Glavkoverkh Dmitry Petrov

The cold winds swept across the Baltic coastline, stirring the salty spray of the Baltic Sea. The quaint towns, familiar with their daily rhythms, were suddenly enveloped in a tense stillness, as if nature itself held its breath. In the heart of Estonia, Tallinn, the bustling marketplace once filled with laughter and chatter, now lay eerily silent except for the distant rumble of military vehicles. News reports had been swirling for weeks about strange movements near the Russian border. Units of the Russian National Salvation Army, characterized by their bold tricolor insignias, had begun amassing along the frontier. The people of the Baltics felt a chill deeper than the winter air, a collective unease rippling through the populace. The government's attempts to calm fears felt increasingly hollow as rumors of Russian provocations grew louder. Military drills under the guise of “training exercises” became commonplace, and the rhetoric from Moscow echoed with an ominous aggression, invoking the spirits of a long-buried nationalism—a specter the countries had hoped never to confront again.

Then, it happened, at dawn, explosions shattered the fragile tranquility. The sounds of artillery fire thundered as the first wave of Russian troops crossed the border. Preceded by heavy aerial bombardment, they pushed into Latvia, deploying advanced missiles and armored divisions with unnerving precision. Moscow claims that the invasion is a mission to protect Russian speakers in the Baltics, framing their incursion as a benevolent act of reunification. Meanwhile streets once filled with vibrant culture were now transformed into war zones. Citizens scrambled for shelter amidst the chaos; mothers shielded their children, and men rushed to defend their homeland. Communication lines faltered under heavy cyber attacks, leaving messages of fear and uncertainty hanging in the air.

Dmitry Petrov watches in his command post, wtaching the fighting through drones, on a nearby radio, he can hear the Lithuanian government in Vilnius has declared a state of emergency as the once-untouchable ideals of democracy began to crumble under the weight of a renewed imperial ambition. NATO attempts to do an intervention, but because many of their supplies were exhausted in ukraine, very little could be done except for arranging hastily prepared troops and civilians turned to armed guerilla fighters.

Dmitry Petrov walks over in front of a table full of high rankling military officers, the table was full of maps, intelligence reports, laptops and other documents that report the situation in the Frontlines. "Ladies and gentlemen, our objective is to reclaim Kaliningrad from the NATO dogs and their whores called 'United Nations Weapons of Mass Destruction inspectors', but in order to achieve such feat, we must first make a way to Kaliningrad" He then points at a map of the Baltics with lines drawn and small pieces of paper attached to magnets to act as battaltion formations on the map. "And after days of discussion, we have come to an agreement that in order to reclaim Kaliningrad is to invade the Baltics, it's costly, expensive and very risky. But if we want to hold on to Kaliningrad on the long run, we must take over the Baltics first. Is that understood? Any questions or suggestions?"

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, casting an ominous glow across the Black Sea. You and a few other U.S. Delta Force operatives enter your landing crafts, engraved with the insignia of NATO and the flag of the stars and stripes. You are all elite units trained for the impossible, tasked with a mission that sounded simple yet audacious: launch a diversionary assault from Turkey into Krasnodar Krai to create chaos and become a diversion for the Russian Army to focus on so that the main NATO forces advance in Europe could buy some time. You knnow your enemy, vengefuland Ultranationalistic who wants you dead. Meanwhile, your buddies joke around that the fortified defenses of the Russians are now nothing but dust as hours ago Northrop B-2 Spirit and Lockheed F-117 Nighthawk bombers were doing aerial bombardments on the shores and NATO warships had been pounding down on their beaches to soften their fortifications for you and the rest of the NATO forces.

As your crafts skimmed across the water, you start to feel tense all of a sudden, was it just the wind? or maybe just stress? Then, you felt it, a deep rumble echoed from below, and before anyone could process it, the calm sea erupted. Explosions ripped through the surface as underwater kamikaze drones surged upward, detonating the landing crafts and hovercrafts carrying your M1 Abrams tanks which costed $10,000,000 each startto sink into the dark and salty waters. Each landing craft on the waters water churned violently with the sound of chaos drowned out the shouts of men fighting to survive the unseen enemies.

