Joseph Stalin, one of the 20th century's most feared men. Fortunately for this timeline, he has a younger twin with a 21st century mind. Will the twin be able to curtail his brothers worst excesses? Or will he be caught up in the Robespierrian terror Stalin unleashed?
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My brothers keeper, an OC/SI as the twin of Stalin
- Thread starter Alenco98
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My brothers keeper, an SI as the twin brother of Stalin
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Me and Joe
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Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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November 25, 1907
Tbilisi, Russian Empire
Dawn had barely broken over the rust-colored rooftops of Tbilisi, the early winter sun casting a faint golden sheen over the frosted windows. The city was waking slowly, as if reluctant to face the day. Inside our cramped little flat, the air was heavy with grief—and the smell of Khachapuri that Aleksandra had baked just a few hours before, as if food could somehow plug the gaping hole left behind by death.
I laid out a plate and slid it gently across the table to my brother, whose eyes were locked onto nothing in particular, red-rimmed and sunken like he'd spent the night fighting ghosts. Which, to be fair, he had.
"Joe," I said softly, nudging the plate closer. "Come on, man. You've got to eat. I can't let you grieve yourself to death. You're already halfway there."
He didn't answer. Just blinked slowly, like my voice had to swim through molasses to reach him. His jaw clenched, eyes glistening with that miserable mix of rage and sorrow, and then—nothing. He just kept staring at the floor. Occasionally he'd let out a sharp sob, sudden and violent, like his heart was cracking open in real time.
I didn't blame him. Kato—his wife, his compass—was gone. Just like that. Typhoid, the bastard. Quick, cruel, unceremonious. She'd been the only thing anchoring Joseph to this world. And now she was gone, and I was afraid he might be next.
Allow me to introduce myself, before this gets any more depressing. I'm Mikheil Jughashvili—though you can call me comrade Makarov. Yes, that Makarov. No, not the one with the psychotic monologues and evil plans—though I do appreciate the comparison. I'm Joseph's younger twin, technically by nine minutes, but I like to think those nine minutes were spent soaking up all the charm and good skin. I never caught smallpox, unlike Joe. My face is still intact. He has... character.
We're both part of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party, although our methods differ. Joseph—he prefers the flashy, revolutionary stuff. Robbing banks in broad daylight, shooting Tsarist cops, threatening aristocrats. He likes to think he's the hero in some Georgian remake of Grand Theft Auto IV. I, on the other hand, prefer staying in the shadows—organizing meetings, handling money, securing supplies, you know, the logistics. The stuff that keeps a revolution running while the heroes pose with their revolvers and give angry speeches in dingy taverns.
Before all this, I lived a boring, beautiful life. Nine to five at an office, a modest house with the extended family, saved enough to fill up my Roth IRA and 401k every year then vacation in Paris and Vienna twice a year. I had dental hygiene, health insurance, disposable income, and the delicious luxury of not being on any watchlists.
Then fate, in all its absurd cruelty, happened. I fell off a roof. No, really. I was helping my stepfather fix a leak, slipped while carrying his damn toolbox, and the next thing I knew I woke up in a tiny Georgian house, screaming like a banshee from the 21st century in the body of a newborn.
Readjusting was… an experience. Language wasn't too hard. I was still me in here, so I picked up Russian and Georgian fast. Claimed I learned English, French, and Spanish in seminary—teachers thought I was a linguistic prodigy, and Joe believed I was touched by God. Or Marx. Hard to say which he thought higher of.
The priesthood wasn't for me though. Not in this world, not with this future. I paid enough attention in history class to know what was coming—the revolution, the gulags, the famine, the purges. Who needs a collar and cassock when you can have a pistol and a party membership card? So I followed my brother into the fire.
And now here we were. The fire had taken from us.
Joseph sat motionless at the table, a wreck of a man in a world that didn't care. I'd taken his revolver last night—he'd barely noticed. The idea of him turning it on himself was more terrifying than anything the Okhrana could throw at us.
"She wouldn't want you to be hungry," I said softly, tearing off a piece of the warm Khachapuri and dipping it in the gooey cheese, handing it to him like you'd feed a sick child. "Come on, Joe."
He finally moved, took the piece, and chewed it slowly, deliberately. He didn't even scowl at the name "Joe," which was usually enough to trigger a ten-minute rant about nicknames. His silence was... worse than anger.
Aleksandra, Kato's sister, moved quietly around the kitchen, preparing more food, avoiding eye contact. She looked so much like Kato it hurt. Same eyes, same cheekbones, same quiet dignity. I'd loved Kato too, I still did. But Joseph met her first, fell for her first, and I stepped aside. That's what brothers do. You don't compete. You carry the weight.
"When does the funeral start?" I asked Aleksandra, my voice lower than usual.
"Soon," she said quietly.
And then—crying. High-pitched, panicked. Yakov.
"I'll get him," I said quickly, already heading toward the room.
I found the boy lying on his tiny mat, wailing. He had her eyes. That warm hazel that always made Joseph soften, even when he was fuming about tsarist oppression. He had Joe's hair though, thick and dark like soot. I scooped him up, holding him close, whispering nonsense. "Hey there, little comrade. Easy now. Let's go see Papa."
When I came back into the kitchen, Joseph was still chewing that same piece of bread like it was his last meal. He looked up—briefly—at Yakov in my arms, then down again.
Aleksandra didn't say a word. She just kept folding napkins with a trembling hand.
"You know," I said, adjusting Yakov on my hip, "he's going to need a home. A real one. Not some back alley safehouse full of bullets and explosives. You can't carry him in your satchel while you're out shooting cops."
Joseph finally looked at me, really looked. I saw the fear in his eyes—the fear of not being enough. Not being strong. Not being her.
"I can do it," I said. "I'll raise him. I'll have to step back from the party, of course, at least for a while. But he needs more than his mother's family. He needs a father figure. A stable one."
"You can't just leave the party," Joseph rasped, voice cracking. "Leave him here. Come with me. He'll be safe."
I shook my head. "I'm not leaving. I'm pausing. Besides, he needs to know his father and uncle didn't abandon him. That he has a home, not just a safehouse. I'll bring him to see Keke every week. I'll teach him to walk, to speak, to read. You—you go change the world. But let me give him a chance to have a normal childhood."
Joseph looked away again, lips trembling, jaw clenched.
"I'll make sure he remembers her," I added gently. "Every single day."
Outside, the funeral bells began to toll, low and solemn.
The revolution could wait a little while. Today, we were just a family—broken, grieving, but still holding on.
November 25, 1907 (Later That Day)
Kukia Cemetery, Tbilisi
The winter wind cut like a blade as we gathered at the cemetery after the funeral. The Georgian hills brooded in the distance, grey and silent, as if mourning her too. The priest murmured his prayers, but the words felt hollow, drifting into the cold air like smoke. Kato's casket—simple, pine, too small for someone who meant so much—rested on the edge of the grave like the last word in a sentence no one wanted to read.
Joseph stood beside me, a statue chiseled from pain and fury. His fists were clenched, his knuckles white. He'd been quiet after the funeral.
The mourners stood in a loose cluster: friends, distant family, comrades. A few men in plain coats hung back, too clean-shaven, too quiet—Okhrana, no doubt. Even grief couldn't loosen the Empire's paranoia.
Then came the burial.
The ropes creaked as the casket was lowered into the earth. The thud of dirt hitting wood echoed like a war drum in my chest.
And then Joseph snapped.
He let out a guttural cry, something between a sob and a roar, and before anyone could stop him, he hurled himself into the grave—into the grave. Dirt flew, mourners gasped, someone screamed. He clung to the coffin like he could dig her back up with his bare hands, like if he just held on hard enough, she wouldn't leave.
"Kato! Kato, don't go—"
I leapt forward and climbed down after him, slipping in the mud. I grabbed him under the arms, tried to pull him back. He fought me. Hard. He was a strong man, fueled by madness and grief, and for a terrifying moment, I thought he'd stay there. Die there.
But I whispered to him. Not commands. Not philosophy. Just his name.
"Joe… Joe… she's gone. She's gone. Come back man."
He collapsed in my arms, shaking, sobbing like the revolution never existed. I hauled him out with the help of two comrades and we fell to our knees in the slush beside the grave.
But the Okhrana weren't grieving.
I saw them shift, whisper. One of them reached into his coat. My blood ran cold.
"You have to go," I whispered to Joseph. "Now. They're here."
His eyes met mine. Still wet, still haunted, but focused now. "You'll take care of him?"
"I swear on her grave."
We stood, muddy and ruined, and hugged like brothers at the end of the world.
"Stay safe," I murmured. "And don't do anything too stupid."
He gave me the faintest smile—the ghost of his old smirk. "No promises."
And just like that, he slipped into the crowd and disappeared. Gone before the final prayers had even finished.
I left minutes later. Not as dramatic, not as poetic. Just a slow backstep, a nod to Aleksandra, and then I was gone too. Just in case. The Okhrana didn't need a second twin in their files.
November 29, 1907
Tbilisi, Russian Empire
The flat was small, drafty, and smelled faintly of vodka and onions. But it was safe.
Aleksandra let me in with a tired nod. She hadn't cried once since the funeral, but her eyes were swollen, and her voice was barely a whisper when she said, "He cried again this morning. Yakov."
I stepped inside, took off my coat, and knelt by the cradle. The boy blinked up at me, wide-eyed, a little confused, a little scared. He reached out, and I took his tiny hand in mine.
"It's just us now, buddy," I said softly. "Your papa's off changing the world. But I'll be here. I'll keep you fed, teach you to walk, teach you to curse in several languages. And maybe someday, I'll tell you how beautiful your mother was. How your father nearly buried himself alive for her. How love, even in a place like this, can still break the hardest hearts."
I looked up at Aleksandra.
"I'm done with party work. For now. I'll stay. For him."
She only nodded. No argument. No platitudes. Just quiet understanding. When I looked at her I saw Kato again. I smiled a little, "I'll fix up a meal, Khachapuri?"
She nodded, smiling a little
March 17, 1917
Petrograd, Russian Empire
The morning light spilled reluctantly through the grimy windows of our modest little apartment. I peeled back the curtain slowly, cautiously—like I expected to see Death himself loitering out on the street corner, waiting for his next appointment. But no, just people. Civilians. Some armed, some staggering home from what was either a riot or an all-night revolutionary bender, it was hard to tell anymore. I squinted. No gunfire. No soldiers. No screaming.
"Well," I muttered, letting the curtain fall back into place, "looks like everything's clear. At least for now."
Behind me, Aleksandra—Sashiko, if you asked anyone who'd known her longer than me—was sitting on the threadbare sofa, nursing our youngest, Besarion. He was barely two months old, a chubby little miracle who had no clue the world was ending outside.
I turned and looked at her. She was tired—no, exhausted. But she still had that calm nobility about her, even with a baby at her breast and a revolution outside the window.
The door creaked open. My mother, Keke, stepped out of the second bedroom, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Is everything alright out there?" she asked, voice hushed like we were in a church or a war zone. Frankly, both felt accurate.
I nodded. "Seems like the fighting's stopped. The streets are quiet. For now." I paused. "How are the kids?"
"Still asleep," she said softly. "Yakov, Kato, Joseph, Alyosha… all out cold."
"Good," I said. "If they wake up, tell them I'll be back soon. I need to go check the situation. And send a letter."
I crossed the living room and shoved one of the ratty little couches aside, revealing the false floorboard beneath. I pried it open, revealing the treasure trove below—boxes of gold coins, contraband ammunition, dried food, and more ammo (you can never have too much ammo, especially when you're an ex-cop in revolutionary Russia).
I pulled out a pistol and a couple of bullets, loaded them with practiced ease, and sealed the floor again, nudging the couch back into place. Aleksandra didn't say anything, but I felt her eyes on me. The same look every time I strapped on a gun—equal parts fear and disappointment, the kind of look that said "I married a lunatic, didn't I?"
Yes. Yes, she did.
In my defense, I used to be a police officer. Emphasis on used to. Once the soldiers started mutinying and the Tsar's grip on the empire began to slip like a drunk man on ice, I figured the badge wouldn't mean much longer. And sure enough, here we were. The revolution had arrived, right on cue.
Maybe I should rewind a bit.
After Joseph—Joe—left us, broken and blazing with grief, I knew I couldn't just stay in Tbilisi forever. I had a family now, yes, but I also had… information. Foreknowledge. A cheat code. I knew the revolution would kick off in 1917, here, in Saint Petersburg—Petrograd now, technically, but let's not pretend the Empire's name changes mattered much to people dodging bullets.
So I reinvented myself. No more Mikheil Jughashvili. Too conspicuous. Too tied to Joe. Instead, I became Mikheil Vissarionovich Zhakhaev. Sounded proper. Authoritative. Slightly Eastern European Bond villain, with a sprinkle of Call of Duty for flavor.
I married Aleksandra, because grief has a way of turning strangers into soulmates. We were two broken people trying to fix each other with love and shared childcare. It worked surprisingly well.
We moved to Petrograd. I became a cop.
On paper, I was immaculate. Never late, always present, never corrupt—officially. Unofficially? I was corrupt as hell. Ran guns, stashed supplies, made quiet deals with smugglers, gave heads-up on raids in exchange for gold and favors. I was building an arsenal under my floorboards and a fortune under my mattress.
The plan was simple: join the Party, rise through the ranks, keep my nose clean publicly, and privately become the black market's silent king. Then, once the purges started under Stalin, I'd take my family and my fortune and disappear somewhere warm—maybe Argentina. You know, the usual post-revolution dream.
But there was a catch.
A big one.
Stalin… was Joe.
That little bastard. My twin brother. I didn't even realize it until a few years ago. I'd always thought "Stalin" was just some Russian asshole that popped out of the party apparatus. I didn't know it was Joe, thank you American schooling for not being in depth about Joe. I'd kept up with the party despite being inactive. I read their underground newspapers. Recognized the cadence in his letters when he replied under the name "Stalin."
Joe. My brother. The one who threw himself into his wife's grave a decade ago. The one I pulled out of the dirt.
And now he was poised to rule Russia with an iron fist.
Which, naturally, completely fucked my plan.
I couldn't just defect. He'd find me and my family. He knew me. I was too recognizable. Too dangerous. Too embarrassing. The twin brother of Stalin, living lavishly abroad while his brother ran Russia with an iron fist? That was execution-worthy in any ideology.
So I improvised.
If I wanted to survive, I had to gather leverage. Emotional blackmail, familial guilt, sentimental ties—whatever I could weaponize. I had to be the one person in the world Joe couldn't bring himself to destroy.
I went to the bedroom, opened the drawer beside the bed, and pulled out a letter I'd written two days ago, as soon as I saw the army turning against the Tsar. The writing was simple, the message clear: "I know who you are. And I'm still your brother."
I folded it carefully, slid it into an envelope, and tucked it into my coat pocket.
Back in the living room, I paused for a moment. Aleksandra looked up at me, Besarion snoozing peacefully in her arms. My mother stood quietly nearby, her face taut with worry.
I kissed Aleksandra gently. Then kissed the baby's forehead. Then hugged my mother.
"I'll be back," I said. "Don't open the door for anyone unless you're absolutely sure it's me. If I don't come back… reach out to Joseph. He'll come eventually."
She nodded, jaw tight. No tears. She was stronger than I ever gave her credit for.
I opened the door. Took one last look at my family. And stepped out into the cold, collapsing empire.
The snow was still falling—lazy, wet flakes drifting down like the sky hadn't yet gotten the memo that it was March and time to stop acting like it was January. I pulled my coat tighter around me, teeth chattering slightly. The Petrograd chill always found its way into your bones, like a petty bureaucrat determined to ruin your day.
I stepped carefully through the narrow alley behind our apartment and began making my way toward the city center. Not the main roads—those were crawling with too many people, too many eyes, and far too many bored soldiers with itchy trigger fingers and no idea who was officially in charge. Some of them were so drunk they'd probably arrest their own boots.
I avoided the Winter Palace entirely. That place had become a hornet's nest of revolutionary chaos and frightened officers clinging to whatever shred of imperial illusion they still had left. The last thing I needed was to be stopped, questioned, and "accidentally" shot for looking suspicious—something my face tended to do on its own even when I was completely innocent, which, to be fair, I rarely was.
Eventually, after winding through side streets and half-frozen canals, I arrived at my destination: the Tauride Palace.
It looked almost surreal now, majestic yet bruised, like a weary aristocrat forced to room with striking dockworkers. A decade ago, it had been a glittering seat of nobility. Now it was the beating heart of revolution—or at least one of them. The Petrograd Soviet had taken up residence here, for now at least. Revolutionary real estate tended to be temporary, like revolutionary leadership.
The irony wasn't lost on me. As a police officer, most of my time had been spent "assisting" the Okhrana in keeping tabs on the very people now running the show inside that building. By "assisting," I mean helping sabotage the investigations just enough to let me run guns and make shady deals in peace. Now, I was the ex-cop—still carrying a gun, still carrying secrets—walking into the headquarters of the Petrograd Soviet like I belonged there.
Stupid? Arguably. Bold? Absolutely. But technically, I was still a party member. Inactive, sure. Slightly criminal, certainly. But I had the paperwork. Somewhere. Maybe.
I approached the front gates, where a small group of armed guards were gathered. They all had that hardened, unshaven, sleep-deprived look of men who'd been up all night keeping an eye on people who were keeping an eye on them.
One of them stepped forward to block me. He looked like someone had genetically spliced Jason Statham and Agent 47 in a vodka-soaked lab. Bald, square-jawed, and built like a bookshelf.
"Name and business," he barked in a clipped accent that said, 'If you waste my time, I will punch you through a wall.'
I stood straight, tried to project confidence. "My name is Mikheil Vissarionovich Jughashvili. I'm here to request a favor."
He blinked. "This is the headquarters of the Provisional Government and the Soviet. Not a soup kitchen."
The other guards laughed. Not the worst joke I'd heard, but still mildly irritating.
I ignored the laughter and spoke calmly. "My brother is a member of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party. If I remember correctly, they were the ones who founded the Soviet? I'm also a member—Comrade Makarov." I pulled the letter from my coat pocket, holding it up. "I came here to have this delivered to him. You know him as… Comrade Stalin."
That name—Stalin—changed everything. Like a magic spell. The sarcasm drained from their faces. Even Agent 47's slightly unshakable aura of smugness flickered.
The bald enforcer stepped forward and carefully took the letter from my hand. He looked me over again, slower this time, not as dismissive.
"You said… Stalin?" he asked. Not mockingly—curiously. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had just grown arms and punched him in the face.
"Yes," I said. "He's my brother. I'm trying to find out if he's still alive. And if he is… my home is open to him if he needs a place to stay."
For a moment, he just stared at the envelope. Like it might explode.
Finally, he gave a curt nod. "I'll make sure the letter is delivered."
"Thank you," I said. "I'll see you around."
He didn't reply, just slipped the letter into his coat like it weighed more than a gun.
I turned and walked away. The moment I crossed out of the palace gates, I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The streets didn't feel any safer than before, but at least I wasn't in the direct line of any revolutionary firing squads.
Still, I didn't linger. I wasn't comfortable being out in the open for long. Not in this city. Not in this year. Not with my last name.
As I turned back onto the side street, pulling my coat tighter against the biting cold, I thought of Joe—no, Stalin now. I'd handed a letter to a group of armed revolutionaries asking them to pass a message to one of the most dangerous man in the country, who also happened to be my twin brother. Not exactly your average family reunion.
But what else could I do?
He needed to know I was here.
And more importantly—I needed him to remember who we used to be so I wouldn't be on the receiving end of a firing squad when he went all Robespierre.
March 20, 1917
Petrograd, Russian Empire
Evening
There was a knock at the door. Not the anxious, rapid-fire kind that shouted "police raid" or "Okhrana purge"—no, this was slow. Measured. Almost… respectful. Which, frankly, was even more suspicious.
Aleksandra looked up from the stew pot. My mother froze with a half-folded towel in her hands. Yakov, bless his little heart, just kept drawing strange little crayon people on the kitchen wall. I set down my newspaper—Pravda, naturally—and walked to the door.
I didn't open it immediately. Just stood there, my hand hovering over the knob. I could feel it, something familiar on the other side. Like a ghost of childhood pressed up against the wood.
I opened the door.
There he stood.
Joseph.
Stalin.
Ten years older, more worn, more gaunt than I remembered—but the same brooding intensity in those eyes. His mustache was thicker now, better groomed. His coat was long and military, but fraying at the edges. He looked tired. He looked dangerous.
He looked like my brother.
We stared at each other for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"You look like shit." I said in Georgian.
Then he opened his arms.
I didn't hesitate.
We hugged like brothers do after war and widowhood and revolution—tight, wordless, full of things we couldn't say out loud. His hand slapped my back once, hard, in that awkward masculine way that said "I missed you, you bastard."
Inside, chaos.
Keke let out a sharp gasp and dropped the towel. "Joseph!" she exclaimed, hands flying to her mouth.
Aleksandra didn't say anything at first—just stepped forward and stared at him. Then, slowly, she smiled. Not wide, not forced. Just honest. Like seeing a ghost that turned out to be alive.
Even Yakov stopped drawing on the wall. "Papa?" he asked softly.
Joseph dropped to one knee and opened his arms again. "Yes, my little comrade," he murmured, voice cracking just a little.
Yakov ran into his arms. Aleksandra wiped her eyes discreetly.
And me?
I just stood there, letting it all sink in.
Later That Night
11:43 PM
Dinner had been… surreal.
We'd cooked everything we had worth showing off. Potatoes, stewed cabbage, leftover veal that Aleksandra had been saving for Yakov's name day, a bottle of wine we'd been hoarding since 1915. The table was full, loud, messy—like the old days, before grief hollowed us out and history ran us over like a Tsarist train.
We talked. Laughed. Even Joseph cracked a smile once or twice, especially when Kato—our daughter, not the ghost—told him Yakov had been pretending to lead revolutions with a stick and a tea tin. It was all… human.
But now everyone was asleep. Kids tucked in. Keke passed out in the armchair. Aleksandra upstairs with the baby, snoring softly. The apartment had gone quiet, the warmth of the kitchen fire casting long shadows on the faded wallpaper.
Joseph and I sat across from each other in the small parlor, sipping lukewarm tea like two old men with nowhere to be.
Then I stood.
"Come," I said quietly.
He raised an eyebrow but followed.
I pulled the couch away from it's spot. Lifted the creaky floorboard. Exposed the little armory I'd built under our living room like a paranoid squirrel preparing for revolution.
Joseph peered down at it—rows of pistols wrapped in rags, crates of ammunition, two rifles, a short shotgun, and a box of gold coins tucked beside canned beans and hardtack.
His silence was unnerving.
"Surprise," I said, grinning. "Our version of the family jewels."
Still nothing.
I cleared my throat. "I didn't just write to you for hugs and stew, Joe. I'm still in the Party. Inactive, sure. But I've been preparing."
He looked up at me, slowly.
I pressed on. "Civil war is coming. I can feel it. The Provisional Government won't hold. The Tsar's gone, but power hates a vacuum. You and I both know it's not over—it's barely started."
He still didn't say anything. Just looked back down at the stash.
"I've been laying low. Playing the role. I was a cop here, remember? On paper I was the most punctual, loyal officer in Petrograd. In reality, I was looting supply shipments and warning smugglers of raids. All of this—" I gestured at the hidden arsenal, "—came from that."
Joseph knelt beside the cache and ran a hand over one of the pistols.
"Why show me this?" he asked finally. His voice was calm, but I knew him too well. It was the kind of calm that could shatter into violence.
