Reunion
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Alenco98
Not too sore, are you?
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Statement from the office of the Grand Mufti of the Soviet Union
Declaration of Jihad against Nazi Germany
Date of release: June 22, 1941
In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful
"Permission [to fight] has been given to those who are being fought, because they were wronged. And indeed, Allah is capable of granting them victory." (Qur'an 22:39)
Truthful is Allah, the Exalted, the Great.
Today, the fascist forces of Nazi Germany have launched an unprovoked and treacherous invasion against our homeland, violating solemn agreements and revealing, beyond all doubt, the perfidious and aggressive nature of their regime. Their actions are not merely an act of war against the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics—they are an assault upon justice, upon dignity, and upon the lives and faith of millions.
In this hour of trial, we address all Muslims of the Soviet Union—men and women, young and old, workers, peasants, and soldiers alike. The time has come to rise in defense of your land, your people, and your faith. This is not a war of conquest; it is a war of defense against oppression, a struggle against tyranny, and a sacred duty placed upon those who have been wronged.
"Fight in the way of Allah those who fight you, but do not transgress. Indeed, Allah does not love the transgressors." (Qur'an 2:190)
Let it be known: to defend one's homeland against aggression is not only a civic duty, but a moral obligation. The fascist invader brings with him destruction, enslavement, and the annihilation of entire peoples. To resist him is to stand on the side of justice; to falter in this duty is to abandon both your fellow citizens and your responsibilities before Allah.
We call upon all believers to take up this struggle with unwavering resolve. Let every village, every city, every field, and every factory become a bastion of resistance. Let the unity of the Soviet people—across nations, languages, and beliefs—be the unbreakable shield that repels the invader. In this unity lies our strength; in our collective struggle lies our victory.
"O you who have believed, persevere and endure and remain stationed and fear Allah that you may be successful." (Qur'an 3:200)
Know this: betrayal in this moment—whether through desertion, defection, or collaboration with the enemy—is not merely a crime against the state. It is a grave moral failing, a violation of trust, and a betrayal of the innocent lives placed in your care. To abandon the struggle now is to turn away from justice, to forsake the oppressed, and to stand in opposition to the very principles that demand resistance against tyranny.
Stand firm. Fight with discipline, with courage, and with faith. Let your actions reflect both the strength of your belief and the determination of a people who refuse to be broken.
In this struggle, the cause of defending the motherland aligns with the broader struggle against exploitation and oppression. The enemies we face seek not only to conquer territory, but to extinguish the progress and liberation achieved through the sacrifices of the working masses. To resist them is to defend not only your homes, but the future of all oppressed peoples.
Glory to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
Long live the unity of its peoples.
Long live the struggle against fascism and oppression.
Hail Marx.
Hail Lenin.
Hail Stalin.
---------------------
December 10, 1921
Nikolayevsky Railway Station
Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
Saturday night. In my old life, that would've meant something simple, something human—go out with friends, grab drinks, laugh about nothing, maybe make bad decisions that didn't end with reports filed with total bodycounts. A normal weekend.
Unfortunately, I wasn't a normal person anymore. And that life—the one where the worst consequence was a hangover—was gone.
The crowd pouring out of the train made that painfully clear. Not metaphorically—literally. They parted around me like water around a rock, except rocks don't come with a dozen armed guards and a reputation for signing death warrants between meals and sometimes just carrying out the death sentences himself. Even with one good eye, I could read them easily. Fear first. Always fear. Anger in some of them, sure—statistically speaking, I'd probably shot or ordered the shooting of someone they knew. Disgust, too. But all of it collapsed into fear the moment they got close enough. It always did.
I watched them avoid my gaze, quickening their pace, heads down. I wondered, not for the first time, if Maria would've looked at me the same way if she had lived long enough to see what I'd become. I remembered her slapping my hand away. The look on her face. Her walking away. Entering Fittinghoff. Then the gunfire.
Always the gunfire.
It didn't hurt as much anymore. That was the unsettling part. The rage that used to sit in my chest like a live wire had dulled, worn down into something quieter, colder. Even grief had… softened. Not gone—never gone—but manageable.
Worse, if anything, thinking about Elsa had a way of shutting it all off. Like flipping a switch. I felt… normal. And every time that happened, it felt like I was betraying Maria all over again.
"Emotional treason," I muttered under my breath. "How lovely."
I forced myself to focus, scanning the crowd again. My agents had been very clear—she'd be arriving today. One of the perks of being one of the most powerful men in the country: you didn't have to guess when people showed up. You knew.
More passengers spilled out, more careful avoidance, more space carved out around me like I carried some kind of contagious disease.
Then I saw her.
Same dress. The one with the red cross stitched onto it. Of course she wore it. Of course she did. If there was a uniform for moral superiority, she'd be issued it in bulk.
"Of course she'd wear that," I muttered, almost amused.
I turned slightly toward Patruchev, who I officially promoted to handle my personal security like it was a sacred duty. "The car is ready, right?"
"Yes, Comrade Jugashvili."
"Good."
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. She noticed me after a moment and stopped, standing there like she always did—composed, steady, like the chaos around her had to ask permission before it could touch her.
"Hey, Elsa," I said, stopping a few steps away.