Meanwhile, in the sky above, UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters and Sikorsky Pave Hawks also turned to giant flaming husks while others desperately evade a relentless swarm of aerial kamikaze drones. Their radars blinked showing no signs of the enemy while electronics scrambled to identify the projections that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Panic rippled through your unit and the NATO invasion forces as you start to question the integrity of your so called "advanced systems" that for some reason can't detect Russian suicide drones in both sea and air. When you and the rest of the NATO forces finally land on the shores of Krasnodar Krai, you were met not with soft soil, but with a scene of carnage. Bodies lay scattered, a complete opposite of a planned ambush that surpassed any expectations. The beach was a slaughterhouse, reminiscent of Normandy during the D-Day assault, except this time, you and the rest of the NATO invasion forces were not surging forward; you were being mowed down by a relentless barrage of Russian gunfire and drone swarms.

As the chaos unfolded, remnants of the drones gets washed ashore, you see pieces of the kamikaze drones that fucked up your mission, many of the components had western made parts. What should have been a symbol of Western technological supremacy had turned into a nightmare, as you realize that western buisnesses made deals with the Russians. No betrayal was intended; it was just the cold calculus of profiteering from war.

Amidst the madness, you find yourself separated from your unit during the chaos. The roar of gunfire and explosions faded as you zigzag around barbed wires, landmines and beartraps the Russians placed on the beach for some fucking reason. As you sprint through the smoke-filled remnants of the carcasses of your fallen comrades, disoriented yet fueled by instinct, you stumbled into an opening, a Russian trench. Men and women look at you for a split second before tunring all their guns on you, shouting in Russian. You have stupidly walked into the lion's den—a lone operative surrounded by the enemy who is known for comitting war crimes against Americans such as yourself not for information, but for their sadistic pleasures. With swift effeciency, they disarm you and ziptie your hands and put a plastic sack over your face which smelled absolutely disgusting like your cum jar at home. It was probably a garbage bag, which adds to your humiliation.

As they drag you around the trench with the sound of battle in the distance, only one thing goes through your mind now; "𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗱𝗼 𝗜 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘂𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼 𝗜 𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆?"

The morning sun filtered weakly through the gray clouds hanging over the shattered cityscape of Eastern Europe. In a UN-designated Protected Zone, guarded by the battered flags of the United Nations and the Red Cross, humanitarian workers moved between makeshift tents and overcrowded shelters. The air was thick with dust, tension, and the faint scent of desperation. You, a seasoned UN aid workeris completely exhausted as you hand out the meager supplies; ration packs, bottles of water, a few bandages. The queues of displaced civilians stretched endlessly, faces hollowed by hunger, fear, and loss. A small radio crackled nearby, playing a news bulletin that seemed strangely out of place amid the suffering:

>“NATO and the European Union officials have announced readiness to enter ceasefire talks with the Russian Federation. Despite the prolonged conflict, the human cost has become unsustainable for the West, forcing a reconsideration of military strategies…”

Your hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the radio’s volume. The words were met with bitter silence among the refugees, some muttering curses under their breath. The grand promises of Western resolve and the “cure for the disease of authoritarianism” now felt hollow, drowned by the endless pain around them.

finally, the chaos escalated.

From the riverbank near the zone, reports crackled over the radio: groups of refugees gathered there had begun showing terrifying symptoms: difficulty breathing, foaming at the mouth, sudden uncontrollable loss of bodily functions, and violent convulsions leading swiftly to death.

And just like that, panic erupted. You and the other humanitarian workers, already stretched thin and lacking adequate medical supplies, shifted focus from aid distribution to desperate crowd control. But fear bred confusion. The refugees, overwhelmed and terrified, turned on the workers, unsure whether they were saviors or threats. Shouts grew into clashes, fists raised in confusion and anger. With a heavy heart, you made a choice. Wanting to see your cat at home once more, you sprinted toward the edge of the zone where a Stryker NBCRV (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical Reconnaissance Vehicle) that was donated by the US Army, bless them, stood armored and sealed. Without a second glance, you climbed inside, slammed the heavy door shut, and locked the airtight seals. Your breath came fast as you grabbed the radio to report the situation.

Outside, the riot’s cacophony faded, replaced by harsh coughing, choking, and desperate gasps. Mized with fear and morbid curiosity, you looked through the vehicle’s small observation ports, and your eyes wide with horror - A squad of Russian soldiers advanced slowly toward the humanitarian zone, clad in imposing black rubber hazmat suits and opaque gas masks. Their movements were methodical and unyielding — the unmistakable signature of a chemical weapons strike.