"Because you're going to need help," I said simply. "Not just ideologues. Not just revolutionaries quoting Marx between gulps of soup. You'll need fighters. Planners. People who know the city—who know how to move, how to smuggle, how to survive."
I crouched beside him. "I know where more of this is. Across the city. Armories, caches." I pulled out a map of the city, with X's dotted all over.
I paused, then looked him in the eyes.
"I want to help. Not for politics. Not for glory. For the family. For the future. For you."
He stared at me.
Seconds passed.
Then: "You always were the smarter twin," he muttered.
I laughed. "Took you long enough to admit it."
He grunted. "Don't get used to it."
We sat there in silence for a moment, the weight of what was coming pressing down on us like the cold outside.
"Does Aleksandra know?" he asked.
"Some of it. Enough to worry. Not enough to stop me."
He nodded.
Finally, he reached down, picked up one of the pistols, and checked the chamber.
Then—he smiled. Just a little. Just enough.
"Well then," he said. "Let's prepare for the end of the world."
Tbilisi, Russian Empire
Dawn had barely broken over the rust-colored rooftops of Tbilisi, the early winter sun casting a faint golden sheen over the frosted windows. The city was waking slowly, as if reluctant to face the day. Inside our cramped little flat, the air was heavy with grief—and the smell of Khachapuri that Aleksandra had baked just a few hours before, as if food could somehow plug the gaping hole left behind by death.
I laid out a plate and slid it gently across the table to my brother, whose eyes were locked onto nothing in particular, red-rimmed and sunken like he'd spent the night fighting ghosts. Which, to be fair, he had.
"Joe," I said softly, nudging the plate closer. "Come on, man. You've got to eat. I can't let you grieve yourself to death. You're already halfway there."
He didn't answer. Just blinked slowly, like my voice had to swim through molasses to reach him. His jaw clenched, eyes glistening with that miserable mix of rage and sorrow, and then—nothing. He just kept staring at the floor. Occasionally he'd let out a sharp sob, sudden and violent, like his heart was cracking open in real time.
I didn't blame him. Kato—his wife, his compass—was gone. Just like that. Typhoid, the bastard. Quick, cruel, unceremonious. She'd been the only thing anchoring Joseph to this world. And now she was gone, and I was afraid he might be next.
Allow me to introduce myself, before this gets any more depressing. I'm Mikheil Jughashvili—though you can call me comrade Makarov. Yes, that Makarov. No, not the one with the psychotic monologues and evil plans—though I do appreciate the comparison. I'm Joseph's younger twin, technically by nine minutes, but I like to think those nine minutes were spent soaking up all the charm and good skin. I never caught smallpox, unlike Joe. My face is still intact. He has... character.
We're both part of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party, although our methods differ. Joseph—he prefers the flashy, revolutionary stuff. Robbing banks in broad daylight, shooting Tsarist cops, threatening aristocrats. He likes to think he's the hero in some Georgian remake of Grand Theft Auto IV. I, on the other hand, prefer staying in the shadows—organizing meetings, handling money, securing supplies, you know, the logistics. The stuff that keeps a revolution running while the heroes pose with their revolvers and give angry speeches in dingy taverns.
Before all this, I lived a boring, beautiful life. Nine to five at an office, a modest house with the extended family, saved enough to fill up my Roth IRA and 401k every year then vacation in Paris and Vienna twice a year. I had dental hygiene, health insurance, disposable income, and the delicious luxury of not being on any watchlists.
Then fate, in all its absurd cruelty, happened. I fell off a roof. No, really. I was helping my stepfather fix a leak, slipped while carrying his damn toolbox, and the next thing I knew I woke up in a tiny Georgian house, screaming like a banshee from the 21st century in the body of a newborn.
Readjusting was… an experience. Language wasn't too hard. I was still me in here, so I picked up Russian and Georgian fast. Claimed I learned English, French, and Spanish in seminary—teachers thought I was a linguistic prodigy, and Joe believed I was touched by God. Or Marx. Hard to say which he thought higher of.
The priesthood wasn't for me though. Not in this world, not with this future. I paid enough attention in history class to know what was coming—the revolution, the gulags, the famine, the purges. Who needs a collar and cassock when you can have a pistol and a party membership card? So I followed my brother into the fire.
And now here we were. The fire had taken from us.
Joseph sat motionless at the table, a wreck of a man in a world that didn't care. I'd taken his revolver last night—he'd barely noticed. The idea of him turning it on himself was more terrifying than anything the Okhrana could throw at us.
"She wouldn't want you to be hungry," I said softly, tearing off a piece of the warm Khachapuri and dipping it in the gooey cheese, handing it to him like you'd feed a sick child. "Come on, Joe."
He finally moved, took the piece, and chewed it slowly, deliberately. He didn't even scowl at the name "Joe," which was usually enough to trigger a ten-minute rant about nicknames. His silence was... worse than anger.
Aleksandra, Kato's sister, moved quietly around the kitchen, preparing more food, avoiding eye contact. She looked so much like Kato it hurt. Same eyes, same cheekbones, same quiet dignity. I'd loved Kato too, I still did. But Joseph met her first, fell for her first, and I stepped aside. That's what brothers do. You don't compete. You carry the weight.
"When does the funeral start?" I asked Aleksandra, my voice lower than usual.
"Soon," she said quietly.
And then—crying. High-pitched, panicked. Yakov.
"I'll get him," I said quickly, already heading toward the room.
I found the boy lying on his tiny mat, wailing. He had her eyes. That warm hazel that always made Joseph soften, even when he was fuming about tsarist oppression. He had Joe's hair though, thick and dark like soot. I scooped him up, holding him close, whispering nonsense. "Hey there, little comrade. Easy now. Let's go see Papa."
When I came back into the kitchen, Joseph was still chewing that same piece of bread like it was his last meal. He looked up—briefly—at Yakov in my arms, then down again.
Aleksandra didn't say a word. She just kept folding napkins with a trembling hand.
"You know," I said, adjusting Yakov on my hip, "he's going to need a home. A real one. Not some back alley safehouse full of bullets and explosives. You can't carry him in your satchel while you're out shooting cops."
Joseph finally looked at me, really looked. I saw the fear in his eyes—the fear of not being enough. Not being strong. Not being her.
"I can do it," I said. "I'll raise him. I'll have to step back from the party, of course, at least for a while. But he needs more than his mother's family. He needs a father figure. A stable one."
"You can't just leave the party," Joseph rasped, voice cracking. "Leave him here. Come with me. He'll be safe."
I shook my head. "I'm not leaving. I'm pausing. Besides, he needs to know his father and uncle didn't abandon him. That he has a home, not just a safehouse. I'll bring him to see Keke every week. I'll teach him to walk, to speak, to read. You—you go change the world. But let me give him a chance to have a normal childhood."
Joseph looked away again, lips trembling, jaw clenched.
"I'll make sure he remembers her," I added gently. "Every single day."
Outside, the funeral bells began to toll, low and solemn.
The revolution could wait a little while. Today, we were just a family—broken, grieving, but still holding on.
November 25, 1907 (Later That Day)
Kukia Cemetery, Tbilisi
The winter wind cut like a blade as we gathered at the cemetery after the funeral. The Georgian hills brooded in the distance, grey and silent, as if mourning her too. The priest murmured his prayers, but the words felt hollow, drifting into the cold air like smoke. Kato's casket—simple, pine, too small for someone who meant so much—rested on the edge of the grave like the last word in a sentence no one wanted to read.
Joseph stood beside me, a statue chiseled from pain and fury. His fists were clenched, his knuckles white. He'd been quiet after the funeral.
The mourners stood in a loose cluster: friends, distant family, comrades. A few men in plain coats hung back, too clean-shaven, too quiet—Okhrana, no doubt. Even grief couldn't loosen the Empire's paranoia.
Then came the burial.
The ropes creaked as the casket was lowered into the earth. The thud of dirt hitting wood echoed like a war drum in my chest.
And then Joseph snapped.
He let out a guttural cry, something between a sob and a roar, and before anyone could stop him, he hurled himself into the grave—into the grave. Dirt flew, mourners gasped, someone screamed. He clung to the coffin like he could dig her back up with his bare hands, like if he just held on hard enough, she wouldn't leave.
"Kato! Kato, don't go—"
I leapt forward and climbed down after him, slipping in the mud. I grabbed him under the arms, tried to pull him back. He fought me. Hard. He was a strong man, fueled by madness and grief, and for a terrifying moment, I thought he'd stay there. Die there.
But I whispered to him. Not commands. Not philosophy. Just his name.
"Joe… Joe… she's gone. She's gone. Come back man."
He collapsed in my arms, shaking, sobbing like the revolution never existed. I hauled him out with the help of two comrades and we fell to our knees in the slush beside the grave.
But the Okhrana weren't grieving.
I saw them shift, whisper. One of them reached into his coat. My blood ran cold.
"You have to go," I whispered to Joseph. "Now. They're here."
His eyes met mine. Still wet, still haunted, but focused now. "You'll take care of him?"
"I swear on her grave."
We stood, muddy and ruined, and hugged like brothers at the end of the world.
"Stay safe," I murmured. "And don't do anything too stupid."
He gave me the faintest smile—the ghost of his old smirk. "No promises."
And just like that, he slipped into the crowd and disappeared. Gone before the final prayers had even finished.
I left minutes later. Not as dramatic, not as poetic. Just a slow backstep, a nod to Aleksandra, and then I was gone too. Just in case. The Okhrana didn't need a second twin in their files.
November 29, 1907
Tbilisi, Russian Empire
The flat was small, drafty, and smelled faintly of vodka and onions. But it was safe.
Aleksandra let me in with a tired nod. She hadn't cried once since the funeral, but her eyes were swollen, and her voice was barely a whisper when she said, "He cried again this morning. Yakov."
I stepped inside, took off my coat, and knelt by the cradle. The boy blinked up at me, wide-eyed, a little confused, a little scared. He reached out, and I took his tiny hand in mine.
"It's just us now, buddy," I said softly. "Your papa's off changing the world. But I'll be here. I'll keep you fed, teach you to walk, teach you to curse in several languages. And maybe someday, I'll tell you how beautiful your mother was. How your father nearly buried himself alive for her. How love, even in a place like this, can still break the hardest hearts."
I looked up at Aleksandra.
"I'm done with party work. For now. I'll stay. For him."
She only nodded. No argument. No platitudes. Just quiet understanding. When I looked at her I saw Kato again. I smiled a little, "I'll fix up a meal, Khachapuri?"
She nodded, smiling a little
March 17, 1917
Petrograd, Russian Empire
The morning light spilled reluctantly through the grimy windows of our modest little apartment. I peeled back the curtain slowly, cautiously—like I expected to see Death himself loitering out on the street corner, waiting for his next appointment. But no, just people. Civilians. Some armed, some staggering home from what was either a riot or an all-night revolutionary bender, it was hard to tell anymore. I squinted. No gunfire. No soldiers. No screaming.
"Well," I muttered, letting the curtain fall back into place, "looks like everything's clear. At least for now."
Behind me, Aleksandra—Sashiko, if you asked anyone who'd known her longer than me—was sitting on the threadbare sofa, nursing our youngest, Besarion. He was barely two months old, a chubby little miracle who had no clue the world was ending outside.
I turned and looked at her. She was tired—no, exhausted. But she still had that calm nobility about her, even with a baby at her breast and a revolution outside the window.
The door creaked open. My mother, Keke, stepped out of the second bedroom, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Is everything alright out there?" she asked, voice hushed like we were in a church or a war zone. Frankly, both felt accurate.
I nodded. "Seems like the fighting's stopped. The streets are quiet. For now." I paused. "How are the kids?"
"Still asleep," she said softly. "Yakov, Kato, Joseph, Alyosha… all out cold."
"Good," I said. "If they wake up, tell them I'll be back soon. I need to go check the situation. And send a letter."
I crossed the living room and shoved one of the ratty little couches aside, revealing the false floorboard beneath. I pried it open, revealing the treasure trove below—boxes of gold coins, contraband ammunition, dried food, and more ammo (you can never have too much ammo, especially when you're an ex-cop in revolutionary Russia).
I pulled out a pistol and a couple of bullets, loaded them with practiced ease, and sealed the floor again, nudging the couch back into place. Aleksandra didn't say anything, but I felt her eyes on me. The same look every time I strapped on a gun—equal parts fear and disappointment, the kind of look that said "I married a lunatic, didn't I?"
Yes. Yes, she did.
In my defense, I used to be a police officer. Emphasis on used to. Once the soldiers started mutinying and the Tsar's grip on the empire began to slip like a drunk man on ice, I figured the badge wouldn't mean much longer. And sure enough, here we were. The revolution had arrived, right on cue.
Maybe I should rewind a bit.
After Joseph—Joe—left us, broken and blazing with grief, I knew I couldn't just stay in Tbilisi forever. I had a family now, yes, but I also had… information. Foreknowledge. A cheat code. I knew the revolution would kick off in 1917, here, in Saint Petersburg—Petrograd now, technically, but let's not pretend the Empire's name changes mattered much to people dodging bullets.
So I reinvented myself. No more Mikheil Jughashvili. Too conspicuous. Too tied to Joe. Instead, I became Mikheil Vissarionovich Zhakhaev. Sounded proper. Authoritative. Slightly Eastern European Bond villain, with a sprinkle of Call of Duty for flavor.
I married Aleksandra, because grief has a way of turning strangers into soulmates. We were two broken people trying to fix each other with love and shared childcare. It worked surprisingly well.
We moved to Petrograd. I became a cop.
On paper, I was immaculate. Never late, always present, never corrupt—officially. Unofficially? I was corrupt as hell. Ran guns, stashed supplies, made quiet deals with smugglers, gave heads-up on raids in exchange for gold and favors. I was building an arsenal under my floorboards and a fortune under my mattress.
The plan was simple: join the Party, rise through the ranks, keep my nose clean publicly, and privately become the black market's silent king. Then, once the purges started under Stalin, I'd take my family and my fortune and disappear somewhere warm—maybe Argentina. You know, the usual post-revolution dream.
But there was a catch.
A big one.
Stalin… was Joe.
That little bastard. My twin brother. I didn't even realize it until a few years ago. I'd always thought "Stalin" was just some Russian asshole that popped out of the party apparatus. I didn't know it was Joe, thank you American schooling for not being in depth about Joe. I'd kept up with the party despite being inactive. I read their underground newspapers. Recognized the cadence in his letters when he replied under the name "Stalin."
Joe. My brother. The one who threw himself into his wife's grave a decade ago. The one I pulled out of the dirt.
And now he was poised to rule Russia with an iron fist.
Which, naturally, completely fucked my plan.
I couldn't just defect. He'd find me and my family. He knew me. I was too recognizable. Too dangerous. Too embarrassing. The twin brother of Stalin, living lavishly abroad while his brother ran Russia with an iron fist? That was execution-worthy in any ideology.
So I improvised.
If I wanted to survive, I had to gather leverage. Emotional blackmail, familial guilt, sentimental ties—whatever I could weaponize. I had to be the one person in the world Joe couldn't bring himself to destroy.
I went to the bedroom, opened the drawer beside the bed, and pulled out a letter I'd written two days ago, as soon as I saw the army turning against the Tsar. The writing was simple, the message clear: "I know who you are. And I'm still your brother."
I folded it carefully, slid it into an envelope, and tucked it into my coat pocket.
Back in the living room, I paused for a moment. Aleksandra looked up at me, Besarion snoozing peacefully in her arms. My mother stood quietly nearby, her face taut with worry.
I kissed Aleksandra gently. Then kissed the baby's forehead. Then hugged my mother.
"I'll be back," I said. "Don't open the door for anyone unless you're absolutely sure it's me. If I don't come back… reach out to Joseph. He'll come eventually."
She nodded, jaw tight. No tears. She was stronger than I ever gave her credit for.
I opened the door. Took one last look at my family. And stepped out into the cold, collapsing empire.
The snow was still falling—lazy, wet flakes drifting down like the sky hadn't yet gotten the memo that it was March and time to stop acting like it was January. I pulled my coat tighter around me, teeth chattering slightly. The Petrograd chill always found its way into your bones, like a petty bureaucrat determined to ruin your day.
I stepped carefully through the narrow alley behind our apartment and began making my way toward the city center. Not the main roads—those were crawling with too many people, too many eyes, and far too many bored soldiers with itchy trigger fingers and no idea who was officially in charge. Some of them were so drunk they'd probably arrest their own boots.
I avoided the Winter Palace entirely. That place had become a hornet's nest of revolutionary chaos and frightened officers clinging to whatever shred of imperial illusion they still had left. The last thing I needed was to be stopped, questioned, and "accidentally" shot for looking suspicious—something my face tended to do on its own even when I was completely innocent, which, to be fair, I rarely was.
Eventually, after winding through side streets and half-frozen canals, I arrived at my destination: the Tauride Palace.
It looked almost surreal now, majestic yet bruised, like a weary aristocrat forced to room with striking dockworkers. A decade ago, it had been a glittering seat of nobility. Now it was the beating heart of revolution—or at least one of them. The Petrograd Soviet had taken up residence here, for now at least. Revolutionary real estate tended to be temporary, like revolutionary leadership.
The irony wasn't lost on me. As a police officer, most of my time had been spent "assisting" the Okhrana in keeping tabs on the very people now running the show inside that building. By "assisting," I mean helping sabotage the investigations just enough to let me run guns and make shady deals in peace. Now, I was the ex-cop—still carrying a gun, still carrying secrets—walking into the headquarters of the Petrograd Soviet like I belonged there.
Stupid? Arguably. Bold? Absolutely. But technically, I was still a party member. Inactive, sure. Slightly criminal, certainly. But I had the paperwork. Somewhere. Maybe.
I approached the front gates, where a small group of armed guards were gathered. They all had that hardened, unshaven, sleep-deprived look of men who'd been up all night keeping an eye on people who were keeping an eye on them.
One of them stepped forward to block me. He looked like someone had genetically spliced Jason Statham and Agent 47 in a vodka-soaked lab. Bald, square-jawed, and built like a bookshelf.
"Name and business," he barked in a clipped accent that said, 'If you waste my time, I will punch you through a wall.'
I stood straight, tried to project confidence. "My name is Mikheil Vissarionovich Jughashvili. I'm here to request a favor."
He blinked. "This is the headquarters of the Provisional Government and the Soviet. Not a soup kitchen."
The other guards laughed. Not the worst joke I'd heard, but still mildly irritating.
I ignored the laughter and spoke calmly. "My brother is a member of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party. If I remember correctly, they were the ones who founded the Soviet? I'm also a member—Comrade Makarov." I pulled the letter from my coat pocket, holding it up. "I came here to have this delivered to him. You know him as… Comrade Stalin."
That name—Stalin—changed everything. Like a magic spell. The sarcasm drained from their faces. Even Agent 47's slightly unshakable aura of smugness flickered.
The bald enforcer stepped forward and carefully took the letter from my hand. He looked me over again, slower this time, not as dismissive.
"You said… Stalin?" he asked. Not mockingly—curiously. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had just grown arms and punched him in the face.
"Yes," I said. "He's my brother. I'm trying to find out if he's still alive. And if he is… my home is open to him if he needs a place to stay."
For a moment, he just stared at the envelope. Like it might explode.
Finally, he gave a curt nod. "I'll make sure the letter is delivered."
"Thank you," I said. "I'll see you around."
He didn't reply, just slipped the letter into his coat like it weighed more than a gun.
I turned and walked away. The moment I crossed out of the palace gates, I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The streets didn't feel any safer than before, but at least I wasn't in the direct line of any revolutionary firing squads.
Still, I didn't linger. I wasn't comfortable being out in the open for long. Not in this city. Not in this year. Not with my last name.
As I turned back onto the side street, pulling my coat tighter against the biting cold, I thought of Joe—no, Stalin now. I'd handed a letter to a group of armed revolutionaries asking them to pass a message to one of the most dangerous man in the country, who also happened to be my twin brother. Not exactly your average family reunion.
But what else could I do?
He needed to know I was here.
And more importantly—I needed him to remember who we used to be so I wouldn't be on the receiving end of a firing squad when he went all Robespierre.
March 20, 1917
Petrograd, Russian Empire
Evening
There was a knock at the door. Not the anxious, rapid-fire kind that shouted "police raid" or "Okhrana purge"—no, this was slow. Measured. Almost… respectful. Which, frankly, was even more suspicious.
Aleksandra looked up from the stew pot. My mother froze with a half-folded towel in her hands. Yakov, bless his little heart, just kept drawing strange little crayon people on the kitchen wall. I set down my newspaper—Pravda, naturally—and walked to the door.
I didn't open it immediately. Just stood there, my hand hovering over the knob. I could feel it, something familiar on the other side. Like a ghost of childhood pressed up against the wood.
I opened the door.
There he stood.
Joseph.
Stalin.
Ten years older, more worn, more gaunt than I remembered—but the same brooding intensity in those eyes. His mustache was thicker now, better groomed. His coat was long and military, but fraying at the edges. He looked tired. He looked dangerous.
He looked like my brother.
We stared at each other for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"You look like shit." I said in Georgian.
Then he opened his arms.
I didn't hesitate.
We hugged like brothers do after war and widowhood and revolution—tight, wordless, full of things we couldn't say out loud. His hand slapped my back once, hard, in that awkward masculine way that said "I missed you, you bastard."
Inside, chaos.
Keke let out a sharp gasp and dropped the towel. "Joseph!" she exclaimed, hands flying to her mouth.
Aleksandra didn't say anything at first—just stepped forward and stared at him. Then, slowly, she smiled. Not wide, not forced. Just honest. Like seeing a ghost that turned out to be alive.
Even Yakov stopped drawing on the wall. "Papa?" he asked softly.
Joseph dropped to one knee and opened his arms again. "Yes, my little comrade," he murmured, voice cracking just a little.
Yakov ran into his arms. Aleksandra wiped her eyes discreetly.
And me?
I just stood there, letting it all sink in.
Later That Night
11:43 PM
Dinner had been… surreal.
We'd cooked everything we had worth showing off. Potatoes, stewed cabbage, leftover veal that Aleksandra had been saving for Yakov's name day, a bottle of wine we'd been hoarding since 1915. The table was full, loud, messy—like the old days, before grief hollowed us out and history ran us over like a Tsarist train.
We talked. Laughed. Even Joseph cracked a smile once or twice, especially when Kato—our daughter, not the ghost—told him Yakov had been pretending to lead revolutions with a stick and a tea tin. It was all… human.
But now everyone was asleep. Kids tucked in. Keke passed out in the armchair. Aleksandra upstairs with the baby, snoring softly. The apartment had gone quiet, the warmth of the kitchen fire casting long shadows on the faded wallpaper.
Joseph and I sat across from each other in the small parlor, sipping lukewarm tea like two old men with nowhere to be.
Then I stood.
"Come," I said quietly.
He raised an eyebrow but followed.
I pulled the couch away from it's spot. Lifted the creaky floorboard. Exposed the little armory I'd built under our living room like a paranoid squirrel preparing for revolution.
Joseph peered down at it—rows of pistols wrapped in rags, crates of ammunition, two rifles, a short shotgun, and a box of gold coins tucked beside canned beans and hardtack.
His silence was unnerving.
"Surprise," I said, grinning. "Our version of the family jewels."
Still nothing.
I cleared my throat. "I didn't just write to you for hugs and stew, Joe. I'm still in the Party. Inactive, sure. But I've been preparing."
He looked up at me, slowly.
I pressed on. "Civil war is coming. I can feel it. The Provisional Government won't hold. The Tsar's gone, but power hates a vacuum. You and I both know it's not over—it's barely started."
He still didn't say anything. Just looked back down at the stash.