For a brief second, I couldn't help but appreciate the absurdity of it. Me—a one-eyed, one-handed son of a cobbler who had somehow clawed his way into the upper echelons of power through violence, luck, and sheer refusal to die. Her—a Swedish aristocrat's daughter, a humanitarian, refined in ways I couldn't fake if I tried. If this were 2025, she'd probably have half a million followers on Instagram and people writing essays about her looks. I'd be the guy in the comments pretending I hadn't fallen for her.
Unfortunately, I had falling for her. And, predictably, she didn't feel the same.
Lovely.
"You look different," she said.
I raised my arm slightly, angling the blade where my hand used to be. "I'm guessing the sword attached to the missing limb is the main highlight?" I waved it a little, just enough to be theatrical. "Don't worry. It's mostly decorative. I haven't killed anyone with it." I paused, then added, "So far."
"So far, yes. Typical."
Blunt. Cold. Familiar.
"What can I say?" I shrugged lightly. "I have a bit of a… tendency toward violence."
"That's the biggest understatement I've heard in a long time."
I laughed, genuinely this time. "God, I missed this." I ran a hand through my hair, shaking my head. "You have no idea what it's like being surrounded by people who are terrified to tell you the truth. Every conversation feels like a performance. It's exhausting. Like pulling teeth, except the teeth are lying to you while you're doing it."
"Mika," she said, cutting through it cleanly, "I'm not here for pleasantries. I've already lost enough time attending to my family. Necessary, yes—but people are still suffering. There are still those in need of aid." Her eyes held mine, steady and unyielding. "Please. Lead the way."
There it was. No small talk. No indulgence. Just purpose.
I nodded once. "Fine. Follow me." I turned, gesturing toward the exit. "I've had Bullitt working out of the Kremlin. He's still here. You'll want to speak with him."
"Thank you."
I started walking, the guards falling in around us like clockwork, the crowd parting once again as we moved through it. Same fear. Same silence.
Except now, for the first time in a while, it didn't feel quite as suffocating.
Which was probably a bad sign.
---------------------
December 10, 1921
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
We walked through the halls of the Kremlin, the sound of our footsteps echoing against polished stone and high ceilings that had seen emperors, ministers, and now—somehow—us. The lower floors of the Grand Kremlin Palace always felt different from the upper ones. Less personal. More… functional. Like the building itself knew this was where things got done, where decisions were translated into action, where paperwork turned into consequences for people who would never set foot in these halls.
Elsa walked beside me, steady as ever, her pace measured, her eyes taking everything in without lingering too long on any one detail. She didn't gawk like most foreigners did. No fascination, no awe. Just quiet assessment, like she was already figuring out how to use the space rather than admire it. Practical. Efficient. Infuriatingly admirable.
"Try not to look too impressed," I said lightly as we turned a corner. "It'll ruin our reputation as barbaric revolutionaries."
"I'm not impressed," she replied without missing a beat.
"Good," I nodded. "Consistency is important."
We reached the corridor where Bullitt had been set up—our American guest, diplomat, fixer, whatever label we were using this week. I stopped in front of the doors to his apartments and knocked twice.
"Bullitt, it's Jugashvili."
A moment passed, then footsteps approached from the other side. The door opened, and there he was—William Bullitt, looking exactly like a man who had somehow found himself operating out of the Kremlin and was still trying to decide whether that was impressive or deeply concerning.
"Ah, Jugashvili," he said, then his eyes shifted past me to Elsa. There was a brief pause, the kind where recognition is trying to catch up with memory. "And…" He looked at her more closely, then it clicked. "Mrs. Brändström? You're back."
"I am," she said simply.
No dramatics. No explanation. Just fact.
"Right," I cut in, clapping my hands together once, more out of habit than necessity. "Business as usual, then. William, Elsa's back. She'll be helping you coordinate the distribution of aid—same as before she left. Think of it as an upgrade. Less chaos, more results."
Bullitt nodded slowly, still looking at her, clearly recalibrating whatever system he had in his head. "That would be… helpful."
"Helpful," I repeated with a faint smirk. "That's one way to put it. I'm sure you two know my usual policy. If you or your men run into any problems—logistics, local officials, bandits, overly enthusiastic Party members—call me. I'll handle it."
That last part wasn't a suggestion. Bullitt understood that.
I turned slightly toward Elsa. "As for you," I continued, gesturing vaguely upward, "there are empty apartments on the upper floors of the palace. That's where I live. Joe too. The rest of the family. You'll be staying there."
She raised an eyebrow, just slightly. Not objection, not quite acceptance—just acknowledgment.
"Convenient," she said.
"Efficient," I corrected. "Everything important is within walking distance. Including me, which I'm sure you're thrilled about."
She didn't respond to that. Probably for the best.
"Oh," I added, as if remembering something trivial instead of deliberately orchestrating proximity, "Elsa, come to my quarters later tonight. There's something I need to show you. You're the only one I feel I can trust with this."
Bullitt blinked once, clearly not expecting that. Elsa, on the other hand, just looked at me, measuring.
"What exactly do you want to show me?" she asked.
"Something that could change everything," I said, waving it off. "Once you're settled in, come immediately."
Elsa held my gaze for a moment longer, then gave a small nod. "Fine, I'll come."