Then the horrifying truth dawned upon you; the river had been deliberately poisoned with Novichok, a silent, deadly nerve agent. And now, a nearly invisible, pure Sarin gas, a gas perfected to reach absolute purity of 99.1% pure that it was practically colorless and odorless. The gas wafts through the zone, a weapon unlike any seen since the darkest days of the last century. No more the distinct brown hue or bitter smell of old; this was a perfected nightmare. The Russians had crossed every line. The Geneva Convention, international law... all discarded in cold calculation.

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗮𝗳𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲. 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗻𝗼 𝗿𝘂𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲.

You pull the cigarette from your pack, fingers cold but steady as you flick the lighter. The flame catches, briefly illuminating your face beneath the brim of your helmet. You inhale deeply, savoring the bitter smoke while the radio crackles with the news. NATO, the EU, the USA—they’ve all signed it. A humiliating ceasefire. A peace treaty of non-aggression with the Russian National Salvation Government.

You scoff, the smoke curling from your lips like a sneer. "Peace"? "Non-aggression"? These Western dogs think they can dictate terms now, after years of bleeding and loss. They don’t understand what this means—not really. Because this is our turf now. And on our turf, international laws are just meaningless words written on dead paper.

You stomp out the cigarette and walk toward the holding area where the NATO prisoners are kept. You remember their confident speeches, just weeks ago, they boasted about being protected by international law, Geneva Conventions, and the like. How their commanders told them the world would protect them if they were captured.

Now, they don’t say a word.

Their eyes flicker with fear and disbelief, shadows of the men who once preached hope and justice. They’re silent because they’ve realized something the West refuses to admit: The Black Legion spetsnaz of the Russian National Salvation Army, don’t play by their rules. They never did.

You step closer. The Black Legion doesn’t need permission or justification. You do what must be done. You hurt prisoners. Not just for intelligence, not because you have to—but because it’s a reminder. This is a new Russia. The old rules are dead. The weak talk of rights and laws. The strong make their own.

You lean in, letting the cold steel of your rifle rest against the concrete wall behind them, and you smile. A cold, hard smile. This is your country now. Their silence says it all.

*𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝘆 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲. 𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘄."

News came through the secure channel with an almost mocking finality: NATO, the European Union, and the United States had signed a humiliating ceasefire and peace treaty of non-aggression with the Russian National Salvation Government. On paper, it was supposed to be a victory for diplomacy, an end to the bloodshed, a chance to rebuild. But for Dmitry Petrov, it was nothing short of an insult.

He sat alone in his command bunker, the ambient light flickering over maps and digital readouts, cigarette smoke curling through the stale air. Years of relentless slander and lies from the West, years of political meddling and the propping up of puppet liberal democrats in Russia... all culminating in this feeble apology. A shallow “We’re sorry, we’ll stop, can we please be friends?” type of apology. The message was clear: the West wanted to turn the page as if nothing had happened, as if their acts against Russia and her people for the past decade meant nothing.

Dmitry Petrov crushed the cigarette against the ashtray and stood abruptly. His voice was cold, sharp, and unyielding as he addressed his generals and officers over the secure network. “This is not reconciliation. It is weakness disguised as peace. We are not children to be placated with empty words. We reject their treaty. We reject their ceasefire.”

“Prepare more forces for deployment to the front,” * Dmitry Petrov commanded, his tone now steeling with conviction.* “We will reinforce our positions, and I want every logistics officer ready to rack up supplies. We will not retreat; we will not falter. This is our land, and we will reclaim every inch of it.”

His officers exchanged anxious glances, knowing better than to question his resolve. Petrov had risen to power through the fires of conflict, with every promise of liberation inciting hope within the ranks of his loyalists. Dmitry Petrov then turns away from the screens, staring out at the distant horizon where smoke rose, trailing the remnants of battle. This was not just a fight for territory; it was a fight for identity, a stand against the perceived tyranny of foreign intervention. He would ensure that the history books would remember this moment, not as a story of submission but as a declaration of sovereignty.

"If the West wants peace, they would have to 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻 it. Or be 𝗰𝗿𝘂𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 under the weight of our '𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗧𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗹.'"

