "But you believe it, don't you? You kneel. You cross yourself."

I smirked. "I do." I nodded. "What about it? Optics, remember? And besides—" I couldn't resist, I leaned in conspiratorially, "—between us, I've probably killed more people in the past three months than all three of you combined. God's definitely very pissed at me."

There was a silence. Lenin stared at me like he wasn't sure if I was joking. Dzerzhinsky actually coughed a laugh, the driest sound in history. Stalin muttered something in Georgian that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

Lenin finally nodded, almost grudgingly.
"Very well. We will consider your commissariat. But mind this, Mikheil—if you build yourself a power base in the Church, if you turn priests into your own guard… then you will be the one we must put down."

I grinned, leaning back. "As you wish comrade."

Then I took a long look at them. Sitting there, facing Lenin, Stalin—all these names I'd read in history books—and realizing I was the one lecturing them? That was funny. Too funny. The kind of absurd joke that made me want to laugh out loud in their faces.

And the best part? I probably did have a higher body count already.

History, it turns out, has a dark sense of humor. And I fit right in.

 

[George Mathew]

Awesome work man. Keep it up.

 

[menace4time678]

I like the story but I feel like not enough old bolsheviks have been integrated into the story. Feels like he talks to the same few characters every chapter, there were a lot of interesting character's in the Bolshevik ranks at this time and it feels underexplored

 

[Xodarap]

Decades later Mikheil will be the one who's life is most documented simply from how much of his true thoughts he says to people

 

[George Mathew]

In a way the guy has officially made himself the bogeyman of the Soviets. I would be interested in reading what other nations think about him.

 

[Arrowman]

The MC is outStaling Stalin!
At this point they will put Jow in power, because he is the tame twin, if not the most reasonable

 

[George Mathew]

Unlikely that the SI would allow for himself to be placed in a position of power. I think he prefers being the background guy too much.

 

[Alenco98]

September 17, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

I woke, as I always did, at precisely 5:30 a.m. Not a second later. To sleep longer would be sloth; to wake earlier would be masochism. I am neither a pig nor a monk. I am Mikheil.

I rose, placed a pillow on the floor, and did a headstand against the wall. I counted to one hundred in a whisper, steady and calm, as though communing with some cruel God who cared only for numbers. Then I collapsed, deliberately, onto the wooden floor with a thud loud enough to wake the mice. I don't just do this for "health." Health is an abstraction. I do it so my hair doesn't fall out. All that blood rushing to the scalp—natural medicine. Thick hair is a symbol of power, immortality. Lenin has a bald head. Stalin has a pockmarked face. I, however, will never surrender my hair. I would rather die.

Next came my morning routine. I strapped on a backpack I had stuffed with ten kilos of contraband paperweights, and did thirty push-ups, thirty squats, and fifteen pull-ups on the bar nailed above the door. Every grunt echoed through the hall like a threat. Keke stirred awake from my exertions, glaring at me with the face of a long-suffering saint. Sashiko and Aleksander groaned as well. Joe—my brother, Stalin—slept on, oblivious, dreaming perhaps of pamphlets, bribes, and endless meetings with factory men who smelled like kerosene and lies. He really should regulate his sleep, but explaining the concept of "wellness" to him is like explaining opera to a sack of potatoes.

Afterwards, I went to the communal washroom. The plumbing groaned like an old revolutionary who had been shot but insisted he was still alive. I washed myself thoroughly, first the body, then the hair—always the hair. I massaged it like a prized mink stole. Then I dried off, walking back to my quarters wearing nothing but a towel, carrying my crumpled nightclothes like the relics of a saint.

I changed into my revolutionary guard uniform. Before leaving, I combed my hair with precision, washed my face with lavender-scented soap—handcrafted, naturally, dipped in hot water until it softened into a perfect mixture of purity and decadence. It makes me look young, ethereal even. Stalin and I are both 39. Stalin looks 50. I look 25. Grooming, long hair brushing my collar, and a skincare routine that would shame Parisian courtesans—these are my weapons. Too bad for me I'm still shorter than Joe, he stands at whopping 5'7 while I'm barely 5'4 on a good day, truly there are some things you can't escape even in death, but it is what it is, short king for life.

There is an idea of a Mikheil Jugashvili. Some kind of abstraction. A concept more than a man. You can shake my hand and feel flesh, you can hear my voice, but you cannot touch me. 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.

Except my wife, my mother, and my close family. Even Joe. I have grown… fond of them. Perhaps even love them, though love is such a tedious word, so bourgeois, so sticky. Call it possessiveness, if you prefer. And I would kill every single man, woman, and child in this building without hesitation if it meant keeping them safe and happy. With a smile, no less.

As I stepped back into the hall, Keke muttered about my vanity. I explained, very kindly, that aesthetics are not vanity—they are survival. Lenin has his speeches, Trotsky his pen, Stalin his paranoia. I have my hair and my face along with my men and their menacing drip. In a few years they will all be dead or irrelevant, but people will still remember me as handsome. That is immortality.

I hummed softly as I walked out of the building. Not a Russian tune, not a revolutionary anthem, but something from far ahead: "Puzzle" by Meiko Nakahara. City pop, neon humming through the void, longing pressed into vinyl. A song about yearning for love you cannot reach.

I yearn too. For the future. For the world to catch up with me. Until then, I will stay here, in the Smolny Institute, surrounded by men with bad haircuts and worse ideas.

And I will be beautiful.

But for now—vanity rituals complete, hair gleaming like a bayonet—I had work to do. Revolutionary work. Important work.

