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

[Fellow Human]

I need a different perspective of Mikail from the angle of other nations or from the opposite side or from the angle of the people.

Click to shrink...

That will come, the problem in the Mussolini fic was it was repetitive bunch of talks going welp we can't do anything about that bastard.

The problem now is it seems like the central commitee is not doing anything, everything is done by SI. We know it isn't so, though he clearly is the most important, but there is a lack of perspective as it's only the SI talking and others reacting.

There's also a couple missing scenes. The Kornilev's defeat was just implied, never shown or explained, felt like I missed a chap.
Then the falling out with Trostsky. One chapter MC says to Stalin, we'll be great friends or I'll have to kill him. The next chap, he keeps dissing him in the commitee meetings.

It's implied that Trotsky proved too ideological and inflexible, but there wasn't a transition, or MC talking with Stalin where they decided to go against Trotsky.

 

[Alenco98]

"Any of you have any last words? No? Come now, don't be shy—this is the part where you beg for God's mercy or mine, though I'll admit I've had none for a long time. Would you like a cigarette before you meet your virgins in paradise? I hear Afghan tobacco is quite good for calming the nerves before I turn your skull into a Picasso painting. No takers? What about an imam to bless you? I can fetch one if you insist. I've got one on retainer these days—very cost-effective, really. I pay him by the corpse. Anyone? Anyone at all?"

— General Mikheil Jugashvili addressing a group of bound Saqqawist rebels in Charikar, Afghanistan, moments before personally executing them, January 16, 1929.

-----

January 7, 1918
Finland Station
Petrograd, Russia

The train gave that low metallic groan, the kind it makes before it decides to haul several dozen tons of steel and men across a frozen country. Outside, steam hissed in lazy bursts from the engine, wrapping itself around the platform like cigarette smoke from a giant's mouth.

I lit another cigarette. Aleksandra would have hated it — she used to wave her hands in front of her face and mutter about how the smell clung to people that smoked it. Funny thing is, I hated it too. Always did. My last life taught me what smoking does to your lungs, and it's not exactly a secret in this one either. That's why I tried to stop Joe from lighting up in my apartment back then. That's why I never touched them.

But now? What's the point?
The one person I'd kept myself clean for was in the ground, in a box, surrounded by frozen dirt.

Keke was still alive. Joe was still alive. The kids were still alive. But without Aleksandra, it was like someone had taken the part of me that cared and tossed it off a cliff. Everything since her death felt like an echo.

In front of me, the train loomed — the one that would carry me to Moscow. More raids. More purges. More… fun, if you could call it that.

The last six days had been mechanical. Wake up. Eat something tasteless. Round up the condemned. Shoot them. Spend the evening with the family — enough to keep them from thinking I'd gone completely mad with grief which I clearly was — then back to work. No breaks. No soft edges. Just rinse, repeat.

Yesterday had been more of the same. Church in the morning, executions in the afternoon, dinner in the evening. The Lord's work and my work — neatly compartmentalized.

Today was different. Today was her funeral. Father Patruchev led it, his voice even but his eyes looking anywhere but at me. The rest of my family stood together, bundled against the cold, while the wind blew snow over her grave as if the world was in a hurry to forget her.

I didn't cry — not like Joe had for Kato years ago, when the man jumped into her grave like he was trying to sink into the earth and die with her. My grief had already been burned into something else. Something harder.

Now, it was time to leave. I'd hugged the kids at Smolny. Kissed Keke on the cheek. Told them all I loved them in that voice that pretends it's steady. Then I left.

Only Joe and Aleksander came to see me off. I hugged them both — hard enough that they'd remember it. "Don't get yourselves killed while I'm gone," I told them. "Bulletproof vests and helmets. Guards at all times. And make sure Keke and the kids wear theirs too. I don't care if they complain — they comply. Make sure Yagoda keeps them safe, or I'll hang him with his entrails."

Joe just nodded, grim and silent. Aleksander gave me his usual verbal assurance: "I'll make sure they're always protected."

I turned toward Tukachevsky, who was already by the carriage steps, his posture screaming discipline. I climbed aboard and headed straight to my quarters. I'd be sharing the space with him and the rest of my staff — not that it mattered.

I sat on the cot, reached into my coat, and pulled out the wedding photo. The two of us smiling, hands clasped, the world still open in front of us. A few tears threatened, but I swallowed them back.

Couldn't look weak. Not here. Not now. I had thousands to kill. I couldn't afford it.

---

January 16, 1918
Moscow Nikolayevsky Railway Station
Moscow, Russia

I was the last one to step off the train, partly for dramatic effect, partly because I didn't trust the station crowd not to be full of knife-wielding SR lunatics, and partly because I'd been making sure my bulletproof vest was sitting comfortably under my coat. My wife's photograph rested against my ribs in the inner pocket—a reminder of her, it was all I had left. Everyone else but my family was nothing but numbers to me now.