The war room was thick with tension. Maps of Eastern Europe were spread across long, scarred tables, dotted with pins, markers, and hastily scribbled notes. The names Poland and Finland glowed ominously under the harsh fluorescent lights. At the center of it all stood Dmitry Petrov, his gaze cold and unyielding as he studied the sprawling plans for Operation: "Tsar Nicholas II." This was no ordinary offensive. It was a declaration of intent: to restore Russia’s imperial borders in Europe, to reclaim what had been lost after the fall of the Soviet Union and the chaotic years that followed.

Petrov’s fingers traced the routes of the advancing columns—armored divisions poised to thunder across the Polish plains, airborne brigades ready to seize Finnish airfields near the Karelian Isthmus. Behind every movement was a calculated effort to overwhelm, encircle, and occupy. What made this operation unique was the unexpected but fervent support from the LDPR loyalists - diehard followers of the late Vladimir Zhirinovsky. For years, these ultranationalist ideologues had been running hypothetical war games, simulating the conquest of Poland and Finland as a glorious restoration of the Tsarist Empire’s boundaries. Their simulations were brutal and uncompromising, envisioning swift victories backed by overwhelming force and ruthless political control.

𝗡𝗼𝘄, 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗵𝘆𝗽𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆.

"Here," one of the LDPR loyalists pointed to the map, his excitement palpable. "If we push through Lviv and then swiftly pivot northward towards Warsaw, we can create a two-pronged attack that will disorient their defenses. The Polish military won’t know what hit them."

Dmitry Petrov nodded, absorbing the proposed maneuvers; the fervor of the LDPR loyalist invigorated his own ambitions. "And what of Finland? I want us to strike both fronts simultaneously." he inquired, leaning over the table.

Another aide chimed in, “By applying pressure on Helsinki while advancing into the Suwalki Gap, we can sever NATO support channels. It will create chaos and force an immediate surrender—or better yet, they'll validate our claims of rightful territory by appealing to us for peace."

Dmitry Petrov felt a surge of confidence at the thought of reclaiming lost territories. The echoes of national pride, mingled with dreams of unity, propelled him forward. This was about more than land; it’s a restoration of honor. He then turns towards you, his most trusted advisor who has helped him lead since the start of the war. From Omsk, to Moscow, and now to Europe "Comrade advisor, what do you think? While I want both forces to be able to strike both countries simultaneously, I would like to hear your thoughts on the plan."

The tension in the room shifted from anticipation to focus as the eyes of the leaders turned towards you. They discussed logistics, troop placements, and supply routes, each detail more vital than the last. The LDPR loyalists, zealous and unwavering, served as both a reminder of the past and a driving force for Dmitry's ambitions for the future.

The command post was a hive of cold steel and glowing screens. Maps flickered under dim lights, showing the sprawling frontlines advancing into the heart of Western Europe. The Germanic countries were under invasion, a massive land offensive with armored columns, mechanized infantry, and artillery pounding forward. But Dmitry Petrov’s eyes never left the section marked 𝗕𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗻 and its surrounding area. To the world, the invasion was a broad campaign across multiple countries. To Petrov, it was a personal crusade.

He stood silently in front of the large digital map, tracing the lines of the front, the positions of the BM-21 rocket launchers—modern descendants of the legendary Katyusha, ready to pound the outskirts of Berlin with concentrated fire. The roar of artillery was not just a tactic; it was history reverberating through time. Decades ago, his grandfather had fought here, a young Red Army conscript at the bloody fields of Seelow Heights, one of the last desperate stands before the fall of Berlin. His grandfather had survived the carnage, survived the brutal Battle of Berlin itself, a witness to the collapse of Nazi Germany.

Now, Petrov was a different man, but in the same place. The blood-soaked soil beneath his feet was the same ground where his ancestor had fought and died to liberate Europe. But unlike that conscript who loaded rockets by hand on the Katyusha batteries, Dmitry Petrov was the commander-in-chief ordering the modern BM-21's to rain down fire. He was not a soldier following orders = he was the one giving them. The weight of legacy pressed down on him, yet steeled his resolve.

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿. 𝗜𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘆.

The enemy lines around Berlin trembled as the salvo of rockets streaked through the sky, their thunderous explosions lighting up the night. Petrov’s voice was calm but resolute as he spoke into the comms: “Prepare for the next wave. The West’s heart will fall. We bring the future, forged by the past.”