"I've been laying low. Playing the role. I was a cop here, remember? On paper I was the most punctual, loyal officer in Petrograd. In reality, I was looting supply shipments and warning smugglers of raids. All of this—" I gestured at the hidden arsenal, "—came from that."
Joseph knelt beside the cache and ran a hand over one of the pistols.
"Why show me this?" he asked finally. His voice was calm, but I knew him too well. It was the kind of calm that could shatter into violence.
"Because you're going to need help," I said simply. "Not just ideologues. Not just revolutionaries quoting Marx between gulps of soup. You'll need fighters. Planners. People who know the city—who know how to move, how to smuggle, how to survive."
I crouched beside him. "I know where more of this is. Across the city. Armories, caches." I pulled out a map of the city, with X's dotted all over.
I paused, then looked him in the eyes.
"I want to help. Not for politics. Not for glory. For the family. For the future. For you."
He stared at me.
Seconds passed.
Then: "You always were the smarter twin," he muttered.
I laughed. "Took you long enough to admit it."
He grunted. "Don't get used to it."
We sat there in silence for a moment, the weight of what was coming pressing down on us like the cold outside.
"Does Aleksandra know?" he asked.
"Some of it. Enough to worry. Not enough to stop me."
He nodded.
Finally, he reached down, picked up one of the pistols, and checked the chamber.
Then—he smiled. Just a little. Just enough.
"Well then," he said. "Let's prepare for the end of the world."
Brother could I have some military authority?
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March 21, 1917
Petrograd, Russian Empire
Morning
I found him in the kitchen, sitting in my chair like he'd paid rent and bought the wallpaper. Which, in a way, was fair. He was Stalin now—the Stalin. Boots up on the stool like a smug Cossack, coat draped over one shoulder like a Napoleonic cape, sipping tea and reading Russkoye Slovo as if it wasn't a steaming heap of bourgeois sentimentalism pretending to be journalism. Across from him, Yakov munched on a piece of black bread, legs swinging beneath the table like a particularly solemn metronome.
And just like that, the next phase of my plan was already in motion.
It was a simple plan, really. I couldn't just sit on my ass and be "Stalin's brother." What would that even look like? Me, reclining on some commissar-issued chaise lounge, enjoying tea and Stroganoff while my dear sibling played Robespierre with a mustache—executions, purges, famines, and the cherry on top: World War fucking Two?
No. Fuck that. Someone needed to be the adult in the room. Someone had to lean in and whisper, "Hey Joe… Germany is coming. Maybe you shouldn't kill half the officer corps."
Maybe I wouldn't change the world. Maybe I wouldn't stop the bloodshed. But if I could trim the death toll from ten million to, say, five? That's five million mothers who don't cry themselves to sleep, five million fathers who don't drink themselves to death, and five million kids who don't grow up remembering nothing but boots and snow and silence.
So I moved.
"You're reading the liberal rag now?" I said, eyebrow raised as I poured myself a chipped mug of tea that tasted like betrayal.
Joseph didn't even glance up. "I like to know what the enemy thinks. And the crossword's halfway decent."
I sat down and scraped some dubious cheese onto a crusty corner of bread. "Pravda's is better."
He smirked, folded the paper with all the pomp of a royal decree, and sipped again. "We need to talk," I said.
He sighed theatrically. "That's usually how most terrible ideas begin."
"Glad you're in the mood to be enlightened," I replied.
"The Red Guards are a mess."
He blinked at me slowly, like a snake trying to decide if I was prey or just annoying. "You've been out of the Party for nearly a decade and that's your big observation?"
"No," I said, chewing slowly. "That's just the appetizer. They're a bunch of disorganized amateurs. Half of them don't know which end of a rifle fires bullets, and the other half are either drunk on vodka or high on their own pamphlets. If a civil war breaks out—and it will—they'll be chewed up like stale khachapuri at a Georgian funeral."
He didn't speak. That meant he was listening. Which meant I had a shot.
I leaned in, tapping my finger on the table. "We need a real force. Not a mob of factory workers with pitchforks and poetry. A professional revolutionary corps. Disciplined. Trained. Structured. The kind of men who can hold a line and quote Marx without crying."
He tilted his head, suspicious. "And I suppose you've already come up with a name."
I grinned. "The Revolutionary Guard Corps."
Thank you, late-night 4chan threads about the Middle East. I didn't know much about Russian history back then, but I knew enough about coups, militias, and what happens when you let idealists run the armory. I wasn't an encyclopedia, but I was definitely the kid who read the appendices for fun.
Joseph hummed, deep and low. "Pretentious. But not bad."
I sipped my tea and kept going. "We train them. Organize them into cells. Standardize rifles, formations. Chain of command. Uniform code. And they report directly to us—the Party. No warlords, no freelancers, no anarchists with delusions of grandeur."
He was silent for a long time, thumb tracing the rim of his cup like it held secrets. Then, dry as desert sand, he said, "Sounds dangerously close to Bonapartism."
I shrugged. "Only if someone else does it. If we do it, it's ideological purity with uniforms."
That actually got a chuckle out of him. Just a little one. But it was real.
"I've been reading," I added. "Clausewitz. Sun Tzu. Moltke. Machiavelli."
He leaned back with mock horror. "Dear God. One of us did learn to read after all."
"Laugh all you want. My point stands. Revolutions don't die from bullets. They die from ego, chaos, and bad planning. We need structure. We need teeth."
He tapped the table, slowly. "You sound like Dzerzhinsky."
I frowned. "Who the hell is that?"
He blinked. "You've really been out of the loop."
"Yeah, well, I've been raising your son, genius."
That shut him up. I let the silence linger a little before I dropped the second shoe.
"And while we're on the topic of structure—an intelligence wing. Internal discipline. External sabotage. Counter-propaganda. Surveillance. Loyalty enforcement. Something like the Okhrana, but less tsarist, more... efficient."
Now that got his attention.
He raised an eyebrow. "Suppression?"
I sipped my tea again. "I was going to say 'respectful civic dialogue' but fine—yes, suppression. Cold, calculated, necessary suppression. Do you want to win or do you want a university lecture series from exile?"
He chuckled again—darkly, this time. "And what would you name this little secret empire of yours?"
"I'll come up with something. Something sharp. Something that makes people wake up at 3 a.m. sweating."
He looked away, toward the window, where frost crept like fingers across the glass. "You've changed."
"I've adapted," I said. "You taught me that. Sentimentality is a liability. This world eats soft men."
He sighed, long and low, like he was exhaling a childhood. "I remember when you used to say you wanted to go to America."
"I did," I said. "And now I'm here, pitching you a paramilitary and a surveillance state. Isn't life funny?"
A pause. A longer one.
"You know," he said finally, "you might have made a better revolutionary than me."
I smirked. "Oh, I am. But I'm family-oriented, so I temporarily left to help you out."
We both laughed at that. Quietly. Sadly. Like men who knew too much and loved too little.
Then he looked at me again. And the softness drained from his face like blood from a wound. His eyes were ice now—sharp, calculating, the eyes of a man who'd watched the future and decided to bend it into submission.
"You're right. About all of it. The Red Guards are useless. The liberals are weak. The Provisional Government is a kicked dog with a crown. And when it falls, we'll be there to seize what's left."
He stood up. Crossed the room. Lifted a floorboard. Inside: the stash. Our old friends. Guns, papers, maps, promises.
"You'll start small," he said. "Petrograd first. Small cells. Trusted men only. You oversee logistics. I'll see what I can do with Dzerzhinsky. He's got the dead-eyed zeal we need. As for your Revolutionary Guard—"
He looked back at me, face unreadable.
"Train them well. We'll need hounds when the wolves come. But keep it quiet. Small. Don't draw fire too early."
Then he returned to the table. Clapped a hand on my shoulder. Heavy. Final.
"Welcome back, comrade Makarov."
April 15, 1917
Petrograd, Russia
I leaned back on the battered old couch, glass of Georgian wine in hand—the good stuff, or at least good enough that it didn't taste like fermented shoe leather. One of the smugglers who worked with me had brought it by as a bribe-slash-gift. A token of appreciation, or maybe just a down payment on not getting stabbed in an alley by one of the other criminal outfits prowling the city like rats with better hats.
Of course, the wine wasn't the only thing he gave me. Protection doesn't come cheap, not even in a revolution. But we weren't here to talk about my side hustles.
Joseph Stalin—my older twin, future tyrant, and current soup enthusiast—was sitting across from me, slurping a steaming bowl of borscht our mother had made. He looked oddly serene, like a wolf on vacation. It was the only time he ever looked remotely at peace: when eating. Say what you want about Stalin, but the man respected soup.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a cigarette, and held it between two fingers like a man about to say something smug.
"Not in my house," I said flatly, without looking up.
He groaned. "You're still doing this?"
"Yes. I like the smell of soup and revolution, not stale smoke and black lung."
He muttered something unkind in Georgian but tucked the cigarette back into his coat.
"Fine. Anyway, report," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's the status on your little Guard Corps and your new Okhrana?"
I set my glass down with a soft clink. "We've got about two hundred men under arms now. They're former colleagues from my police days. Trained, disciplined, loyal."
Joseph raised an eyebrow. "Colorful."
"Colorful gets the job done. We secured a few weapons from old Imperial stockpiles I had mapped out years ago. Not all of them—some were looted by rival groups, gangs, or God-knows-who—but enough."
He leaned in, curious now. "How much is 'enough'?"
I ticked them off on my fingers. "Four hundred Mosin-Nagant rifles, fifty Nagant M1895 revolvers, two PM M1910 machine guns—one of them even works without kicking like a mule—about a hundred grenades, two armored vans that look like they were held together with hope and rust, and roughly thirty thousand rounds of assorted ammunition."
He paused. "Where the hell are you keeping all of that?"
"We've got a warehouse by the docks," I said casually. "Used to be a place for fish. Now it's for weapons. Same smell. We've got a rotation of guards watching it day and night."
He nodded slowly, then tilted his head. "And your new Okhrana?"
"Twenty agents so far," I said. "Ex-policemen mostly. A few underworld types. And—"
I hesitated for dramatic effect.
"—a couple of former Okhrana."
That made him freeze, spoon halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed. "You would work with them?"
"They work for us," I clarified. "Big difference."
He scowled. "Keep them on a short leash."
"They're on a leash so short it's practically a noose," I assured him. "So far, we've got one guy embedded in the Provisional Government. He's posing as a secretary for a mid-level official—nothing flashy. Says the place is a zoo. Infighting everywhere. Half the cabinet wants to keep the war going, the other half wants a truce, no one agrees on food policy, and the Entente is propping them up with loans and prayers."
He grunted. "What else?"
"My agents are embedded in various Red Guard units. The Putilov Factory, the Vyborg District, Obukhov Plant, even a couple of the Bolshevik student detachments. I've got feelers in the Mensheviks, anarchists, syndicalists—basically anyone carrying a pamphlet and a weapon. For now, they're just observing. No action. Just ears open and mouths shut."
He swirled his spoon around his bowl, thinking. "And how exactly are you keeping these people loyal? Especially your Guard Corps. How do you know they won't flip the second someone waves a red flag and promises them bread?"
I grinned. "Because I pay them."
He looked at me like I'd suggested feeding caviar to stray dogs. "Pay them? I saw your stash in the apartment. It's substantial, sure, but not nearly enough to fund an army."
I sipped my wine, letting the suspense simmer a bit before answering.
"I made contacts over the years. Smugglers, brothel madams, counterfeiters, black marketeers. I've been good to the underworld and the underworld's been good to me in return. They're terrified right now—cops are gone, order's a joke, and every other gang wants their cut. We offer protection. Real protection. Not just muscle, but organized, sober, punctual violence. They pay in food, guns, ammo, gold—whatever they've got. And I use that to fund the operation. It's a self-sustaining ecosystem of paranoia."
He stared at me for a moment. I could see the war in his eyes: part of him was impressed, the other part deeply disturbed that his twin brother had turned Petrograd's criminal underbelly into a revolutionary ATM.
But he couldn't argue with the results. The revolution, after all, had to get paid.
He leaned back, exhaled slowly, and looked at me sideways.
"You know," he said, voice dry, "for someone who used to spend his Saturdays reading history and cooking with mom, you've become alarmingly competent at this."
I raised my glass in a mock toast. "Turns out cooking and revolutionaries aren't that different. Get the right tools, improvise when you can, and always, always know what ingredients you'll need."
He chuckled. Just a little.
Then the smile vanished, and he went back to stirring his borscht like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Good work," he said. "Keep me updated. But tread carefully. The wolves haven't started howling yet, but they will. When they do, I want to be the one holding the leash. And one more thing."
"What is it?"
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice low and measured.
"Lenin's returning tomorrow."
The words hung in the air like gunpowder smoke.
I blinked. "Tomorrow?"
He nodded. "We just got confirmation. The Germans are sending him in through Finland Station, under heavy cover. We've arranged some Party men to meet him—but I don't trust all of them, and neither should you."
"Fair," I muttered. "That place is going to be a madhouse. Everyone from Mensheviks to babushkas trying to kiss his feet."
"Exactly why I need you," he said, pointing a finger at me. "I want a company of your best men—disciplined, armed, clean uniforms if possible. No drunks. No screaming about dialectics. Just men who know how to walk in a line without shooting themselves in the foot."
I raised an eyebrow. "We escorting him like a czar now?"
"We're protecting him," he corrected sharply. "And yes, we're also putting on a show. Lenin needs to see we've got muscle. Order. Structure. Not just a pack of sweaty poets yelling about worker councils."
I swirled the last sip of wine in my glass. "So, you want him impressed. You're hoping he'll back us."
He didn't deny it.
"I'll arrange it," I said. "50 of our best. Matching boots, pressed coats, no visible stab wounds. Even throw in a bandolier or two for dramatic effect."
He smirked. "Make it 60. After the welcome, I'll try to introduce you to him. One-on-one, maybe two-on-one with me in the room. You can pitch him your vision—the Guard Corps, the intelligence wing, the army. You make a good case, Mikheil. Better than I could, even. You've got that… charm."
"charm," I echoed. "That's what we're calling it now?"
He ignored that too.
"But," he added, voice tightening, "you keep the details to yourself for now. The warehouse, the arsenal, the agents, the funding streams—none of it exists. As far as Lenin is concerned, this is just an idea you've been brewing. A theory. You're an idealist with a plan. Not a man who's already stockpiling grenades in a fish warehouse."
I tapped my fingers on the table. "You don't trust him?"
He shrugged. "I don't trust anyone. Not yet. And Lenin… Lenin is brilliant. Visionary. But he's also cautious about power. About rivals. If he thinks you're too competent, too prepared—he might see you as a threat."
"And if he sees me as useful?"
"Then you're in."
I whistled. "So, impress him. But don't intimidate him. Be smart, but not too smart. Don't mention the warehouse full of weapons I built from scratch using the criminal underworld and my leftover cop buddies. Got it."
Joseph gave me a thin smile. "Exactly. Be the humble architect of the future. The man with a blueprint, not a battalion."
I stared at him, then shook my head with a quiet chuckle. "God, we are such bastards."
He smiled again, broader this time. "Better bastards than fools."
There was a pause. "Damn right." I finished my wine. He finished his borscht. Outside, the city moaned with distant gunshots and shouted slogans. The revolution was waking up again.
"Tomorrow then," I said. "I'll have the boys ready. No shooting, no looting, just smiles, boots, and bayonets."
He nodded, then stood, pulling on his coat.
"And Mikheil?"
"Yeah?"
He glanced back at me, eyes serious. "Don't fuck this up. If Lenin likes you, everything changes. If he doesn't…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
I nodded.
He left.
I sat there a while longer, listening to the city breathe through cracked windows and thin walls, thinking about Lenin, the Guard Corps, the Okhrana, and how I, a 21st-century interloper in a secondhand body, had become Petrograd's most well-dressed warlord.
Then I poured myself another glass of wine.
Tomorrow, I'd meet the man who would shape the revolution.
I just hoped I didn't terrify him too much.
Petrograd, Russian Empire
Morning
I found him in the kitchen, sitting in my chair like he'd paid rent and bought the wallpaper. Which, in a way, was fair. He was Stalin now—the Stalin. Boots up on the stool like a smug Cossack, coat draped over one shoulder like a Napoleonic cape, sipping tea and reading Russkoye Slovo as if it wasn't a steaming heap of bourgeois sentimentalism pretending to be journalism. Across from him, Yakov munched on a piece of black bread, legs swinging beneath the table like a particularly solemn metronome.
And just like that, the next phase of my plan was already in motion.
It was a simple plan, really. I couldn't just sit on my ass and be "Stalin's brother." What would that even look like? Me, reclining on some commissar-issued chaise lounge, enjoying tea and Stroganoff while my dear sibling played Robespierre with a mustache—executions, purges, famines, and the cherry on top: World War fucking Two?
No. Fuck that. Someone needed to be the adult in the room. Someone had to lean in and whisper, "Hey Joe… Germany is coming. Maybe you shouldn't kill half the officer corps."
Maybe I wouldn't change the world. Maybe I wouldn't stop the bloodshed. But if I could trim the death toll from ten million to, say, five? That's five million mothers who don't cry themselves to sleep, five million fathers who don't drink themselves to death, and five million kids who don't grow up remembering nothing but boots and snow and silence.
So I moved.
"You're reading the liberal rag now?" I said, eyebrow raised as I poured myself a chipped mug of tea that tasted like betrayal.
Joseph didn't even glance up. "I like to know what the enemy thinks. And the crossword's halfway decent."
I sat down and scraped some dubious cheese onto a crusty corner of bread. "Pravda's is better."
He smirked, folded the paper with all the pomp of a royal decree, and sipped again. "We need to talk," I said.
He sighed theatrically. "That's usually how most terrible ideas begin."
"Glad you're in the mood to be enlightened," I replied.
"The Red Guards are a mess."
He blinked at me slowly, like a snake trying to decide if I was prey or just annoying. "You've been out of the Party for nearly a decade and that's your big observation?"
"No," I said, chewing slowly. "That's just the appetizer. They're a bunch of disorganized amateurs. Half of them don't know which end of a rifle fires bullets, and the other half are either drunk on vodka or high on their own pamphlets. If a civil war breaks out—and it will—they'll be chewed up like stale khachapuri at a Georgian funeral."
He didn't speak. That meant he was listening. Which meant I had a shot.
I leaned in, tapping my finger on the table. "We need a real force. Not a mob of factory workers with pitchforks and poetry. A professional revolutionary corps. Disciplined. Trained. Structured. The kind of men who can hold a line and quote Marx without crying."
He tilted his head, suspicious. "And I suppose you've already come up with a name."
I grinned. "The Revolutionary Guard Corps."
Thank you, late-night 4chan threads about the Middle East. I didn't know much about Russian history back then, but I knew enough about coups, militias, and what happens when you let idealists run the armory. I wasn't an encyclopedia, but I was definitely the kid who read the appendices for fun.
Joseph hummed, deep and low. "Pretentious. But not bad."
I sipped my tea and kept going. "We train them. Organize them into cells. Standardize rifles, formations. Chain of command. Uniform code. And they report directly to us—the Party. No warlords, no freelancers, no anarchists with delusions of grandeur."
He was silent for a long time, thumb tracing the rim of his cup like it held secrets. Then, dry as desert sand, he said, "Sounds dangerously close to Bonapartism."
I shrugged. "Only if someone else does it. If we do it, it's ideological purity with uniforms."
That actually got a chuckle out of him. Just a little one. But it was real.
"I've been reading," I added. "Clausewitz. Sun Tzu. Moltke. Machiavelli."
He leaned back with mock horror. "Dear God. One of us did learn to read after all."
"Laugh all you want. My point stands. Revolutions don't die from bullets. They die from ego, chaos, and bad planning. We need structure. We need teeth."
He tapped the table, slowly. "You sound like Dzerzhinsky."
I frowned. "Who the hell is that?"
He blinked. "You've really been out of the loop."
"Yeah, well, I've been raising your son, genius."
That shut him up. I let the silence linger a little before I dropped the second shoe.
"And while we're on the topic of structure—an intelligence wing. Internal discipline. External sabotage. Counter-propaganda. Surveillance. Loyalty enforcement. Something like the Okhrana, but less tsarist, more... efficient."
Now that got his attention.
He raised an eyebrow. "Suppression?"
I sipped my tea again. "I was going to say 'respectful civic dialogue' but fine—yes, suppression. Cold, calculated, necessary suppression. Do you want to win or do you want a university lecture series from exile?"
He chuckled again—darkly, this time. "And what would you name this little secret empire of yours?"
"I'll come up with something. Something sharp. Something that makes people wake up at 3 a.m. sweating."
He looked away, toward the window, where frost crept like fingers across the glass. "You've changed."
"I've adapted," I said. "You taught me that. Sentimentality is a liability. This world eats soft men."
He sighed, long and low, like he was exhaling a childhood. "I remember when you used to say you wanted to go to America."
"I did," I said. "And now I'm here, pitching you a paramilitary and a surveillance state. Isn't life funny?"
A pause. A longer one.
"You know," he said finally, "you might have made a better revolutionary than me."
I smirked. "Oh, I am. But I'm family-oriented, so I temporarily left to help you out."
We both laughed at that. Quietly. Sadly. Like men who knew too much and loved too little.
Then he looked at me again. And the softness drained from his face like blood from a wound. His eyes were ice now—sharp, calculating, the eyes of a man who'd watched the future and decided to bend it into submission.
"You're right. About all of it. The Red Guards are useless. The liberals are weak. The Provisional Government is a kicked dog with a crown. And when it falls, we'll be there to seize what's left."
He stood up. Crossed the room. Lifted a floorboard. Inside: the stash. Our old friends. Guns, papers, maps, promises.
"You'll start small," he said. "Petrograd first. Small cells. Trusted men only. You oversee logistics. I'll see what I can do with Dzerzhinsky. He's got the dead-eyed zeal we need. As for your Revolutionary Guard—"
He looked back at me, face unreadable.
"Train them well. We'll need hounds when the wolves come. But keep it quiet. Small. Don't draw fire too early."
Then he returned to the table. Clapped a hand on my shoulder. Heavy. Final.
"Welcome back, comrade Makarov."
April 15, 1917
Petrograd, Russia
I leaned back on the battered old couch, glass of Georgian wine in hand—the good stuff, or at least good enough that it didn't taste like fermented shoe leather. One of the smugglers who worked with me had brought it by as a bribe-slash-gift. A token of appreciation, or maybe just a down payment on not getting stabbed in an alley by one of the other criminal outfits prowling the city like rats with better hats.
Of course, the wine wasn't the only thing he gave me. Protection doesn't come cheap, not even in a revolution. But we weren't here to talk about my side hustles.
Joseph Stalin—my older twin, future tyrant, and current soup enthusiast—was sitting across from me, slurping a steaming bowl of borscht our mother had made. He looked oddly serene, like a wolf on vacation. It was the only time he ever looked remotely at peace: when eating. Say what you want about Stalin, but the man respected soup.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a cigarette, and held it between two fingers like a man about to say something smug.
"Not in my house," I said flatly, without looking up.
He groaned. "You're still doing this?"
"Yes. I like the smell of soup and revolution, not stale smoke and black lung."
He muttered something unkind in Georgian but tucked the cigarette back into his coat.
"Fine. Anyway, report," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's the status on your little Guard Corps and your new Okhrana?"
I set my glass down with a soft clink. "We've got about two hundred men under arms now. They're former colleagues from my police days. Trained, disciplined, loyal."
Joseph raised an eyebrow. "Colorful."
"Colorful gets the job done. We secured a few weapons from old Imperial stockpiles I had mapped out years ago. Not all of them—some were looted by rival groups, gangs, or God-knows-who—but enough."