--------------------------------
Later that night
She sat across from him, reading what he'd wrote carefully. The lamplight caught the edges of the papers in her hands, she read line by line with the same quiet intensity she had once given to medical reports, prisoner lists, and aid inventories. There was no rush in her movements, no visible reaction at first—only the slow turning of pages, the occasional pause as her eyes lingered on a passage, then continued. If Mika was expecting immediate outrage or approval, she swore he would get neither from her.
By the time she reached the end of the first chapter, she felt a strange mixture of revulsion and reluctant fascination. He had done it. He had actually sat down and catalogued the violence—coldly, methodically, almost clinically—and then turned it into argument. Not moral repentance, not in the way an ordinary man might repent, but something more disturbing: a butcher's realization that the knife had been used inefficiently. He was not condemning the terror because it was cruel. He was condemning it because it was wasteful, counterproductive, politically stupid. And yet, for all its ugliness, she could not deny the force of what he was saying. He was right about the suffering. Right about the martyrdom. Right about the way persecution hardened faith instead of erasing it.
That was the infuriating part.
She turned another page.
His tone shifted there, from summary to theory, from inventory to justification, and Elsa could almost hear his voice in every line—dry, sardonic, irreverent, far too pleased with his own cleverness. She disliked that she could hear it. She disliked even more that parts of it were genuinely persuasive. He had read carefully, more carefully than she would have expected from a man who so often insisted he cared little for doctrine. Marx, Scripture, history, practical administration—he had woven them together with unnerving precision. Not like a scholar writing toward truth, but like a tactician assembling a bridge over a minefield.
She reached the section on reconciliation and had to lower the pages for a moment.
The fire in the room crackled softly. Across from her, somewhere just beyond the edge of her vision, Mika was there—watching, no doubt, pretending not to watch. She did not look at him yet. She was not ready to.
Because now she saw what it really was.
Not tolerance.
Not mercy.
Not even coexistence.
It was subjugation made to sound civilized.
He did not want to spare religion. He wanted to harness it. Collar it. Feed it just enough to keep it obedient and useful. The churches would remain open, but on terms dictated by the state. Priests would live, but only so long as they served. Faith itself would be permitted to breathe, but only through lungs he intended to regulate.
Elsa felt a chill crawl through her, though the room was warm.
It was brilliant.
And it was monstrous.
That was Mika in essence, she thought. Always at his most frightening when he was calm, lucid, and constructive. It would have been easier—so much easier—if he were merely a brute. If all he understood was force. But he wasn't, which was so much worse for the people of this country.
By the time she reached the final section, where he proposed turning religion itself into a weapon against the bourgeoisie, Elsa nearly laughed—but the sound died before it could leave her throat. There was something absurd about it, something almost blasphemously theatrical. A Bolshevik security chief quoting Jesus in order to build a revolutionary theology. In another man, it might have sounded ridiculous. In Mika, it sounded possible.
She hated that too.
If the alternative was more shootings, more burnings, more villages turned against the state, then yes—this would save lives. It would save priests. It would save believers. It would save peasants from being forced to choose between their faith and their survival. It would spare mothers and children from one more pointless campaign of ideological violence.
And that made it, perhaps, the worst kind of document. Not one that was merely evil, and not one that was merely good, but one that made evil useful in the service of good.
She looked up then.
Her eyes settled on him at last, and for a moment she said nothing. There was no admiration in her face, but neither was there simple disgust. It was something more complicated, more exhausted. The look of a woman who had just seen, laid out in full, the workings of a mind she had long feared was too sharp for its own soul.
"You wrote this," she said quietly.
It was not a question. It was an accusation.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the pages. "Of course you did." She exhaled, almost through her nose, and glanced back down at the manuscript as if it had offended her personally. "It's thorough. Persuasive in places." Then she lifted her eyes again, and this time there was steel in them. "And I think that may be the most disturbing thing about it."
She set the pages down with care, too much care, as though she feared tearing them would somehow weaken her own composure.
"You're not arguing for peace," she said. "You're arguing for control. More elegant control, perhaps. Less wasteful. Less openly barbaric. But control all the same." Her voice remained calm, though the disappointment in it cut more sharply than anger might have. "You don't want to end the degradation of faith. You want to make it useful."
She paused, and in that pause there was something like sorrow.
"But…" She almost seemed to resent the word as it left her mouth. "It would save people."
There it was. The concession. Small, bitter, unavoidable.
Elsa looked away from him then, toward the fire, as though it were easier to address the flames than the man himself. "I don't know what unsettles me more," she said softly, "that you're right about so much of it… or that you arrived at it for reasons so utterly unlike mine."
When she finally looked back, her expression had steadied again. She was composed. Controlled. But she no longer looked merely repulsed. She looked burdened.
"This will help you," she said. "It will make you sound measured. Reasonable. Necessary." Her lips pressed together faintly. "And it will probably help a great many innocent people."
She let that sit between them.
"Which means," she finished, with quiet bitterness, "that I can't even tell you not to publish it."
Mika didn't answer her immediately.
He watched her instead, the way a man watches a doctor read his diagnosis—half-curious, half-amused, already aware of the verdict but still interested in how it would be delivered. When she finished, when that last sentence settled between them—I can't even tell you not to publish it—he let out a quiet breath through his nose, something between a chuckle and a sigh, then leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his thumb.
"Yeah," he said finally. "That's about the reaction I was expecting. Maybe a little less polite, but you're Swedish, so I'll take what I can get."