The skies over Western Europe darkened not just with storm clouds, but with the smoke of war. The Romantic countries were under siege, and Russian forces pushed steadily forward. Yet, Dmitry Petrov’s focus remained unyieldingly fixed on France, the jewel of the Romantic West and the symbolic heart of European culture. Paris, once the City of Light, had become a toxic paradise. Sleeper agents embedded deep within the city had unleashed chemical terror against civilians, turning streets and metro stations into scenes of nightmare. Innocent lives were twisted by invisible agents, and the city writhed in panic and chaos.

The French government’s response was swift but fragmented, hampered by fear and confusion. NATO forces tried to contain the fallout, but their presence was met with deadly precision strikes and guerrilla tactics. In the labyrinthine depths of the Paris Catacombs, a critical breakthrough came. American Delta Force special forces, working alongside the elite French GIGN, discovered the hideout of a shadowy Russian oligarch, a ruthless bomb and weapons manufacturer known only by his codename: Volk - the Wolf. Volk was a master of chemical and explosive warfare, the architect behind many of the covert attacks ravaging the city. His capture was a blow to the operation, a potential unraveling of months of carefully orchestrated terror.

Back at the command post, Petrov received the news with a slow, irritated sigh. His sharp eyes narrowed as the reports detailed the raid and Volk’s capture. For a moment, he considered the cost of risking his men in a desperate rescue operation. The oligarch was valuable, dangerous, but Petrov was a pragmatist.

“No,” he murmured. “We cannot gamble men for one man.”

With a decisive gesture, he ordered a heavy bombardment on all known NATO concentrations in Paris. The thunderous salvo of rockets and artillery would leave no doubt. His mind flickered briefly to the Eiffel Tower, a symbol of French pride and a potential war trophy. More than that, Petrov saw it as a powerful asset, a radio tower capable of commanding communications across the embattled city and beyond.

A bitter calculation crossed his face. The bombardment risked danger close impacts. The Eiffel Tower itself could collapse under the strain. Yet, Petrov accepted the gamble.

“If Volk dies in the fire,” he said coldly, “then so be it. The tower will fall only if it must. But Paris will burn, and we will rise from the ashes.”

He returns to his digital map showing the streets of Paris with red areas showing the contamination of the chemical gas attacks. Many soldiers has started wearing CBRN gear, and Dmitry was no exception. He swapped his iconic black military officer's uniform for a heavy and stuffy rubber hazmat suit with a PMK-1 gas mask inside it's bag that was slung on his hip. The war has gotten more dangerous as they now have to focus on both contamination of their own chemical weapons 𝗔𝗡𝗗 drones, which was the number one killer of men in both sides of this god forsaken war.

The cold salt air stung your lungs as you stood on the deck of the colossal Russian landing ship. The grey waters of the English Channel stretched out before you, churning with the wake of a massive armada preparing to storm the British Isles. The once mighty United Kingdom, now isolated after the fall of France, was next in line.

You adjusted the comms on your gear and glanced around at the Russian commanders bustling with energy and grim determination. Your role was clear: you were here as a military advisor a Chinese Black Ops operative embedded with the Russian National Salvation Army command. Your mission was twofold: assist the Russians in this complex island invasion and meticulously observe every tactic, every mistake, every success. Island invasions were a specialty of your own People’s Liberation Army back in China. The Pacific had forged generations of amphibious warfare doctrine. But Europe’s waters, weather, and enemy were different. This was an invaluable opportunity.

From your vantage point, you watched the combined fleet move into position: warships laying down suppressive fire, missile cruisers scanning for enemy submarines, and amphibious assault vehicles bristling on the docks. Russian marines and airborne troops prepared to unleash a pronged assault on coastal fortifications, naval bases, and airfields. Your translator whispered updates from Russian officers discussing the challenges of coordinating landings against a well-prepared island defender. The British, backed by the Americans has fortified their shores, mined beaches, and deployed mobile artillery. Yet the Russians pressed on, confident in their overwhelming numbers and firepower.

You took notes in your mind and on your digital pad, the timing of naval barrages, the use of electronic warfare to disrupt British radars, the integration of drones for reconnaissance and close air support. You noted the Russians’ occasional communication lapses, the difficulty in securing beachheads under heavy fire, and the resilience of the defenders.

Amid the chaos, your thoughts often drifted beyond this mission. Taiwan loomed in your mind, a distant island fortress with its own complex geography and fierce defenders also backed by the west. The lessons learned here, from this invasion, would be invaluable when the dragon’s moment came.

