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

[BuilderOne]

What are the chances that Uncle Joe will be chill after this?

Well, chiller, more relaxed. Not chill. We are talking about Joseph fking Stalin here. He'd still be paranoid, but I hope the future would be less bleak after his... what is the word? Catharsis?

 

[Deathsea22]

What are the chances that Uncle Joe will be chill after this?

Well, chiller, more relaxed. Not chill. We are talking about Joseph fking Stalin here. He'd still be paranoid, but I hope the future would be less bleak after his... what is the word? Catharsis?

Click to shrink...

I Honestly think he will be much less purgey than OTL. He'll still purge but it won't be nearly as ridiculous as it was… at least I hope so.

 

[OverseerEX]

You know what would be interesting? If Mika gets involved in the Comintern, goes to China to help out Mao, becomes friends with Mao, and continues a good relationship without a Sino-Soviet Split. (Not purging scientists and doctors, saving Stalin, and him ruling longer would also deal with that.)

Another one would be giving the European Communist Countries a bit more autonomy, in terms of self-governance. This would help a lot for later when the market socialist reforms happen.
(Of course still monitor whether there are pro-west leaning cadres, and inform the Parties.)

Also let's hope Mika can save Bukharin, because without him the Soviet Union missed a lot of chances to have a China-style socialist market economy. While this would be a problem for the hardliners and ideological purists, Lenin himself created the foundation with the NEP so hopefully they can either be persuaded, and if not, sidelined for Party loyalists.

 

[Alenco98]

March 9, 1919
Smonly Institute
Petrograd, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic

Joe and I were just leaving Zinoviev's offices. Officially, we reported to him, helped him "run" the city. In practice, that was a courtesy — a little theater to preserve the illusion of a chain of command. Stalin ran Petrograd. Or rather, we ran it, but Joe steered the ship while I handled the day-to-day filth. Fortunately for me, he listened to my suggestions most of the time.

I pulled out a cigarette and offered him one. He took it, lit it, exhaled like a man who had just survived another pointless meeting.

As we stepped into the corridor, we passed a small group of people who were very clearly out of place. Clean coats. Alert eyes. The sort of posture that screams not from here. At first I thought foreign journalists. Then one of them — the bald one — spoke English. American English.

My radar lit up.

I stopped and nudged Joe. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?"

I tilted my head toward them. "Americans. Let's check it out."

"Mika, for fuck's sa—"

I waved him off and walked straight toward them. "Excuse me, gentlemen," I said in English — god bless my previous life as an American. "What are Americans like yourselves doing in this godforsaken place?"

Up close, there were four of them. One young man, already losing a war with his hairline — the Norwood Reaper had claimed him early. One middle-aged fellow who looked like he'd seen enough of the world to regret it. And one nondescript man, the kind whose defining feature was the lack of defining features. Always suspicious. And another man, close to the young man's age, hairline relatively intact, he seemed to be friends with the other young man.

"Sorry?" the young man said. "This is… unexpected. I didn't think anyone fluent in English would be here. Who are you?"

"Mikheil Jugashvili," I said pleasantly. "Director of the Petrograd Cheka." I gestured as Joe came up beside me, already radiating irritation. "And this is Joseph Jugashvili. He goes by Stalin. Older brother. Liaison between Petrograd and Moscow."

"Jugashvili," the young man repeated, nodding. "I've heard of you. You're the one who shot Kerensky and took the Winter Palace. You've become something of a sensation in diplomatic circles. Your actions caused quite the mess."

He said it with admiration. Like he was meeting a celebrity.

"And when we heard you offered to turn yourself in to the United States afterward," he added, "we were stunned."

"What do you mean we?" I asked. "Don't tell me I ended up on the front page of the New York Times."

"You did," he said. "For a few days. Until another story replaced you. I'm surprised you know the Times. And your English — how did you learn it?"

"Seminary school," I shrugged. "Graduated too. Was even recommended for the priesthood. Became a cop instead. Then the revolution happened, my brother joined the Party, recruited me, and… here we are."

"And here we are," he echoed, smiling faintly. "William Christian Bullitt Jr." He extended his hand.

I shook it. "A pleasure."

I glanced between the four of them. "So tell me — what brings you here? You're clearly not tourists. And if you're journalists, you're under dressed. Don't tell me you're spies." I smiled. "I'd hate to have to arrest you."

Joe exhaled smoke beside me, silent, watching.

"Nothing like that," Bullitt said calmly.

I raised an eyebrow. "Good. Because that would've made this conversation very short."