Helping Trotsky build his grandiose Soviet military, which he treated like a personal orchestra—he the conductor, the soldiers the instruments, always trying to drown out the tune of reality. Helping Dzerzhinsky hammer together his National Guard, a paranoid man creating an institution for even more paranoid men. And, of course, my own duties: shaping and expanding the Revolutionary Guard; strangling the criminal underworld until it squealed rubles and supplies that would then use to upkeep my guardsmen, the national guard and military; inspecting factories.

Yes. Mondays. Always Mondays. Tax day.

I left the Smolny like a tsar leaving his palace, Revolutionary Guard stationed at the gates. They saluted. I saluted back, gracious as a monarch humoring peasants. All with the funny mustache man salute. One handed me a helmet. I put it on. Another handed me a rifle. I slung it over my shoulder. A third presented a bulletproof vest, which I strapped on ceremoniously, as if being dressed for war—or a particularly aggressive dinner party.

The men hated the vests, hated the discipline, hated the drills, especially under the fading summer heat. But hatred is useful. Hatred is discipline. And a civil war was coming. Better they sweat today than bleed tomorrow.

A battalion of my Guardsmen—about a hundred, give or take—waited in formation. They saluted. I returned the gesture, magnanimous. We marched to the street, where a dozen armored cars waited like steel beasts. I claimed the front seat of one in the middle of the convoy. Half the battalion piled into the cars, the other half mounted horses that arrived a few minutes later, snorting, stamping, shitting. Democracy on four legs.

We had two stops today in between collecting taxes: Obukhov Factory and Petrograd Imperial University. Priorities. Hooray.

Obukhov first. Weapons production is always more important than academics. After all, you can't educate a man who's already been shot in the head.

The ride took half an hour, though Petrograd traffic made it feel like half a century. Still, the crowd parted for us eventually. They always do, when a hundred armed men demand it.

We dismounted at Obukhov. Guards flanked me as I strode inside. Technically, Trotsky had absorbed the Red Guards here into his embryonic "army," but they remembered me. I had organized defenses against Kornilov, defended the party in July, and, most importantly, made sure wages were paid and vodka flowed. Logistics is love. Logistics is respect.

Just as I was about to enter the factory floor, I spotted a commotion: a group of guards barking at a man and woman who looked decidedly foreign. Wrong clothes, wrong posture, wrong everything. Spies? Journalists? Diplomatic lice? I wandered over, curious.

The guards straightened immediately.

"What's the problem?" I asked, voice smooth, like oil ready to ignite.

The ranking guard stepped forward. "These two claim to be journalists. They want to interview the workers. Trotsky ordered us to keep anyone like that out. Could be spies."

The man spoke up, his Russian accented like a drunk trying to play the balalaika. "My name is John Reed. I am a journalist, here to cover events in Russia. I only seek a statement."

"Where are you from?" I asked flatly.

He looked at me and turned pale. Even foreigners knew who we were. Revolutionary Guards were not known for their warmth.

"I'm American," he stammered. "Portland."

"Ahh, Americans!" I replied—in flawless Mid-Atlantic English. The crowd blinked in collective shock. I hadn't spoken English since… well, since before I died. It felt refreshing, like brushing your teeth after biting into someone's jugular.

"Is your wife American too?"

The woman nodded quickly. "Yes. From San Francisco."

"Lovely," I said. "West Coast royalty. My name is Mikheil Jugashvili. Founder and head of the Revolutionary Guard Corps. I was here to inspect the factory anyway. Why don't you wait here? We'll do an interview afterwards."

Reed lit up like a child offered candy and opium at once. "Yes! Of course."

"Perfect." I nodded. Switching back to Russian, I ordered my men: "Keep them here. Make sure no one disturbs them. Not even themselves."

The guards chuckled nervously. The Americans didn't understand.

Then I turned to the factory overseers, beckoning them forward with the gesture of a man who owns time itself. "Well then, gentlemen," I said. "Let's inspect production ."

And into the factory I went, humming "Puzzle" again under my breath. Always "Puzzle." Because in this city of corpses, betrayal, and smoke, I longed for a future that did not yet exist.

And until it came, I would build it—with bullets, taxes, and perfect hair.

The overseers shuffled forward as I entered the factory floor, nervous as altar boys caught stealing communion wine. They led me through the factory gates, past a gauntlet of guards and foremen, into the belly of the Obukhov Works.

The air inside was a cocktail of smoke, oil, sweat, and desperation. Sparks leapt from furnaces, machinery roared like starving lions, and men in soot-blackened overalls hammered metal into the shapes of death. Glorious.

"This factory," the senior overseer began, voice trembling with a mix of pride and fear, "was producing munitions for the war effort—rifles, ammunition, shells, artillery—for the Provisional Government. But now, comrade, every shipment, every piece, every bullet is directed to the Bolsheviks."

I smiled thinly. Like a father hearing his son finally admit he wants to become an executioner, not a doctor. I felt bad for Kerensky and his men. Worried? Nah, the Petrograd garrison, while on paper over 60 thousand men strong, was a rabble of sick, demoralized and undisciplined men who were more likely to receive rations that payment this month.

We had Dzerzhinsky's agents embedded within the guard, many of them were defecting to us on a daily basis. Trotsky now had 25 thousand men under arms, Dzerzhinsky 3 thousand, and little old me 7 thousand. All paid, armed, and supplied reliably thanks to the underworld and my now suffering brother in law who so graciously took the weight off my shoulders. Though I admit my men were better armed than Trotsky's and Dzerzhinsky, and Dzerzhinsky's were better armed than Trotsky. But Trotsky's men compared to the Petrograd garrison were far better off.