He leaned in, curious now. "How much is 'enough'?"
I ticked them off on my fingers. "Four hundred Mosin-Nagant rifles, fifty Nagant M1895 revolvers, two PM M1910 machine guns—one of them even works without kicking like a mule—about a hundred grenades, two armored vans that look like they were held together with hope and rust, and roughly thirty thousand rounds of assorted ammunition."
He paused. "Where the hell are you keeping all of that?"
"We've got a warehouse by the docks," I said casually. "Used to be a place for fish. Now it's for weapons. Same smell. We've got a rotation of guards watching it day and night."
He nodded slowly, then tilted his head. "And your new Okhrana?"
"Twenty agents so far," I said. "Ex-policemen mostly. A few underworld types. And—"
I hesitated for dramatic effect.
"—a couple of former Okhrana."
That made him freeze, spoon halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed. "You would work with them?"
"They work for us," I clarified. "Big difference."
He scowled. "Keep them on a short leash."
"They're on a leash so short it's practically a noose," I assured him. "So far, we've got one guy embedded in the Provisional Government. He's posing as a secretary for a mid-level official—nothing flashy. Says the place is a zoo. Infighting everywhere. Half the cabinet wants to keep the war going, the other half wants a truce, no one agrees on food policy, and the Entente is propping them up with loans and prayers."
He grunted. "What else?"
"My agents are embedded in various Red Guard units. The Putilov Factory, the Vyborg District, Obukhov Plant, even a couple of the Bolshevik student detachments. I've got feelers in the Mensheviks, anarchists, syndicalists—basically anyone carrying a pamphlet and a weapon. For now, they're just observing. No action. Just ears open and mouths shut."
He swirled his spoon around his bowl, thinking. "And how exactly are you keeping these people loyal? Especially your Guard Corps. How do you know they won't flip the second someone waves a red flag and promises them bread?"
I grinned. "Because I pay them."
He looked at me like I'd suggested feeding caviar to stray dogs. "Pay them? I saw your stash in the apartment. It's substantial, sure, but not nearly enough to fund an army."
I sipped my wine, letting the suspense simmer a bit before answering.
"I made contacts over the years. Smugglers, brothel madams, counterfeiters, black marketeers. I've been good to the underworld and the underworld's been good to me in return. They're terrified right now—cops are gone, order's a joke, and every other gang wants their cut. We offer protection. Real protection. Not just muscle, but organized, sober, punctual violence. They pay in food, guns, ammo, gold—whatever they've got. And I use that to fund the operation. It's a self-sustaining ecosystem of paranoia."
He stared at me for a moment. I could see the war in his eyes: part of him was impressed, the other part deeply disturbed that his twin brother had turned Petrograd's criminal underbelly into a revolutionary ATM.
But he couldn't argue with the results. The revolution, after all, had to get paid.
He leaned back, exhaled slowly, and looked at me sideways.
"You know," he said, voice dry, "for someone who used to spend his Saturdays reading history and cooking with mom, you've become alarmingly competent at this."
I raised my glass in a mock toast. "Turns out cooking and revolutionaries aren't that different. Get the right tools, improvise when you can, and always, always know what ingredients you'll need."
He chuckled. Just a little.
Then the smile vanished, and he went back to stirring his borscht like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Good work," he said. "Keep me updated. But tread carefully. The wolves haven't started howling yet, but they will. When they do, I want to be the one holding the leash. And one more thing."
"What is it?"
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice low and measured.
"Lenin's returning tomorrow."
The words hung in the air like gunpowder smoke.
I blinked. "Tomorrow?"
He nodded. "We just got confirmation. The Germans are sending him in through Finland Station, under heavy cover. We've arranged some Party men to meet him—but I don't trust all of them, and neither should you."
"Fair," I muttered. "That place is going to be a madhouse. Everyone from Mensheviks to babushkas trying to kiss his feet."
"Exactly why I need you," he said, pointing a finger at me. "I want a company of your best men—disciplined, armed, clean uniforms if possible. No drunks. No screaming about dialectics. Just men who know how to walk in a line without shooting themselves in the foot."
I raised an eyebrow. "We escorting him like a czar now?"
"We're protecting him," he corrected sharply. "And yes, we're also putting on a show. Lenin needs to see we've got muscle. Order. Structure. Not just a pack of sweaty poets yelling about worker councils."
I swirled the last sip of wine in my glass. "So, you want him impressed. You're hoping he'll back us."
He didn't deny it.
"I'll arrange it," I said. "50 of our best. Matching boots, pressed coats, no visible stab wounds. Even throw in a bandolier or two for dramatic effect."
He smirked. "Make it 60. After the welcome, I'll try to introduce you to him. One-on-one, maybe two-on-one with me in the room. You can pitch him your vision—the Guard Corps, the intelligence wing, the army. You make a good case, Mikheil. Better than I could, even. You've got that… charm."
"charm," I echoed. "That's what we're calling it now?"
He ignored that too.
"But," he added, voice tightening, "you keep the details to yourself for now. The warehouse, the arsenal, the agents, the funding streams—none of it exists. As far as Lenin is concerned, this is just an idea you've been brewing. A theory. You're an idealist with a plan. Not a man who's already stockpiling grenades in a fish warehouse."
I tapped my fingers on the table. "You don't trust him?"
He shrugged. "I don't trust anyone. Not yet. And Lenin… Lenin is brilliant. Visionary. But he's also cautious about power. About rivals. If he thinks you're too competent, too prepared—he might see you as a threat."
"And if he sees me as useful?"
"Then you're in."
I whistled. "So, impress him. But don't intimidate him. Be smart, but not too smart. Don't mention the warehouse full of weapons I built from scratch using the criminal underworld and my leftover cop buddies. Got it."
Joseph gave me a thin smile. "Exactly. Be the humble architect of the future. The man with a blueprint, not a battalion."
I stared at him, then shook my head with a quiet chuckle. "God, we are such bastards."
He smiled again, broader this time. "Better bastards than fools."
There was a pause. "Damn right." I finished my wine. He finished his borscht. Outside, the city moaned with distant gunshots and shouted slogans. The revolution was waking up again.
"Tomorrow then," I said. "I'll have the boys ready. No shooting, no looting, just smiles, boots, and bayonets."
He nodded, then stood, pulling on his coat.
"And Mikheil?"
"Yeah?"
He glanced back at me, eyes serious. "Don't fuck this up. If Lenin likes you, everything changes. If he doesn't…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
I nodded.
He left.
I sat there a while longer, listening to the city breathe through cracked windows and thin walls, thinking about Lenin, the Guard Corps, the Okhrana, and how I, a 21st-century interloper in a secondhand body, had become Petrograd's most well-dressed warlord.
Then I poured myself another glass of wine.
Tomorrow, I'd meet the man who would shape the revolution.
I just hoped I didn't terrify him too much.
Let me sell you this revolution
New
Alenco98
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April 16, 1917
Finland Station, Petrograd
Russia
The crowd at the station was a mess—a revolutionary stew of factory workers, students, sailors, babushkas, bored teenagers with pamphlets, and at least one man selling hot potatoes and muttering about the Mensheviks under his breath. Flags waved, fists raised, and chants echoed across the platform like a drunken hymn. Down with the war! Long live Lenin! Down with the Provisional Government! Long live Lenin! Over and over again, like the city itself had learned to chant.
My men stood apart from it all, 60 of them now—three had hangovers from drinking last night, but unfortunately for them the revolution waits for no one. They stood at attention in clean coats, boots polished, weapons slung in perfect formation. A mix of ex-cops from my precinct and surrounding ones, veterans, and one former circus strongman who refused to speak unless addressed as "Comrade Bear." His real name as I would come to find out later in the year was Fyodor.
I stood in front, coat pressed, gloves immaculate, sabre sheathed more for the look than the use. Optics mattered, Stalin said. Might as well lean into it.
Then the train pulled in, slow and heavy, hissing steam like a dragon clearing its throat.
The crowd roared. Some people cried. Others chanted louder. A few just looked bewildered, clutching newspapers and craning necks for a glimpse of the man who'd supposedly flown in on German wings to save the revolution. The irony was so thick it could be served in a bowl with sour cream.
And then there he was.
Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov. Lenin.
Shorter than expected, balding head shining under the gas lamps, beard trimmed to a sharp point, eyes like drill bits. He looked less like a prophet and more like a mildly annoyed librarian—but the energy that followed him was palpable. Electric. Every movement seemed intentional, every glance calculated.
He stepped down from the train, flanked by a few weary-looking comrades, his expression unreadable.
I stepped forward, snapping a crisp salute.
"Comrade Lenin," I said, "I've been sent by Comrade Stalin to escort you to the Smolny Institute."
He looked me over with a flick of his eyes, brows lifting slightly. "And who might you be?"
I smiled. "Mikheil Dzhugashvili. Stalin's younger twin brother. I'm the better looking one. He hates when I say that."
A twitch tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't know Stalin had a twin. He doesn't talk much about family."
"Probably for the best," I replied. "We're not exactly a textbook family. But I assure you, I'm quite real. My job is to keep you in one piece on your way to the Soviet. It's a madhouse out there."
"I assumed as much," Lenin muttered, adjusting his coat. "Lead the way then, Comrade Better-Looking-One."
We moved through the crowd as my men formed a protective cordon, parting the sea of Petrograd's finest radicals like Moses with machine guns. Some people shouted greetings to Lenin; others just stared in awe. One woman fainted. Lenin looked mildly inconvenienced but nodded politely.
As we walked, he fell into step beside me. "So, Mikheil. Tell me—what is it exactly you do? Aside from providing escort duty for returning revolutionaries."
"I'm sort of a revolutionary nanny," I said, hands clasped behind my back.
Lenin blinked. "A what?"
I grinned. "I was in the Party, like Stalin. Active for years. But after his wife, Kato, died… well, someone had to raise his son Yakov. Joseph threw himself into the cause. I stepped back and raised the boy. Someone had to hold the bottle while he held the bomb."
Lenin gave me a sideways glance. "You left politics to raise a child?"
"Temporarily. The cause didn't vanish—just shifted shape. Yakov was just a baby. Stalin would send money when he could, usually in envelopes that reeked of gunpowder and bad cigars. I worked as a cop here in Petrograd, ran a few investigations, made some enemies. But at night, it was me, my wife, my kids, my mom and Yakov. Bottles. Lullabies. The occasional Marxist bedtime story. From each according to his abilities, and mine happened to include changing diapers."
Lenin actually laughed. A short, dry chuckle, but real.
"Well," he said, "that might be the most proletarian reason I've ever heard to pause a revolution."
"Thank you. I take great pride in my bourgeois resentment and my ability to cook porridge."
He nodded thoughtfully. "And now?"
"Now Yakov's old enough to run circles around us both, and I'm back in the struggle. Petrograd's a powder keg. The Red Guards are disorganized, the underworld is exploding, the Soviets are arguing about dialectics while the Provisional Government bleeds in public. So I've taken it upon myself to help impose some discipline."
Lenin's gaze sharpened. "Discipline?"
I smiled faintly. "A vision. A proposal. But I'll save the pitch for when there's less steam and shouting. I didn't come to shove ideas down your throat, Comrade Lenin. I came to make sure you got to the Smolny in one piece."
"Hmph." He glanced around. "Your men… They look competent. Not the usual red guard I see around here."
"I picked them myself. Former cops like me, veterans. All loyal. All trained by me. We even combed their beards for lice. That's how serious we are."
"I do appreciate lice-free escorts," he said drily. "What's the group called?"
"Officially?" I shrugged. "They don't have a name. Yet. They're just another red guards group. Unofficially, I've been drafting some ideas. Revolutionary Guard Corps has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Lenin's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. We continued on in silence, his mind clearly chewing on something bigger.
When the towering shadow of the Smolny loomed ahead, lit by gas lamps and flickering torches, he stopped short and turned to me.
"Your brother trusts you?"
I looked him in the eye. "Yes. More than he trusts himself, I think. And I trust him. Even if I don't always agree."
Lenin nodded. "You're a rare breed, Comrade Mikheil. Most men either talk ideology or throw bombs. You seem to do both while feeding children and managing a street militia."
"I'm a man of many talents," I said with a smile.
He gave me one more long, calculating look.
"Come to the Smolny tomorrow morning," he said at last. "We'll talk. Bring your vision. If it's sound, maybe it won't just be your brother listening."
My eyebrow rose. "A private audience with Lenin on day two? You flatter me."
"No," he said simply, "I'm curious. And that's dangerous."
Then he turned and walked into the Smolny, the doors swinging shut behind him.
I stood outside for a moment, hands in my coat pockets, watching the lights flicker in the windows of the revolutionary hive. I could already hear the debates, the shouting, the righteous indignation.
And yet… something was changing. Fast.
I turned to my men. "Back to the warehouse. No drinking, no shooting, and if Comrade Bear starts drinking excessively again, put a stop to it."
They saluted.
As we walked back through the city streets, I allowed myself a small smile.
Lenin was here.
And he was listening.
The air inside Smolny was thick with smoke, tension, and the smell of overworked revolutionaries. Old nuns' dormitories turned committee rooms. Lenin had taken over one of the larger classrooms, its crucifixes long since torn down and replaced with hand-drawn maps of factory districts and food supply routes. Someone had left a half-eaten potato on a desk. It was unclear whether it was a snack or a paperweight.
I entered behind Stalin, flanked by two of my men who looked intimidating enough to make most Mensheviks reconsider their positions on democratic centralism.
Lenin was already there, perched at the head of a battered oak table, poring over a stack of telegrams and half-burned notes. He didn't look up as we walked in.
"Close the door," he said flatly. "And tell whoever's shouting about bread prices in the hall that I'm not the baker's union."
Stalin grunted and obeyed. I stepped forward and stood at attention—partly out of respect, partly out of performance.
"Comrade Lenin," I said. "You asked for my vision. I've come to deliver it."
That got his attention. He glanced up, squinting slightly, gestured to the seat across from him.
"Speak."
Stalin sat in the corner, arms crossed, quietly observing. His face was unreadable—just the faint hint of a smirk, like he was waiting to see if I'd crash and burn or launch something worth remembering.
I sat down, met Lenin's gaze, and laid it out.
"There's going to be a civil war," I began. "That's not a guess. It's a certainty. What you're proposing—land redistribution, the dismantling of the aristocracy, the total abolition of private property and capitalism—you're not just rattling the gates of power. You're taking a battering ram to the foundations of a thousand-year-old order. The nobles, the generals, the factory owners—they're not going to debate us into surrender. They're going to fight. Brutally."
Lenin didn't flinch. He just nodded once, slowly, eyes sharp.
"The Red Guards," I continued, "are enthusiastic, brave, even fanatical. But they're disorganized. They're militias with slogans. If the war starts tomorrow, they'll be cannon fodder. You need to build a real army. Ranks. Logistics. Discipline. Officers who know how to march and men who know how to shoot without hitting their own toes."
"And I suppose," Lenin said, "you've got a plan to prevent that army from marching on us one day?"
"Exactly." I leaned in, lowering my voice. "Bonapartism is inevitable if power is centralized in a single institution. So we build redundancies. My Revolutionary Guard Corps—the men you saw yesterday—is just the start. Ideologically educated, heavily armed, trained not just to fight—but to think. Their purpose will be singular: to protect the revolution from the army if it ever turns."
"And who watches them?" Lenin asked immediately, tone razor-sharp.
"I'm glad you asked," I said, suppressing a grin. "We build a new Okhrana. Not the old one—no monarchist brutes. Ours would be staffed with vetted Party loyalists. Professionals. Their job would be internal intelligence, loyalty enforcement, counter-sabotage, spying abroad, criminal enforcement. And they, too, would have teeth—an armed wing, a National Police Force if you like."
He drummed his fingers on the table.
"Let me clarify the architecture," I said. "A centralized Soviet Army to handle foreign threats. A Revolutionary Guard Corps to keep that army in line. And a new Soviet Okhrana—armed, loyal to the Party—to keep both of them in line."
"Checks and balances through overlapping paranoia," Stalin said from the corner. "Elegant."
"Exactly," I said. "No single general can stage a coup without inviting a bloodbath from the guard corps and Police. Every sword faces a mirror. You want loyalty? Fear and structure get you there faster than abstract slogans."
I let that settle, then added, "And while we're talking power and perception, I want to propose a May Day parade."
That raised Lenin's eyebrow.
"A public show of strength and unity," I said. "Red Guards marching in formation. Flags, uniforms, drums. The people are scared and angry and starving. They need to see order. Strength. And you, Comrade Lenin—rifle in hand, walking at the front. You are the symbol."
He narrowed his eyes. "You want me parading like a tsar?"
"I want you to be the opposite of a tsar," I said firmly. "But a symbol all the same. The average Russian peasant has never read Das Kapital or the communist manifesto. Hell, most of them can't read. But they understand symbols. Uniforms. Banners. Heroes. You march with them, and they'll follow you anywhere."
"And when do we teach them the theory?"
"After we win the war," I said. "Power first, then theory."
There was a silence.
I leaned back, glanced at his cigarette pack. "Also, respectfully, you should consider quitting smoking. And drinking. You're about to be the soul of a revolution. Maybe don't die from lung or liver failure before we get to the end."
Stalin barked a laugh. I glanced at him. "You too brother." He scowled.
Lenin didn't laugh at all, or scowls.
For a long, uncomfortable moment, he just stared at me. Then, slowly, he set the cigarette he'd been rolling down on the table and folded his hands.
"You speak like a man who's lived through this before."
"I just read a lot," I said, smiling faintly. "Sun
Tzu's art of war, Caesar's commentaries on Gaul, Napoleon's biography, Machiavelli's the prince, Moltke, Bismark, Clausewitz. Anything and everything on politics and military tactics I could get my hands on. I stole ideas from all of them, synthesized them into my own."
Lenin exhaled through his nose.
"What do you think?" he asked Stalin, still not looking away from me.
Stalin shrugged. "He's pragmatic. Cynical. Slightly unhinged. I trust him."
"High praise," I said dryly.
Lenin turned his gaze back to me. "Your proposal… it's terrifying. Bureaucratic. Militaristic. Contradictory to many principles of grassroots revolutionary thought."
He paused.
"I like it."
I blinked. "You do?"
"It's realistic. Brutal, but grounded in the facts. You're right—the old order will not go quietly. We cannot meet them with disorder and poetry. We must meet them with steel."
He stood. "You'll draft a formal structure for these corps and committees. Bring it to me by the week's end. I want clear chains of command. Oversight bodies. Vetted officers. And most importantly—loyalty to the Party above all else."
"Understood."
"And the May Day parade?" he said.
I shrugged. "You'll need a rifle."
"I've got one," he said. "But I'll only march if you and Stalin march."
Stalin smirked again. I nodded. "Got it. I'll have my men march with you at the front."
Lenin lit the cigarette he had set down earlier. "And I'll consider cutting back. After we win."
"Fair enough," I said, standing with him.
As I turned to go, Lenin called after me.
"Mikheil."
"Yes?"
"You're not afraid of what you're building?"
I paused. Thought for a moment. Then said, "Only if the wrong men are left to run it."
He didn't answer. Just nodded.
And I left the room, already drafting blueprints in my mind for an army of shadows and an empire of symbols.
The revolution was sharpening its teeth.
Finland Station, Petrograd
Russia
The crowd at the station was a mess—a revolutionary stew of factory workers, students, sailors, babushkas, bored teenagers with pamphlets, and at least one man selling hot potatoes and muttering about the Mensheviks under his breath. Flags waved, fists raised, and chants echoed across the platform like a drunken hymn. Down with the war! Long live Lenin! Down with the Provisional Government! Long live Lenin! Over and over again, like the city itself had learned to chant.
My men stood apart from it all, 60 of them now—three had hangovers from drinking last night, but unfortunately for them the revolution waits for no one. They stood at attention in clean coats, boots polished, weapons slung in perfect formation. A mix of ex-cops from my precinct and surrounding ones, veterans, and one former circus strongman who refused to speak unless addressed as "Comrade Bear." His real name as I would come to find out later in the year was Fyodor.
I stood in front, coat pressed, gloves immaculate, sabre sheathed more for the look than the use. Optics mattered, Stalin said. Might as well lean into it.
Then the train pulled in, slow and heavy, hissing steam like a dragon clearing its throat.
The crowd roared. Some people cried. Others chanted louder. A few just looked bewildered, clutching newspapers and craning necks for a glimpse of the man who'd supposedly flown in on German wings to save the revolution. The irony was so thick it could be served in a bowl with sour cream.
And then there he was.
Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov. Lenin.
Shorter than expected, balding head shining under the gas lamps, beard trimmed to a sharp point, eyes like drill bits. He looked less like a prophet and more like a mildly annoyed librarian—but the energy that followed him was palpable. Electric. Every movement seemed intentional, every glance calculated.
He stepped down from the train, flanked by a few weary-looking comrades, his expression unreadable.
I stepped forward, snapping a crisp salute.
"Comrade Lenin," I said, "I've been sent by Comrade Stalin to escort you to the Smolny Institute."
He looked me over with a flick of his eyes, brows lifting slightly. "And who might you be?"
I smiled. "Mikheil Dzhugashvili. Stalin's younger twin brother. I'm the better looking one. He hates when I say that."
A twitch tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't know Stalin had a twin. He doesn't talk much about family."
"Probably for the best," I replied. "We're not exactly a textbook family. But I assure you, I'm quite real. My job is to keep you in one piece on your way to the Soviet. It's a madhouse out there."
"I assumed as much," Lenin muttered, adjusting his coat. "Lead the way then, Comrade Better-Looking-One."
We moved through the crowd as my men formed a protective cordon, parting the sea of Petrograd's finest radicals like Moses with machine guns. Some people shouted greetings to Lenin; others just stared in awe. One woman fainted. Lenin looked mildly inconvenienced but nodded politely.
As we walked, he fell into step beside me. "So, Mikheil. Tell me—what is it exactly you do? Aside from providing escort duty for returning revolutionaries."
"I'm sort of a revolutionary nanny," I said, hands clasped behind my back.
Lenin blinked. "A what?"
I grinned. "I was in the Party, like Stalin. Active for years. But after his wife, Kato, died… well, someone had to raise his son Yakov. Joseph threw himself into the cause. I stepped back and raised the boy. Someone had to hold the bottle while he held the bomb."
Lenin gave me a sideways glance. "You left politics to raise a child?"
"Temporarily. The cause didn't vanish—just shifted shape. Yakov was just a baby. Stalin would send money when he could, usually in envelopes that reeked of gunpowder and bad cigars. I worked as a cop here in Petrograd, ran a few investigations, made some enemies. But at night, it was me, my wife, my kids, my mom and Yakov. Bottles. Lullabies. The occasional Marxist bedtime story. From each according to his abilities, and mine happened to include changing diapers."
Lenin actually laughed. A short, dry chuckle, but real.
"Well," he said, "that might be the most proletarian reason I've ever heard to pause a revolution."
"Thank you. I take great pride in my bourgeois resentment and my ability to cook porridge."
He nodded thoughtfully. "And now?"
"Now Yakov's old enough to run circles around us both, and I'm back in the struggle. Petrograd's a powder keg. The Red Guards are disorganized, the underworld is exploding, the Soviets are arguing about dialectics while the Provisional Government bleeds in public. So I've taken it upon myself to help impose some discipline."
Lenin's gaze sharpened. "Discipline?"
I smiled faintly. "A vision. A proposal. But I'll save the pitch for when there's less steam and shouting. I didn't come to shove ideas down your throat, Comrade Lenin. I came to make sure you got to the Smolny in one piece."
"Hmph." He glanced around. "Your men… They look competent. Not the usual red guard I see around here."
