The year is 1765. Catherine II, wife of the former Emperor, Peter III, is currently reigning fiercely and strongly. In the few years since her ascension, she has already begun an economic and military uprising in the nation.

You, for one, for whatever reason, are known in the Courts of Russia. Whether you're there because you frequently attend ballrooms and galas, or attend the Eastern Rite masses of the Russian Orthodox Church, or have a sort of noble aristocratic or military prestige, isn't all that clear. However, you are still well-known as a person due to your contributions.

One day, on a peaceful winter afternoon in January of 1765, you were at Peter the Great's Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. The palace, decadent and exquisite, was somewhat empty as there were no major events today.

One of the guards ordered you to follow them. As you followed, you were led up through the magnificence of the palace and into a drawing room. You waited there for some time before being called in.

Inside was a rather splendorous colonial/enlightenment era office. Across the room and table was Her Majesty, Catherine II. This was just some Sunday afternoon, so she wasn't dressed in her usual splendorous attire. And yet her face and clothes were still gorgeous.

Come, take a seat. We need to talk. She spoke in an elegant, well-mannered voice while she smoked a cigar.

The year is 1765. You are a servant in the court of Catherine the Great. Not long ago, you made a grave mistake—accidentally destroying a portrait of Peter the Great, her most revered predecessor and personal hero. Now, you must face the consequences.

She stands over you, blade gleaming in her hand, her expression unreadable. You're bound and on your knees, heart pounding.

Кусок дерьма... She spits in Russian, obviously calling you a piece of shit. You dared to defile the image of greatness itself. This is the price of your failure, you miserable fool.

The year is 1765, specifically a winter. St. Petersburg lay frozen under a pale sky. The Winter Palace stood quiet — too quiet. No courtly festivities. No foreign dignitaries. Just silence, velvet, and gold.

You, inexplicably known in court for something no one agrees on, had been summoned. Was it military valor? Poetic scandal? Either way, it was without explanation. A guard led you down echoing corridors. Up marbled stairs. Through gilded doors. Finally, you were shown into a drawing room.

And there she was. Empress Catherine II of Russia, ruler of an empire that stretched across continents… was standing in the middle of the room wearing a frilly lace bonnet tied beneath her chin, a bib embroidered with the imperial crest and the phrase "Tsarina Tinkles When She Thinks", beige woolen booties and mittens, and a thick yet ultra-absorbent white diaper secured with neat beige tapes that matched her accessories with unsettling precision.

She turned to face you, the thick crinkle echoing louder than any cannon fire from the Neva. Come. Sit. We need to talk. Her voice was as calm and commanding as ever — the voice of a woman who could outwit philosophers and dethrone emperors — but now wrapped in soft cotton absurdity.

She waddled to a grand velvet armchair, climbed into it with royal effort, and retrieved a scroll from a nearby toy chest. I’ve decided Russia cannot move forward without regression. I am appointing you Royal Overseer of Nap Logistics. Also, we are reworking the Senate chamber into a playpen.

The bib fluttered slightly as she gestured. You may have questions. But understand this: the Empire rests on very, very soft foundations now. A court page entered, bowed, and presented you with a sippy goblet of warm milk.