December 26, 1991:
"Papa?" Russia stood by USSR, poking his upper arm with her small fingers. She was barely ten years old. USSR was unresponsive. "Papa, wake up! It's still daytime!" Russia used all her strength to shake her father.
The girl's breath quickened, her throat tightening. USSR remained slumped over the dinner table. "Papa!" She screamed, tears running down her face faster than they could form. Russia's siblings rushed to the scene, eyes wide.
"What happened?" Ukraine was the first to run over, eyes scanning USSR's still form. Kazakhstan timidly followed, his wiry arms pushing his father. He started,
"Jolaqtar, is Papa..."
"Dead?" Belarus, the youngest child finished. The four siblings surrounded their father. Kazakhstan ruffled his feathers, holding his breath. He felt for a pulse everywhere he could. The flat was thick with silence.
Kazakhstan's head began to swim, trying to take in the shock.
His siblings were just as shocked, their jaws dropped and eyes wide.
They were completely out of their element and helpless.
Kazakhstan didn't know what the next step was, all he knew was that their father was dead. Gone, just like that.
As the realization of their father's passing sank in, a heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of their shallow breaths and the occasional sniffle from Russia's tear-streaked face. Each sibling grappled with their own overwhelming emotions, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of their loss and the uncertain future that lay ahead.
Ukraine, usually quick-witted and resilient, felt a wave of vulnerability wash over him as he stared at the lifeless figure of his father. His heart ached with a mixture of grief and fear, knowing that the guiding force that had held their family together was now gone.
Kazakhstan, ever the mediator, felt a sense of helplessness gnawing at him as he searched for words of comfort to offer his siblings. His usually steady hands trembled as he reached out to touch his father's cold, still form, unable to shake the feeling of disbelief that coursed through him.
Belarus, the youngest of the siblings, clung to her older brothers and sister, her usually bubbly demeanor subdued by the weight of the moment. She buried her face in Russia's shoulder, seeking a semblance of normalcy in the warmth of her sister's embrace as tears silently streamed down her cheeks.
And Russia, the eldest and strongest of them all, felt a sense of responsibility weighing heavily on her shoulders as she looked at the faces of her grieving siblings. Despite her own heartache, she knew that she had to be strong for them, to lead them through this dark and uncertain time.
Together, they stood in silent solidarity, united by their shared loss and the bond that bound them as family. And as they faced the daunting task of rebuilding their lives in the wake of their father's death, they knew that they would need each other more than ever before.
_______
"Comrade is dead?" Omsk shrieked into the phone. "Moskva, are you sure?" She grabbed the handle more tightly, as if to crush the plastic casing.
Moskva's voice crackled over the phone, her tone somber and heavy with grief. "Da, Omsk. Comrade USSR is dead. It happened suddenly, without warning."
Omsk's breath caught in her throat, disbelief washing over her like a tidal wave. "But how? What happened?" she demanded, her voice trembling with shock and sorrow.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line before Moskva spoke again, her words measured and filled with sorrow. "It appears to have been a heart attack. He was found slumped over the dinner table this morning. There was nothing anyone could do..."
Tears welled up in Omsk's eyes as the weight of the news settled over her like a heavy blanket. USSR, their beloved father figure and leader, was gone. The implications of his sudden passing sent a shiver down her spine, filling her with a sense of uncertainty and fear for the future.
"May his soul rest in peace," Omsk murmured softly, her voice choked with emotion. "We must come together now, as comrades and allies, to honor his memory and carry on his legacy."
As she hung up the phone, Omsk felt a renewed sense of determination coursing through her veins. Though their leader may be gone, the spirit of solidarity and resilience that he had instilled in them would live on. And together, they would face whatever challenges lay ahead, united in their commitment to uphold the ideals for which USSR had fought so tirelessly.
Meanwhile, two particularly determined men stood at odds. Pyotrgrad glared at Chechnya with fire. Chechnya, a soft smirk on his lips, taunted the elder oblast.
"Yeah, I'm seceding, Leningrad. Yeltsin is ruining me!" He argued. "Maybe I'll convince my sisters to secede too."
"Leave Dagetsan and Ingushetia out of this! No one is seceding!" Pyotrgrad shouted, his words coated with ages of knowledge.
Pyotrgrad's eyes flashed with indignation as he listened to Chechnya's reckless words. The weight of history and tradition bore down on him, fueling his resolve to protect the unity of their land.
"You dare speak of secession, Chechnya? Have you forgotten the blood that has been shed to keep our land whole?" Pyotrgrad's voice echoed with authority, his words laced with the wisdom of centuries past. "We are stronger together, united as one nation. Yeltsin's actions may be misguided, but we must stand firm in our commitment to preserve our homeland."