"I picked them myself. Former cops like me, veterans. All loyal. All trained by me. We even combed their beards for lice. That's how serious we are."
"I do appreciate lice-free escorts," he said drily. "What's the group called?"
"Officially?" I shrugged. "They don't have a name. Yet. They're just another red guards group. Unofficially, I've been drafting some ideas. Revolutionary Guard Corps has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Lenin's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. We continued on in silence, his mind clearly chewing on something bigger.
When the towering shadow of the Smolny loomed ahead, lit by gas lamps and flickering torches, he stopped short and turned to me.
"Your brother trusts you?"
I looked him in the eye. "Yes. More than he trusts himself, I think. And I trust him. Even if I don't always agree."
Lenin nodded. "You're a rare breed, Comrade Mikheil. Most men either talk ideology or throw bombs. You seem to do both while feeding children and managing a street militia."
"I'm a man of many talents," I said with a smile.
He gave me one more long, calculating look.
"Come to the Smolny tomorrow morning," he said at last. "We'll talk. Bring your vision. If it's sound, maybe it won't just be your brother listening."
My eyebrow rose. "A private audience with Lenin on day two? You flatter me."
"No," he said simply, "I'm curious. And that's dangerous."
Then he turned and walked into the Smolny, the doors swinging shut behind him.
I stood outside for a moment, hands in my coat pockets, watching the lights flicker in the windows of the revolutionary hive. I could already hear the debates, the shouting, the righteous indignation.
And yet… something was changing. Fast.
I turned to my men. "Back to the warehouse. No drinking, no shooting, and if Comrade Bear starts drinking excessively again, put a stop to it."
They saluted.
As we walked back through the city streets, I allowed myself a small smile.
Lenin was here.
And he was listening.
The air inside Smolny was thick with smoke, tension, and the smell of overworked revolutionaries. Old nuns' dormitories turned committee rooms. Lenin had taken over one of the larger classrooms, its crucifixes long since torn down and replaced with hand-drawn maps of factory districts and food supply routes. Someone had left a half-eaten potato on a desk. It was unclear whether it was a snack or a paperweight.
I entered behind Stalin, flanked by two of my men who looked intimidating enough to make most Mensheviks reconsider their positions on democratic centralism.
Lenin was already there, perched at the head of a battered oak table, poring over a stack of telegrams and half-burned notes. He didn't look up as we walked in.
"Close the door," he said flatly. "And tell whoever's shouting about bread prices in the hall that I'm not the baker's union."
Stalin grunted and obeyed. I stepped forward and stood at attention—partly out of respect, partly out of performance.
"Comrade Lenin," I said. "You asked for my vision. I've come to deliver it."
That got his attention. He glanced up, squinting slightly, gestured to the seat across from him.
"Speak."
Stalin sat in the corner, arms crossed, quietly observing. His face was unreadable—just the faint hint of a smirk, like he was waiting to see if I'd crash and burn or launch something worth remembering.
I sat down, met Lenin's gaze, and laid it out.
"There's going to be a civil war," I began. "That's not a guess. It's a certainty. What you're proposing—land redistribution, the dismantling of the aristocracy, the total abolition of private property and capitalism—you're not just rattling the gates of power. You're taking a battering ram to the foundations of a thousand-year-old order. The nobles, the generals, the factory owners—they're not going to debate us into surrender. They're going to fight. Brutally."
Lenin didn't flinch. He just nodded once, slowly, eyes sharp.
"The Red Guards," I continued, "are enthusiastic, brave, even fanatical. But they're disorganized. They're militias with slogans. If the war starts tomorrow, they'll be cannon fodder. You need to build a real army. Ranks. Logistics. Discipline. Officers who know how to march and men who know how to shoot without hitting their own toes."
"And I suppose," Lenin said, "you've got a plan to prevent that army from marching on us one day?"
"Exactly." I leaned in, lowering my voice. "Bonapartism is inevitable if power is centralized in a single institution. So we build redundancies. My Revolutionary Guard Corps—the men you saw yesterday—is just the start. Ideologically educated, heavily armed, trained not just to fight—but to think. Their purpose will be singular: to protect the revolution from the army if it ever turns."
"And who watches them?" Lenin asked immediately, tone razor-sharp.
"I'm glad you asked," I said, suppressing a grin. "We build a new Okhrana. Not the old one—no monarchist brutes. Ours would be staffed with vetted Party loyalists. Professionals. Their job would be internal intelligence, loyalty enforcement, counter-sabotage, spying abroad, criminal enforcement. And they, too, would have teeth—an armed wing, a National Police Force if you like."
He drummed his fingers on the table.
"Let me clarify the architecture," I said. "A centralized Soviet Army to handle foreign threats. A Revolutionary Guard Corps to keep that army in line. And a new Soviet Okhrana—armed, loyal to the Party—to keep both of them in line."
"Checks and balances through overlapping paranoia," Stalin said from the corner. "Elegant."
"Exactly," I said. "No single general can stage a coup without inviting a bloodbath from the guard corps and Police. Every sword faces a mirror. You want loyalty? Fear and structure get you there faster than abstract slogans."
I let that settle, then added, "And while we're talking power and perception, I want to propose a May Day parade."
That raised Lenin's eyebrow.
"A public show of strength and unity," I said. "Red Guards marching in formation. Flags, uniforms, drums. The people are scared and angry and starving. They need to see order. Strength. And you, Comrade Lenin—rifle in hand, walking at the front. You are the symbol."
He narrowed his eyes. "You want me parading like a tsar?"
"I want you to be the opposite of a tsar," I said firmly. "But a symbol all the same. The average Russian peasant has never read Das Kapital or the communist manifesto. Hell, most of them can't read. But they understand symbols. Uniforms. Banners. Heroes. You march with them, and they'll follow you anywhere."
"And when do we teach them the theory?"
"After we win the war," I said. "Power first, then theory."
There was a silence.
I leaned back, glanced at his cigarette pack. "Also, respectfully, you should consider quitting smoking. And drinking. You're about to be the soul of a revolution. Maybe don't die from lung or liver failure before we get to the end."
Stalin barked a laugh. I glanced at him. "You too brother." He scowled.
Lenin didn't laugh at all, or scowls.
For a long, uncomfortable moment, he just stared at me. Then, slowly, he set the cigarette he'd been rolling down on the table and folded his hands.
"You speak like a man who's lived through this before."
"I just read a lot," I said, smiling faintly. "Sun
Tzu's art of war, Caesar's commentaries on Gaul, Napoleon's biography, Machiavelli's the prince, Moltke, Bismark, Clausewitz. Anything and everything on politics and military tactics I could get my hands on. I stole ideas from all of them, synthesized them into my own."
Lenin exhaled through his nose.
"What do you think?" he asked Stalin, still not looking away from me.
Stalin shrugged. "He's pragmatic. Cynical. Slightly unhinged. I trust him."
"High praise," I said dryly.
Lenin turned his gaze back to me. "Your proposal… it's terrifying. Bureaucratic. Militaristic. Contradictory to many principles of grassroots revolutionary thought."
He paused.
"I like it."
I blinked. "You do?"
"It's realistic. Brutal, but grounded in the facts. You're right—the old order will not go quietly. We cannot meet them with disorder and poetry. We must meet them with steel."
He stood. "You'll draft a formal structure for these corps and committees. Bring it to me by the week's end. I want clear chains of command. Oversight bodies. Vetted officers. And most importantly—loyalty to the Party above all else."
"Understood."
"And the May Day parade?" he said.
I shrugged. "You'll need a rifle."
"I've got one," he said. "But I'll only march if you and Stalin march."
Stalin smirked again. I nodded. "Got it. I'll have my men march with you at the front."
Lenin lit the cigarette he had set down earlier. "And I'll consider cutting back. After we win."
"Fair enough," I said, standing with him.
As I turned to go, Lenin called after me.
"Mikheil."
"Yes?"
"You're not afraid of what you're building?"
I paused. Thought for a moment. Then said, "Only if the wrong men are left to run it."
He didn't answer. Just nodded.
And I left the room, already drafting blueprints in my mind for an army of shadows and an empire of symbols.
The revolution was sharpening its teeth.
Zander12700
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Smolny Institute
April 24, 1917
Morning
The room was quiet save for the rhythmic scratching of Lenin's pen as he underlined a passage for the third time. Stalin sat off to the side, legs crossed, a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray he'd emptied twice already. I stood near the window, arms behind my back, watching them read through the draft I'd handed over ten minutes earlier.
It was long. Dense. The kind of thing you write when you've got too much time and just enough paranoia.
I'd titled it plainly: Organizational Blueprint for Revolutionary Security and Continuity of Power. Subtle enough to pass as bureaucratic, dangerous enough to matter.
Lenin finally leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin, expression hard to read. Not impressed exactly—but focused. Like he was examining a pistol, curious whether it would shoot or blow up in his hand.
Stalin was the first to speak.
"Well," he muttered, tapping ash into the tray, "it reads like something written by a man who's had three near-death experiences and doesn't want a fourth."
I turned. "I'm flattered."
Lenin closed the folder slowly. "This is… ambitious."
"That's a word for it," Stalin added. "Another word might be 'terrifying.'"
I gave a slight shrug. "I read a lot. Bonaparte. Clausewitz. Moltke. San Martín. Sun Tzu. I ripped off a little from everyone—stole some of the best tools in the toolbox and welded them together with paranoia and revolutionary theory."
"You forgot Machiavelli," Lenin said.
"I thought that was implied."
Lenin's eyes twitched, just slightly, with something resembling amusement. "The sheer level of cross-surveillance here is dizzying. It's not so much checks and balances as it is checks and purges."
"Welcome to continuity of power," I said. "You want to remake society? You'll need to survive the first five years. That won't happen if the army crowns itself a Caesar the moment you turn your back. Or if the secret police becomes a state within a state. This is how you stop that."
Lenin tapped the file. "The State Commissariat for Anti-Bonapartist Security… SCABS?"
"I wanted something memorable," I said. "No one forgets a bad rash."
Stalin choked on his tea.
Lenin did not laugh. But he did exhale sharply through his nose, which was the closest thing I'd seen to a chuckle.
"You realize," Lenin said slowly, "this creates a permanent apparatus of mutual suspicion. The army fears the Guard. The Guard fears the KGB. The KGB fears the Party. The Party fears itself."
"That's the point," I said. "You want a revolution that survives? Make betrayal a suicide mission. No one builds a cult of personality when they're under ideological surveillance and counter-Bonapartist monitoring."
"Sounds exhausting," Stalin muttered. "But effective."
Lenin laced his fingers. "The Party remains supreme in this. Every officer, every commander, every guard dog swears loyalty to the Party, not the state, not the people, not the leader. That's good."
"It'll prevent another Napoleon," I said.
"Or another Tsar," Stalin added.
Lenin leaned back, quiet again. For a while, he just stared at the ceiling, mind clearly spinning.
"You understand," he said at last, "what you're building is not just a defense mechanism. It's a permanent state of war. A war against betrayal. Against memory. Against the inevitability of decay. You're building a machine that eats its own shadow."
"Yes," I said.
"And you're fine with that?"
"I'd rather we eat our own shadow," I replied, "than let a general eat the revolution."
That hung in the air for a while.
Then Stalin stood, stretched, and walked over to the samovar.
"Well, he's mad," he muttered. "But he's our kind of mad."
Lenin didn't smile, but his voice was lighter now. "I should hate it. It contradicts half of what I believe about democratic centralism and mass line theory."
"But?"
"But," he said, "I've also read history. And unlike our idealist friends, I remember the part where Robespierre lost his head."
I nodded. "You don't win revolutions with purity. You win them with power—and then decide what kind of purity you can afford."
Lenin picked up the folder again. "Very well. I'll submit this to the Central Committee. Not all of it will pass—not yet—but enough will stick."
"May Day parade still on?" I asked.
He gave me a look. "Only if you promise not to make me wear medals."
"No medals," I said. "But a rifle. Big, flashy. Maybe a red sash if you're feeling theatrical."
"I'm not."
"We'll work on it. You should do a speech near the end. I'll get to typing one up for you."
Lenin flipped to the final page again. "This Decree 1917-A… Emergency powers. It allows the Guard and the KGB to override civil leadership."
"Only in case of coup attempts," I said.
"Coup attempts defined by…?"
"Two people. The KGB Director and the Commander of the Revolutionary Guard. And only with NDC ratification."
"And if you are the Commander of the Guard?" Lenin asked.
"Then I hope someone's watching me just as closely."
He stared at me.
Then he nodded, once.
"Stalin," he said, "I want you overseeing the formation of the NDC. Start assembling candidates for the Joint Chiefs, RGC command, and preliminary KGB directorates."
Stalin gave a short nod. "On it."
I exhaled. Quietly.
"And Mikheil," Lenin said.
I turned.
"SCABS?" he asked again, deadpan.
I shrugged. "You'll remember it, won't you?"
He closed the folder.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I think I will."
----------
Organizational Blueprint for Revolutionary Security and Continuity of Power.
By Mikheil Jugashvili: April 24, 1917
I. NATIONAL LEADERSHIP
1. Supreme Organ of National Security: The National Defense Council (NDC)
Chairman: Vladimir Lenin (or General Secretary of the Party)
Deputy Chairmen: Head of Joint Chiefs, Commander of Revolutionary Guard Corps (RGC), Director of the KGB
Function: Central body overseeing all armed institutions, coordinates war effort, approves military doctrine, appoints top commanders with Politburo ratification.
---
II. SOVIET ARMED FORCES (SAF)
Structure:
Branches: Army, Navy, Air Force
Supreme Military Command: Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS)
Chiefs of each branch report to the Chairman of the JCS
Chairman reports directly to the NDC
Political Oversight:
Party Commissars embedded at every battalion and ship level
Commissariat for Political Discipline reports to the Party Central Committee
---
III. REVOLUTIONARY GUARD CORPS (RGC)
Purpose:
Protect the Party, Party leadership, and key infrastructure
Prevent Bonapartism, coup attempts, and high-level internal subversion
Structure:
Branches: Army Guard Division, Air Guard Wing
Supreme Commander of the RGC reports to the NDC
Battalion-Level Loyalty Officers appointed by the Party Central Committee
Training and Equipment:
Smaller but elite, equipped with modern weapons, armored vehicles, air assets
Officers trained in both military doctrine and Marxist-Leninist theory
Oversight:
Office of Political Security (OPS) within the RGC:
Monitors ideological purity
Collaborates with KGB's State Commissariat
RGC promotions require Party Central Committee vetting
---
IV. NATIONAL GUARD (NG)
Purpose:
Internal Security, Protest Control, Counter-Sedition, Urban Policing
Command:
Operates under the Committee for State Security (KGB)
Local units report to Regional Security Councils chaired by Party appointees
National Commander of the National Guard reports to the Director of the KGB
---
V. COMMITTEE FOR STATE SECURITY (KGB)
Structure:
Director of the KGB reports directly to the NDC
Operates with autonomy from military chain of command
Five Primary Directorates:
1. Criminal Control Directorate (CCD)
Investigates high crimes, black markets, organized crime
Works with NG and Revolutionary Tribunals
2. Party Monitoring Directorate (PMD)
Monitors loyalty, discipline, and political activity of all Party members
Authorizes surveillance, internal investigations, and purges
3. Military Intelligence Directorate (MID)
Strategic and battlefield intelligence for wartime
Liaises with SAF and RGC high command
4. External Espionage Directorate (EED)
Overseas operations, agent networks, and foreign subversion
Reports to both the Director and a secret subcommittee of the Politburo
5. State Commissariat for Anti-Bonapartist Security (SCABS)
Dedicated to rooting out military adventurism, disloyalty, and rising charismatic officers
Has internal jurisdiction over both the SAF and RGC
Can arrest, interrogate, and detain military officers upon NDC authorization
---
VI. OVERSIGHT AND INTERNAL CHECKS
1. Party Central Committee (PCC)
Appoints all senior officers in RGC, KGB, and SAF with background vetting
Runs Cadre Evaluation Commission: permanent office that reviews ideological purity, finances, and personal conduct
2. Inspectorate-General of the Revolution
Independent arm of the PCC that audits and investigates all branches
Has arrest powers in collaboration with the KGB
Staffed by trusted revolutionaries and theoretical purists
---
VII. VETTING AND LOYALTY ASSURANCE
1. Loyalty Oaths:
All officers must swear loyalty to the Party—not the state or any individual leader
Oaths renewed annually, with symbolic ceremonies and psychological testing
2. Dual Command System:
Every combat or intelligence unit has:
Commander (Military discipline)
Political Officer (Party loyalty)
No order is valid without approval from both
3. Officer Schools:
Revolutionary Military Academy: For SAF
Red Guard College: For RGC
Lenin Institute of Security and Ideology: For KGB and National Guard
All institutions include Marxist theory, Party history, and Bonapartism awareness training
---
VIII. EMERGENCY POWERS CLAUSE
In the event of a suspected coup or insurrection:
The Director of the KGB and Commander of the RGC may jointly invoke Decree No. 1917-A, which:
Suspends civil command authority
Grants emergency arrest and purge powers
Triggers full activation of RGC and NG under joint control of the NDC
April 24, 1917
Morning
The room was quiet save for the rhythmic scratching of Lenin's pen as he underlined a passage for the third time. Stalin sat off to the side, legs crossed, a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray he'd emptied twice already. I stood near the window, arms behind my back, watching them read through the draft I'd handed over ten minutes earlier.
It was long. Dense. The kind of thing you write when you've got too much time and just enough paranoia.
I'd titled it plainly: Organizational Blueprint for Revolutionary Security and Continuity of Power. Subtle enough to pass as bureaucratic, dangerous enough to matter.
Lenin finally leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin, expression hard to read. Not impressed exactly—but focused. Like he was examining a pistol, curious whether it would shoot or blow up in his hand.
Stalin was the first to speak.
"Well," he muttered, tapping ash into the tray, "it reads like something written by a man who's had three near-death experiences and doesn't want a fourth."
I turned. "I'm flattered."
Lenin closed the folder slowly. "This is… ambitious."
"That's a word for it," Stalin added. "Another word might be 'terrifying.'"
I gave a slight shrug. "I read a lot. Bonaparte. Clausewitz. Moltke. San Martín. Sun Tzu. I ripped off a little from everyone—stole some of the best tools in the toolbox and welded them together with paranoia and revolutionary theory."
"You forgot Machiavelli," Lenin said.
"I thought that was implied."
Lenin's eyes twitched, just slightly, with something resembling amusement. "The sheer level of cross-surveillance here is dizzying. It's not so much checks and balances as it is checks and purges."
"Welcome to continuity of power," I said. "You want to remake society? You'll need to survive the first five years. That won't happen if the army crowns itself a Caesar the moment you turn your back. Or if the secret police becomes a state within a state. This is how you stop that."
Lenin tapped the file. "The State Commissariat for Anti-Bonapartist Security… SCABS?"
"I wanted something memorable," I said. "No one forgets a bad rash."
Stalin choked on his tea.
Lenin did not laugh. But he did exhale sharply through his nose, which was the closest thing I'd seen to a chuckle.
"You realize," Lenin said slowly, "this creates a permanent apparatus of mutual suspicion. The army fears the Guard. The Guard fears the KGB. The KGB fears the Party. The Party fears itself."
"That's the point," I said. "You want a revolution that survives? Make betrayal a suicide mission. No one builds a cult of personality when they're under ideological surveillance and counter-Bonapartist monitoring."
"Sounds exhausting," Stalin muttered. "But effective."
Lenin laced his fingers. "The Party remains supreme in this. Every officer, every commander, every guard dog swears loyalty to the Party, not the state, not the people, not the leader. That's good."
"It'll prevent another Napoleon," I said.
"Or another Tsar," Stalin added.
Lenin leaned back, quiet again. For a while, he just stared at the ceiling, mind clearly spinning.
"You understand," he said at last, "what you're building is not just a defense mechanism. It's a permanent state of war. A war against betrayal. Against memory. Against the inevitability of decay. You're building a machine that eats its own shadow."
"Yes," I said.
"And you're fine with that?"
"I'd rather we eat our own shadow," I replied, "than let a general eat the revolution."
That hung in the air for a while.
Then Stalin stood, stretched, and walked over to the samovar.
"Well, he's mad," he muttered. "But he's our kind of mad."
Lenin didn't smile, but his voice was lighter now. "I should hate it. It contradicts half of what I believe about democratic centralism and mass line theory."
"But?"
"But," he said, "I've also read history. And unlike our idealist friends, I remember the part where Robespierre lost his head."
I nodded. "You don't win revolutions with purity. You win them with power—and then decide what kind of purity you can afford."
Lenin picked up the folder again. "Very well. I'll submit this to the Central Committee. Not all of it will pass—not yet—but enough will stick."
"May Day parade still on?" I asked.
He gave me a look. "Only if you promise not to make me wear medals."
"No medals," I said. "But a rifle. Big, flashy. Maybe a red sash if you're feeling theatrical."
"I'm not."
"We'll work on it. You should do a speech near the end. I'll get to typing one up for you."
Lenin flipped to the final page again. "This Decree 1917-A… Emergency powers. It allows the Guard and the KGB to override civil leadership."
"Only in case of coup attempts," I said.
"Coup attempts defined by…?"
"Two people. The KGB Director and the Commander of the Revolutionary Guard. And only with NDC ratification."
"And if you are the Commander of the Guard?" Lenin asked.
"Then I hope someone's watching me just as closely."
He stared at me.
Then he nodded, once.
"Stalin," he said, "I want you overseeing the formation of the NDC. Start assembling candidates for the Joint Chiefs, RGC command, and preliminary KGB directorates."
Stalin gave a short nod. "On it."
I exhaled. Quietly.
"And Mikheil," Lenin said.
I turned.
"SCABS?" he asked again, deadpan.
I shrugged. "You'll remember it, won't you?"
He closed the folder.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I think I will."
----------
Organizational Blueprint for Revolutionary Security and Continuity of Power.
By Mikheil Jugashvili: April 24, 1917
I. NATIONAL LEADERSHIP
1. Supreme Organ of National Security: The National Defense Council (NDC)
Chairman: Vladimir Lenin (or General Secretary of the Party)
Deputy Chairmen: Head of Joint Chiefs, Commander of Revolutionary Guard Corps (RGC), Director of the KGB
Function: Central body overseeing all armed institutions, coordinates war effort, approves military doctrine, appoints top commanders with Politburo ratification.