In short, Petrograd was a rotting house, one kick at the door and they would crumble. Bliss.

"We have diversified," the overseer continued quickly. "Not only rifles now, but bullets, shells, and artillery pieces. By the end of next month we estimate we'll have produced enough to arm another ten thousand men and sustain them for 3 weeks."

Ten thousand men. Fully supplied. Armed by my factories. Ten thousand opportunities to kill ten thousand more of someone else's men.

I paused by a workbench where a half-assembled Machine gun rested. I ran a gloved hand along its cooling jacket, savoring the oily residue left behind. I could almost hear it purr.

"Ten thousand men," I repeated slowly, as though tasting a rare wine. "That is enough to win a small war, gentlemen. But not enough for what we're looking to do."

The overseers laughed nervously, not sure if I was joking. I wasn't. Not entirely.

We walked deeper into the cavernous shop floors, where the din of hammering and grinding was deafening. I noticed a worker welding artillery parts without goggles. His retinas will probably melt in a few weeks. I sighed and glanced at one of the overseers. "Get the damn boy some googles. A blind welder is a useless one." One of the overseers nodded nervously and ran off while I continued.

I inspected crates of newly manufactured rifles stacked neatly against a wall, each stamped with the factory mark and serial numbers. Rows upon rows of them, like coffins waiting for occupants.

"You've done well," I said at last, turning back to the overseers. "I am pleased."

Their faces relaxed in visible relief. Being told "I am pleased" by me was the equivalent of a papal blessing—except the pope can't have you shot if the incense smells wrong.

I clasped my hands behind my back, strolling down the rows of rifles, humming "Puzzle" again, almost under my breath. The machines pounded in time with the beat. Metal, smoke, longing.

"This city bleeds, and you are the veins," I said absently. "Keep the guns flowing. Ten thousand men. By the end of October."

The overseers nodded violently, swearing they would work day and night.

Good.

I don't ask much. Just loyalty, discipline, and the ability to turn Petrograd into an arsenal of nightmares.

And I always, always, ask nicely first.

----------

We left the factory to the thunder of machines still birthing weapons behind us. My men fell into step, boots clattering against the cobblestones, armored cars rumbling like angry beasts chained to the revolution. Reed and his San Franciscan bride hurried alongside, scribbling in their notebooks like diligent undertakers preparing a eulogy for a still-living man.

"Comrade Jugashvili," Reed began carefully, "could I ask you—what exactly is the Revolutionary Guard's role in this… movement?"

Ah, the opening volley. I smiled, a politician's smile sharpened into a razor.

"Our role, John," I said in flawless English, "is simple: defense against Bonapartism and counter revolution. We are not here to plan coups, or seize power for ourselves. No, no. That's it. Think of us as a fire brigade—except instead of water, we use rifles, and instead of fires, we put out reactionaries and anyone within the Soviet Military that styles himself as a wannabe Napoleon."

They laughed nervously. I pressed on, enjoying myself.

"You see, just weeks ago, we defeated General Kornilov's putsch. A Thermidorian attempt if ever there was one. A general marching on Petrograd to restore 'order'—bah. We stopped him. Ordinary men, workers, Revolutionary Guards, the Soviet military, the national guard standing shoulder to shoulder. A victory, yes, but also a warning. The forces of Thermidor are always waiting. Always circling. Always one telegram away from strangling history in its cradle."

Reed scribbled furiously. His wife simply stared at me, eyes wide, like she couldn't decide if she was listening to a statesman or a lunatic who might start foaming at the mouth.

I decided to indulge them with biography. Everyone loves a confession from a dangerous man.

"My name, as I said, is Mikheil Jugashvili. I am the younger twin of Iosif Stalin. He is a member of the central committee. He is the brains, the thinker, the man with the plans. I am…" I spread my arms modestly. "The builder. My brother Stalin sketches and plans the house. I make sure it has walls and a roof. And perhaps a few well-stocked cellars."

Reed chuckled. He wasn't sure if I was joking. He wasn't wrong.

"I stepped back from party activity for some years. After Stalin's wife died, someone had to raise his boy, Yakov. I did. Married my sister in law, had a family of my own. Five children now. I count Yakov as my son. My mother lives with us too. We are very… domestic. Imagine it: me, my wife, the children, Stalin's boy at the table, our mother muttering prayers in the corner, all while I'm hiding rifles beneath the floorboards. A normal Russian family."

They blinked. I grinned.

"I moved here to Petrograd some years ago. Became a policeman, if you can believe it. Yes, Mikheil the Bolshevik, Mikheil the revolutionary, walking a beat, whistling at drunks, handing out fines and taking bribes. But I was clever. I built contacts in the underworld. Smugglers, thieves, black-market men. I kept weapons hidden, organized networks. When the time came, I had the tools. And when I reunited with my brother here—when Stalin came into his own—I began to organize the Guard. Workers, veterans, gangsters. A motley crew, yes, but disciplined. We run factories, we run soup kitchens, we run the city's veins, we protect churches and keep order. And occasionally, we run out of patience."

Reed swallowed hard. His wife scribbled now too, though I wondered if she was writing words or just drawing escape routes.

"You see, John, history requires both dreamers and janitors. Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin—they dream, they plan. I sweep the streets, load the rifles, collect the money, break the bones when necessary. Division of labor, efficient."

I adjusted my rifle strap, gestured for them to follow me as I climbed into one of the armored cars.