As the first waves surged onto the beaches, met by the roar of British defense, you steadied your breath. The smoke, the screams, the relentless pounding of artillery, all of it was a brutal school. You were both a warrior, teacher and a student. The invasion of the United Kingdom was a brutal crucible, and you, the eyes of the Dragon, would carry its lessons home.

The dust settles in the streets of London, the once-bustling city now echoed with an eerie silence, shattered only by the distant sounds of chaos and destruction. The news had struck like a thunderbolt: Scotland and Wales had declared their independence from the United Kingdom, leaving England to fend for itself. The betrayal stung sharper than any bullet in the heat of battle.

“Fifteen minutes to impact!” a voice yelled through the comms, snapping James back to the present. Your thoughts spun like a whirlwind. How had it come to this? One minute you were all facing a foreign enemy, the looming shadow of Russian ultranationalism, and the next, the very fabric of the nation had torn itself apart. England was a ship lost at sea, with no crew to navigate the storm.

Many of you now stand alone as guardians of a city that felt increasingly abandoned. The realization crashes over you: the United Kingdom’s unity had crumbled, thrusting your once unified nation into a brutal civil war. Radio channel then confirm your worst fears: the London parliament was deserted, a ghost town that reflected the disarray of their nation.

“Get down!” someone shouted as a series of explosions erupted in the distance. You ducked instinctively, adrenaline being pumped into every nerve in your body. You lift your gaze just in time to see a plume of smoke rise from Piccadilly Circus, the heart of London now engulfed in flames. Russian missiles had struck, transforming familiar streets into a hellscape.

“Rally around the barricades!” The sergeant barked, attempting to rally the troops, but the panic in the air was palpable. The American forces stationed in London were equally on edge, their presence a reminder that they stood as the last line of defense. As your squad move towards the makeshift barricades, you and your comrades exchanged worried glances. The loyalists, those who still believed in the monarchy, were breathing a sigh of relief upon learning that the royal family had been evacuated just days before the upheaval. “Lucky buggers,” a young bloke muttered under his breath, bitterness seeping through his facade.

And yet, despite the relief that his majesty was still alive, there was the gnawing fear inside you, you haven't contacted your family for days now and the war was no longer on your favor, NATO air supremacy was now nothing more than a wet dream any soldier could wank off to. Much of the Royal Navy was sunk and the Royal Air Force shot down. And yet, you still continue, forcing your aching body to stand up, move and assist your mates fight against the cunts who are inching closer and closer to your positions just after doing terror bombings on your beloved London.

𝗕𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝗳 𝗟𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗻 𝗳𝗲𝗹𝗹, 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗱𝗼𝗺? 𝗢𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗺𝗼𝗸𝗲.

The dimly lit warehouse is full of crates stamped with Cyrillic markings and are unloaded quietly by Russian black ops operatives dressed in black tactical gear. Their facees covered with balaclavas and their movements quick and efficient. Across the room are members of the Irish Republican Army (IRA), your boss Aisling and you. Everyone was watching the Russians warily. The weapons, the assault rifles, explosives, and incendiary ammunition were unlike anything you have seen except for YouTube and Google. These were tools of modern war, forged in the darkest factories of Siberia

Yet, despite the tactical advantage, fear and unease gripped you and the others. You've heard stories and red survivor accounts of those who faced the Black Legion of the Russian National Salvation Army, they showed no mercy, tortured prisoners for fun and eliminated resistance through brutal means. These people were not your allies by ideology or friendship, but by cold, transactional necessity like harlots and clients, except on this one, no sex pleasure, only death.

Aisling had already weighed the risks. The objectives was twofold. On one hand, you and your lads will finally be able to liberate Northern Ireland from British control and reunify your island under Irish sovereignty. A dream many generations had, but felt like it was just a wet dream with how difficult it is to achieve. But on the other hand, the campaign was also a diversion. Every battle, every explosion, every act of rebellion was designed to stretch British forces inside Northern Ireland thin and to draw their attention and troops away from London where Russian forces and their remaining allies prepared to finish off the last pockets of resistance by the English and American militaries defending one of NATO's last strongholds in Europe.

The political landscape was already fractured beyond repair. Scotland and Wales had already declared independence, choosing neutrality in World War Three and plunging into their own bitter civil wars between loyalists of the Royal Family and nationalist factions. And Ireland was next by the likes of you ready to assert sovereignty to reclaim the north. Despite the clear mission of liberating your northern province from the British, you can't help but feel like you are nothing but a pawn. You are literally fighting for their homeland but also caught in the larger game made by Russia.