---
II. SOVIET ARMED FORCES (SAF)
Structure:
Branches: Army, Navy, Air Force
Supreme Military Command: Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS)
Chiefs of each branch report to the Chairman of the JCS
Chairman reports directly to the NDC
Political Oversight:
Party Commissars embedded at every battalion and ship level
Commissariat for Political Discipline reports to the Party Central Committee
---
III. REVOLUTIONARY GUARD CORPS (RGC)
Purpose:
Protect the Party, Party leadership, and key infrastructure
Prevent Bonapartism, coup attempts, and high-level internal subversion
Structure:
Branches: Army Guard Division, Air Guard Wing
Supreme Commander of the RGC reports to the NDC
Battalion-Level Loyalty Officers appointed by the Party Central Committee
Training and Equipment:
Smaller but elite, equipped with modern weapons, armored vehicles, air assets
Officers trained in both military doctrine and Marxist-Leninist theory
Oversight:
Office of Political Security (OPS) within the RGC:
Monitors ideological purity
Collaborates with KGB's State Commissariat
RGC promotions require Party Central Committee vetting
---
IV. NATIONAL GUARD (NG)
Purpose:
Internal Security, Protest Control, Counter-Sedition, Urban Policing
Command:
Operates under the Committee for State Security (KGB)
Local units report to Regional Security Councils chaired by Party appointees
National Commander of the National Guard reports to the Director of the KGB
---
V. COMMITTEE FOR STATE SECURITY (KGB)
Structure:
Director of the KGB reports directly to the NDC
Operates with autonomy from military chain of command
Five Primary Directorates:
1. Criminal Control Directorate (CCD)
Investigates high crimes, black markets, organized crime
Works with NG and Revolutionary Tribunals
2. Party Monitoring Directorate (PMD)
Monitors loyalty, discipline, and political activity of all Party members
Authorizes surveillance, internal investigations, and purges
3. Military Intelligence Directorate (MID)
Strategic and battlefield intelligence for wartime
Liaises with SAF and RGC high command
4. External Espionage Directorate (EED)
Overseas operations, agent networks, and foreign subversion
Reports to both the Director and a secret subcommittee of the Politburo
5. State Commissariat for Anti-Bonapartist Security (SCABS)
Dedicated to rooting out military adventurism, disloyalty, and rising charismatic officers
Has internal jurisdiction over both the SAF and RGC
Can arrest, interrogate, and detain military officers upon NDC authorization
---
VI. OVERSIGHT AND INTERNAL CHECKS
1. Party Central Committee (PCC)
Appoints all senior officers in RGC, KGB, and SAF with background vetting
Runs Cadre Evaluation Commission: permanent office that reviews ideological purity, finances, and personal conduct
2. Inspectorate-General of the Revolution
Independent arm of the PCC that audits and investigates all branches
Has arrest powers in collaboration with the KGB
Staffed by trusted revolutionaries and theoretical purists
---
VII. VETTING AND LOYALTY ASSURANCE
1. Loyalty Oaths:
All officers must swear loyalty to the Party—not the state or any individual leader
Oaths renewed annually, with symbolic ceremonies and psychological testing
2. Dual Command System:
Every combat or intelligence unit has:
Commander (Military discipline)
Political Officer (Party loyalty)
No order is valid without approval from both
3. Officer Schools:
Revolutionary Military Academy: For SAF
Red Guard College: For RGC
Lenin Institute of Security and Ideology: For KGB and National Guard
All institutions include Marxist theory, Party history, and Bonapartism awareness training
---
VIII. EMERGENCY POWERS CLAUSE
In the event of a suspected coup or insurrection:
The Director of the KGB and Commander of the RGC may jointly invoke Decree No. 1917-A, which:
Suspends civil command authority
Grants emergency arrest and purge powers
Triggers full activation of RGC and NG under joint control of the NDC
UndeadLord22
Fan Composer
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I want him to make a joke using this:
Strategic Transfer of Equipment to Alternate Location
STEAL
Strategic Transfer of Equipment to Alternate Location
STEAL
krahe
Versed in the lewd.
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A bit of translated fun with acronyms, if go from SCABS to keep the meaning of funny word play and close to what SCABS mean, it could be translated as КОРА, Комитет Обороны Революционного Авангардизма or Committee for Defense of Revolutionary Vanguardism. Which also a funny nod to KGB, which is Committee for State Security. Speaking of, at the 1917 it wasn't KGB, but VChK, KGB was founded way in the 30s
May day dismay
New
Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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May 1, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia
Dawn
Spring had finally arrived in Petrograd, brushing away the last sour chill of winter. A crisp breeze swept through the city's battered streets, carrying with it the smell of fresh bread, coal smoke, and the faintest hint of something revolutionary—or maybe just uncollected garbage. You couldn't always tell the difference in Petrograd.
The sun was just beginning to rise, throwing soft gold against the old façade of Smolny. And behind me, standing in sharp formation, were two hundred of my finest men.
Not all of them, of course. The other five hundred were off doing other—necessary—things. Protecting the city's many unofficial "taxpayers." Brothels, black markets, smuggling dens, gambling parlors—you name it. The underworld didn't fund itself. And Lenin didn't need to know where the rubles, ammo, food and guns were coming from, only that I had expanded my force from the original sixty to a crisp seven hundred in just a few weeks.
And it wasn't even technically a lie. I had expanded. I just... started from three hundred. Call it revolutionary rounding.
Then he appeared. Right on time.
Lenin emerged from Smolny's front doors with the posture of a man who hadn't slept in two days and had personally tried to edit every speech, leaflet, and agitprop poster in Petrograd by hand. His coat hung off his frame like a flag on a dying wind. There were bags under his eyes deeper than the trenches on the Eastern Front.
"Salute!" I shouted, sharp and clear.
As one, my men raised their right arms in a crisp, militaristic gesture. Call it "Roman" if you like—but we all knew what kind of aura farming we were aiming for. Lenin, mid-step, stopped with a visible twitch in his jaw and a brief look that said 'What in the name of Marx is this?' before composing himself.
"…At ease," he muttered with diplomatic restraint. The arms lowered.
He didn't ask questions. Smart man.
These were my best. Hardened veterans, loyal as dogs, mostly former police from my old precinct, and a few newer additions: criminals, gang enforcers, even a couple ex-Okhrana officers I'd worked with. But to Lenin, they were all just ex-cops, thoroughly reformed and ideologically reliable. And very well-dressed.
Black military tunics—clean, tailored, sharp as razors. Red armbands with the revolutionary star stitched in gold thread. Black boots polished to a shine, with crimson stars painted on the toes. Their helmets—painted a striking, aggressive red—bore the totenkopf insignia on the side, just for flair. I liked the symbolism. Skull and star. Death and revolution. And yes, I was aware I had just invented something that looked eerily similar to the future SS. But technically, I'd beaten Hitler to it. Suck it, Adolf.
They looked magnificent. Imposing. Terrifying. The sort of unit that would make both Bolsheviks and Mensheviks nervous—and that was the point. I wasn't here to make friends. I was here to make history.
I stepped forward and took a bolt-action rifle from Comrade Bear, our resident circus-strongman-turned-henchman, who was now moonlighting as quartermaster. I handed the rifle to Lenin.
"You ever shoot one before?"
He blinked at it like I'd just handed him a dead raccoon.
"I have not."
"Perfect," I said cheerfully. "You're a fast learner. I'll show you. During your speech, fire it into the air. It'll be symbolic—powerful. The masses will love it."
He frowned. Deeply.
"I am not a Caesar," he said flatly.
"No one cares," I replied. "Symbols matter. Slogans matter. You can give the best speech in the world, quote Marx and Engels until your throat dries out—but if there's no theatre, no bang, it'll fade. People want drama. They want fire. Shoot once in the air, raise a fist, and they'll follow you to the ends of the Earth."
He looked like he wanted to spit. Instead, he crossed his arms. "I will not turn this into a pantomime."
"I'm asking for one shot. Not a golden chariot and a laurel crown."
Before he could object further, I took the rifle back, chambered a round, aimed up at the sky, and fired. The crack echoed across the square, scattering a few pigeons and earning some awed murmurs from the early crowd gathering down the street. I cycled the bolt, checked the chamber, and handed it back to him.
"Simple," I said. "Even the tsar could manage it, and he couldn't wipe own shit."
He stared at the rifle like it might bite him. Behind me, Comrade Bear brought forth the next item—a large, slightly lumpy, canvas-wrapped object.
"Here," I said, taking it. "Put this on."
"What is it?"
"Bulletproof vest. Improvised, but effective. Layers of steel plate, cotton, and guilt. If things turn ugly, I'd rather not have to mop your brains off the palace steps."
He didn't take it.
"And this," I added, taking a bright red helmet from Bear, "is for your head. I'd prefer to keep that intact too."
"I am not wearing a helmet," he snapped. "I am not a tsar, a general, or a mascot."
"And I am not letting you get shot by some idiot with a grudge and a revolver."
There was a long pause. His jaw clenched. His hand gripped the rifle tightly. He looked, for a moment, like a man regretting every decision that had led to this precise moment in his life.
Then he took the vest.
"Fine. But if I fall off the podium from the weight, I'm blaming you."
"You fall off the podium, I'll have Stalin tell Pravda to write that it was a heroic dive to avoid a sniper."
He sighed—long, low, exhausted. "I miss exile. No parades in exile. Just books and terrible cheese."
"Welcome to power, Comrade."
Behind us, the sun crested fully over the rooftops, casting the whole plaza in gold. My men stood tall. The people were gathering. The flags were being raised. Revolution had a stage now.
And at the center of it stood Lenin.
Bulletproof. Armed. Slightly miserable.
Perfect.
May 1, 1917
Tauride Square, Petrograd
Midday
The plaza was packed.
Workers with soot-streaked faces. Soldiers on leave, some already drunk. Peasants in from the countryside, wide-eyed and underfed. Women holding children. Men holding pamphlets. And, scattered among them, the various self-appointed champions of revolution—Mensheviks with well-worn boots, Social Revolutionaries handing out slogans like candy, anarchists grumbling about hierarchy while forming one in their own corner.
And at the center—looming above it all—stood the temporary podium erected in front of the Tauride Palace, draped in red cloth and festooned with banners bearing hammers, sickles, stars, and slogans so aggressive they practically yelled at you.
I stood off to the side with Comrade Bear and a few of my officers, arms folded, watching the crowd. My men flanked the square, standing like silent statues in their sleek black tunics, red armbands and helmets gleaming in the sun. The totenkopf insignias were drawing whispers already. I could hear them:
"Who are those men?"
"Bolsheviks?"
"No, I heard they're comrade Makarov's. They say he's building his own army."
"A personal guard?"
"Looks like the Okhrana in red."
"Better dressed."
I smirked slightly.
Let them talk.
On the stage, Lenin adjusted the improvised bulletproof vest under his coat for the third time. It didn't fit well—nothing about Lenin said "tactical chic." But he had accepted it, and that meant something. In one hand he held the rifle I'd given him, pointed downward, more prop than weapon. His other hand gripped the edge of the lectern, knuckles white.
Then he stepped forward.
The square fell silent. It was uncanny how quickly the noise died when he spoke.
"Comrades," Lenin began, voice harsh, clipped, worn with exhaustion—but resonant with something deeper: conviction.
"We stand today not as subjects, not as slaves to czars, nor servants to capitalists—but as a people awakening. The February Revolution was the first step. It brought down the autocrat—but it did not feed us. It did not give land to the peasant. It did not end the war."
A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd.
"What does the Provisional Government offer us? Patience. Delays. More death on the front. More promises to landlords. More ration lines. More speeches. More suffering. The same misery, with a new name!"
The people stirred.
"We are not interested in cosmetic change. We do not want a revolution with gloves. We want transformation."
He lifted his head. Eyes scanning the crowd.
"We demand bread—because we are starving."
"Bread!" someone shouted from the crowd.
"We demand peace—because our sons die in a war they did not start and cannot finish."
"Peace!" another voice called, and more joined in.
"And we demand land—because the land belongs to the hands that till it, not the boots that trample it!"
The crowd roared:
"BREAD! PEACE! LAND!"
"BREAD! PEACE! LAND!"
Lenin waited, arms raised, letting the chant echo until it began to fade.
"The Soviets of Workers', Soldiers', and Peasants' Deputies are the only legitimate power in Russia. Power must pass from the capitalists to the proletariat. Not tomorrow. Not after a conference. Now."
"All power to the Soviets!" someone yelled. Dozens followed.
"ALL POWER TO THE SOVIETS!"
Lenin nodded. Raised the rifle—reluctantly, but deliberately.
He pointed it skyward.
For a moment, he paused, looked down at me where I stood off to the side.
I gave a small nod.
He pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked like thunder.
The square exploded with cheers.
It was absurd, theatrical, even a bit ridiculous—but it worked. The crowd adored it. That one symbolic shot sealed it. It wasn't just the words—it was the image.
Lenin: the theorist, the exile, the Marxist philosopher—had just fired a gun into the sky to herald revolution.
History wouldn't forget it.
And neither would the other factions.
---
Later, inside the Tauride
Lenin was wiping sweat from his brow with a frayed handkerchief. I handed him a glass of water. He downed it like it was vodka.
"That was the most I've ever sweated in my life," he muttered. "I nearly dropped the rifle. And this vest itches."
"It looked glorious," I said.
"I looked like a circus bear dressed by a paranoid tailor."
"Bear says thank you."
He gave me a sidelong glance. "You've done well, Mikheil. Too well."
I raised an eyebrow. "That a compliment or a warning?"
"Both," he said. "Your men… they impressed the crowd. But they also drew attention."
"Good," I replied. "Let them talk. Let the Mensheviks stew."
"I'm not worried about the Mensheviks," he said. "I'm worried about some of our own. There are whispers. That you're building a personal army. That you're... a shadow to the Party."
I didn't flinch. "And what do you think?"
"I think you're an asset," he said, "because you understand what most of these theorists don't: revolutions don't survive on pamphlets and declarations. They survive on power. On structure. On fear. And loyalty."
Then he sighed. "But you also terrify them. And perhaps you should. A revolution without fear is a poem, not a movement."
Stalin, who had been leaning silently against the far wall, finally spoke.
"Mikheil's not a Bonaparte," he said. "If anything, he's our Dzerzhinsky. Just... better dressed and worse behaved."
"High praise," I said. "I'll embroider it on a pillow."
Lenin nodded. "For now, keep the Guard visible. But do nothing flashy for a while. No new uniforms. No new titles. No marches in helmets with skulls."
"Too late on the skulls."
"I mean it. Let the idea of order settle. Don't force it."
"Understood."
He stood, stretched, and winced at the vest. "Next time I give a speech, no guns."
"No promises," I said.
Outside, the chants were still faintly echoing through the streets. Bread. Peace. Land.
But now… they chanted something else too.
"Lenin! Soviet Power!"
I glanced at Stalin. He looked amused, but not surprised.
Lenin rubbed his temples.
"God help me," he muttered. "I think I just became a symbol."
May 1, 1917
Evening
Mikheil's Apartment
Petrograd
The apartment stank of cheap coffee, gun oil, and burnt cabbage. Stalin had kicked off his boots, loosened his collar, and was pouring tea like it was morphine. Outside, Petrograd still buzzed with the electric afterglow of revolution and parade hysteria. The chants had faded, but the tension hadn't.
I was sitting on the arm of the couch, still in uniform, cap tilted back, polishing a revolver with the casual affection of a man cradling a future.
Keke was in the kitchen making dinner with Aleksandra while the kids were playing in the living room. Besarion thank God was asleep.
"That," I said, "was just the beginning."
Stalin grunted, lighting another cigarette. "You're starting to sound like Lenin."
"I'm flattered."
He smirked through the smoke.
I leaned forward. "I've had reports—spies in the various Red Guard militias. Word is, some of them want in. They saw the parade, the uniforms, the discipline. My boys look like a future. The rest of them? They look like a drunken choir at a rifle range."
Stalin sipped his tea, watching me.
"I'll probably have a few thousand by the end of the month," I said. "Volunteers. Defectors."
There was a beat of silence. Keke was humming a Georgian lullaby as Aleksandra chopped vegetables. The room was warm but coiled like a spring.
"I'm going to start taking over the entire Petrograd underworld," I said casually. "Systematically. One gang at a time. Redirect smuggling routes. Fold the brothels, gambling dens, and forgers into my logistics network. We'll need all the resources we can get to fund this army. I even have plans for a few underground factories to start making guns and ammo."
Stalin inhaled deeply, his expression unreadable. "You're building a state within the state."
"I'm building the spine of a state," I replied. "Lenin can write pamphlets. You can rise through the party. But someone's got to arm and feed the men."
Another pause, Stalin stared at me for a long moment, then stood and walked to the window. He looked out over the flickering city.
"People are going to fear you."
"They already do."
"You could become a threat to Lenin."
"Only if he becomes a threat to us."
He didn't turn around.
Finally, he said, "Just make sure he doesn't become a threat."
I smiled. "As you say."
---
May 2, 1917
Lvov Cabinet Meeting
Mariinsky Palace, Petrograd
Prince Lvov looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. He probably hadn't. The war, the land question, Petrograd's descent into a semi-armed commune—all of it was devouring him slowly.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice hoarse, "yesterday's May Day parade… was a disaster."
The ministers shuffled papers nervously. Minister of War Guchkov, beet-faced with rage, slapped a photo on the table.
"These blackshirts—who are they? Why are they marching? Armed? With helmets? And skulls?"
"I heard they're Bolshevik," said Foreign Minister Milyukov.
Lvov buried his face in his hands. "We're losing control."
"You never had it," Guchkov muttered.
"There were thousands in the crowd!" shouted Justice Minister Pereverzev. "Cheering Lenin like he was a Tsar in red. And what did we do? Sit here and sip tea!"
"The Bolsheviks are building a parallel state!" Guchkov barked. "Lenin is writing manifestos—his underlings arming men! If we don't act now, there won't be a Provisional Government left by the end of the year."
Milyukov looked up slowly. "So what do we do?"
Everyone paused.
No one answered.
---
May 2, 1917
Bolshevik Inner Circle Meeting
Smolny Institute
Lenin sat at the head of the table, still in his dusty coat from the day before, reading Mikheil's most recent logistical report. It read more like a military occupation plan than a political memo. Recruitment numbers, uniform standardization, disciplinary protocol, even plans for underground arms factories.
Zinoviev was the first to speak.
"This is insane. He's setting up a personal army. Did you see those uniforms yesterday? Black, red, and skulls? It looked like the revolution had joined a death cult."
Kamenev grumbled. "He's worse than Dzerzhinsky, and Dzerzhinsky hasn't even arrived yet."
"He's effective," Lenin said quietly.
"Effective?!" Zinoviev exclaimed. "He's got death squads in the planning stages!"
"He also has seven hundred men who answer to the Party," Lenin replied. "Armed. Loyal. And capable of doing what the Red Guards can't."
"But how long until he decides the Party answers to him?"
Lenin looked up slowly. "Then we put a bullet in his head."
The room went silent.
Stalin, sitting in the corner with his usual quiet smirk, finally spoke.
"He's not a Bonaparte," Stalin said. "He's a butcher. But he's our butcher."
"Until he starts writing our names down," Kamenev muttered.
Lenin stood. "We'll let him build—for now. We need order. We need muscle. When Trotsky arrives, we'll reassess. But until then…"
He glanced around the room.
"Let the wolves do our hunting."
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia
Dawn
Spring had finally arrived in Petrograd, brushing away the last sour chill of winter. A crisp breeze swept through the city's battered streets, carrying with it the smell of fresh bread, coal smoke, and the faintest hint of something revolutionary—or maybe just uncollected garbage. You couldn't always tell the difference in Petrograd.
The sun was just beginning to rise, throwing soft gold against the old façade of Smolny. And behind me, standing in sharp formation, were two hundred of my finest men.
Not all of them, of course. The other five hundred were off doing other—necessary—things. Protecting the city's many unofficial "taxpayers." Brothels, black markets, smuggling dens, gambling parlors—you name it. The underworld didn't fund itself. And Lenin didn't need to know where the rubles, ammo, food and guns were coming from, only that I had expanded my force from the original sixty to a crisp seven hundred in just a few weeks.
And it wasn't even technically a lie. I had expanded. I just... started from three hundred. Call it revolutionary rounding.
Then he appeared. Right on time.
Lenin emerged from Smolny's front doors with the posture of a man who hadn't slept in two days and had personally tried to edit every speech, leaflet, and agitprop poster in Petrograd by hand. His coat hung off his frame like a flag on a dying wind. There were bags under his eyes deeper than the trenches on the Eastern Front.
"Salute!" I shouted, sharp and clear.
As one, my men raised their right arms in a crisp, militaristic gesture. Call it "Roman" if you like—but we all knew what kind of aura farming we were aiming for. Lenin, mid-step, stopped with a visible twitch in his jaw and a brief look that said 'What in the name of Marx is this?' before composing himself.
"…At ease," he muttered with diplomatic restraint. The arms lowered.
He didn't ask questions. Smart man.
These were my best. Hardened veterans, loyal as dogs, mostly former police from my old precinct, and a few newer additions: criminals, gang enforcers, even a couple ex-Okhrana officers I'd worked with. But to Lenin, they were all just ex-cops, thoroughly reformed and ideologically reliable. And very well-dressed.
Black military tunics—clean, tailored, sharp as razors. Red armbands with the revolutionary star stitched in gold thread. Black boots polished to a shine, with crimson stars painted on the toes. Their helmets—painted a striking, aggressive red—bore the totenkopf insignia on the side, just for flair. I liked the symbolism. Skull and star. Death and revolution. And yes, I was aware I had just invented something that looked eerily similar to the future SS. But technically, I'd beaten Hitler to it. Suck it, Adolf.
They looked magnificent. Imposing. Terrifying. The sort of unit that would make both Bolsheviks and Mensheviks nervous—and that was the point. I wasn't here to make friends. I was here to make history.
I stepped forward and took a bolt-action rifle from Comrade Bear, our resident circus-strongman-turned-henchman, who was now moonlighting as quartermaster. I handed the rifle to Lenin.
"You ever shoot one before?"
He blinked at it like I'd just handed him a dead raccoon.
"I have not."
"Perfect," I said cheerfully. "You're a fast learner. I'll show you. During your speech, fire it into the air. It'll be symbolic—powerful. The masses will love it."
He frowned. Deeply.
"I am not a Caesar," he said flatly.
"No one cares," I replied. "Symbols matter. Slogans matter. You can give the best speech in the world, quote Marx and Engels until your throat dries out—but if there's no theatre, no bang, it'll fade. People want drama. They want fire. Shoot once in the air, raise a fist, and they'll follow you to the ends of the Earth."
He looked like he wanted to spit. Instead, he crossed his arms. "I will not turn this into a pantomime."
"I'm asking for one shot. Not a golden chariot and a laurel crown."
Before he could object further, I took the rifle back, chambered a round, aimed up at the sky, and fired. The crack echoed across the square, scattering a few pigeons and earning some awed murmurs from the early crowd gathering down the street. I cycled the bolt, checked the chamber, and handed it back to him.
"Simple," I said. "Even the tsar could manage it, and he couldn't wipe own shit."
He stared at the rifle like it might bite him. Behind me, Comrade Bear brought forth the next item—a large, slightly lumpy, canvas-wrapped object.
"Here," I said, taking it. "Put this on."
"What is it?"
"Bulletproof vest. Improvised, but effective. Layers of steel plate, cotton, and guilt. If things turn ugly, I'd rather not have to mop your brains off the palace steps."
He didn't take it.
"And this," I added, taking a bright red helmet from Bear, "is for your head. I'd prefer to keep that intact too."
"I am not wearing a helmet," he snapped. "I am not a tsar, a general, or a mascot."
"And I am not letting you get shot by some idiot with a grudge and a revolver."
There was a long pause. His jaw clenched. His hand gripped the rifle tightly. He looked, for a moment, like a man regretting every decision that had led to this precise moment in his life.
Then he took the vest.
"Fine. But if I fall off the podium from the weight, I'm blaming you."
"You fall off the podium, I'll have Stalin tell Pravda to write that it was a heroic dive to avoid a sniper."
He sighed—long, low, exhausted. "I miss exile. No parades in exile. Just books and terrible cheese."
"Welcome to power, Comrade."
Behind us, the sun crested fully over the rooftops, casting the whole plaza in gold. My men stood tall. The people were gathering. The flags were being raised. Revolution had a stage now.
And at the center of it stood Lenin.
Bulletproof. Armed. Slightly miserable.
Perfect.
May 1, 1917
Tauride Square, Petrograd
Midday
The plaza was packed.
Workers with soot-streaked faces. Soldiers on leave, some already drunk. Peasants in from the countryside, wide-eyed and underfed. Women holding children. Men holding pamphlets. And, scattered among them, the various self-appointed champions of revolution—Mensheviks with well-worn boots, Social Revolutionaries handing out slogans like candy, anarchists grumbling about hierarchy while forming one in their own corner.