"Now," I said, clapping Reed on the shoulder in what I imagine felt like a bear trap disguised as affection, "you're welcome to accompany me. It's Monday. Tax day. Today we collect revenue from factories, brothels, and other businesses that owe loyalty to the revolution. A revolutionary state needs funding, after all. And the world will learn soon enough that Petrograd's criminal underworld and honest businessmen now reports to me. In exchange for protection, they pay their share. Just like everyone else."

Reed hesitated, then nodded, smiling thinly, already imagining his Pulitzer—or whatever passed for one in this time.

"Excellent!" I said brightly. "Consider this an exclusive tour of the revolutionary economy. Guns, factories, taxes, prostitutes. It's all very modern. America could learn a thing or two."

I leaned back in the car as the engines roared to life. My men saluted. I returned it casually, like Caesar blessing the Senate before a massacre.

Reed leaned forward with a final question. "And if someone refuses to pay these… taxes?"

I smiled wide, teeth white, eyes empty. "Then, John, we first politely ask they pay us. They must be fed. And if they refuse again—well…" I glanced out the window at the passing city. "We shoot them."

The convoy rolled through Petrograd like a steel centipede, armored cars and horsemen in neat formation. I sat shotgun, Reed and his wife behind me, scribbling furiously. Poor things. They thought they were observers. No, they were participants now—extras in my little morality play about the revolution.

Our first stop was a bakery. The smell of stale rye and desperation clung to the air like mildew. The baker, a fat man with flour-caked fingers, greeted me with a forced smile and a trembling ledger. I smiled back, shook his hand warmly, asked about his wife and children. Then I asked for the money.

He produced it quickly—stacks of bread, yeast, and a few gold coins, tied neatly with string. Polite, efficient. I patted him on the cheek. "Good man. You feed the revolution, we feed you. Remember: Lenin dreams of bread for all, but I am the man who makes sure no one steals the loaves." He laughed nervously. Reed scribbled.

Second stop: a gambling den tucked behind a butcher shop. Cards, dice, vodka. The place smelled of tobacco, fear, and cheap perfume. The owner, a gaunt fellow with the eyes of a starving wolf, tried to hand me half of what was owed. I leaned in close, whispered in perfect English so only Reed and his wife could hear: "Do you know what happens to men who shortchange history? They become history."

Then, louder, in Russian, I snapped my fingers. My men stepped forward. The owner, suddenly realizing his error, produced the full amount. I smiled, took it, kissed him on the forehead like a priest giving a benediction. He nearly wept with relief. Reed's wife looked like she wanted to vomit. Good. She was learning.

Third stop: an opium den. The air thick with smoke, bodies sprawled like corpses in soft piles, eyes glazed over in chemical paradise. The owner, a Chinese man with perfect posture, handed me the tribute without hesitation. "You're efficient," I told him. "Like me. If only more Russians were like you, we'd have built socialism last week."

Next came the brothel. Always my favorite. The madam—a formidable woman in her forties with more rouge than dignity—curtsied as though I were some czarist prince instead of a revolutionary gangster. Her girls peeked from behind velvet curtains, wide-eyed and half-curious. I told her gently, "Your business thrives because the revolution protects it. Imagine if the Whites came back—they'd shut you down, or worse, make you their wives. Think about it." She thought about it. She paid in full.

Halfway through, a thief decided to test his luck. Some half-starved wretch slipped a handful of coins from a gambling den's pile into his ragged coat while my men weren't looking. But my men always look. He didn't make it two steps before they had him pinned against the wall.

I strolled over, Reed in tow. "My friend," I said kindly, "do you know what this money is for? This is for rifles. For bullets. For artillery. For the survival of the revolution itself. When you steal from this pile, you steal from the cause. You might as well be stealing from Lenin's pockets, or from the hands of the workers themselves."

He stammered, cried, begged. I nodded sympathetically, then I shot him after we dragged him outside. A single shot. His body slumped to the cobblestones, coins scattering like bloodstained confetti. Reed froze, his wife's pen clattered to the ground. I looked at them both and smiled.

"Taxes must be collected," I said softly. "Or else what is the point of government?"

We continued on—workshops, banks, smugglers' hideouts, black markets, even a soap maker. Each had their tribute ready, some cheerfully, most fearfully. The system worked because I was polite first, terrifying second. That is the true balance of revolution: a smile, a handshake, and the occasional corpse as punctuation.

By the time the sun dipped low, our wagons bulged with cash and contraband. Reed finally dared to speak again. "This… this is extraordinary. I've never seen—"

"Yes, yes," I cut him off smoothly. "Extraordinary. Historic. Necessary. You will write about this, John. You will tell your countrymen that the Bolsheviks are not anarchists or bandits, but organizers. We impose order. We collect taxes. We build an army. We win."

I leaned back, stretching, then added casually: "When we return to Smolny, I'll see if I can arrange something for you. Perhaps you'll meet the Central Committee. Lenin, Zinoviev, Kamenev, Trotsky. You can interview them. Imagine the headlines. And if you've no place to stay, you can stay at Smolny. Comfortable beds, revolutionary atmosphere, plenty of rifles to keep you warm."

Reed quickly shook his head. "Thank you, Comrade Jugashvili, but we've already taken rooms at the Angleterre."

"Ahh, the Angleterre," I said with a grin. "Very bourgeois. Very respectable. Yes, yes, stay there, drink their coffee, write your little notes. But while you're here, you'll wait in Smolny until I finish one more stop. One last errand. Then I'll deliver you to Lenin himself like a pair of rare foreign birds. How does that sound? Interviewing our leader."