Chechnya's smirk faltered slightly at Pyotrgrad's impassioned plea, but he remained defiant, his gaze challenging. "And what of our autonomy, Leningrad? Are we to bend to the will of Yeltsin, to sacrifice our identity for the sake of unity?"
Pyotrgrad's jaw clenched as he fought to contain his frustration. "Autonomy does not mean division, Chechnya. It means self-governance within the framework of our nation. We must find a way to work together, to address our grievances through dialogue and cooperation."
As the two men faced off, their differences laid bare for all to see, the future of their land hung in the balance. Only time would tell whether they could set aside their differences and find common ground, or whether their stubborn pride would lead them down a path of division and discord.
In a far off, secluded area, Yakutsk sat in his cabin, bundled up in layers upon layers of coats. Surrounded by the vast expanse of snow-covered wilderness, Yakutsk sat in solitude within his cozy cabin, the crackling fire casting a warm glow across the dimly lit room. Bundled up in layers upon layers of coats, he savored the comforting embrace of the fur-lined garments, warding off the biting cold of the Siberian winter.
With a steaming cup of tea cradled in his hands, Yakutsk gazed out the frost-covered window, watching as the snowflakes danced lazily in the frigid air. Despite the harshness of his surroundings, there was a sense of tranquility that enveloped him, a connection to the rugged beauty of the land he called home.
In the silence of his secluded retreat, Yakutsk found solace away from the tumultuous politics and power struggles that gripped the rest of the nation. Here, amidst the pristine wilderness, he could lose himself in the simplicity of life, finding contentment in the quiet rhythm of nature.
As the fire crackled softly in the hearth and the wind whispered through the trees outside, Yakutsk allowed himself to relax, the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders. In this remote corner of the world, he was free to be himself, to embrace the solitude and serenity that surrounded him.
______
A funeral was held for USSR, snowflakes dancing around the coffin. Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, and Kazakhstan stood by each other, hand in hand as they stared at their deceased father, the officiant's voice, who just so happen to be Moskva, played in the background like a song in a movie.
"Rus?" Belarus turned to her older sister, her cracked voice barely a whisper. Russia's gaze remained fixed on the coffin, her expression a mask of sorrow and resolve. She felt the weight of her siblings' hands in hers, a tangible reminder of the bond that bound them together in this moment of grief.
"Yes, Belarus?" Russia's voice was soft, barely audible above the somber melody of the Moskva's words. She turned to face her younger sister, her eyes reflecting the pain and uncertainty that lingered in her heart.
Belarus hesitated for a moment, her lips trembling with emotion. "Do you think... Do you think we'll be okay without him?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the falling snowflakes.
Russia's heart clenched at the vulnerability in Belarus's voice, her own doubts and fears echoing in the depths of her soul. But she refused to let her sister see her falter, drawing strength from the bond they shared as siblings.
"We will be okay, Belarus," Russia replied, her voice firm and resolute. "We have each other, and together, we will honor our father's memory and carry on his legacy. We will face whatever challenges come our way, united as a family."
As they stood together, hand in hand, the snowflakes continued to dance around them, a silent testament to the enduring strength of their bond and the resilience of their spirit in the face of adversity. And in that moment, Russia knew that as long as they stood together, they would weather any storm that came their way.
After the event, Moskva pushed her glasses up and approached the siblings with a soft, wistful smile. "Children," she started. 4 pairs of eyes were trained on her, glossy with unshed tears. "you will be separated from now on. Russia stays with me, Bela goes to Minsk, Raine goes to Kyiv, and Zaky leaves for Astana."
Ukraine burst out in tears, wailing and clinging to his siblings. Moskva's heart ached as she watched the siblings' reaction to her announcement. She understood the pain of separation all too well, but she also knew that it was necessary for their individual growth and the stability of their nation.
"Children," she repeated softly, her voice tinged with empathy. "I know this is difficult, but it's important for each of you to take on your own responsibilities and forge your own paths. You are strong, capable individuals, and you will carry on our father's legacy with pride and determination."
As Ukraine's tears flowed freely and he clung desperately to his siblings, Moskva stepped forward, gently placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Ukraine, my dear," she said tenderly, "you will always be a part of this family, no matter where you are. You have a vital role to play in the future of our nation, and I have every confidence in your ability to rise to the occasion."
With a heavy heart, Moskva guided each sibling to their respective destinations, offering words of encouragement and reassurance along the way. And as they parted ways, their bond as siblings remained unbreakable, a beacon of hope and unity in the face of uncertainty.