And at the center—looming above it all—stood the temporary podium erected in front of the Tauride Palace, draped in red cloth and festooned with banners bearing hammers, sickles, stars, and slogans so aggressive they practically yelled at you.
I stood off to the side with Comrade Bear and a few of my officers, arms folded, watching the crowd. My men flanked the square, standing like silent statues in their sleek black tunics, red armbands and helmets gleaming in the sun. The totenkopf insignias were drawing whispers already. I could hear them:
"Who are those men?"
"Bolsheviks?"
"No, I heard they're comrade Makarov's. They say he's building his own army."
"A personal guard?"
"Looks like the Okhrana in red."
"Better dressed."
I smirked slightly.
Let them talk.
On the stage, Lenin adjusted the improvised bulletproof vest under his coat for the third time. It didn't fit well—nothing about Lenin said "tactical chic." But he had accepted it, and that meant something. In one hand he held the rifle I'd given him, pointed downward, more prop than weapon. His other hand gripped the edge of the lectern, knuckles white.
Then he stepped forward.
The square fell silent. It was uncanny how quickly the noise died when he spoke.
"Comrades," Lenin began, voice harsh, clipped, worn with exhaustion—but resonant with something deeper: conviction.
"We stand today not as subjects, not as slaves to czars, nor servants to capitalists—but as a people awakening. The February Revolution was the first step. It brought down the autocrat—but it did not feed us. It did not give land to the peasant. It did not end the war."
A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd.
"What does the Provisional Government offer us? Patience. Delays. More death on the front. More promises to landlords. More ration lines. More speeches. More suffering. The same misery, with a new name!"
The people stirred.
"We are not interested in cosmetic change. We do not want a revolution with gloves. We want transformation."
He lifted his head. Eyes scanning the crowd.
"We demand bread—because we are starving."
"Bread!" someone shouted from the crowd.
"We demand peace—because our sons die in a war they did not start and cannot finish."
"Peace!" another voice called, and more joined in.
"And we demand land—because the land belongs to the hands that till it, not the boots that trample it!"
The crowd roared:
"BREAD! PEACE! LAND!"
"BREAD! PEACE! LAND!"
Lenin waited, arms raised, letting the chant echo until it began to fade.
"The Soviets of Workers', Soldiers', and Peasants' Deputies are the only legitimate power in Russia. Power must pass from the capitalists to the proletariat. Not tomorrow. Not after a conference. Now."
"All power to the Soviets!" someone yelled. Dozens followed.
"ALL POWER TO THE SOVIETS!"
Lenin nodded. Raised the rifle—reluctantly, but deliberately.
He pointed it skyward.
For a moment, he paused, looked down at me where I stood off to the side.
I gave a small nod.
He pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked like thunder.
The square exploded with cheers.
It was absurd, theatrical, even a bit ridiculous—but it worked. The crowd adored it. That one symbolic shot sealed it. It wasn't just the words—it was the image.
Lenin: the theorist, the exile, the Marxist philosopher—had just fired a gun into the sky to herald revolution.
History wouldn't forget it.
And neither would the other factions.
---
Later, inside the Tauride
Lenin was wiping sweat from his brow with a frayed handkerchief. I handed him a glass of water. He downed it like it was vodka.
"That was the most I've ever sweated in my life," he muttered. "I nearly dropped the rifle. And this vest itches."
"It looked glorious," I said.
"I looked like a circus bear dressed by a paranoid tailor."
"Bear says thank you."
He gave me a sidelong glance. "You've done well, Mikheil. Too well."
I raised an eyebrow. "That a compliment or a warning?"
"Both," he said. "Your men… they impressed the crowd. But they also drew attention."
"Good," I replied. "Let them talk. Let the Mensheviks stew."
"I'm not worried about the Mensheviks," he said. "I'm worried about some of our own. There are whispers. That you're building a personal army. That you're... a shadow to the Party."
I didn't flinch. "And what do you think?"
"I think you're an asset," he said, "because you understand what most of these theorists don't: revolutions don't survive on pamphlets and declarations. They survive on power. On structure. On fear. And loyalty."
Then he sighed. "But you also terrify them. And perhaps you should. A revolution without fear is a poem, not a movement."
Stalin, who had been leaning silently against the far wall, finally spoke.
"Mikheil's not a Bonaparte," he said. "If anything, he's our Dzerzhinsky. Just... better dressed and worse behaved."
"High praise," I said. "I'll embroider it on a pillow."
Lenin nodded. "For now, keep the Guard visible. But do nothing flashy for a while. No new uniforms. No new titles. No marches in helmets with skulls."
"Too late on the skulls."
"I mean it. Let the idea of order settle. Don't force it."
"Understood."
He stood, stretched, and winced at the vest. "Next time I give a speech, no guns."
"No promises," I said.
Outside, the chants were still faintly echoing through the streets. Bread. Peace. Land.
But now… they chanted something else too.
"Lenin! Soviet Power!"
I glanced at Stalin. He looked amused, but not surprised.
Lenin rubbed his temples.
"God help me," he muttered. "I think I just became a symbol."
May 1, 1917
Evening
Mikheil's Apartment
Petrograd
The apartment stank of cheap coffee, gun oil, and burnt cabbage. Stalin had kicked off his boots, loosened his collar, and was pouring tea like it was morphine. Outside, Petrograd still buzzed with the electric afterglow of revolution and parade hysteria. The chants had faded, but the tension hadn't.
I was sitting on the arm of the couch, still in uniform, cap tilted back, polishing a revolver with the casual affection of a man cradling a future.
Keke was in the kitchen making dinner with Aleksandra while the kids were playing in the living room. Besarion thank God was asleep.
"That," I said, "was just the beginning."
Stalin grunted, lighting another cigarette. "You're starting to sound like Lenin."
"I'm flattered."
He smirked through the smoke.
I leaned forward. "I've had reports—spies in the various Red Guard militias. Word is, some of them want in. They saw the parade, the uniforms, the discipline. My boys look like a future. The rest of them? They look like a drunken choir at a rifle range."
Stalin sipped his tea, watching me.
"I'll probably have a few thousand by the end of the month," I said. "Volunteers. Defectors."
There was a beat of silence. Keke was humming a Georgian lullaby as Aleksandra chopped vegetables. The room was warm but coiled like a spring.
"I'm going to start taking over the entire Petrograd underworld," I said casually. "Systematically. One gang at a time. Redirect smuggling routes. Fold the brothels, gambling dens, and forgers into my logistics network. We'll need all the resources we can get to fund this army. I even have plans for a few underground factories to start making guns and ammo."
Stalin inhaled deeply, his expression unreadable. "You're building a state within the state."
"I'm building the spine of a state," I replied. "Lenin can write pamphlets. You can rise through the party. But someone's got to arm and feed the men."
Another pause, Stalin stared at me for a long moment, then stood and walked to the window. He looked out over the flickering city.
"People are going to fear you."
"They already do."
"You could become a threat to Lenin."
"Only if he becomes a threat to us."
He didn't turn around.
Finally, he said, "Just make sure he doesn't become a threat."
I smiled. "As you say."
---
May 2, 1917
Lvov Cabinet Meeting
Mariinsky Palace, Petrograd
Prince Lvov looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. He probably hadn't. The war, the land question, Petrograd's descent into a semi-armed commune—all of it was devouring him slowly.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice hoarse, "yesterday's May Day parade… was a disaster."
The ministers shuffled papers nervously. Minister of War Guchkov, beet-faced with rage, slapped a photo on the table.
"These blackshirts—who are they? Why are they marching? Armed? With helmets? And skulls?"
"I heard they're Bolshevik," said Foreign Minister Milyukov.
Lvov buried his face in his hands. "We're losing control."
"You never had it," Guchkov muttered.
"There were thousands in the crowd!" shouted Justice Minister Pereverzev. "Cheering Lenin like he was a Tsar in red. And what did we do? Sit here and sip tea!"
"The Bolsheviks are building a parallel state!" Guchkov barked. "Lenin is writing manifestos—his underlings arming men! If we don't act now, there won't be a Provisional Government left by the end of the year."
Milyukov looked up slowly. "So what do we do?"
Everyone paused.
No one answered.
---
May 2, 1917
Bolshevik Inner Circle Meeting
Smolny Institute
Lenin sat at the head of the table, still in his dusty coat from the day before, reading Mikheil's most recent logistical report. It read more like a military occupation plan than a political memo. Recruitment numbers, uniform standardization, disciplinary protocol, even plans for underground arms factories.
Zinoviev was the first to speak.
"This is insane. He's setting up a personal army. Did you see those uniforms yesterday? Black, red, and skulls? It looked like the revolution had joined a death cult."
Kamenev grumbled. "He's worse than Dzerzhinsky, and Dzerzhinsky hasn't even arrived yet."
"He's effective," Lenin said quietly.
"Effective?!" Zinoviev exclaimed. "He's got death squads in the planning stages!"
"He also has seven hundred men who answer to the Party," Lenin replied. "Armed. Loyal. And capable of doing what the Red Guards can't."
"But how long until he decides the Party answers to him?"
Lenin looked up slowly. "Then we put a bullet in his head."
The room went silent.
Stalin, sitting in the corner with his usual quiet smirk, finally spoke.
"He's not a Bonaparte," Stalin said. "He's a butcher. But he's our butcher."
"Until he starts writing our names down," Kamenev muttered.
Lenin stood. "We'll let him build—for now. We need order. We need muscle. When Trotsky arrives, we'll reassess. But until then…"
He glanced around the room.
"Let the wolves do our hunting."
Memory Dump
Muzak Enthusiast
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Fucking LMAO, the roles have been reversed!
I am now physically dependent on you continuing to write this!
MORE, I NEED MORE!
I am now physically dependent on you continuing to write this!
MORE, I NEED MORE!
Trotsky
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Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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May 18, 1917
Petrograd, Russia
I stood on the edge of the train platform like a man awaiting the next chapter of an already absurd novel. Flanking me were roughly a hundred of my boys—armed, dangerous, and polished like they were about to storm Versailles or audition for a revolutionary fashion show. I was at their head, of course, looking very much like a warlord who'd learned public relations from watching too many mob movies in his previous life.
The rest of my force—about 1400 men, give or take a few new recruits and one or two "sudden resignations"—were elsewhere. Busy. After the May Day parade, recruitment had exploded like dynamite at a police station. Apparently, nothing inspires loyalty like disciplined uniforms, loud slogans, and a maniac with a clipboard and a rifle.
So, I seized the moment.
We expanded. Rapidly.
The underworld of Petrograd—always a writhing mess of pimps, smugglers, opium peddlers, and anarchist cosplayers—began to fall under our rule rather than our protection. I started with the smaller outfits. Gave them the pitch: "You can either answer to me, or to the chaotic soup of Red Guards, drunk militias, and amateur revolutionaries that roam the streets like revolutionary hyenas."
Most chose me. Because I was the devil they knew. And I was the devil with boots, guns, and a ledger.
They kept operational autonomy—for now—but they kicked up a percentage. In return, I kept the chaos at bay and provided the warm comfort of state-backed gangsterism. If recruitment kept up at this rate, I'd control the entire Petrograd underworld by the end of the year.
Maybe sooner.
Of course, we diversified.
We had a small workshop tucked away behind a bakery near Smolny, churning out homemade ammunition with the loving care of revolutionaries and ex-criminals who'd failed as poets. Plans were in motion to expand into rifles, pistols, maybe even improvised armored trucks if we could find enough scrap metal and not kill ourselves welding.
Then there were the soup kitchens.
Yes. Soup kitchens.
We had five of them now. Staffed, patrolled, and managed by my men. Peace. Bread. Land. Painted on every entrance in proud red letters. Nothing won hearts and minds like a hot meal and visible guns. Within our territory—mostly around Smolny—things were orderly. Our rules were simple: no robbing, no raping, no killing. Break the rules, you get hung from a lamppost. Just like that.
I had become something like Lil' Zé from City of God, only with more Marx and less cocaine. God, I missed modern movies.
But today wasn't about brothels or breadlines. Today was about a train.
A crowd had gathered around the station platform. Workers, students, soldiers, political enthusiasts, and those bored enough to follow a new messiah just for the fun of it. I stood at the front, humming Friends Will Be Friends under my breath. Queen always helped me stay grounded. My mom used to blast A Night at the Opera on weekends while cleaning. But me? I preferred their later work—A Kind of Magic, The Works. Friends Will Be Friends was my personal anthem. It reminded me that, even when life felt like a cosmic joke, someone somewhere was still willing to hand you a warm meal or hold your hand while you burned the world down.
Comforting, really. Especially considering I was now the reincarnated twin brother of a man who might just outdo both Robespierre and Hitler if left unchecked. And here I was—his quiet enforcer—building my own little revolutionary fiefdom as Petrograd slid into open madness.
So yeah. Queen helped.
Then I heard it.
The train whistled in the distance. A low mechanical groan echoed as it pulled into the station. The crowd surged, pressing forward with excitement and curiosity, faces flushed with anticipation.
The train hissed to a stop.
And out he stepped.
Leon Trotsky.
Shorter than I expected. Thin. Angular. Messy hair in a halo of defiant disorder. Round-rimmed glasses. He looked like the ghost of a university professor who'd once tried to assassinate a czar and then gotten distracted by theory.
The crowd cheered. He didn't smile—he observed them, coolly, methodically. Even from the platform I could feel it: the confidence, the ego, the unspoken "I've returned, and I'm the smartest man in the room."
I took a breath, then barked, "Salute!"
A hundred rifles snapped to shoulder. My men raised their aem, the "Roman" salute as always. My Soviet SS, god I was proud, maybe I could sue Adolf for plagiarism once he founds the real SS.
Trotsky paused at the bottom of the steps, taking in the sight. His eyes flicked to me.
"Mikheil Dzhugashvili," I said, stepping forward. "Comrade Makarov, Stalin's brother. I'm here to escort you to Smolny. Lenin's expecting you."
He tilted his head. "Stalin's brother?"
"The prettier one," I said, flashing a half-smile. "But you can call me Mikheil."
There was a flicker of something—amusement? Annoyance? Hard to tell with Trotsky.
"I've heard of you," he said, glancing at my men. "You're the one building a private army in the city."
"Among other things."
He gestured toward the street. "Lead the way."
And so I did.
As we walked toward the motorcade—two repurposed bakery delivery trucks and one stolen army car, all armored and painted with Bolshevik slogans—I let my mind wander for a moment. Lenin was probably pacing in his office, sharpening his metaphors and trying to decide whether Trotsky would be an asset or a rival. And I? I was escorting the man who would either become our greatest asset—or end up on my kill list.
The ride through Petrograd was slow and bumpy, our driver apparently selected for his ability to hit every pothole with philosophical intention. The city slid past us in shades of gray—factory smoke, battered buildings, exhausted people. Revolution wasn't glamorous. It was soot, sweat, and a faint smell of cabbage that lingered no matter how fast you drove.
Trotsky sat opposite me in the car, silent for the first few blocks, watching the street through the window like a man calculating the precise velocity required to leap from a moving vehicle.
"You ever been back here since '05?" I asked, trying to break the ice.
"Not since they arrested me," he replied, still watching the window. "I still remember the Tsar's guards dragging me out of the Soviet like I'd insulted their mothers."
I chuckled. "Well, now you're back. And the guards here all work for me so no dragging for you this time."
That got him to turn.
"You're quite proud of your militia."
"Someone has to be," I said with a shrug. "The Red Guards are passionate, but they're also drunk and mostly allergic to the concept of formation. So I filled the gap."
He narrowed his eyes. "And Lenin approves of this?"
"Lenin tolerates results. I provide results. He gives speeches. I make sure no one interrupts them with bullets."
He studied me for a beat. "And who are you again?"
"Mikheil Dzhugashvili," I said. "Stalin's younger twin. The better looking one, though he hates when I say that."
Trotsky blinked. "Stalin has a twin?"
"Surprise."
"Why have I never heard of you?"
"Because I've spent the last ten years not writing essays in exile," I replied with a grin. "When Stalin's wife Kato died back in 07, I stepped back. Raised Stalin's son Yakov while he ran off to organize revolts and get himself arrested and shot at repeatedly."
"And after that?"
"I moved to Petrograd. Figured if revolution ever came again, this is where the curtain would rise. I became a cop—don't judge me yet—and used the badge to gather contacts, stash weapons, build trust. I collected IOUs, favors, maps of the sewer systems, bribed officers, and built myself a very polite little arsenal under everyone's nose."
He blinked again, this time genuinely surprised.
"I wasn't ideological then," I admitted. "I was… preparing. I figured someone had to be the adult in the room when the world caught fire again."
He tilted his head slightly. "So you're not a true believer."
"Oh, I believe," I said. "I believe we're about to rip a thousand years of power out of the hands of the nobility, the clergy, the military, and every self-declared aristocrat who ever stole bread and called it divine right. I just also believe they won't let it go quietly."
"Now that," he said, "we agree on."
I nodded. "Which is why I've built more than just a militia. I'm pitching something bigger—Lenin's seen the outlines."
He raised a skeptical brow.
I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice.
"I'm proposing a tripartite security architecture. First, a Soviet Armed Forces—a real army, trained, standardized, with political commissars in every battalion to keep it loyal to the Party."
Trotsky didn't react. But he was listening now.
"Second," I continued, "the Revolutionary Guard Corps—my creation. Separate from the army. Smaller, elite, ideologically trained. Their job? Prevent Bonapartism. No general ever gets ideas above his station without my boys knocking."
"And the third?" Trotsky asked flatly.
"A National Guard, run under a new Committee for State Security—our own intelligence service. Internal policing. Surveillance. Counter-sedition. They watch the army and the Guard Corps. The Guard Corps watches them. It's a beautiful system of distrust. A web of paranoia so tight no one can stage a coup without tripping ten alarms and getting shot by at least two branches of the state."
Trotsky's lips twitched. "So… your solution to tyranny is a mutually assured police state?"
"Not tyranny," I said. "Redundancy. And yes, a little healthy fear."
He turned to the window again, voice low. "You know what this sounds like, don't you?"
"Of course. But it works. No single man can seize power if the moment he tries, two other institutions move to crush him. The system polices itself. No Bonaparte marching on the capital someday with a loyal army and a grudge."
Silence fell over the car like a guillotine blade.
We bumped over a loose cobblestone. Trotsky exhaled through his nose.
"You're dangerous."
"Only to dangerous people."
"I'm not sure if you're a genius or just a very charming psychopath."
"Why not both?"
Trotsky snorted despite himself. "I see why Lenin lets you hang around. You're useful. Ruthless. And you talk like a man who's read too much and killed just enough to make it work."
"I try."
The car rumbled to a stop.
Smolny loomed outside, gray and severe as ever.
Trotsky opened the door, then paused.
"You know," he said without turning, "if this revolution survives, it won't be because of your kill lists. It'll be because people still believe something better is possible."
I nodded. "And it's my job to shoot anyone who ruins that possibility."
He stepped out, coat flaring behind him.
I watched him go, whistling quietly—Friends Will Be Friends again, of course.
Disarming? Yes. Dangerous? Also yes.
But he wasn't on the list.
Yet.
May 18, 1917
Smolny Institute, Petrograd
Lenin's Office – Later that day
The three of them sat around a battered oak table that had once been used by tsarist nuns to grade catechism tests. Now it hosted the would-be architects of a new world order.
Lenin sat at the head, ink-stained fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes flicking between his guests like a chess master weighing which piece to sacrifice first.
Trotsky—fresh off the train and still brushing soot off his coat—sat opposite, posture relaxed but coiled with energy. He hadn't removed his glasses, even indoors, as if he expected at any moment to be shown a pamphlet in need of urgent criticism.
Stalin was seated off to the side, silent, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded like a snake waiting for someone to blink.
Mikheil was absent from the room—officially. But the entire building still hummed with his presence. His men were on the stairs, in the halls, even refilling samovars in the breakroom. Everyone knew he was watching. You didn't need to see a panther to know it was in the trees.
Lenin broke the silence.
"You've been briefed on the situation?"
"I've read what I could," Trotsky replied. "The newspapers are full of fantasy. The city is boiling. The Soviets are divided. The Provisional Government is inert. And you, Lenin, seem to have turned some of the working class into your own personal army."
"Not my army," Lenin corrected, "our army. The people's."
Trotsky smiled faintly. "With black uniforms, red helmets and skulls?"
Lenin didn't rise to the bait. "Mikheil's methods are unorthodox, yes. But effective. We are surrounded by wolves. I'm not ashamed of keeping a few guard dogs."
Stalin grunted in what may have been agreement—or gas.
Trotsky looked at both of them carefully. "You know I'm not a Bolshevik."
"Not yet," Stalin murmured.
Trotsky ignored him. "And I'm no Menshevik either. Martov and his faction are still debating whether the proletariat deserves shoes."
"Ah," Lenin said dryly, "the revolutionary centrists—forever waiting for the perfect storm while drowning in the rain."
"I prefer to act when it's strategic," Trotsky countered. "And right now, you are acting with speed I'd call... alarming."
Lenin raised an eyebrow. "You've come back to a revolution in motion. Caution is a luxury I cannot afford."
Trotsky leaned back. "And Mikheil? What is he, exactly? A revolutionary? A general? A warlord?"
Lenin chuckled softly. "A necessary evil."
"His pitch to me," Trotsky continued, "sounded less like socialism and more like a board meeting at a steel trust. Revolutionary Guard Corps. Redundancy layers. Counter-Bonapartist intelligence directorates. He speaks like he's building an empire of preemptive paranoia."
Stalin finally spoke again, low and even. "That's because he is. But it's our empire. A people's empire."
Trotsky looked between them. "And what happens when this system—this beautiful web of distrust—turns inward? What happens when the watchdogs eat the master?"
"That's why we educate them," Lenin replied, voice suddenly sharp. "That's why we lead. We don't trust the revolution. We control it."
Trotsky's eyes narrowed. "That's not Marxism. That's mechanized autocracy."
"And yet you're here," Lenin said. "You got off the train. You came to Smolny. You could have gone to the Mensheviks. Or home."
Trotsky didn't answer.
The silence was loud.
Then Lenin leaned forward, calm and deliberate.
"We need you, Leon. Your mind. Your ability to speak to the masses. To organize. To command. The army is crumbling. The Red Guards are scattered. Mikheil's men can police Petrograd, but we need to build a national force. A true Red Army. And you—"
He let the words hang.
"You're offering me command?"
"I'm offering you responsibility," Lenin said. "You believe in the revolution, even if you doubt our style. Prove your way is better. Help us build the structure. Before the Provisional Government collapses—or worse, clamps down."
Trotsky looked again at Stalin, who gave him nothing but a long, quiet stare.
"I'll think about it," Trotsky said.
"Don't think too long," Lenin replied. "The train to the future is moving. You can either ride it—or be left on the tracks."
Trotsky rose.
He turned at the door. "And Mikheil?"
"He's outside," Stalin said. "Probably chatting with some guardsmen."
"I like him," Trotsky said flatly. "Terrifies me. But I like him."
"That means it's working," Lenin said with a faint smile.
Outside Smolny
Moments Later
I was leaning against a column, humming a Queen tune—Under Pressure this time—when Trotsky stepped out.
"Everything good in there?" I asked, tossing him a cigarette.
Trotsky caught it but didn't light it. "Your brother doesn't talk much."
"Neither do snakes before they strike."
Trotsky raised an eyebrow. "You really are just going to keep building this private empire of yours?"
I grinned. "Not private. Just… selectively socialist."
A beat.
"You're scaring the Mensheviks," Trotsky said.