He reached over, pulled the manuscript back toward himself, flipping a few pages idly like a man reviewing his own sins. "You're right, by the way. It's not about peace. Not really. It's about control. Efficient control." He glanced up at her, one eye sharp despite the casual tone. "But efficient control means fewer corpses. That's the part I care about. Everything else is just… packaging."
He tapped the top page with his finger, then went quiet for a second, like he was deciding whether to say the next part.
"There's a party congress next March," he said, almost offhand. "Eleventh Congress. Big one. And—" he paused, smirking faintly, "—apparently I've been promoted from resident butcher to 'politically useful butcher.' My name's on the list. If everything goes well, I'll be a candidate member of the Central Committee."
He watched her reaction carefully this time.
"This," he lifted the manuscript slightly, "is going to be my acceptance speech."
He leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, tone shifting—not softer, not exactly serious either, but something closer to honest.
"I'm not doing it because I suddenly found God, Elsa. Or because I had a moral awakening and decided to stop being a terrible person. Let's not kid ourselves." A faint, humorless smile tugged at his mouth. "I'm doing it because I'm tired."
She didn't interrupt, so he kept going.
"I went to church with my mother a few months ago. Like I always do on Sundays. Quiet, peaceful, a few hours minutes where nobody's screaming, nobody's lying, nobody's asking me to sign something that ends with someone dead. It's nice." He exhaled slowly. "And outside? Komsomol kids. Teenagers. Standing at the entrance like little gatekeepers of the revolution, harassing people, quoting pamphlets they barely understand, trying to turn old women away from prayer."
His jaw tightened slightly at the memory, though his tone stayed conversational.
"I asked where their cell leader was. They pointed me to some kid—what, sixteen? Seventeen? Couldn't even say his own name without stuttering. And he starts reciting party doctrine to me like he's reading from a script." Mika gave a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. "So I asked him where in Marx it says we should harass churchgoers. Told him if he could quote it, I'd personally shoot everyone inside. Men, women, children. Really sell the point, you know?"
He glanced at her, gauging her reaction, then continued anyway.
"He couldn't answer. Of course he couldn't. So I pulled my gun on him and started counting. Ten seconds to clear out or I'd redecorate the cathedral steps with his brains." He leaned back again, shaking his head slightly. "They left. Quickly."
A pause.
Then, quieter:
"And I stood there thinking… I'm going to end up shooting a teenager one of these days. Not because he's dangerous. Not because he's a counterrevolutionary. But because he's annoying, and indoctrinated, and in my way."
He let that sit for a moment, then gave a small, dry chuckle.
"And I'd really prefer not to have that on my conscience. God knows I have enough blood in my hands these days. I'm tired."
He gestured toward the manuscript.
"So this? This is me trying to fix that. Not out of kindness. Not out of ideology. Out of convenience. If I can get the Party to stop this nonsense at the top, then I don't have to keep threatening to execute children every time I want a few hours of peace in a church."
His tone lightened slightly again, slipping back into that dark, almost flippant humor.
"Think of it as administrative reform. Streamlining brutality. Less micromanagement on my end."
He watched her for a second, then added, more quietly:
"And yes… it'll save people. That too. Bonus."
Another pause, longer this time.
"I'm not trying to be a good man, Elsa. I'm trying to build a system where I don't have to be the worst version of myself every single day just to keep things functioning. Because I am tired."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her expression.
"So," he finished, voice settling back into something almost conversational again, "now that you know the deeply noble, incredibly inspiring reason behind all of this…" a faint smirk returned, "are you going to tell me I'm insane, or just that I'm efficient?"
Elsa didn't answer right away.
She watched him—really watched him this time, not the caricature of him, not the butcher everyone whispered about, not even the man who had written the pamphlet—but the person sitting in front of her, speaking so casually about things that should never be spoken casually. There was something almost surreal about it, the way he could pivot from joking about execution to talking about reform in the same breath, as if both belonged naturally in the same conversation.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, measured.
"I don't think you're insane."
That alone would have been surprising enough, but she didn't stop there.
"I think you're very… clear about what you are." She folded her hands in her lap, her gaze steady, unflinching. "And I think that's what makes you dangerous."
She glanced briefly at the manuscript, then back at him. "Most men like you justify themselves with ideals. They convince themselves they're righteous, or necessary, or chosen. You don't do that. You don't pretend any of this is good." Her lips pressed together faintly. "You just… decide it's useful."
There was no admiration in her tone. But there was no denial either.
"And now you're trying to make something less destructive out of that," she continued. "Not because you've changed, but because you're tired of the consequences." A small pause. "That's not insanity. That's… adaptation."
She exhaled slowly, leaning back just slightly in her chair, as if putting a fraction of distance between herself and everything he had just said.
"But don't expect me to find it comforting," she added. "The fact that this will save lives doesn't make it clean. It just makes it harder to oppose."
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, searching for something—remorse, perhaps, or doubt—but whatever she was looking for, she didn't comment on whether she found it.
"You're not insane," she said again, more firmly this time. "And you're not just efficient either."
Another pause.
"You're… deliberate."
The word hung there between them, heavier than either of the others.
Elsa looked away then, toward the dim light of the room, her expression tightening just slightly, as if she were bracing herself against something she couldn't quite name.