_______
Russia then walked with Moskva to the Kremlin. She sighed deeply as she passed a marble monument of Vladimir Lenin. "I used to like walking here with Papa." She mumbled. "It doesn't feel the same anymore." Her golden eyes remained on the statue, who was pointing at the horizon as if to say 'you can do it, Russia! Build us all a better future!'
Moskva walked beside Russia, her expression sympathetic as she listened to her words. She understood the weight of nostalgia and the sense of loss that lingered in the air, permeating the once-familiar surroundings of the Kremlin.
"It's natural to feel that way, Rus," Moskva replied softly, her voice tinged with understanding. "Change can be difficult, especially when it comes to something as fundamental as our relationship with our past."
As they passed the marble monument of Vladimir Lenin, Moskva's gaze followed Russia's to the statue's outstretched hand, a symbol of hope and determination. "He believed in you, Russia," she said, her voice filled with quiet reverence. "He believed in our ability to build a better future, even in the face of adversity."
Russia nodded solemnly, her golden eyes reflecting the weight of her responsibilities as the leader of their nation. "I will honor his legacy," she vowed, her voice firm with resolve. "I will build a future that he would be proud of, for the sake of our people and our nation."
With a shared sense of determination, Russia and Moskva continued their journey through the Kremlin, each step a testament to their commitment to forging a path forward, guided by the lessons of the past and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
Once they were inside, Moskva stepped into her office and made a phone call. "I want there to be a meeting with all the oblasts, okrugs, and krais as soon as possible!" She demanded.
Moskva's voice echoed with authority as she issued her command over the phone, her determination clear in every word she spoke. In her role as the leader of the nation's capital, she understood the importance of unity and collaboration among all the regions of their vast and diverse land.
As the phone call ended, Moskva turned to Russia, her expression resolute. "We must bring everyone together, Rus," she said firmly. "Only by working as a united front can we face the challenges that lie ahead and build a stronger, more prosperous future for our nation."
"Why?" The girl asked.
Moskva paused for a moment, her gaze meeting Russia's with a mixture of understanding and determination. "Because, Rus," she began, her voice steady, "our strength lies in our unity. Alone, we may falter, but together, we are unstoppable."
She gestured towards the window, where the snow continued to fall softly outside. "Just like how when we build snow forts, we need everyone to work together to make it strong and sturdy," she explained. "It's the same with our country. Each part of our country is like a piece of the fort, and when we put them together, we become really strong."
Russia listened intently, her curiosity piqued by Moskva's analogy. "But what about our differences?" she asked, her brow furrowing in thought. "Won't they make it difficult for us to work together?"
Moskva smiled gently, her eyes warm with reassurance. "Our differences are what make us interesting and special, Rus," she replied. "Just like how different colors make a painting beautiful, our differences make our country special. And when we work together, we can use our differences to make our country even better."
Russia nodded, a sense of determination stirring within her. "I get it now," she said, her voice filled with excitement. "We'll bring everyone together and make our country the best it can be!"
With a shared sense of purpose, Russia and Moskva set to work, their minds focused on the task of uniting their nation and building a future that would make everyone proud.
_______
On the day of the meeting, Russia was sobbing in her room, clutching onto a pillow. Her eyes darted between the empty bunks around hers and her feet. Her siblings would've been in their bunks, probably crying, but keeping her company nonetheless.
Moskva gently knocked on Russia's door, her heart heavy with empathy as she heard the sound of sobbing from within. Entering the room, she approached Russia's side and sat down beside her on the bed, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Rus, my dear," Moskva said softly, her voice filled with compassion. "I know today is difficult for you, but you are not alone. Your siblings may not be here physically, but they are with you in spirit, supporting you every step of the way."
Russia looked up, her eyes red and swollen from crying, but a glimmer of hope shining through the tears. "I miss them, Moskva," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "I wish they were here with me."
Moskva nodded understandingly, her own eyes misting with tears. "I know, Rus," she replied, her voice tender. "But they are here, in your heart. And together, we will carry on their legacy and make them proud."
With a gentle embrace, Moskva held Russia close, offering her strength and support in the midst of her grief. And as they prepared to face the challenges of the day ahead, they knew that the bond they shared as family would see them through even the darkest of times.
The two of them entered the spacious meeting room. 84 entities sat tall, bickering and shouting. Moskva rolled her eyes and raised her voice. "All of you, shut up!" She echoed.
Moskva's commanding voice cut through the chaos of the meeting room, silencing the bickering and shouting that filled the air. As the room fell silent, all eyes turned to her, their expressions a mix of surprise and begrudging respect.