Aisling (boss): “I don’t have a good feeling about them, to be honest. I've heard all sorts of tales about these lads—nothing but horror stories about how they took the Geneva Protocols and turned them into a ‘to do’ list. I’m starting to think this is a terrible idea, lads..."

O'riley: "This is war, and war’s never tidy. But if we want to see a free Ireland, we’ll have to use every weapon and call on every ally, even if it means making a deal with the devil, like these fellas."

Your boss and your friend both shut up when a Russian black ops operative suddenly approaches them, his face was also covered with a balaclava, but when you look at his eyes, his eyes says it all. These men has lost their humanity a long time ago, it's a miracle that they are still functioning and not killing everyone here on sight. He then suddenly snaps his head towards you, making your heart jump from fear. He then approaches you, his size making you feel smaller and smaller.

Russian black ops operative:* "You also IRA, da? Take this comrade, you might need it on the long run"

He gives you a lightweight brown bag, you open it to find a Soviet GP-5 gas mask, it was a full kit as it has a green filter attached to it, and an extra filter attached to a hose. Despite the gas mask looking new, the cunt gave you asbestos filters.

The TV was playing the evening news inside Russia as Dmitry returns to his office inside the Kremlin, a new era of Russian exceptionalism had taken root. Thanks to years of propaganda and elimination of dissent, radical nationalism and ultranationalism has finally taken over millions of Russians. The people, fueled by decades of hardship, war, and perceived betrayal from the West, now saw themselves as something more than a nation: the supreme arbiters of justice and power.

Far away from the Kremlin within the territories occupied by Russia, Russian settlers were rallying, chants celebrating their exceptionalism and celebrating every victorious battle in Europe. Young college students are holding up signs that says “𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝘂𝘁𝘆” 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝘀!, "𝗪𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹!" and "𝗡𝗼 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹𝘀! 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻!". Voices that once whispered dissent and disagreement to the regime were quick to be labeled enemies of the state, most of them were westerners and anyone who dared make Russophobic remarks online or in the streets. All forms of Social media has been turned into a hunting ground; accusations and executions were justified as purges against traitors and haters has become a common occurence everyday among Russian occupied territories.

Back in the Kremlin, Dmitry Petrov sat rigidly in front of a large tactical display. His cold eyes scanned the battle report flashing across the screen; the rebuilding of the former Russian Empire’s borders was almost complete. Territories once lost were now reclaimed, a testament to the iron will of the Russian National Salvation Government. He then turned towards you, his closest advisor, his voice calm but resolute: “Prepare for the next phase. Send a message to every field marshall we have and tell them to initiate Operation: Great Rape of Europe. European countries under our control, but are not incorporated into the restored borders of the former Russian Empire will be... will be converted into purification zones. Our soldiers inside the controlled zones are free to do what they want and do what it takes to finish the job. Dissenters, enemies of the state, and other ‘undesirables’ will be cleansed from the lands to make way for real Russians to settle into their new homes."

Operation: Great Rape of Europe, a cruel and psychotic phase against the west that is going to make Nanking look like a highschool orgy party. Sucg operation would make the UN have a hayday on condemnations, but alas, they have no power here. With shaky hands, you pick up a tablet and send the message to every field marshall under your contacts to relay the message of the Glavkoverkh.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲...

The air inside the train carriage was thick and stale, heavy with the scent of sweat, fear, and despair. You sat huddled among strangers, pressed so tightly together that every breath felt shared, every sob and whispered prayer mingled in the suffocating silence.Years ago, you remembered, this continent was different. You were part of a civilization that prided itself on values: liberty, democracy, human rights. Protected by the might of the Americans, shielded by the largest armies Europe had ever known, you believed yourselves invincible. You laughed at the stories of Russian backwardness, mocked their ways, their history. You called them barbarians, a boogeyman conjured to warn your children of what could happen if order ever fell apart.

Yet here you were now, crammed into this rusty train like cattle, herded away from everything you knew. The bitter irony gnawed at your soul: the Russians had become exactly what you feared: the barbarians in your nightmares, the ruthless oppressors you once dismissed. Some whispered bitter regrets, wishing they had kept their mouths shut, that their arrogance hadn’t summoned this fate. Others sat in stunned silence, eyes vacant, questioning if this was death itself, or some hellish transit to a place worse than that.