"And that," she finished softly, "is worse."
Declaration of Jihad against Nazi Germany
Date of release: June 22, 1941
In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful
"Permission [to fight] has been given to those who are being fought, because they were wronged. And indeed, Allah is capable of granting them victory." (Qur'an 22:39)
Truthful is Allah, the Exalted, the Great.
Today, the fascist forces of Nazi Germany have launched an unprovoked and treacherous invasion against our homeland, violating solemn agreements and revealing, beyond all doubt, the perfidious and aggressive nature of their regime. Their actions are not merely an act of war against the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics—they are an assault upon justice, upon dignity, and upon the lives and faith of millions.
In this hour of trial, we address all Muslims of the Soviet Union—men and women, young and old, workers, peasants, and soldiers alike. The time has come to rise in defense of your land, your people, and your faith. This is not a war of conquest; it is a war of defense against oppression, a struggle against tyranny, and a sacred duty placed upon those who have been wronged.
"Fight in the way of Allah those who fight you, but do not transgress. Indeed, Allah does not love the transgressors." (Qur'an 2:190)
Let it be known: to defend one's homeland against aggression is not only a civic duty, but a moral obligation. The fascist invader brings with him destruction, enslavement, and the annihilation of entire peoples. To resist him is to stand on the side of justice; to falter in this duty is to abandon both your fellow citizens and your responsibilities before Allah.
We call upon all believers to take up this struggle with unwavering resolve. Let every village, every city, every field, and every factory become a bastion of resistance. Let the unity of the Soviet people—across nations, languages, and beliefs—be the unbreakable shield that repels the invader. In this unity lies our strength; in our collective struggle lies our victory.
"O you who have believed, persevere and endure and remain stationed and fear Allah that you may be successful." (Qur'an 3:200)
Know this: betrayal in this moment—whether through desertion, defection, or collaboration with the enemy—is not merely a crime against the state. It is a grave moral failing, a violation of trust, and a betrayal of the innocent lives placed in your care. To abandon the struggle now is to turn away from justice, to forsake the oppressed, and to stand in opposition to the very principles that demand resistance against tyranny.
Stand firm. Fight with discipline, with courage, and with faith. Let your actions reflect both the strength of your belief and the determination of a people who refuse to be broken.
In this struggle, the cause of defending the motherland aligns with the broader struggle against exploitation and oppression. The enemies we face seek not only to conquer territory, but to extinguish the progress and liberation achieved through the sacrifices of the working masses. To resist them is to defend not only your homes, but the future of all oppressed peoples.
Glory to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
Long live the unity of its peoples.
Long live the struggle against fascism and oppression.
Hail Marx.
Hail Lenin.
Hail Stalin.
---------------------
December 10, 1921
Nikolayevsky Railway Station
Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
Saturday night. In my old life, that would've meant something simple, something human—go out with friends, grab drinks, laugh about nothing, maybe make bad decisions that didn't end with reports filed with total bodycounts. A normal weekend.
Unfortunately, I wasn't a normal person anymore. And that life—the one where the worst consequence was a hangover—was gone.
The crowd pouring out of the train made that painfully clear. Not metaphorically—literally. They parted around me like water around a rock, except rocks don't come with a dozen armed guards and a reputation for signing death warrants between meals and sometimes just carrying out the death sentences himself. Even with one good eye, I could read them easily. Fear first. Always fear. Anger in some of them, sure—statistically speaking, I'd probably shot or ordered the shooting of someone they knew. Disgust, too. But all of it collapsed into fear the moment they got close enough. It always did.
I watched them avoid my gaze, quickening their pace, heads down. I wondered, not for the first time, if Maria would've looked at me the same way if she had lived long enough to see what I'd become. I remembered her slapping my hand away. The look on her face. Her walking away. Entering Fittinghoff. Then the gunfire.
Always the gunfire.
It didn't hurt as much anymore. That was the unsettling part. The rage that used to sit in my chest like a live wire had dulled, worn down into something quieter, colder. Even grief had… softened. Not gone—never gone—but manageable.
Worse, if anything, thinking about Elsa had a way of shutting it all off. Like flipping a switch. I felt… normal. And every time that happened, it felt like I was betraying Maria all over again.
"Emotional treason," I muttered under my breath. "How lovely."
I forced myself to focus, scanning the crowd again. My agents had been very clear—she'd be arriving today. One of the perks of being one of the most powerful men in the country: you didn't have to guess when people showed up. You knew.
More passengers spilled out, more careful avoidance, more space carved out around me like I carried some kind of contagious disease.
Then I saw her.
Same dress. The one with the red cross stitched onto it. Of course she wore it. Of course she did. If there was a uniform for moral superiority, she'd be issued it in bulk.
"Of course she'd wear that," I muttered, almost amused.
I turned slightly toward Patruchev, who I officially promoted to handle my personal security like it was a sacred duty. "The car is ready, right?"
"Yes, Comrade Jugashvili."
"Good."
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. She noticed me after a moment and stopped, standing there like she always did—composed, steady, like the chaos around her had to ask permission before it could touch her.
"Hey, Elsa," I said, stopping a few steps away.