"I scare everyone," I replied cheerfully. "That's why no one fucks with Lenin."
Trotsky smirked despite himself. "Charming."
"I try."
As Trotsky walked away, I turned to Comrade Bear.
"Put Trotsky on the maybe list," he said.
"Maybe for what?"
"Maybe he'll save us. Maybe he'll try to kill us. Either way… we'll be ready. Have a man on him at all times."
May 18, 1917
Later that Night
Dzhugashvili Apartment, Petrograd
It was after dinner time, and the city had gone quiet—by Petrograd standards, anyway. No gunfire, no screaming. Just the occasional clatter of boots in the alley and the distant hum of revolution humming itself to sleep.
Inside our new, nicer apartment near Smolny, the gas lamps burned low. The wallpaper was peeling, the floor creaked with every step, and the kitchen smelled faintly of tea, gun oil, and cabbage stew that had tried to be heroic but died in the pot.
Mom was in the kitchen fixing us some dinner as me and Stalin had come back late.
I meanwhile sat at the table in my uniform shirt, sleeves rolled up, pouring myself a small glass of Georgian brandy—liberated from a Black Sea trader who'd needed "protection." Stalin sat across from me in a threadbare chair, still half-dressed, a cup filled with brandy dangling from his lips like a punctuation mark that never quite ended the sentence.
We were alone.
Mostly.
"I like him," I said, swirling the glass. "Trotsky. Sharp. Funny, in that dry 'I'm smarter than everyone else in the room and I know it' sort of way. Knows how to hold court. Good posture. Voice carries. The soldiers will eat it up."
Stalin said nothing, just watched the smoke rise.
"But," I continued, "he's also a threat. Ambitious. Charismatic. Dangerous."
A pause.
"Either he'll be my best friend," I said, sipping slowly, "or I'll have to murder him."
From the kitchen came a loud clatter of metal.
I blinked.
Stalin blinked.
We both turned.
Keke—our mother—stood in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing her nightgown and clutching the samovar like it had personally insulted the Virgin Mary.
"You will do what?" she said in a voice that belonged more in a church confessional than a Petrograd apartment at midnight.
"Oh, Mama," I said quickly, setting the glass down. "I was being metaphorical."
"Murder is not metaphor," she snapped, crossing herself with the vigor of a woman who'd seen too many sons get ideas above their morals. "You are not Cain! You are baptized!"
"Yes, yes, we've all been baptized," Stalin muttered, exhaling smoke.
"Do not speak of killing, especially not of other Christians!" she shouted. "You will go to hell!"
"He's not even a Christian," I muttered. "He's a jew." I said in a tone what would make Patrick Bateman say, "cool it with the anti semitic remarks."
That earned me a wooden spoon from the counter, hurled like a divine missile. I ducked.
Then another voice chimed in—gentler, but just as damning.
"Mikheil," said Aleksandra, stepping into view from the bedroom in her house robe. Her hair was braided neatly. She looked tired, disappointed, and terrifying in that soft, domestic way that could kill a man without leaving a bruise.
"You're talking about killing people in front of your mother," she said.
"I wasn't trying to."
"You never try. It just… happens. Like your gun collection in the old apartment?"
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "It was just theoretical. You don't plan a revolution without a few contingencies."
"Contingencies shouldn't include murder," she said sternly. "You have children. What will you tell Iosif? 'Papa builds soup kitchens and occasionally assassinates political rivals'?"
"...Yes, what about it?"
She folded her arms. "This is not normal."
"I'm not normal, Aleksandra. We're not normal. We live in a city where half the people are starving and the other half are armed. I'm basically one of the strongest warlords here. A warlord trying to build order out of a collapsed empire. Sometimes that means being unpleasant."
"Mikheil," Keke interrupted, pointing at me with righteous fury, "if I hear you speak of murder again, I will drag you to church myself and have you confess it to Father Giorgi."
"He's been dead since 1904."
"Then I will dig him up!"
I glanced at Stalin. He was chuckling, the bastard.
"Oh don't look so smug," I said to him. "Last week you said you wanted to strangle Petrov from the Vyborg red guards."
"I said it quietly," he replied. "In confidence. Like a civilized revolutionary."
Aleksandra sighed. Keke muttered prayers under her breath and began pacing.
I stood, stretched, and walked to the cabinet, pulling out another glass. "Alright. Fine. I will not murder Trotsky. Yet. Let's see how he does first."
Keke groaned loudly and stormed back to the kitchen, muttering something in Georgian about her sons being wolves raised in a den of lunatics.
Aleksandra lingered a moment longer, looking at me with that exhausted, patient love only wives and saints are capable of.
"Just come to bed soon," she said softly. "Iosif keeps waking up. He misses you."
My smirk faded. I nodded.
She left.
Stalin leaned back in his chair, blew out a long stream of smoke, and said, "You really do terrify people."
"Only the ones who should be terrified."
"Trotsky?"
I finished my drink. "We'll see. I had bear send a man to keep an eye on him. The bastard won't be able to take a shit without us knowing about it."
Petrograd, Russia
I stood on the edge of the train platform like a man awaiting the next chapter of an already absurd novel. Flanking me were roughly a hundred of my boys—armed, dangerous, and polished like they were about to storm Versailles or audition for a revolutionary fashion show. I was at their head, of course, looking very much like a warlord who'd learned public relations from watching too many mob movies in his previous life.
The rest of my force—about 1400 men, give or take a few new recruits and one or two "sudden resignations"—were elsewhere. Busy. After the May Day parade, recruitment had exploded like dynamite at a police station. Apparently, nothing inspires loyalty like disciplined uniforms, loud slogans, and a maniac with a clipboard and a rifle.
So, I seized the moment.
We expanded. Rapidly.
The underworld of Petrograd—always a writhing mess of pimps, smugglers, opium peddlers, and anarchist cosplayers—began to fall under our rule rather than our protection. I started with the smaller outfits. Gave them the pitch: "You can either answer to me, or to the chaotic soup of Red Guards, drunk militias, and amateur revolutionaries that roam the streets like revolutionary hyenas."
Most chose me. Because I was the devil they knew. And I was the devil with boots, guns, and a ledger.
They kept operational autonomy—for now—but they kicked up a percentage. In return, I kept the chaos at bay and provided the warm comfort of state-backed gangsterism. If recruitment kept up at this rate, I'd control the entire Petrograd underworld by the end of the year.
Maybe sooner.
Of course, we diversified.
We had a small workshop tucked away behind a bakery near Smolny, churning out homemade ammunition with the loving care of revolutionaries and ex-criminals who'd failed as poets. Plans were in motion to expand into rifles, pistols, maybe even improvised armored trucks if we could find enough scrap metal and not kill ourselves welding.
Then there were the soup kitchens.
Yes. Soup kitchens.
We had five of them now. Staffed, patrolled, and managed by my men. Peace. Bread. Land. Painted on every entrance in proud red letters. Nothing won hearts and minds like a hot meal and visible guns. Within our territory—mostly around Smolny—things were orderly. Our rules were simple: no robbing, no raping, no killing. Break the rules, you get hung from a lamppost. Just like that.
I had become something like Lil' Zé from City of God, only with more Marx and less cocaine. God, I missed modern movies.
But today wasn't about brothels or breadlines. Today was about a train.
A crowd had gathered around the station platform. Workers, students, soldiers, political enthusiasts, and those bored enough to follow a new messiah just for the fun of it. I stood at the front, humming Friends Will Be Friends under my breath. Queen always helped me stay grounded. My mom used to blast A Night at the Opera on weekends while cleaning. But me? I preferred their later work—A Kind of Magic, The Works. Friends Will Be Friends was my personal anthem. It reminded me that, even when life felt like a cosmic joke, someone somewhere was still willing to hand you a warm meal or hold your hand while you burned the world down.
Comforting, really. Especially considering I was now the reincarnated twin brother of a man who might just outdo both Robespierre and Hitler if left unchecked. And here I was—his quiet enforcer—building my own little revolutionary fiefdom as Petrograd slid into open madness.
So yeah. Queen helped.
Then I heard it.
The train whistled in the distance. A low mechanical groan echoed as it pulled into the station. The crowd surged, pressing forward with excitement and curiosity, faces flushed with anticipation.
The train hissed to a stop.
And out he stepped.
Leon Trotsky.
Shorter than I expected. Thin. Angular. Messy hair in a halo of defiant disorder. Round-rimmed glasses. He looked like the ghost of a university professor who'd once tried to assassinate a czar and then gotten distracted by theory.
The crowd cheered. He didn't smile—he observed them, coolly, methodically. Even from the platform I could feel it: the confidence, the ego, the unspoken "I've returned, and I'm the smartest man in the room."
I took a breath, then barked, "Salute!"
A hundred rifles snapped to shoulder. My men raised their aem, the "Roman" salute as always. My Soviet SS, god I was proud, maybe I could sue Adolf for plagiarism once he founds the real SS.
Trotsky paused at the bottom of the steps, taking in the sight. His eyes flicked to me.
"Mikheil Dzhugashvili," I said, stepping forward. "Comrade Makarov, Stalin's brother. I'm here to escort you to Smolny. Lenin's expecting you."
He tilted his head. "Stalin's brother?"
"The prettier one," I said, flashing a half-smile. "But you can call me Mikheil."
There was a flicker of something—amusement? Annoyance? Hard to tell with Trotsky.
"I've heard of you," he said, glancing at my men. "You're the one building a private army in the city."
"Among other things."
He gestured toward the street. "Lead the way."
And so I did.
As we walked toward the motorcade—two repurposed bakery delivery trucks and one stolen army car, all armored and painted with Bolshevik slogans—I let my mind wander for a moment. Lenin was probably pacing in his office, sharpening his metaphors and trying to decide whether Trotsky would be an asset or a rival. And I? I was escorting the man who would either become our greatest asset—or end up on my kill list.
The ride through Petrograd was slow and bumpy, our driver apparently selected for his ability to hit every pothole with philosophical intention. The city slid past us in shades of gray—factory smoke, battered buildings, exhausted people. Revolution wasn't glamorous. It was soot, sweat, and a faint smell of cabbage that lingered no matter how fast you drove.
Trotsky sat opposite me in the car, silent for the first few blocks, watching the street through the window like a man calculating the precise velocity required to leap from a moving vehicle.
"You ever been back here since '05?" I asked, trying to break the ice.
"Not since they arrested me," he replied, still watching the window. "I still remember the Tsar's guards dragging me out of the Soviet like I'd insulted their mothers."
I chuckled. "Well, now you're back. And the guards here all work for me so no dragging for you this time."
That got him to turn.
"You're quite proud of your militia."
"Someone has to be," I said with a shrug. "The Red Guards are passionate, but they're also drunk and mostly allergic to the concept of formation. So I filled the gap."
He narrowed his eyes. "And Lenin approves of this?"
"Lenin tolerates results. I provide results. He gives speeches. I make sure no one interrupts them with bullets."
He studied me for a beat. "And who are you again?"
"Mikheil Dzhugashvili," I said. "Stalin's younger twin. The better looking one, though he hates when I say that."
Trotsky blinked. "Stalin has a twin?"
"Surprise."
"Why have I never heard of you?"
"Because I've spent the last ten years not writing essays in exile," I replied with a grin. "When Stalin's wife Kato died back in 07, I stepped back. Raised Stalin's son Yakov while he ran off to organize revolts and get himself arrested and shot at repeatedly."
"And after that?"
"I moved to Petrograd. Figured if revolution ever came again, this is where the curtain would rise. I became a cop—don't judge me yet—and used the badge to gather contacts, stash weapons, build trust. I collected IOUs, favors, maps of the sewer systems, bribed officers, and built myself a very polite little arsenal under everyone's nose."
He blinked again, this time genuinely surprised.
"I wasn't ideological then," I admitted. "I was… preparing. I figured someone had to be the adult in the room when the world caught fire again."
He tilted his head slightly. "So you're not a true believer."
"Oh, I believe," I said. "I believe we're about to rip a thousand years of power out of the hands of the nobility, the clergy, the military, and every self-declared aristocrat who ever stole bread and called it divine right. I just also believe they won't let it go quietly."
"Now that," he said, "we agree on."
I nodded. "Which is why I've built more than just a militia. I'm pitching something bigger—Lenin's seen the outlines."
He raised a skeptical brow.
I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice.
"I'm proposing a tripartite security architecture. First, a Soviet Armed Forces—a real army, trained, standardized, with political commissars in every battalion to keep it loyal to the Party."
Trotsky didn't react. But he was listening now.
"Second," I continued, "the Revolutionary Guard Corps—my creation. Separate from the army. Smaller, elite, ideologically trained. Their job? Prevent Bonapartism. No general ever gets ideas above his station without my boys knocking."
"And the third?" Trotsky asked flatly.
"A National Guard, run under a new Committee for State Security—our own intelligence service. Internal policing. Surveillance. Counter-sedition. They watch the army and the Guard Corps. The Guard Corps watches them. It's a beautiful system of distrust. A web of paranoia so tight no one can stage a coup without tripping ten alarms and getting shot by at least two branches of the state."
Trotsky's lips twitched. "So… your solution to tyranny is a mutually assured police state?"
"Not tyranny," I said. "Redundancy. And yes, a little healthy fear."
He turned to the window again, voice low. "You know what this sounds like, don't you?"
"Of course. But it works. No single man can seize power if the moment he tries, two other institutions move to crush him. The system polices itself. No Bonaparte marching on the capital someday with a loyal army and a grudge."
Silence fell over the car like a guillotine blade.
We bumped over a loose cobblestone. Trotsky exhaled through his nose.
"You're dangerous."
"Only to dangerous people."
"I'm not sure if you're a genius or just a very charming psychopath."
"Why not both?"
Trotsky snorted despite himself. "I see why Lenin lets you hang around. You're useful. Ruthless. And you talk like a man who's read too much and killed just enough to make it work."
"I try."
The car rumbled to a stop.
Smolny loomed outside, gray and severe as ever.
Trotsky opened the door, then paused.
"You know," he said without turning, "if this revolution survives, it won't be because of your kill lists. It'll be because people still believe something better is possible."
I nodded. "And it's my job to shoot anyone who ruins that possibility."
He stepped out, coat flaring behind him.
I watched him go, whistling quietly—Friends Will Be Friends again, of course.
Disarming? Yes. Dangerous? Also yes.
But he wasn't on the list.
Yet.
May 18, 1917
Smolny Institute, Petrograd
Lenin's Office – Later that day
The three of them sat around a battered oak table that had once been used by tsarist nuns to grade catechism tests. Now it hosted the would-be architects of a new world order.
Lenin sat at the head, ink-stained fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes flicking between his guests like a chess master weighing which piece to sacrifice first.
Trotsky—fresh off the train and still brushing soot off his coat—sat opposite, posture relaxed but coiled with energy. He hadn't removed his glasses, even indoors, as if he expected at any moment to be shown a pamphlet in need of urgent criticism.
Stalin was seated off to the side, silent, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded like a snake waiting for someone to blink.
Mikheil was absent from the room—officially. But the entire building still hummed with his presence. His men were on the stairs, in the halls, even refilling samovars in the breakroom. Everyone knew he was watching. You didn't need to see a panther to know it was in the trees.
Lenin broke the silence.
"You've been briefed on the situation?"
"I've read what I could," Trotsky replied. "The newspapers are full of fantasy. The city is boiling. The Soviets are divided. The Provisional Government is inert. And you, Lenin, seem to have turned some of the working class into your own personal army."
"Not my army," Lenin corrected, "our army. The people's."
Trotsky smiled faintly. "With black uniforms, red helmets and skulls?"
Lenin didn't rise to the bait. "Mikheil's methods are unorthodox, yes. But effective. We are surrounded by wolves. I'm not ashamed of keeping a few guard dogs."
Stalin grunted in what may have been agreement—or gas.
Trotsky looked at both of them carefully. "You know I'm not a Bolshevik."
"Not yet," Stalin murmured.
Trotsky ignored him. "And I'm no Menshevik either. Martov and his faction are still debating whether the proletariat deserves shoes."
"Ah," Lenin said dryly, "the revolutionary centrists—forever waiting for the perfect storm while drowning in the rain."
"I prefer to act when it's strategic," Trotsky countered. "And right now, you are acting with speed I'd call... alarming."
Lenin raised an eyebrow. "You've come back to a revolution in motion. Caution is a luxury I cannot afford."
Trotsky leaned back. "And Mikheil? What is he, exactly? A revolutionary? A general? A warlord?"
Lenin chuckled softly. "A necessary evil."
"His pitch to me," Trotsky continued, "sounded less like socialism and more like a board meeting at a steel trust. Revolutionary Guard Corps. Redundancy layers. Counter-Bonapartist intelligence directorates. He speaks like he's building an empire of preemptive paranoia."
Stalin finally spoke again, low and even. "That's because he is. But it's our empire. A people's empire."
Trotsky looked between them. "And what happens when this system—this beautiful web of distrust—turns inward? What happens when the watchdogs eat the master?"
"That's why we educate them," Lenin replied, voice suddenly sharp. "That's why we lead. We don't trust the revolution. We control it."
Trotsky's eyes narrowed. "That's not Marxism. That's mechanized autocracy."
"And yet you're here," Lenin said. "You got off the train. You came to Smolny. You could have gone to the Mensheviks. Or home."
Trotsky didn't answer.
The silence was loud.
Then Lenin leaned forward, calm and deliberate.
"We need you, Leon. Your mind. Your ability to speak to the masses. To organize. To command. The army is crumbling. The Red Guards are scattered. Mikheil's men can police Petrograd, but we need to build a national force. A true Red Army. And you—"
He let the words hang.
"You're offering me command?"
"I'm offering you responsibility," Lenin said. "You believe in the revolution, even if you doubt our style. Prove your way is better. Help us build the structure. Before the Provisional Government collapses—or worse, clamps down."
Trotsky looked again at Stalin, who gave him nothing but a long, quiet stare.
"I'll think about it," Trotsky said.
"Don't think too long," Lenin replied. "The train to the future is moving. You can either ride it—or be left on the tracks."
Trotsky rose.
He turned at the door. "And Mikheil?"
"He's outside," Stalin said. "Probably chatting with some guardsmen."
"I like him," Trotsky said flatly. "Terrifies me. But I like him."
"That means it's working," Lenin said with a faint smile.
Outside Smolny
Moments Later
I was leaning against a column, humming a Queen tune—Under Pressure this time—when Trotsky stepped out.
"Everything good in there?" I asked, tossing him a cigarette.
Trotsky caught it but didn't light it. "Your brother doesn't talk much."
"Neither do snakes before they strike."
Trotsky raised an eyebrow. "You really are just going to keep building this private empire of yours?"
I grinned. "Not private. Just… selectively socialist."
A beat.
"You're scaring the Mensheviks," Trotsky said.
"I scare everyone," I replied cheerfully. "That's why no one fucks with Lenin."
Trotsky smirked despite himself. "Charming."
"I try."
As Trotsky walked away, I turned to Comrade Bear.
"Put Trotsky on the maybe list," he said.
"Maybe for what?"
"Maybe he'll save us. Maybe he'll try to kill us. Either way… we'll be ready. Have a man on him at all times."
May 18, 1917
Later that Night
Dzhugashvili Apartment, Petrograd
It was after dinner time, and the city had gone quiet—by Petrograd standards, anyway. No gunfire, no screaming. Just the occasional clatter of boots in the alley and the distant hum of revolution humming itself to sleep.
Inside our new, nicer apartment near Smolny, the gas lamps burned low. The wallpaper was peeling, the floor creaked with every step, and the kitchen smelled faintly of tea, gun oil, and cabbage stew that had tried to be heroic but died in the pot.
Mom was in the kitchen fixing us some dinner as me and Stalin had come back late.
I meanwhile sat at the table in my uniform shirt, sleeves rolled up, pouring myself a small glass of Georgian brandy—liberated from a Black Sea trader who'd needed "protection." Stalin sat across from me in a threadbare chair, still half-dressed, a cup filled with brandy dangling from his lips like a punctuation mark that never quite ended the sentence.
We were alone.
Mostly.
"I like him," I said, swirling the glass. "Trotsky. Sharp. Funny, in that dry 'I'm smarter than everyone else in the room and I know it' sort of way. Knows how to hold court. Good posture. Voice carries. The soldiers will eat it up."
Stalin said nothing, just watched the smoke rise.
"But," I continued, "he's also a threat. Ambitious. Charismatic. Dangerous."
A pause.
"Either he'll be my best friend," I said, sipping slowly, "or I'll have to murder him."
From the kitchen came a loud clatter of metal.
I blinked.
Stalin blinked.
We both turned.
Keke—our mother—stood in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing her nightgown and clutching the samovar like it had personally insulted the Virgin Mary.
"You will do what?" she said in a voice that belonged more in a church confessional than a Petrograd apartment at midnight.
"Oh, Mama," I said quickly, setting the glass down. "I was being metaphorical."
"Murder is not metaphor," she snapped, crossing herself with the vigor of a woman who'd seen too many sons get ideas above their morals. "You are not Cain! You are baptized!"
"Yes, yes, we've all been baptized," Stalin muttered, exhaling smoke.
"Do not speak of killing, especially not of other Christians!" she shouted. "You will go to hell!"
"He's not even a Christian," I muttered. "He's a jew." I said in a tone what would make Patrick Bateman say, "cool it with the anti semitic remarks."
That earned me a wooden spoon from the counter, hurled like a divine missile. I ducked.
Then another voice chimed in—gentler, but just as damning.
"Mikheil," said Aleksandra, stepping into view from the bedroom in her house robe. Her hair was braided neatly. She looked tired, disappointed, and terrifying in that soft, domestic way that could kill a man without leaving a bruise.
"You're talking about killing people in front of your mother," she said.
"I wasn't trying to."
"You never try. It just… happens. Like your gun collection in the old apartment?"
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "It was just theoretical. You don't plan a revolution without a few contingencies."
"Contingencies shouldn't include murder," she said sternly. "You have children. What will you tell Iosif? 'Papa builds soup kitchens and occasionally assassinates political rivals'?"
"...Yes, what about it?"
She folded her arms. "This is not normal."
"I'm not normal, Aleksandra. We're not normal. We live in a city where half the people are starving and the other half are armed. I'm basically one of the strongest warlords here. A warlord trying to build order out of a collapsed empire. Sometimes that means being unpleasant."
"Mikheil," Keke interrupted, pointing at me with righteous fury, "if I hear you speak of murder again, I will drag you to church myself and have you confess it to Father Giorgi."
"He's been dead since 1904."
"Then I will dig him up!"
I glanced at Stalin. He was chuckling, the bastard.
"Oh don't look so smug," I said to him. "Last week you said you wanted to strangle Petrov from the Vyborg red guards."
"I said it quietly," he replied. "In confidence. Like a civilized revolutionary."
Aleksandra sighed. Keke muttered prayers under her breath and began pacing.
I stood, stretched, and walked to the cabinet, pulling out another glass. "Alright. Fine. I will not murder Trotsky. Yet. Let's see how he does first."
Keke groaned loudly and stormed back to the kitchen, muttering something in Georgian about her sons being wolves raised in a den of lunatics.
Aleksandra lingered a moment longer, looking at me with that exhausted, patient love only wives and saints are capable of.
"Just come to bed soon," she said softly. "Iosif keeps waking up. He misses you."
My smirk faded. I nodded.
She left.
Stalin leaned back in his chair, blew out a long stream of smoke, and said, "You really do terrify people."
"Only the ones who should be terrified."
"Trotsky?"
I finished my drink. "We'll see. I had bear send a man to keep an eye on him. The bastard won't be able to take a shit without us knowing about it."