The platform stank of wet wool, coal smoke, and the faint moral decay that comes from centuries of autocracy followed by three years of war. I scanned the crowd and found Tukachevsky, talking to some thin, fox-eyed fellow in a cap that looked like it had seen too many meetings and not enough laundry.

"Tukachevsky," I called, stepping over a puddle of melted snow that looked suspiciously red in the morning light. "Who's this?"

The stranger straightened. "Grigory Aleksandrovich Usievich. I take it you're Commander Jugashvili?"

"I am," I replied. He nodded, taking in my appearance the way one might size up a suspicious meat pie.

"You're shorter than I expected."

"Doesn't prevent me from murdering my enemies," I said, shrugging. My tone was casual; theirs wasn't. I gestured, and one of my men—bless him—tossed me a rifle. I caught it without looking, because what's the point of building a reputation if you can't punctuate it with theatrical nonsense? "Did Dzerzhinsky's men deliver the lists to you? Are the local Red Guards ready?"

"They are," Usievich said slowly, like each word had to be weighed for its possible role in a future tribunal. "I admit, though, comrade… it seems rather excessive, don't you think?"

"Excessive?" I repeated, widening my eyes as if he'd just told me water was wet. "Comrade, I am a member of the Central Committee—same as Lenin, same as Trotsky, same as my brother Stalin. An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. The SRs have made it perfectly clear they'll keep trying. Either we kill them all, or they'll overthrow us and hand us gift-wrapped to the reactionaries. Your hesitation is touching, but frankly, the graveyard is full of men who respected proportionality."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I still think it's a bad idea."

"And I respect your opinion," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Unfortunately, respecting it is all I'll be doing with it. Now—status of the Left SRs?"

Usievich's expression was the same one you'd see on a man about to hand over bad news to someone with a reputation for shooting messengers.

"They know you're here," he said flatly. "Your little Petrograd purge… word spread before you even got halfway. Most of their leadership in Moscow's already gone underground. We've identified about a dozen safe houses—some confirmed, some just suspected—but they're moving between them constantly. They've stopped holding meetings, no more public agitation, no speeches, no leaflets. When they move, they move in twos and threes, and they're armed. If you want to find them now, it's house-to-house work."

I tilted my head, I was almost amused. "Any arrests so far?"

"A few," Usievich admitted. "A dozen local organizers, both grabbed on the street. We've got them in holding. The rest? We've been sweeping apartments and warehouses since yesterday, but they're spooked. Even their rank-and-file are ditching papers and weapons. They know the second we catch them with something, they're done for."

I couldn't help but grin. Finally, a challenge. Something to point the gun at besides my own mouth when I felt particularly sjitty.

"They're running? Good," I said, flicking ash onto the slush. "Makes the hunt more interesting. I didn't come all the way from Petrograd for a polite conversation."

I patted the stock of my rifle like a loyal dog. "I've got five thousand Revolutionary Guards with me — and not the parade-ground kind. These are the ones who smile while they're bayoneting someone. We'll dig in here, recruit more men, help your men spread our net across the whole city."

I stepped closer to Usievich, lowering my voice like I was about to share a dinner recipe. "Immediate curfew. Anyone caught outside after dusk officially is to be seized, but in reality, I want your men to tail them. Let's see who they meet, where they sleep, what they hide. Safehouses first, arrests second. We're not just plucking weeds here, we're burning the field."

I could see he didn't like where this was going, which only made me smile wider. "The ones we've already got in holding? We start with them. Today. I want to begin with a bang. Something Moscow will tell their grandchildren about, if they live long enough to have grandchildren. I'll personally put them down — clean, deliberate, in full view. Makes the rest of the Bolsheviks safer, too. If they want revenge, they'll come for me instead of everyone else. I'm generous like that."

I looked past him, toward the skyline, the red walls of the Kremlin glaring through the winter haze. "Clear out the space outside the Kremlin. I want them kneeling there before sunset. Get me a priest — last rites for the condemned, or a cigarette if they want, a courtesy they denied my wife."

I turned away, lighting another cigarette, already picturing the smoke curling through the frigid air as the shots echoed off the Kremlin's stones. Aleksandra would have hated the smell. I'd make sure the priests stood close enough to taste it.

January 16, 1918
Right outside the Kremlin
Moscow, Russia

The sun was bleeding into the horizon, casting long red shadows over the cobblestones. Appropriate, I thought — Moscow's sky was doing half my propaganda work for me.