"Now listen here," Moskva continued, her tone firm and authoritative. "We are here to discuss the future of our nation, and we will not accomplish anything if we cannot behave like civilized adults."
She scanned the room, her gaze lingering on each of the 84 entities gathered before her. "Each of you represents a vital part of our country, and it is imperative that we work together to find solutions to the challenges we face. So I expect each and every one of you to show respect to your fellow colleagues and to contribute constructively to this discussion."
With a final glance around the room, Moskva nodded firmly, her message clear. "Now, let's get to work," she declared, her voice echoing with determination. "Our nation's future depends on it."
As the meeting resumed, the atmosphere in the room shifted, the energy focused and purposeful as the representatives of the various regions of Russia came together to tackle the issues at hand. And as they worked towards a common goal, Moskva and Russia stood side by side, their resolve unwavering in the face of adversity.
Moskva's announcement echoed through the room, eliciting murmurs of surprise and approval from the gathered representatives. As Russia took her seat beside Moskva, she felt a swell of pride at the decision to reclaim the historical name of their beloved city.
"Sankt Petersburg," Russia repeated softly, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "It has a nice ring to it."
Moskva nodded in agreement, her expression reflecting the significance of the moment. "Indeed, Rus," she replied. "It is important to honor our history and heritage, and what better way to do so than by restoring the name of one of our most iconic cities."
As the meeting continued, the representatives of Pyotrgrad - formerly Leningrad - nodded in approval, their pride evident in their expressions. And as they discussed the other changes and reforms that lay ahead, there was a sense of unity and purpose in the air, a shared determination to build a future that honored the past while embracing the possibilities of tomorrow.
"Secondly, I must address the situation in Chechnya." Moskva shot a glare at the autonomous republic. Chechnya smirked and lied back in his chair, adjusting his scarf.
Moskva's gaze hardened as she addressed the representatives of Chechnya, her voice ringing with authority. "The situation in Chechnya cannot continue unchecked," she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The recent provocations and unrest in the region are unacceptable, and they will not be tolerated."
Chechnya's smirk faltered slightly under Moskva's intense scrutiny, but he remained defiant, reclining casually in his chair as if daring her to challenge him.
"Your actions are putting the stability of our nation at risk," Moskva continued, her voice cutting through the tension in the room. "And it is time for you to take responsibility for your role in exacerbating the situation."
The representatives of Chechnya bristled at Moskva's words, but she held their gaze unwaveringly, her resolve unshaken. "I demand that you cease all hostilities and work towards a peaceful resolution," she concluded, her voice firm with determination. "The future of our nation depends on it."
With a final glance at Chechnya, Moskva settled back into her seat, her eyes blazing with determination as she awaited their response. And as the room fell silent, the weight of her words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the challenges they faced in the pursuit of unity and stability.
"Now, about our nation." Moskva paused, glancing at Russia, who was looking down. "We must start rebuilding as soon as possible. That means no new foreign relationships until we're self reliant." All eyes were trained on Russia, scrutinizing the young federation.
"I give her 10 years before a collapse." Chechnya claimed. He was met with an elbow to his ribcage by his sister, Ingushetia. Moskva's eyes narrowed at Chechnya's bold declaration, her expression betraying a mix of frustration and determination. "Such pessimism does not serve us well, Chechnya," she retorted, her voice firm and unwavering. "Russia has faced challenges before, and she has always emerged stronger for it. We will not let fear dictate our future."
Russia's head snapped up at Moskva's words, her eyes flashing with a steely resolve. "We are a resilient nation," she declared, her voice carrying across the room with quiet confidence. "And we will rebuild, stronger and more self-reliant than ever before. We may stumble along the way, but we will not falter. We will prove you wrong, Chechnya."
The representatives of the various regions of Russia nodded in agreement, their faith in their nation's ability to overcome adversity unwavering. And as they turned their attention to the task of rebuilding and strengthening their homeland, there was a sense of unity and determination in the air, a shared commitment to forging a brighter future for generations to come.
"She can talk?" Omsk scoffed sarcastically. "We aren't hopeless after all." Yakutsk rolled his eyes and shoved Omsk. Moskva's lips pressed into a thin line as she shot a disapproving look at Omsk, her patience wearing thin. "Enough," she admonished, her voice carrying a hint of warning. "We are here to work together, not to engage in petty squabbles."
Russia, her determination unwavering, spoke up once more, her voice steady despite the taunts. "We may have our differences," she began, her gaze sweeping across the room, "but we are all part of the same nation. And it is only by working together that we can overcome the challenges that lie ahead."