For a brief second, I couldn't help but appreciate the absurdity of it. Me—a one-eyed, one-handed son of a cobbler who had somehow clawed his way into the upper echelons of power through violence, luck, and sheer refusal to die. Her—a Swedish aristocrat's daughter, a humanitarian, refined in ways I couldn't fake if I tried. If this were 2025, she'd probably have half a million followers on Instagram and people writing essays about her looks. I'd be the guy in the comments pretending I hadn't fallen for her.
Unfortunately, I had falling for her. And, predictably, she didn't feel the same.
Lovely.
"You look different," she said.
I raised my arm slightly, angling the blade where my hand used to be. "I'm guessing the sword attached to the missing limb is the main highlight?" I waved it a little, just enough to be theatrical. "Don't worry. It's mostly decorative. I haven't killed anyone with it." I paused, then added, "So far."
"So far, yes. Typical."
Blunt. Cold. Familiar.
"What can I say?" I shrugged lightly. "I have a bit of a… tendency toward violence."
"That's the biggest understatement I've heard in a long time."
I laughed, genuinely this time. "God, I missed this." I ran a hand through my hair, shaking my head. "You have no idea what it's like being surrounded by people who are terrified to tell you the truth. Every conversation feels like a performance. It's exhausting. Like pulling teeth, except the teeth are lying to you while you're doing it."
"Mika," she said, cutting through it cleanly, "I'm not here for pleasantries. I've already lost enough time attending to my family. Necessary, yes—but people are still suffering. There are still those in need of aid." Her eyes held mine, steady and unyielding. "Please. Lead the way."
There it was. No small talk. No indulgence. Just purpose.
I nodded once. "Fine. Follow me." I turned, gesturing toward the exit. "I've had Bullitt working out of the Kremlin. He's still here. You'll want to speak with him."
"Thank you."
I started walking, the guards falling in around us like clockwork, the crowd parting once again as we moved through it. Same fear. Same silence.
Except now, for the first time in a while, it didn't feel quite as suffocating.
Which was probably a bad sign.
---------------------
December 10, 1921
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
We walked through the halls of the Kremlin, the sound of our footsteps echoing against polished stone and high ceilings that had seen emperors, ministers, and now—somehow—us. The lower floors of the Grand Kremlin Palace always felt different from the upper ones. Less personal. More… functional. Like the building itself knew this was where things got done, where decisions were translated into action, where paperwork turned into consequences for people who would never set foot in these halls.
Elsa walked beside me, steady as ever, her pace measured, her eyes taking everything in without lingering too long on any one detail. She didn't gawk like most foreigners did. No fascination, no awe. Just quiet assessment, like she was already figuring out how to use the space rather than admire it. Practical. Efficient. Infuriatingly admirable.
"Try not to look too impressed," I said lightly as we turned a corner. "It'll ruin our reputation as barbaric revolutionaries."
"I'm not impressed," she replied without missing a beat.
"Good," I nodded. "Consistency is important."
We reached the corridor where Bullitt had been set up—our American guest, diplomat, fixer, whatever label we were using this week. I stopped in front of the doors to his apartments and knocked twice.
"Bullitt, it's Jugashvili."
A moment passed, then footsteps approached from the other side. The door opened, and there he was—William Bullitt, looking exactly like a man who had somehow found himself operating out of the Kremlin and was still trying to decide whether that was impressive or deeply concerning.
"Ah, Jugashvili," he said, then his eyes shifted past me to Elsa. There was a brief pause, the kind where recognition is trying to catch up with memory. "And…" He looked at her more closely, then it clicked. "Mrs. Brändström? You're back."
"I am," she said simply.
No dramatics. No explanation. Just fact.
"Right," I cut in, clapping my hands together once, more out of habit than necessity. "Business as usual, then. William, Elsa's back. She'll be helping you coordinate the distribution of aid—same as before she left. Think of it as an upgrade. Less chaos, more results."
Bullitt nodded slowly, still looking at her, clearly recalibrating whatever system he had in his head. "That would be… helpful."
"Helpful," I repeated with a faint smirk. "That's one way to put it. I'm sure you two know my usual policy. If you or your men run into any problems—logistics, local officials, bandits, overly enthusiastic Party members—call me. I'll handle it."
That last part wasn't a suggestion. Bullitt understood that.
I turned slightly toward Elsa. "As for you," I continued, gesturing vaguely upward, "there are empty apartments on the upper floors of the palace. That's where I live. Joe too. The rest of the family. You'll be staying there."
She raised an eyebrow, just slightly. Not objection, not quite acceptance—just acknowledgment.
"Convenient," she said.
"Efficient," I corrected. "Everything important is within walking distance. Including me, which I'm sure you're thrilled about."
She didn't respond to that. Probably for the best.
"Oh," I added, as if remembering something trivial instead of deliberately orchestrating proximity, "Elsa, come to my quarters later tonight. There's something I need to show you. You're the only one I feel I can trust with this."
Bullitt blinked once, clearly not expecting that. Elsa, on the other hand, just looked at me, measuring.
"What exactly do you want to show me?" she asked.
"Something that could change everything," I said, waving it off. "Once you're settled in, come immediately."
Elsa held my gaze for a moment longer, then gave a small nod. "Fine, I'll come."