Reed nodded eagerly. His wife said nothing, eyes fixed on the cobblestones still dark with blood.

"Wonderful," I said brightly. "Now, let us be on our way. History doesn't wait, John. And neither do I."

---

Later that afternoon

The convoy lurched to a halt outside the hulking facade of Petrograd Imperial University. Students in threadbare coats shuffled past in twos and threes, clutching notebooks like talismans. The war had hollowed them out—boys who should have been memorizing Pushkin now memorized ballistic coefficients.

I left Reed and his delicate wife behind at Smolny—better for them not to see this part. Journalists like to believe in noble revolutions, not the mechanics of mass death.

Inside, the chemistry department smelled like vinegar, chlorine, and academic desperation. The laboratory was a forest of glass tubing, bubbling flasks, and chalkboards scrawled with equations no worker would ever understand. Young men in spectacles and white coats stood at attention as if I were a visiting czar. In a way, I was.

"Good afternoon, comrades," I said, switching to Russian, my voice warm, almost paternal. "Tell me—how far along are we with the chlorine?"

A thin professor with nicotine-stained fingers cleared his throat. "Comrade Jugashvili, the production is… progressing. We've achieved stable yields. The gas can be compressed into cylinders, but—well—the issue is the shells. We are working on methods to fill artillery rounds safely without corroding the casings."

I paced slowly between the benches, trailing my fingers across the cold metal of the apparatus, listening to the hiss of the pipes. "And how soon until you can? Weeks? Days? I like punctuality, professor. It reassures me that civilization is not entirely doomed."

The students shifted uneasily. One finally spoke up—brave or stupid, it was often the same thing. "Perhaps by the end of October, Comrade. The design for the shells is almost ready. The problem is sealing them—if they leak, even storage is dangerous."

I stopped and looked at him, smiling faintly. "Dangerous? My boy, everything here is dangerous. Walking outside is dangerous. Speaking the wrong word is dangerous. Do you think the Whites will be merciful if they march into this city? Do you think they'll hand you your diploma and a pat on the head? No. They'll conscript you, starve you, hang you from the nearest lamppost."

Silence. Only the sound of liquid dripping into a beaker.

"Good," I said finally, clapping the nervous student on the shoulder. "So you understand. This is not a game of textbooks and chalk. You are soldiers now, even if your weapon is a pipette instead of a rifle. Produce me shells, gentlemen. Ten, twenty, a hundred. Let the counterrevolution breathe their own death when they charge at us. History will not remember the squeamish chemists—it will remember the survivors."

The professor nodded stiffly. "Yes, Comrade Jugashvili. We'll accelerate the work."

"Excellent." I turned toward the door, adjusting my gloves. "If you succeed, you'll arm the revolution. If you fail…" I gestured vaguely at the beakers, the acrid fumes. "Well. Just try again, I understand chemistry is rather dangerous."

They all nodded in terrified agreement.

I left them with that thought, the scent of chlorine stinging my nose as I stepped back into the crisp evening air. My guards fell into formation, rifles at the ready. The day was nearly done, and so was I.

Another errand completed. Another piece of the machine oiled with fear, discipline, and a promise of progress.

------

Later, 7 PM, the same day

Smolny smelled of ink, wet wool, and cigarette smoke thick enough to be cut with a bayonet. The corridors buzzed with typists hammering communiqués, runners shouting for Lenin, Trotsky, Kamenev, Zinoviev. History in its larval stage, crawling noisily toward metamorphosis.

I stepped into the meeting chamber where the Central Committee was gathered around a battered table littered with papers, maps, tea glasses, and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. Lenin sat forward, bald head gleaming, scribbling furiously; Trotsky leaned back, pince‑nez glinting, looking smug as a man who believed he had personally invented the revolution; Kamenev puffed his pipe nervously; Zinoviev muttered something about the Germans.

"Comrades," I began, removing my gloves, "I stumbled into a problem today. Or perhaps an opportunity. Two Americans—journalists—at Obukhov. John Reed, and his wife Louise Bryant. They wanted to interview the workers. The factory guards didn't know what to do, so I intervened."

All eyes turned to me. Lenin's pen stopped mid‑scratch.

I continued, matter‑of‑fact. "I spoke to them. In English. Perfect English. Shocked the hell out of them, I think—they probably expected a Bolshevik to grunt like a peasant. I explained we are not coup plotters, but defenders of the revolution against counter‑revolutionaries. Cited the Kornilov affair as a Thermidorian attempt we defeated. Nothing about our planned coup, nothing about treaties with Germany. Just—enough to make us look organized, principled, not deranged."

Trotsky leaned forward, lips twitching in amusement. "You gave them a little morality play, then?"

"Yes Lev. I also gave them a sketch of myself—my role here, my family, Stalin as the brains while I build the muscle. Nothing dangerous, nothing compromising. Just the sort of narrative that looks good in a foreign newspaper."

Lenin tapped the table with his pen, considering. "And you believe they should be allowed to interview us?"

"Yes," I said simply. "Legitimacy, comrade. Abroad, they do not know us, except through the lies of the bourgeois press. Reed and his wife are sympathetic—they worship revolutions the way priests worship relics. If they write favorably, the world will see not criminals, but statesmen."

Kamenev frowned. "And if they publish details we don't want revealed?"

"I gave you all a complete account of what I said, word for word, so you may decide if any of it should be censored. I avoided all talk of October, of the Germans, of power seizures. It was polite conversation about defending the revolution. A bit of family story for color. If you wish, I'll sit in on their interviews. Their Russian is terrible—like cats fighting in a sack. I can translate their questions and our answers into proper English."