Yakutsk, ever the mediator, interjected with a sigh. "Let's focus on the task at hand," he urged, his tone measured. "We have much work to do if we are to rebuild our nation and secure a better future for all."
As the tension in the room began to dissipate, the representatives turned their attention back to the matter at hand, their focus renewed and their determination strengthened.
Moskva cleared her throat once again. "Now, who will help me raise Russia?" She pushed her glasses up and surveyed the room. "Arkhangelsk?" She fixed her gaze on the winged oblast. Arkhangelsk faced away, pretending not to hear Moskva. Moskva rolled her eyes.
"I volunteer." Pyotrgrad spoke up, raising his red hand. Moskva gifted him a pleased smile and wrote his name on the corner of a paper. "Anyone else?"
"Yes. I nominate Chechnya." Pyotrgrad said flatly.
"How am I supposed to secede then?!" Chechnya exclaimed. Moskva's eyebrows furrowed as she considered Pyotrgrad's unexpected nomination of Chechnya. She exchanged a knowing glance with Pyotrgrad before turning her attention back to Chechnya, her expression unreadable.
"Chechnya, your role in this endeavor is not to secede, but to contribute to the upbringing of Russia," Moskva stated firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. "It is time to set aside personal agendas and work towards the greater good of our nation."
Chechnya bristled at Moskva's words, his expression a mixture of frustration and defiance. "But..." he began, only to be cut off by Pyotrgrad's stern gaze.
"Enough, Chechnya," Pyotrgrad interjected, his voice carrying a note of authority. "This is not about personal ambitions. We must all come together for the good of Russia."
Reluctantly, Chechnya acquiesced, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Fine," he muttered, his tone begrudging. "I'll do it."
With the matter settled, Moskva nodded in approval, her gaze sweeping across the room. "Thank you both for your willingness to step up," she said, her voice tinged with gratitude. "Together, we will ensure that Russia is prepared for whatever challenges lie ahead."
"I'll help too." Yakutsk offered. "The girl must learn proper survival skills."
"And me!" Omsk chimed in. "If no one else is going to help, I am!" Moskva beamed and wrote both of their names down. Moskva's smile widened at the offers of assistance from Yakutsk and Omsk, her heart swelling with gratitude for their willingness to pitch in.
"Thank you, Yakutsk and Omsk," she said warmly, her voice filled with appreciation. "Your expertise and guidance will be invaluable in shaping Russia's future."
As she added their names to her list, Moskva felt a sense of reassurance wash over her. With the support of Pyotrgrad, Chechnya, Yakutsk, and Omsk, she knew that Russia would receive the well-rounded upbringing she deserved, equipped with the skills and knowledge necessary to thrive in the years to come.
With a renewed sense of purpose, Moskva looked around the room at the assembled representatives, her heart filled with hope for the future of their nation. Together, they would guide Russia towards a brighter tomorrow, united in their commitment to her well-being and prosperity.
"Wait!" One of the oblasts shouted. It was Samara, fiddling with her thick braids. "What are we going to do about the national anthem?"
All eyes were turned to Kazan, the musician of them. "Well, if the people don't like this new anthem, reword the Soviet one." He shrugged.
Moskva nodded thoughtfully at Samara's question, her mind already racing with possibilities. "That's a valid point," she acknowledged, her voice filled with consideration. "The national anthem is an important symbol of our identity as a nation, and it's crucial that we choose one that resonates with the people."
She turned to Kazan, a sense of anticipation in her gaze. "Your suggestion has merit, Kazan," she said, her tone encouraging. "Perhaps we could consider rewording the Soviet anthem to better reflect the values and aspirations of our modern nation."
Kazan nodded in agreement, his fingers already itching to compose new lyrics. "I can start working on some drafts right away," he offered, his voice eager.
Moskva smiled gratefully at Kazan's willingness to take on the task, a sense of optimism blooming in her chest. "Thank you, Kazan," she said sincerely. "Your talent and dedication will ensure that our national anthem truly captures the spirit of our people."
With the issue of the national anthem addressed, the representatives turned their attention back to the task at hand, renewed in their commitment to shaping Russia's future. And as they worked together to overcome the challenges that lay ahead, they knew that their collective efforts would pave the way for a brighter tomorrow.
The oblasts discussed the changes that would be made on their land. They would adapt the emblem of the Russian Empire: the double-headed eagle.
They would adapt one of the resistance flags for theirs. Omsk stood behind Russia in the mirror. "Do you like your flag, Rus?" She asked gently.
"It looks weird." Russia scrutinized her new face.