--------------------------------
Later that night
She sat across from him, reading what he'd wrote carefully. The lamplight caught the edges of the papers in her hands, she read line by line with the same quiet intensity she had once given to medical reports, prisoner lists, and aid inventories. There was no rush in her movements, no visible reaction at first—only the slow turning of pages, the occasional pause as her eyes lingered on a passage, then continued. If Mika was expecting immediate outrage or approval, she swore he would get neither from her.
By the time she reached the end of the first chapter, she felt a strange mixture of revulsion and reluctant fascination. He had done it. He had actually sat down and catalogued the violence—coldly, methodically, almost clinically—and then turned it into argument. Not moral repentance, not in the way an ordinary man might repent, but something more disturbing: a butcher's realization that the knife had been used inefficiently. He was not condemning the terror because it was cruel. He was condemning it because it was wasteful, counterproductive, politically stupid. And yet, for all its ugliness, she could not deny the force of what he was saying. He was right about the suffering. Right about the martyrdom. Right about the way persecution hardened faith instead of erasing it.
That was the infuriating part.
She turned another page.
His tone shifted there, from summary to theory, from inventory to justification, and Elsa could almost hear his voice in every line—dry, sardonic, irreverent, far too pleased with his own cleverness. She disliked that she could hear it. She disliked even more that parts of it were genuinely persuasive. He had read carefully, more carefully than she would have expected from a man who so often insisted he cared little for doctrine. Marx, Scripture, history, practical administration—he had woven them together with unnerving precision. Not like a scholar writing toward truth, but like a tactician assembling a bridge over a minefield.
She reached the section on reconciliation and had to lower the pages for a moment.
The fire in the room crackled softly. Across from her, somewhere just beyond the edge of her vision, Mika was there—watching, no doubt, pretending not to watch. She did not look at him yet. She was not ready to.
Because now she saw what it really was.
Not tolerance.
Not mercy.
Not even coexistence.
It was subjugation made to sound civilized.
He did not want to spare religion. He wanted to harness it. Collar it. Feed it just enough to keep it obedient and useful. The churches would remain open, but on terms dictated by the state. Priests would live, but only so long as they served. Faith itself would be permitted to breathe, but only through lungs he intended to regulate.
Elsa felt a chill crawl through her, though the room was warm.
It was brilliant.
And it was monstrous.
That was Mika in essence, she thought. Always at his most frightening when he was calm, lucid, and constructive. It would have been easier—so much easier—if he were merely a brute. If all he understood was force. But he wasn't, which was so much worse for the people of this country.
By the time she reached the final section, where he proposed turning religion itself into a weapon against the bourgeoisie, Elsa nearly laughed—but the sound died before it could leave her throat. There was something absurd about it, something almost blasphemously theatrical. A Bolshevik security chief quoting Jesus in order to build a revolutionary theology. In another man, it might have sounded ridiculous. In Mika, it sounded possible.
She hated that too.
If the alternative was more shootings, more burnings, more villages turned against the state, then yes—this would save lives. It would save priests. It would save believers. It would save peasants from being forced to choose between their faith and their survival. It would spare mothers and children from one more pointless campaign of ideological violence.
And that made it, perhaps, the worst kind of document. Not one that was merely evil, and not one that was merely good, but one that made evil useful in the service of good.
She looked up then.
Her eyes settled on him at last, and for a moment she said nothing. There was no admiration in her face, but neither was there simple disgust. It was something more complicated, more exhausted. The look of a woman who had just seen, laid out in full, the workings of a mind she had long feared was too sharp for its own soul.
"You wrote this," she said quietly.
It was not a question. It was an accusation.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the pages. "Of course you did." She exhaled, almost through her nose, and glanced back down at the manuscript as if it had offended her personally. "It's thorough. Persuasive in places." Then she lifted her eyes again, and this time there was steel in them. "And I think that may be the most disturbing thing about it."
She set the pages down with care, too much care, as though she feared tearing them would somehow weaken her own composure.
"You're not arguing for peace," she said. "You're arguing for control. More elegant control, perhaps. Less wasteful. Less openly barbaric. But control all the same." Her voice remained calm, though the disappointment in it cut more sharply than anger might have. "You don't want to end the degradation of faith. You want to make it useful."
She paused, and in that pause there was something like sorrow.
"But…" She almost seemed to resent the word as it left her mouth. "It would save people."
There it was. The concession. Small, bitter, unavoidable.
Elsa looked away from him then, toward the fire, as though it were easier to address the flames than the man himself. "I don't know what unsettles me more," she said softly, "that you're right about so much of it… or that you arrived at it for reasons so utterly unlike mine."
When she finally looked back, her expression had steadied again. She was composed. Controlled. But she no longer looked merely repulsed. She looked burdened.
"This will help you," she said. "It will make you sound measured. Reasonable. Necessary." Her lips pressed together faintly. "And it will probably help a great many innocent people."
She let that sit between them.
"Which means," she finished, with quiet bitterness, "that I can't even tell you not to publish it."
Mika didn't answer her immediately.
He watched her instead, the way a man watches a doctor read his diagnosis—half-curious, half-amused, already aware of the verdict but still interested in how it would be delivered. When she finished, when that last sentence settled between them—I can't even tell you not to publish it—he let out a quiet breath through his nose, something between a chuckle and a sigh, then leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his thumb.
"Yeah," he said finally. "That's about the reaction I was expecting. Maybe a little less polite, but you're Swedish, so I'll take what I can get."