A dozen of them stood in a neat line, hands bound, faces somewhere between pale terror and defiant stupidity. Left SRs, Moscow's finest pests. The crowd had been herded into place, shoulder to shoulder, craning for a view like this was the Tsar's coronation.

I stepped forward, my boots crunching on the frost, and held my hands behind my back like a man greeting guests at a formal dinner.

"Comrades," I said, my voice carrying over the cold air, "you've all been given the same choice. A priest, or a cigarette. I recommend both if you're superstitious — spiritual insurance and something to take the edge off."

One or two muttered cigarettes. Most asked for the priest. Not Father Sergey this time, he was back in Petrograd, someone needed to run religious affairs after all— today I had a local one, older, with a face that said he'd been watching men walk to their deaths since before I was born. He went down the line, muttering prayers and making the sign of the cross.

I waited until he stepped back, then drew my pistol. No speeches now. One step forward, one shot each. The sound cracked against the Kremlin walls like a drumbeat, the bodies dropping in neat succession. I took my time, no rush — they'd waited their whole lives for this moment, whether they knew it or not.

By the last shot, the square was so quiet you could hear the brass casing roll on the stone.

I turned to the crowd, my breath visible in the fading light. "As of this moment," I said evenly, "membership in the Left Socialist-Revolutionary Party is a capital offense. You have one day — twenty-four hours — to come forward, renounce your allegiance, and confess your associates. After that, you will be hunted down and executed without exception."

I let the silence hang before continuing. "A curfew is now in effect. After dark, no one leaves their home without a permit. If you're caught without one, you will be detained and questioned. Resist, or act suspiciously, and you'll meet the same fate you've just witnessed. And I'll personally shoot you."

The priest crossed himself again. The crowd didn't move. Good — fear freezes people in place.

I holstered my pistol and stepped over a corpse on my way back toward the Kremlin gates, the last light of day dying behind me.

January 16, 1918
Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
Night time

The Kremlin was quiet in that way only a fortress can be — thick walls keeping the cold out but letting the silence in. My quarters were barely warm, the kind of room where a man could hear his own thoughts whether he wanted to or not.

I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the photograph from my coat pocket. Aleksandra on our wedding day — smiling like she had no idea she'd eventually marry a man who'd become the executioner of Moscow. I kissed the photo, slowly, like it might kiss back if I did it just right.

"Evening, Sashiko," I murmured, pretending the still air between us was her voice answering back. "How was your day? Mine? Oh, you know… a bit of light killing, some administrative work, a priest… the usual."

I laughed at my own joke, the kind of laugh that dies halfway out of your mouth and leaves a bad taste. "You would've told me to stop smoking. And I would've done it if you hadn't died."

I leaned the photo against my pillow and lay down beside it, like we were back in our old room in Smolny. "They all think I'm doing this for the Revolution," I whispered. "But it's really for you. Every bullet is a love letter written in gunpowder. And the best part? It scares the hell out of them. Keeps the rest alive. Keeps Joe alive. Keeps the kids alive. Keeps Keke alive." I swallowed. "But it doesn't keep you alive, does it?"

For a moment, I imagined she was there — warm beside me, her hair brushing my cheek. But I knew better. The bed was cold. The photo didn't move.

"You know, Sashiko… sometimes I hope an assassin gets me quick. Just one clean shot, and I'll be back with you. I'll stop smoking—we can make love everyday. I'll sing you those stupid songs you love, massage your back, hold you tightly in my arms and never let you go again. But not yet. There's still work. Still lists to check. There's still thousands that need to die. Maybe if there is a heaven and hell, you're probably in heaven. And lets be honest, given my track record, I doubt I'd ever join you, even if I took last rites. So maybe that day was the last time we saw each other." I sighed then looked up at the ceiling.

I stayed like that until the silence pressed so hard against me it cracked something inside. Then it came — not the clean sob of a grieving widower, but the uneven, ugly crying of a man who's been killing too much and sleeping too little. The kind you try to smother into the pillow so the guards outside don't hear.

Eventually, the tears stopped. I fell asleep with the photograph still in my hand, my face turned toward her, half-expecting her to still be there when I woke up.

But she wouldn't be.

Ever again.

 

[a guy1013]

Author is super motivated hope they don't burn out too soon and ouch MC lost his waifu

 

[Siryapsalot]

DAMN IT!!!!!!!!????????? we all know the Mikheil crashout but what about Aleksander man lost both his baby sisters Kato dying fine unavoidable but Aleksandra nah he probably doesn't give two shits about that dude's entire family getting merked.

Author is super motivated hope they don't burn out too soon and ouch MC lost his waifu

Click to shrink...

Trust me bro his crazy click on his profile and ignore this one look at his last two stories the completed one is 330k words and he only started it in April the other 140k JUNE 1ST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!