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

[LysanderArgent]

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

 

[Xodarap]

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

Does Germany ask for Kiev perhaps St Petersburg?

 

[Alenco98]

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

Does Germany ask for Kiev perhaps St Petersburg?

Click to shrink...

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

 

[Siryapsalot]

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

 

[Alenco98]

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

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

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

The Revolutionary Guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 26, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia
Afternoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------

Later that night
Smolny Institute
Lenin's office

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[George Mathew]

Awesome work man. Keep it up.

 

[menace4time678]

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

 

[Xodarap]

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

 

[George Mathew]

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

 

[Arrowman]

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