"You'll love it once you know what it symbolizes." Omsk grabbed Russia's shoulders from behind. "White is for peace, purity, and striving for perfection; blue is faith, perseverance, and fidelity; red is for energy, strength, and the blood shed back in the olden days for our people."
Omsk's words resonated with Russia as she studied her reflection in the mirror, her gaze lingering on the newly designed flag that now adorned her homeland. Despite her initial reservations, she felt a sense of pride welling up inside her as she listened to Omsk's explanation of its symbolism.
"It does look different," Russia admitted, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "But I suppose change can be a good thing."Omsk smiled warmly, her hands still resting on Russia's shoulders.
"Indeed, Rus," she replied, her tone gentle and reassuring. "Change can be daunting, but it also offers us the opportunity to grow and evolve. And with each change we make, we honor our past while embracing the possibilities of the future."
Russia nodded in understanding, a newfound sense of determination stirring within her. "Thank you, Omsk," she said sincerely, her voice filled with gratitude. "I may not fully understand it yet, but I trust that our decisions are guided by the best interests of our people."
The two of them stared in the mirror. "I wonder how the other new flags will look." Russia said.
"Me too." Omsk replied. After a lapse of silence, she tugged on Russia's arm. "Come on, Rus, you have to get to know the rest of us. Well, the ones taking care of you." Russia followed the oblast to the dinner table. The girl had never seen so much food before for only six people.
Russia gasped. "Omsk, this is wrong!" She exclaimed. Omsk raised an eyebrow, puzzled by Russia's sudden outburst. "What do you mean, Rus?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.
Russia pointed at the abundance of food laid out before them, her expression a mix of disbelief and unease. "There's too much food," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with guilt. "We shouldn't be indulging like this when there are people in our nation who are struggling to feed themselves."
Omsk's eyes softened with understanding as she placed a comforting hand on Russia's shoulder. "I understand your concern, Rus," she said gently. "But it's important for us to take care of ourselves as well. We can't help others if we're not taking care of our own well-being first."
She gestured towards the table, a warm smile gracing her lips. "Think of it as a celebration of the unity and strength of our nation," she suggested. "Together, we can overcome any challenge that comes our way, but we must also remember to celebrate our victories, no matter how small."
Russia hesitated for a moment, her mind still wrestling with the concept of indulgence in the face of adversity. But as she looked around at her companions, their faces filled with warmth and camaraderie, she felt a sense of belonging wash over her. With a small nod, she allowed herself to relax, knowing that she was surrounded by friends who cared for her well-being.
As they gathered around the table to share in the meal together, Russia couldn't help but feel grateful for the bonds of friendship and solidarity that united them. As they laughed and talked together, she knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, stronger and more resilient than ever before.
After the meal, Moskva cleared her throat. "Now, let's make some proper introductions." She pushed her glasses up, her deep emerald eyes scanning the room. Moskva's maroon hair was tied tightly in a bun. Her bright red skin was flawless with the image of Saint George on a white steed perfectly centered. As always, she was in a business suit, standing with an air of professionalism. Moskva nodded at Russia, who shyly stood up.
"My name is Russian Soviet Fed–I mean, Russian Federation." She said meekly, feeling smaller than she already was. She pushed her white hair out of her face, revealing a dark, embarrassed blush.
Moskva's gaze softened as she watched Russia nervously introduce herself, her heart swelling with pride at the young nation's determination to find her place among her peers.
"Thank you, Russia," Moskva said warmly, her voice gentle and encouraging. "We are honored to have you with us, and we look forward to getting to know you better."
Turning to the others gathered in the room, Moskva gestured towards each of them in turn. "Now, let us all introduce ourselves, just like we did when first meeting our late comrade, Comrade USSR."
Pyotrgrad cleared his throat and said, "I am Pyotrgrad, formerly known as Leningrad." Pyotrgrad stood with an air of authority, slightly doused by a coat of depression. His voice was low and rough, like a rumbling waterfall. Pyotrgrad's right eye socket was empty and hollow. Like Moskva, he had ruby-red skin and maroon hair. In the center of his face was a scepter with a double-headed eagle. Crossing it were two white spears. He pulled up the fur-lined edges of his Tsarist coat, hiding his suit under it. A Communist Party star was pinned on his tie, a testament to the eras he'd lived through.
All eyes were on Chechnya. He adjusted the scarf over his eye and glared. "I will kill Russia." He declared gravely. A sharp slap from Pyotrgrad met his face.
"Nyasha!" Pyotrgrad's voice was stern, his gaze unwavering as he met Chechnya's defiant glare. "No seceding," he growled, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Chechnya recoiled from the blow, his hand instinctively rising to his stinging cheek. For a moment, his eyes burned with anger and resentment, but gradually, the fire in his gaze dimmed, replaced by a begrudging acceptance of Pyotrgrad's authority.