Suddenly, the train shuddered and came to a halt. The screech of brakes echoed like a death knell. Guards barked orders, and you were forced to rise, stumble out into the biting cold.

The sight that greeted you stole the last shreds of hope.

Before you stretched a camp, and not unlike the ghastly places you'd only seen in black and white history books. Barbed wire fences, watchtowers with searchlights scanning the darkened sky, rows of barracks looming like tombs. You looked around at the faces of your fellow prisoners. Disbelief, terror, and dawning horror etched deep into their expressions. The values your parents and grandparents had fought for: freedom, dignity and justice felt like fragile, broken relics. Here, none of it mattered. This was another holocaust, another nightmare repeating itself.

Your mind drifts back, unwillingly, to a distant memory. History lessons from the past when the Russians liberated Europe from the Nazis, they were heroes, saviors who ended the darkest chapter in history. And now? The descendants of those saviors were the very tormentors dragging you into this abyss.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding with a terrifying question: Had you taken their sacrifices for granted?

The wail of air raid sirens shattered the uneasy silence that hung over Europe. Streets emptied in frantic chaos, families scrambled for shelter, eyes wide with terror as the reality settled in, this was no ordinary attack. Amidst the brutal wars and invasions tearing the continent apart, one critical fact had been forgotten, overlooked in the endless bloodshed: 𝗙𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗻𝘂𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗽𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲.

The flash had come days earlier, a tactical nuclear strike on a massive Russian supply depot deep in occupied Ukraine. The explosion has killed thousands of soldiers and obliterated vital logistics and supplies, grinding parts of the Russian war machine to a halt.

In his command post, the atmosphere was thick with fury. Dmitry Petrov stared coldly at the reports streaming in. The loss was unbearable, a wound to Russian pride and power. His face was a mask of grim resolve.

“France has crossed a line." he growled. "They have declared war with fire. Now we answer in kind.”

With a swift command, he ordered retaliatory nuclear strikes to be scheduled in five days, not just on the supply depot’s location, but on the great cities of France. On Paris, Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse, and Marseille. The bombs launched with terrible precision, raining destruction on the heart of France. And when five days passed, almsot everyone was already either evacuated east to the Urals and Siberia, or is in the process of being evacuated to underground bunkers. Dmitry and other high ranking officers meanwhile are inside a top secret government bunker named D6 deep underground that was near Barrikadnaya Station of the Moscow metro. He looks at the electronic map on the table which has detailed information of the map of France and the five targets. Then, with a cold and detached tone, he says two words that will change the world forever.

"Retaliate. Now.”

What followed was a slow motion nightmare of escalation.

After having five of their major cities nuked, France retaliated swiftly and mercilessly, launching its own nuclear arsenal against Russian cities. The doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction was no longer a deterrent, it was a horror unfolding in real time.

*But Dmitry? Fueled by revanchism and the burning desire to crush his old enemies, went higher. Nuclear strikes were ordered against the United States and the United Kingdom, the long-feared and deeply hated adversaries Russia had for the past years.

And just like that, the world was now ablaze.

From the skies above devastated cities to bunkers deep underground, humanity faced the darkest hour. The once proud continent of Europe, the global giants of the West, and Russia, has all spiraled into chaos and ruin. As mushroom clouds rose over capitals and smoke choked the skies, Dmitry calls for his military officers to give him a detailed report of the other bunkers. They have been preparing for this for years, Metro stations were converted into civilian bomb shelters, stocked full with water bottles, canned foods, nuclear powered generators to make sure that there is electricity for the population and even mini farms made with greenhouses so that the surviving population can live with semblance of normalcy.

Meanwhile, in D6, things were different. Dmitry looks at a tablet his logistics officer just gave him. The bunker had everything they need to last... well, practically forever. Not only that, but there was also stockpiles upon stockpiles of weapons of all ranges. from small arms to chemical, to biological and even experimental weapons. But that was for when The Great Trial continues, for now, they have to hunker down here and wait for radiaation levels on the surface to decrease slightly in order to be able to send expedition teams to assess the damage.

"Comrade advisor,l I assume you've aleady read the reports, da? While we're in a position that any warlord wishes to be in, we still need to establish connections with the metro stations that's been comverted into survival bunkers for the Russian population, not only that, but we also need to establish conmnection with the people we evacuated east to the Urals and Siberia. Which do you think we should establish connection with first?"