I glanced at the other three in his entourage and pointed at the oldest one. "You. Name. What do you do?"

"Lincoln Steffens," the man said calmly. "Journalist. The American Magazine. A muckraker."

"Oh," I said. "So you dig through filth for a living. Yes, I've heard of one of you. Some woman who locked herself in an asylum to expose conditions."

"Nellie Bly," he said, nodding. "Met her once. Sharp mind."

"Interesting. Very interesting." I nodded, then shifted my gaze to the other two. "And you?"

"R. E. Lynch," the young man said quickly. "Mr. Bullitt's secretary. We've known each other for years."

"And you?" I asked the last one, who already looked like he regretted wearing his uniform.

"William W. Pettit," he said stiffly. "Captain, United States Army. Military intelligence."

"I see." I nodded slowly, then glanced back toward the corridor that led to Zinoviev's office. "And Zinoviev didn't think to mention he'd just met an American military intelligence officer." I nodded again. "Good. Very good."

I looked back at them. "Here's what's going to happen. You have thirty seconds to tell me why you're in Russia and why you were just speaking to Zinoviev. Because from where I'm standing, this looks suspicious as hell."

Bullitt stepped half a pace forward, hands raised slightly. "Now hold on. We're not here to spy. I was assigned by the Office of the President to travel to Moscow and meet Vladimir Lenin."

"You're going to meet Lenin?" I asked. "Why?"

"To negotiate the terms under which the United States might establish diplomatic relations with the new government."

"I see." I nodded. "Then why are you still here? Shouldn't you be on a train to Moscow?"

"We will be," Bullitt said. "In a few days. Our mission also includes gathering information about conditions in Russia."

"What kind of information?"

"The war. Civilian conditions. The situation on the ground. Fact-finding."

"Fact-finding," I repeated. "And what did Zinoviev have to say?"

"Very little," Bullitt admitted. "Once we explained our purpose, he lost interest and told us to wait for our train."

"I see," I said again.

I turned to Joe and repeated everything in Georgian. I didn't bother lowering my voice. Stalin's eyes narrowed as he studied the Americans, his expression unreadable.

"That bastard Zinoviev just let an American intelligence officer walk out without telling us," I said.

"Leave it," Stalin replied evenly. "Let him dig his own grave."

"Should we put eyes on them?" I asked. "The Americans still have troops in Arkhangelsk. If they decide to get ambitious—"

"Do it."

"Mind if I stay with them?"

Stalin looked at me. "Why?"

"If they want to 'fact-find,' we let them. Under supervision. We control what they see."

He hesitated. Just a fraction.

"This is risky, Mika."

"If something goes wrong," I said lightly, "we blame Zinoviev. He's the one who didn't report them."

Stalin's gaze shifted from the Americans to the corridor behind us. "You take responsibility. If this turns ugly, I won't save you."

I smiled. "I haven't let you down yet."

"Don't get arrogant," he said, already turning away.

When he was gone, I faced the Americans again, clapping my hands once.

"Good news, friends," I said, switching back to English. "You want to see Russia? You want to understand conditions on the ground?"

Bullitt nodded eagerly. The others looked less sure.

"I can show you Petrograd as it really is," I continued. "Care to join me on a patrol?"

"That would be great," Bullitt said.

"Excellent," I replied, already walking. "Try to keep up."

Excerpt from Stephen Kotkin's 2014 book: Mikheil Jugashvili, The Red Rockefeller and His Rivers of Blood

By March 1919, Mikheil Jugashvili's efforts had effectively consolidated Stalin's control over Petrograd. The Cheka in the city was no longer merely aligned with Stalin; it functioned as the central nervous system of governance itself. Under Jugashvili's supervision, the Cheka oversaw the official rationing apparatus, regulated black-market activity, controlled factories and transport nodes, monitored the city's remaining churches, supervised soup kitchens, and even imposed oversight on foreign humanitarian organizations such as the Red Cross. Although the Red Army units and Kronstadt sailors charged with defending Petrograd were formally subordinated to the People's Commissariat for Military and Naval Affairs, in practice they depended upon Stalin's patronage network for food, pay, and access to housing. Petrograd had, for all intents and purposes, become Stalin's personal fiefdom, with Mikheil Jugashvili acting as its chief enforcer and administrator of terror.