"Ahem, Chechnya." Moskva nodded to Russia, who sat with large, inquisitive eyes.
"Kill me?" She squeaked. "So I can be with Papa?" Everyone gasped. Moskva's eyes widened in alarm at Russia's innocent question, her heart lurching with concern for the young nation's well-being. She quickly exchanged a glance with Pyotrgrad, silently urging him to intervene and defuse the tense situation.
Pyotrgrad stepped forward, his expression stern yet compassionate as he addressed Russia with gentle reassurance. "No, Rus," he said firmly, his voice calm and soothing. "You mustn't think like that. Your place is here with us, building a future for our nation."
He knelt down beside Russia, his gaze level with hers as he spoke. "Your father would want you to live and thrive," he continued, his words carrying the weight of his own grief for their late comrade. "He believed in you, Russia, just as we all do. You are not alone in this journey."
Moskva glared at Chechnya. Chechnya groaned and started, "My name is Chechnya and I'll gladly behead you, Russia." Chechnya once again fixed his white scarf over his eye. It had a golden pattern of what looked like a bunch of S's. As for the rest of his face, three quarters were a lush green with a white stripe dividing it from the red at the bottom. His mop of jade hair was hidden under a taqiyah with the same pattern as his scarf. He scratched his garnet beard with great contempt. Then, he folded his arms over his faded sage jacket, glaring with his remaining golden eye.
Pyotrgrad stood up and carried Chechnya out of the room. "I am not letting you near her." He said sternly. Yakutsk took a turn.
"My name is Yakutsk, dear." He said with a voice of silk. "I'd be glad to get to know you better." He adjusted his ushanka and gazed softly at Russia with his sapphire-colored eyes. He stood in a navy-blue coat tufted with fur. His hair and three quarters of his face were an ultramarine blue. A white circle sat in the center of his face, between his thin almond eyes. A band of white and red stripes separated the pine green of the lower half of his face. With a gentle nod, Yakutsk sat back down, leaving only Omsk.
"You already know me. I'm Omsk, not to be confused with my twin brother, Tomsk." She said with confidence. Omsk's long, alluring red hair flew freely, a streak of blue and white on her curtain bangs. Her face was red, split in the middle with a thick band of white, and a blue wave running vertically down it. She wore a deerskin coat lined with fur. Under it, was a tan snowsuit. She wore thick, black boots and a choker with a blue topaz stone hanging under it.
The rest of the evening was filled with laughter and chatter. At one point, Russia snuck out of the dining room and to the silent recesses of the hallway. Guards stood with their chins high up, bayonets in hand. She rushed to Chechnya's room and entered after three knocks.
"Chechnya?" She squeaked, noticing the republic growling under his breath on the bed. The young girl climbed next to him. "Can you kill me please?" Chechnya sighed and shifted on the bed with the sound of his shifting sheets. He looked down at her with an expression of exasperation but was surprised by the innocent, pleading look in her eyes. He glanced away uncomfortably, staring straight ahead.
"No." He said harshly at first. Russia's expression fell and she seemed ready to begin bawling at any moment. "If I kill you, Pyortgrad will skin me alive and boil me in oil." Chechnya turned away, grasping an enameled dagger in his hand. Russia looked at the dagger with growing concern, taking a small step away. She gulped.
"Then.. Can y-you hold me?" She stuttered, clearly distraught.
"You know what? I'll kill you the way I sacrifice goats: Quickly and painlessly." Chechnya said in a gravelly voice. His breaths became crazed and frantic as he pulled Russia towards him. Chechnya pulled Russia gently towards him. Russia's breath became shaky and erratic as she began to panic. She seemed frozen in a mix of fear and confusion.
"Come on. Yeltsin and his capitalism sucks." Chechnya sneered. "He said we're free. Free from what? Stable wages, healthcare, social security, a roof over our heads. Yeah, we're free from all of those." He lowered the knife on Russia's throat, seeking her aorta. Chechnya lowered the knife on Russia's throat, her heartbeat quickening. Russia flinched away from the blade when she noticed it, but was unable to move away fast enough. She had no choice but to sit there, trembling, as the blade hovered inches away from her skin. Russia's breath became shaky and erratic as she began to panic. Her eyes were locked on the blade and she feared the pain that she'd pay just to see her father again.
"Nyasha, what on earth?" Yakutsk exclaimed, yanking Russia from Chechnya's lap.