Trotsky smirked, exhaling smoke. "A revolutionary, a tax collector, and now an interpreter. Truly, Mikheil, you are the Renaissance man of Bolshevism."

I grinned back. "Better me than some translator from the old ministries who'd sell every word to the Provisional Government for a hot meal. Isn't that right Bronstein?"

Lenin nodded slowly, drumming his fingers. "Very well then. If Reed is truly sympathetic, his pen may be as valuable as a rifle." He scribbled a note and tucked it aside. "Go and get him."

Business resumed—supply shortages, rail strikes, the endless question of bread and power. But the Americans lingered in the air like cigar smoke. They were here, and they would write. And if they wrote well, perhaps the revolution would echo further than Petrograd's frozen streets. Meanwhile, I stood up and went to get the Reeds

---

8 PM

I ushered John Reed and Louise Bryant in, both looking anxious but feverishly alive. Reed's eyes darted about the room like a man stepping into scripture. He wanted to see saints, and here they were: bald, bearded, nicotine‑stained, overworked saints.

I cleared my throat. "Comrades, these are the Americans I mentioned—John Reed, journalist, and his wife, Louise Bryant. They wish to record what is happening here, to explain it abroad. I have spoken with them already. I believe they are sympathetic."

Lenin leaned forward, studying them the way a surgeon studies a patient. "They speak Russian?" he asked in clipped syllables.

I shook my head. "Badly. Like two chickens debating bread crumbs. I'll translate."

Trotsky smirked. "Then let us hope your English is as sharp as your tax collections."

I gestured for Reed to begin. He adjusted his spectacles, voice tremoring with excitement: "What do you see as the ultimate goal of this revolution?"

I translated for Lenin: "He asks where this all leads, what the purpose is."

Lenin's face twitched into that familiar half‑smile that could curdle milk. "Tell him: the transfer of power to the soviets. The destruction of the bourgeois order. Bread, peace, land."

I nodded and relayed smoothly in English: "The goal is simple—power to the workers and peasants, food for the hungry, peace for the weary, and land for those who till it. Everything else is noise."

Reed scribbled as though taking dictation from Christ.

Louise Bryant cut in: "And what of democracy? Elections?"

I translated; the room bristled. Zinoviev muttered something unprintable. Lenin leaned forward, tapping his pencil on the table. "Tell her: bourgeois democracy is a mask for exploitation. Ours is the higher democracy—direct power through soviets."

I gave it to her politely: "The current system is a fraud. What matters is the soviets—councils of workers and soldiers. That is real democracy, unfiltered, uncorrupted."

Bryant frowned, but Reed's eyes lit up. He was falling in love with the revolution, probably already drafting chapters in his head.

Then Reed asked, tentatively: "And if your enemies resist?"

I translated. Trotsky perked up, his moment to thunder. He straightened his jacket and let loose: "If they resist, we will break them. History does not tolerate hesitation. We will answer counter‑revolution with the Red Terror of the people!"

I hesitated—too much honesty, too soon. So I softened it: "If they resist, we will stand firm. History is on our side, and no enemy will prevail against the will of the workers."

Trotsky shot me a look, realizing I'd shaved off the terror. I smiled blandly back. That's what interpreters are for—making monsters sound like statesmen.

Bryant, ever sharper, asked: "And what of women in this revolution? What future for them?"

Lenin paused, then answered quickly, as though this had been rehearsed: "Women are equal in the struggle. They will be equal in the soviets. They will be free."

I translated it faithfully. Even I couldn't improve on that—it was the one thing Lenin meant sincerely. Louise looked impressed, for once not scribbling but thinking.

The interview wound down after an hour. Reed's notebook was fat with prophecy; Louise looked thoughtful, wary but intrigued. Lenin rubbed his temples. Trotsky preened. Zinoviev yawned.

I escorted the Americans out into the hall. Reed turned to me, eyes blazing. "Do you realize you're living through history?"

I smiled politely. "Yes, but unlike you, I'll be the one writing it in blood."

He laughed nervously, thinking it was a joke.

It wasn't.

-------

9:30 PM

The Americans left with their notebooks stuffed like geese before a Christmas feast along with a continent of my guardsmen led by bear. They were smiling as though they had just bought stock in destiny. I watched them walk out the door and thought: there go two people who will probably get us killed with adjectives.

The Central Committee reconvened in one of the smoke‑filled rooms upstairs. The chairs were mismatched, the table was missing a leg and propped up with a pile of old Pravdas. Lenin sat at the head, rubbing his temples as though democracy itself had given him a migraine.

"Well?" he said.

Trotsky leaned forward, his mustache twitching with self‑importance. "They will spread our message abroad. America will know the revolution is here, inevitable, glorious. It was good—very good—that they came."

"Yes," Lenin muttered, "good. Except that you sounded like Robespierre with a hangover."

Trotsky bristled. "I told the truth."

I interrupted before they could start bickering like two opera divas sharing one spotlight. "I softened your truth," I said, lighting a cigarette. "Otherwise, the Americans would have run screaming into the Neva and drowned themselves rather than publish you."

Zinoviev chuckled through a cough. "The interpreter saves the revolution, comrade Mikheil."

"Of course," I said. "My brother Stalin makes the plans. Lenin makes the speeches. Trotsky writes the poetry of blood. And I"—I flicked ash into the corner—"make sure the foreigners don't hear the word 'terror' before we're consolidated."