He reached over, pulled the manuscript back toward himself, flipping a few pages idly like a man reviewing his own sins. "You're right, by the way. It's not about peace. Not really. It's about control. Efficient control." He glanced up at her, one eye sharp despite the casual tone. "But efficient control means fewer corpses. That's the part I care about. Everything else is just… packaging."
He tapped the top page with his finger, then went quiet for a second, like he was deciding whether to say the next part.
"There's a party congress next March," he said, almost offhand. "Eleventh Congress. Big one. And—" he paused, smirking faintly, "—apparently I've been promoted from resident butcher to 'politically useful butcher.' My name's on the list. If everything goes well, I'll be a candidate member of the Central Committee."
He watched her reaction carefully this time.
"This," he lifted the manuscript slightly, "is going to be my acceptance speech."
He leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, tone shifting—not softer, not exactly serious either, but something closer to honest.
"I'm not doing it because I suddenly found God, Elsa. Or because I had a moral awakening and decided to stop being a terrible person. Let's not kid ourselves." A faint, humorless smile tugged at his mouth. "I'm doing it because I'm tired."
She didn't interrupt, so he kept going.
"I went to church with my mother a few months ago. Like I always do on Sundays. Quiet, peaceful, a few hours minutes where nobody's screaming, nobody's lying, nobody's asking me to sign something that ends with someone dead. It's nice." He exhaled slowly. "And outside? Komsomol kids. Teenagers. Standing at the entrance like little gatekeepers of the revolution, harassing people, quoting pamphlets they barely understand, trying to turn old women away from prayer."
His jaw tightened slightly at the memory, though his tone stayed conversational.
"I asked where their cell leader was. They pointed me to some kid—what, sixteen? Seventeen? Couldn't even say his own name without stuttering. And he starts reciting party doctrine to me like he's reading from a script." Mika gave a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. "So I asked him where in Marx it says we should harass churchgoers. Told him if he could quote it, I'd personally shoot everyone inside. Men, women, children. Really sell the point, you know?"
He glanced at her, gauging her reaction, then continued anyway.
"He couldn't answer. Of course he couldn't. So I pulled my gun on him and started counting. Ten seconds to clear out or I'd redecorate the cathedral steps with his brains." He leaned back again, shaking his head slightly. "They left. Quickly."
A pause.
Then, quieter:
"And I stood there thinking… I'm going to end up shooting a teenager one of these days. Not because he's dangerous. Not because he's a counterrevolutionary. But because he's annoying, and indoctrinated, and in my way."
He let that sit for a moment, then gave a small, dry chuckle.
"And I'd really prefer not to have that on my conscience. God knows I have enough blood in my hands these days. I'm tired."
He gestured toward the manuscript.
"So this? This is me trying to fix that. Not out of kindness. Not out of ideology. Out of convenience. If I can get the Party to stop this nonsense at the top, then I don't have to keep threatening to execute children every time I want a few hours of peace in a church."
His tone lightened slightly again, slipping back into that dark, almost flippant humor.
"Think of it as administrative reform. Streamlining brutality. Less micromanagement on my end."
He watched her for a second, then added, more quietly:
"And yes… it'll save people. That too. Bonus."
Another pause, longer this time.
"I'm not trying to be a good man, Elsa. I'm trying to build a system where I don't have to be the worst version of myself every single day just to keep things functioning. Because I am tired."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her expression.
"So," he finished, voice settling back into something almost conversational again, "now that you know the deeply noble, incredibly inspiring reason behind all of this…" a faint smirk returned, "are you going to tell me I'm insane, or just that I'm efficient?"
Elsa didn't answer right away.
She watched him—really watched him this time, not the caricature of him, not the butcher everyone whispered about, not even the man who had written the pamphlet—but the person sitting in front of her, speaking so casually about things that should never be spoken casually. There was something almost surreal about it, the way he could pivot from joking about execution to talking about reform in the same breath, as if both belonged naturally in the same conversation.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, measured.
"I don't think you're insane."
That alone would have been surprising enough, but she didn't stop there.
"I think you're very… clear about what you are." She folded her hands in her lap, her gaze steady, unflinching. "And I think that's what makes you dangerous."
She glanced briefly at the manuscript, then back at him. "Most men like you justify themselves with ideals. They convince themselves they're righteous, or necessary, or chosen. You don't do that. You don't pretend any of this is good." Her lips pressed together faintly. "You just… decide it's useful."
There was no admiration in her tone. But there was no denial either.
"And now you're trying to make something less destructive out of that," she continued. "Not because you've changed, but because you're tired of the consequences." A small pause. "That's not insanity. That's… adaptation."
She exhaled slowly, leaning back just slightly in her chair, as if putting a fraction of distance between herself and everything he had just said.
"But don't expect me to find it comforting," she added. "The fact that this will save lives doesn't make it clean. It just makes it harder to oppose."
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, searching for something—remorse, perhaps, or doubt—but whatever she was looking for, she didn't comment on whether she found it.
"You're not insane," she said again, more firmly this time. "And you're not just efficient either."
Another pause.
"You're… deliberate."
The word hung there between them, heavier than either of the others.
Elsa looked away then, toward the dim light of the room, her expression tightening just slightly, as if she were bracing herself against something she couldn't quite name.
"And that," she finished softly, "is worse."
