Jacket_Man

A cynical 21st-century historian, contemptuous of the Soviet Union's collapse, is inexplicably reborn as Gennady Yanayev in the heart of Moscow, August 1991. Armed with future knowledge and a ruthless determination, he hijacks the impending coup, not to preserve a dying system, but to forge a new, terrifyingly efficient Soviet superpower poised for global domination.

Reborn in Soviet Union

"For them, there will always be a reason to attack Russia."

Yanaev's voice was calm, yet filled with quiet venom.

"They will keep pushing until the polar bear lies breathless beneath their boots—then divide the corpse and toast their triumph over our extinction."

He put down his coffee and gestured toward the document in Surkov's hands.

"Only a disarmed Russia, economically shattered and socially humiliated, is worthy of being welcomed into their 'civilized' world. They want us crawling, not standing."

Surkov, sitting across from him, was frozen in concentration, reading line by line. The document was dense, a firebomb of rhetoric shaped into poetry and fury. As he reached the final paragraph, he slapped his thigh and exhaled with awe.

"This… This is brilliant," he gasped. "Comrade Yanaev, it doesn't just slap the West—it opens their mouth and shoves the truth down their throat!"

Yanaev didn't smile. He merely sipped his now-cooling coffee and gave a nod.

"This piece—it needs more than paper. It needs motion, sound, flame. It should be a film, a statement, a battle cry!"

"That's why I called you." Yanaev finally smiled, but it wasn't a warm one. It was the grin of a hunter who had finally tracked his prey. "Take this, and bring it to life."

Surkov sat up straighter. He knew this would not be mere propaganda—it would be war through images.

"Use the footage from NATO's August 1st military drills. Show their exercises in Germany, Poland, Romania. Tanks rolling, jets screaming—and then intercut it with our soldiers, our factories, our cities. Not gray Soviet realism—show strength, order, thunder. Let them see what we have rebuilt."

Yanaev leaned forward and placed a hand on Surkov's shoulder.

"This task is yours, Comrade Surkov. Don't disappoint me."

Back at the Ministry of Propaganda, Surkov entered his war room.

The lights were dim. Cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling. Dozens of young men and women hunched over editing consoles and old projection monitors. Some were engineers. Some were poets. All were true believers.

"We're not making another dull committee-approved filmstrip," Surkov announced. "This must hit like artillery. This must inspire loyalty, ignite fear, and mock hypocrisy. We don't answer to bureaucrats. We answer to history."

Three days passed. Sleep was abandoned. The think tank submitted four versions.

Version four—the most aggressive, cinematic, and emotionally charged—was chosen. Surkov sat in a dark room, watching the final cut.

VIDEO: "I Am the Soviet Invader"

The screen opens to a blank field of snow. A single voice speaks, deep and cold:

"Hello, European powers… I am the Soviet Invader."

Footage cuts to NATO tanks crawling across the Baltic plains. Then cuts to old archival images of Napoleon, Hitler, and NATO—each one seeking Russia's ruin.

Massive steel foundries spark to life. Soviet paratroopers drop like rain. Submarines surface from black Arctic waters. Jets scream overhead. Choirs chant over slow-motion footage of Red Square.

"You say we are monsters.That we should disarm.That we should kneel."

"But when your markets collapse…When your cities burn…When your allies betray you…"

"You will crawl to the bear for warmth."

Final shots: Soviet flags rise. Crowds cheer. NATO tanks stuck in the mud. Then silence. Just the echo of footsteps and a rising orchestra.

"We are not returning to history.We are here to rewrite it."