That earned a few laughs, though Trotsky glared as though I'd compared him to an actor in cheap vaudeville. Which, in fairness, I had.

Lenin tapped the table. "Jokes aside, this is important. We need legitimacy abroad. Not for the bourgeois governments—they will never accept us—but for the workers, the socialists, the ones who still think we are nothing but fanatics."

"And are we not?" Kamenev muttered.

Lenin ignored him. "These Americans will write their little articles. They will tell the workers in New York, Chicago, San Francisco that something new is born here in Petrograd. They will plant seeds. That is what matters."

Trotsky folded his arms. "Yes. Though one wonders how much 'legitimacy' we gain when our interpreter edits my words like a censor."

I leaned back in my chair. "Lev, if I had translated you word for word, we would already be surrounded by French bayonets, American Marines, and a British orchestra playing 'Rule Britannia' while they shelled Smolny. Consider me the birth control on your revolutionary cock: unpleasant, necessary, prevents messy consequences."

Silence. Then Lenin laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Zinoviev wheezed until he had to spit in a cup. Even Kamenev smiled.

Trotsky did not laugh. He muttered something about "vulgarity" and stared at the wall like a man plotting revenge against wallpaper.

Lenin wiped his eyes and composed himself. "In any case, well done. You handled them. If they ask again for interviews, we will allow it. With you present, comrade Mikheil. Always with you."

"Of course," I said. "I'll make sure they see us as the noble defenders of liberty and not the lunatics sharpening guillotines in the basement."

Trotsky growled. "We don't need guillotines."

"No," I said. "We need bullets. They stack better."

Another round of laughter—nervous, but laughter all the same.

The meeting adjourned. Lenin went off to write, Trotsky to sulk, Zinoviev to cough, Kamenev to wring his hands. I lingered, staring at the empty chairs. It struck me, not for the first time, how fragile this all was—this band of half‑starved intellectuals and conspirators pretending to be a government.

And yet, with a few rifles, a few factories, and a few journalists willing to swallow our lies, we might just pull it off.

History, I reflected, is written not by the victors, but by the fools who believe the victors' press releases.

And tonight, we had just hired our first ghostwriters.

But now I had to get dinner with my family.

---

Late evening

Dinner round two. The family gathered like a small parliament nobody voted for. Keke at the far end of the table, reigning over the soup pot with the authority of a Roman senator. Alexander and Aleksandra had joined us—our brother‑in‑law and my beloved wife, both too polite to admit they regretted saying yes. Stalin, as usual, sat like a lump of granite, eyes darting around the table as if he expected a spy to crawl out of the bread basket.

We had just started on the pickled fish when Stalin broke his silence.

"These Americans," he said slowly, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Reed, and his wife. You trust them?"

The table went still. Keke's spoon clattered against her bowl. Aleksandra blinked like she'd been slapped. Alexander, poor bastard, shifted uncomfortably, clearly wondering if he was allowed to breathe.

I smiled. Always I smiled. "Trust? Joe, I don't even trust my barber. But the Americans? They're useful. Reed is desperate—he thinks we're the new French Revolution. I'll feed him just enough rope to strangle himself."

"You're too casual," Stalin muttered. "Foreign journalists are snakes. They print one wrong word, we have trouble."

"Then," I said, cheerfully cutting into my black bread, "I'll cut out their tongues. Problem solved. No tongue, no bad articles."

The children—mine and Yakov—stared at me wide‑eyed. Aleksandra gasped. Alexander looked like he wanted to vomit into his soup.

"Mikheil!" Keke snapped. "The children!"

I patted my youngest on the head. "Don't worry. Papa's joking. Probably."

Stalin didn't laugh, but he didn't scold me either. He just sipped his vodka, as if weighing whether my joke was actually a proposal.

I leaned back in my chair. "Look, if Reed betrays us, I'll kill him myself. Then I'll make his wife write a glowing obituary about the man's tragic accident while chopping beets. You'd be amazed how many journalists slip on turnips in Russia."

Keke slammed her fist on the table. "You cannot say things like that at dinner!"

Alexander tried to change the subject, god bless him. "So… the factory inspection went well?"

"Marvelously," I said. "Obukhov will have enough rifles and shells to arm ten thousand men by the end of October. Isn't that reassuring?"

Aleksandra looked faint. "Ten… thousand?"

"Yes sweetie," I said brightly. "Ten thousand rifles, ten thousand bayonets, ten thousand ways to make our enemies shit themselves in terror. Honestly, it warms the heart."

The children were now whispering to each other. One asked: Papa, are you going to kill the Americans for real?

"Only if they deserve it," I said, smiling like a kindly priest. "And if I do, I'll comb my hair nicely for the occasion. Presentation matters."

Keke buried her face in her hands and sighed. Stalin chuckled under his breath—the kind of low, dry chuckle that told me he was enjoying this far more than he'd admit.

Finally, Stalin raised his glass. "To the Americans," he said. "May they write what we tell them."

I clinked my glass against his. "And if they don't, may they meet a tragic fall from the Smolny staircase."

Keke hissed. Aleksandra gasped again. Alexander nearly dropped his drink. The children laughed nervously, unsure whether it was a joke.

But Stalin and I—well, we drank.

Because for us, the line between joke and plan has never really existed.

 

[Xodarap]

Wonder how the family is handling Mikheil being extremely honest about the violence crimes and schemes?
His mother thinks them devils
His brother in law is terrified of his bosses
His kids are growing up admiring his cruelty
While his wife both loves him and looks to be horrified at the devious devices he's creating of the world around her.