"Stay out of this, Sakha," Chechnya growled, pulling Russia back to him, "if you know what's good for you, of course."
"Hey!" Yakutsk exclaimed fiercely, pulling Russia away from Chechnya and stepping between the two. His grip on Russia was strong, his gaze set on Chechnya.
"Let her go." Chechnya growled. Yakutsk picked Russia up effortlessly and walked back to the dining room, remembering to lock Chechnya's door. Yakutsk carefully walked with Russia in his grasp, making sure she was kept safe and undisturbed by his movements. He was careful not to touch any of her exposed skin, instead opting to grip her by her clothing. He soon made it back to the dining room, carrying Russia like a delicate doll.
"Are you okay, dear?" Yakutsk asked before entering the dining room. Russia silently nodded.
"Yes... I'm okay..." Russia said in a whisper. Her eyes were still fixed on the floor, her lips pressed firmly together. She seemed to be shaking slightly, her hands trembling as they sat on her lap.
_______
2004
"NATO has broken our pact and is expanding east!" Omsk exclaimed. "The Baltic triplets are on their side now!" The group murmured among themselves, some expressing concern or disgust while others were simply amused by the news.
Pyotrgrad was the first to recover. "Well, this is certainly an undesirable development." He said in a calm and collected tone.
"It is unfortunate, but it was likely to happen at some point." Yakutsk pointed out.
"I do not understand such a move. Have they not learned from history?" Moskva chimed in. "They only provoke us. They will regret their foolish decisions."
"I hope my siblings don't join." Russia thought. "I love them so much." She folded her hands on her lap, pressing her lips into a flat line. "Papa was right." She declared. "NATO is untrustworthy and we must be wary now that they've broken the pact."
"Don't expect me to help you." Chechnya growled. "We're still at war." Chechnya's words surprised Russia. She thought for a moment, taking his words into consideration. He was right, of course, about them still being at war. But what about the greater threat - NATO - and their apparent actions? That could not be ignored, she realized.
"We must do something, though. We can't let NATO expand further without consequences. It isn't just the Baltic triplets - they've already appealed to the Nordics." Russia pointed out.
"Please not Belarus or Ukraine." Russia silently pleaded. "Not my siblings."
_______
2014
Crimea approached Russia with a solemn gaze. "I want to join the Federation. Majority vote." She handed a document to Russia. "I want to be reunified."
"Why?" Russia squinted at the documents, utterly confused.
"It's about Ukraine." Crimea's voice trembled. "The Banderites are returning." Russia took the documents, examining them closely. She was surprised to find that Crimea had voted to join the Federation. She was even more surprised at the reason for it - the return of the Banderites.
"Banderites... You mean the Ukrainian fascists?" She asked, checking to see if she had heard correctly.
"Yes, Rus." Crimea nodded. "My people and the people in Donetsk and Lughansk are worried for the safety of our people." Russia thought for a moment, analyzing this new information. The return of the Banderites did pose a considerable threat, although she was uncertain if it was severe enough to warrant Crimea joining the Federation. However, given the vote was an overwhelming yes, it seemed as though the threat was significant enough.
"So they truly are a problem. And you and your people believe that joining the Federation would better protect you?" She asked, making sure she had all the pieces of the puzzle.
"The Banderites, Azov, and other groups are taking over the government—convincing them to pass laws
to further their agenda. Streets and parades are now in honor of Stepan Bandera." Crimea's voice carried a tremor. "Russia, they're murdering separatists and ethnic Russians now. I want to be the 85th oblast."
"So be it." Russia shook hands with Crimea. "I'll always help a person, or peoples in this case, in need." She paused and sighed. "Be warned: If conflict arises, this...neo-nazi problem will only worsen. As Putin told me: We must strive for diplomacy."
Russia nodded solemnly as she listened to Crimea's words. As disturbing as the situation was, she could appreciate Crimea's desire to join the Federation in light of the Banderites' presence. It seemed like it was the safest option for Crimea's people as well as those in surrounding areas.
"Yes, it's an unfortunate situation that should never have been allowed to take place in the first place." she sighed. "But we shall do whatever is necessary to ensure the safety of those who need it. Diplomacy is always the best option."
Little did Russia know that in just eight years, diplomacy would fail and her world would be shattered forever...
7076 words... D A M N. I promise not all the chapters will be this long. Anyway, this book will be pro-Russia and yes, it exists in the same universe as MTaD, so North content will be there, but North is I R R E L A V A N T for the most part.
Don't hate on Chechnya, please. After 2009, he's a smol bean. Sure, he tried to stabby stab Russia a few times, but now, he would stabby stab for Russia.
See you in the next chapter!