It was in this context that the American diplomatic mission led by William Christian Bullitt Jr. arrived in Petrograd. Officially received by Grigory Zinoviev, the delegation was quickly dismissed once its purpose became clear. Zinoviev, who lacked both the authority and the inclination to engage substantively with foreign intermediaries, instructed the Americans to await transport to Moscow. Their presence, however, did not go unnoticed. Jugashvili identified the delegation almost immediately, initiated contact, and—having satisfied himself as to their objectives—undertook to guide them personally through the city.

Bullitt and his companions were shown a Petrograd stripped of revolutionary romanticism. They observed severe food shortages, the emerging architecture of a police state, and the extensive fortifications erected in anticipation of renewed White offensives. Jugashvili escorted them through checkpoints, warehouses, and defensive works, and they were briefly introduced to his family at Cheka headquarters in Fittinghoff House—an encounter that left a lasting impression on Bullitt.

They were also shown the physical remnants of the terror unleashed the previous year. Skeletonized corpses still hung from lampposts in certain districts, deliberately left as warnings. Dried blood stained the paving stones before the Winter Palace, guarded to prevent its removal. Bullitt later wrote that "people either freeze in place or step aside when Jugashvili approaches; the entire city appears terrified of him." Crime, he observed, was nearly nonexistent—not because of social harmony, but because fear had replaced it as the primary regulator of behavior.

Yet Bullitt's impressions were not uniformly condemnatory. He admitted to a measure of reluctant admiration, noting that Jugashvili "spoke English like an American," exhibited striking pragmatism, and displayed a willingness to bend ideology in favor of expediency. Bullitt was particularly struck by Jugashvili's family life, describing his mother as "a charming old Georgian woman who openly kept Orthodox icons and a cross in her room, despite Bolshevik hostility toward religion," and remarking on the warmth and politeness of his children. Stalin himself, by contrast, made little impression beyond unease. Bullitt wrote only briefly of him, describing Stalin as "quiet, observant, always watching me and the others. I felt as though I were prey before some kind of animal."

The most consequential outcome of Bullitt's Petrograd visit, however, was not diplomatic but humanitarian. During their discussions, Jugashvili informed Bullitt of his connection to Elsa Brändström, a Swedish Red Cross worker who continued to operate in Siberia despite the ongoing civil war. Deeply affected by the food shortages in Petrograd and, in his words, "moved and impressed by Jugashvili's testimony regarding Miss Brändström," Bullitt pledged to advocate for expanded funding to the American Relief Administration (ARA) and to ensure that food supplies reached Russia.

After proceeding to Moscow and meeting with Lenin, Bullitt failed to secure a political settlement between the Bolsheviks and the international community. Nevertheless, he successfully pressed Lenin to authorize the entry of American aid agencies into Soviet territory, albeit under strict Cheka supervision. Upon returning to the United States, Bullitt continued lobbying aggressively for expanded ARA operations in Russia. These efforts bore fruit. By early 1920, as the civil war increasingly turned in the Bolsheviks' favor, the first major shipments of American food aid began arriving.

Bullitt maintained close coordination with Brändström and Jugashvili, facilitating the steady flow of relief supplies as hostilities gradually subsided. His role expanded accordingly, and he was eventually appointed deputy director of the American Relief Administration under Herbert Hoover in March 1920. The impact of this aid was profound. During the Russian famine of 1921–22, an estimated three to four million people perished; contemporary analysts later concluded that had relief arrived later or in smaller quantities, the death toll might well have exceeded five million.

These activities also proved pivotal for Bullitt's own career. When the United States formally reestablished diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union, President Franklin D. Roosevelt appointed Bullitt as the first American ambassador to Moscow—a post shaped, in no small part, by the relationships and experiences he had forged during the darkest years of the Russian Civil War.

Note: I think i'll get the civil war done in 5-7 chapters, maybe less.

 

[GarfRed]

Normalization with ties for the United States, an acquaintance in America, the famine being slightly less severe. A lot of good things happening. The historical records of our Mc is gonna be weird, accidentaly killed a head of state, has killed and purged a lot of people, but also he helped in humanitarian efforts in Siberia. My man is gonna get an expy in a COD game in the future as that one you love in your campaign.

 

[OverseerEX]

My man is gonna get an expy in a COD game in the future as that one you love in your campaign.

Click to shrink...

Press M for Mikheil.

I would love to read some foreign POVs, for example after the Civil War when Bullitt becomes Ambassador to Moscow, his POV on meeting Mika again or something. It could also show how the State has formed and advanced after the war through his eyes from the outside.

Oh, oh, also maybe a Lenin POV on the status of the Revolution and his thoughts for the future..

 

[BenMalek]

Fantastic chapter, as usual
Love these little historic hindsight notes