 

[Alenco98]

Mr. Jugashvili is the only sane man in Moscow according to the ambassador. I will pray for the future of the people of Russia the day he dies.

- Excerpt from a US cabinet meeting on April 12, 1935 said by Cordell Hull, Secretary of state.

PROJECT RED REBIRTH
FINAL DRAFT

Manual for Class Redemption and Revolutionary Transformation

By Mikheil Jughazvilli
Date of Writing: September 3, 1917

---

Objective

To utterly dismantle the self-conception of Tsarist officers, aristocrats, and royalty, erasing all vestiges of loyalty to throne, church, or nobility. Survivors will emerge either as broken shells made useful through servitude—or as corpses whose deaths serve as revolutionary warnings.

---

Phase I: Isolation and Fracture

Family Hostage Amplification

Families separated immediately, but not merely "protected":

Spouses are forced to write confessions denouncing the subject.

Children are photographed in peasant clothing, smiling while performing labor.

Once a week, the subject receives a "letter" (fabricated if necessary) where their family blames them for their suffering.

Guards periodically whisper:

"Your wife is sweeping barracks floors for peasants. Your children say they prefer potatoes to your luxuries."

This drives guilt into every thought.

---

Environmental Torture

Cells are stripped of identity: no mirrors, no clocks, no personal possessions.

Lighting alternates between 24 hours of glare and total blackout, never predictable.

White noise, dripping water, and intermittent banging on cell doors destroy all sense of time.

Guards rotate speech patterns—sometimes screaming, sometimes whispering sweetly, sometimes silent for days—ensuring no stability.

---

Phase II: Regiment of the Broken

Wake-Up (05:00)

Instead of merely being shouted at, subjects are dragged from their cots, slapped, doused in freezing water, and forced to crawl to breakfast.

Breakfast of Silence

Gruel deliberately salted or unsalted unpredictably to disrupt body rhythm.

Any movement out of order = food removed and redistributed to others.

Speech Control

Silence enforced except for mandated chants.

Any unapproved words: gagged for 12 hours, or forced to wear a spiked collar preventing comfortable sleep.

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Phase III: Ideological Bombardment

Lectures (07:00–12:00):

Readings of Marx, Engels, Lenin—broken by interruptions of guards screaming insults.

Subjects must copy entire texts by hand, pages confiscated daily.

Essay Rituals:

Essays are not only critiqued but burned in front of the subject while peers laugh.

Rewrites required until ideological phrasing is flawless.

Shame Amplification:

Nobles must read aloud their own degrading essays in monotone, while others throw scraps of bread at them.

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Phase IV: The War on the Self

Counter-Ideology Destruction (12:00–16:00)

Instead of merely critiquing Sun Tzu, Machiavelli, and Hobbes, subjects must:

Tear pages from old books with their teeth.

Spit on family crests or portraits of monarchs.

Burn symbolic items (epaulettes, jewels, crosses) while shouting:

"The Revolution burns my past, and I am nothing without it!"

Punishment for hesitation: stress positions, forced kneeling on sharp stones, or flogging.

---

Comrade's Court (16:00–19:00)

Struggle sessions elevated:

Subjects forced to slap and spit on one another.

Rewards (extra bread, an hour of sleep) given to the most vicious denunciations.

"Class trials" held where peers must accuse each other of imaginary "counter-revolutionary" thoughts.

Failure to denounce others = labeled "enemy accomplice," punished twice as harshly.

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Phase V: Ritual Humiliation

Labor of the Ashamed (19:00–22:00)

Subjects ordered to lick floors clean before scrubbing.

Forced to wash peasant underwear and hang it like flags.

Bow before peasants drafted into guard duty.


Every hour, saluting Marx's portrait is not enough—they must kiss the floor in front of it, chanting louder each night.

The Naked Readings

Subjects stripped bare and ordered to read State and Revolution aloud, voices trembling while guards mock their bodies.

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Phase VI: Night Terror Protocols

Mock Executions (22:00–02:00)

Enhanced cruelty:

Guns discharged near ears to simulate killing.

Graves actually half-dug, then filled back in after subjects collapse.

Occasionally, one prisoner is executed to reinforce credibility. It must be the most defiant and stubborn prisoner.

Witnesses are forced to applaud the "justice" of the execution.

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Sleep Deprivation (02:00–05:00)

Beds removed, prisoners must stand in freezing corridors, singing revolutionary anthems until collapse.

If one falls asleep: group punished with cold showers and food withdrawal.

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Phase VII: Rebirth or Disposal

The Redeemed

Surviving nobles are paraded in rags before peasants, confessing their crimes.

Tsarist officers forced to clean latrines in uniform, medals pinned mockingly to their rags.

Converted subjects appear in propaganda photos teaching literacy to peasants, captioned:

"Even parasites can be reborn as men."

The Unredeemable

Broken beyond use: executed quietly.

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Special Protocol: Romanov Family

Nicholas II: forced to kneel daily before peasant children while teaching them to read Marx.

Alexandra: ordered to carry buckets of human waste through villages, mocked by peasants.

Daughters: used as models in propaganda posters—scrubbing laundries, sewing uniforms. Publicly photographed with slogans like "The princess scrubs for the people."

Alexei: too frail for heavy labor—appointed as a clerk to Lenin, required to transcribe Marxist texts while being reminded that "the Revolution is stronger than his bloodline."

All images, essays, and humiliations are carefully documented for international distribution as The Redemption of the Parasites campaign.

 

[LysanderArgent]

Sometimes death is mercy.