I Am the Soviet Invader

A few days after its quiet release, a video began to ripple through Western media like a storm rolling across a quiet lake. It didn't come through official Soviet channels. There were no press conferences, no endorsements from the Kremlin. It appeared as if leaked—posted on forums, emailed to journalists, passed between hands like contraband.

The title?

"I Am a Soviet Invader."

Simple. Provocative. Unapologetic.

"Hello, European powers. I am the Soviet Invader.Invasion is my specialty.Look at history: From the Siberian Khanate to the Ottoman Empire. From Kamchatka to France. From the Central Asian khanates to Germany.I rode on iron hooves and crushed every threat to Russia's survival."

The voice was mechanical, almost calm, layered over footage from the August 1st military exercises. Massive An-series transport aircraft darkened the skies. T-80 tanks thundered across plains, kicking up dust like a plague of steel locusts. It was a visual spectacle, calculated to leave the viewer breathless—and unnerved.

The video's narrator shifted into grim satire.

"I occupied Siberia. It now produces oil, gas, aluminum. The cities I built have hospitals, kindergartens. The people no longer sell fur and women to survive.I occupied the Baltics. I built farmlands, power plants, perfume factories, cars.Now they want to 'purge' communism, and welcome frauds who sell promises instead of deliver results."

"I occupied Central Asia. I built Baikonur, launched rockets, built satellites and hospitals. They want me gone. And after I'm gone? They protest their own governments, clutching empty slogans."

"I occupied Ukraine. Then it built planes, ships, tanks. Then it forgot who made them, and burned it all down in a frenzy of independence."

As the narrator listed his crimes, the screen showed Molotovs hurled in Tbilisi, crying crowds in the August 19 Incident, and burned-out homes in Ferghana. It was propaganda—but brutally effective.

"Yes, I am an aggressor. And I'm tired of apologizing.They say I'm Ivan the Terrible? Then tremble.Napoleon marched on Moscow. I burned my own city. What happened to him?The Nazis brought tanks. I met them in the trenches. Where are they now?Turks, British, Germans, French—you've all come to my doorstep. I have made graves ready: 2.5 square meters each."

"We don't want your 'values.'We don't want your democracy wrapped in money and madness.We want peace—but we carry a steel torrent in reserve."

As the final line echoed, a Tu-95 bomber screamed overhead. Onscreen, its payload dropped—flattening a mountain in a thunder of explosions.

Fade to black.

"This is your final warning."

No statement came from the Soviet government. No denial, no endorsement. Just silence—as if the video had nothing to do with them.

But the world heard it loud and clear.

Western Reaction

The Times, UK:

"This is a threat to liberalism.""While the Soviets posture with steel and fire, our navy dwindles. What happened to the empire of the seas? We now stand on par with the French—and not in a good way. Great Britain is lost in nostalgia."

Le Parisien, France:

"There are two armies in the world: the fearsome French army—and the terrifying Soviet Red Army. Our defeats in Vietnam, in Algeria, in memory… How can we criticize the bear while we hide behind hollow budgets and lost wars?"

The American Internet? It exploded in satire and memes:

"If you're that strong, don't bully the EU. Cross the Bering Strait and come fight us."

"Bro, this is Call of Duty: Kremlin Edition."

"Look at these guys. Meanwhile, we're out here spending billions on identity briefings and PowerPoint warfare."

What the World Saw

Across forums and late-night shows, across embassy cables and Reddit threads, the phrase echoed:

"Terrifying steel torrent.""Russia has memes now—and missiles.""Don't poke the bear."

It wasn't just propaganda.

It was performance art with a payload.

Yanaev said nothing publicly. He didn't need to.

The world had just been reminded that the Soviet Union hadn't vanished—it had rearmed its soul. Not with guns alone, but with narrative dominance.

And the bear was watching.

Of course, the memes, debates, and satire flooding the Western world were just that—after-dinner jokes, entertainment for a populace far removed from the core of the storm. The true message of the video wasn't for them.

Its real target sat much closer.

The viral propaganda film was not aimed at NATO, not at America's techno-bureaucrats or the snide pundits in Paris. It was a message in blood and steel—meant for the crumbling edges of the Union. For those nationalist factions who dreamed of dismembering the Soviet body with kitchen knives and slogans.

Georgia. Moldova. The Baltics. The Caucasus. The wild fringe.

And Yanayev made sure they heard it.

In truth, the propaganda film did little to deter them. Men chasing nationalism, like men chasing ghosts, do not scare easily. They were not afraid of tanks. They were willing to burn their countries to the ground for the illusion of sovereignty—and bring their people with them, through fire and starvation, just for the right to plant a new flag.

Yanayev knew that. He didn't expect repentance. He expected escalation.

The video was not a peace offering.

It was a declaration of terms.

"We warned you," it said. "Now you can't say we didn't."

No one embodied this reckless fanaticism better than Zviad Gamsakhurdia, the former Georgian president, now sitting under house arrest in a soundproof room deep inside a KGB detention center. The fluorescent bulb above his head buzzed faintly, the only sound in a room stripped of windows, dignity, or hope.

He stared across the table at General Secretary Yanayev.

And for the first time, he realized why everyone feared the man.

Not because Yanayev shouted.Not because he pounded the table or issued threats.

It was how cold he was. How utterly unbothered he seemed by the topic at hand—like he was discussing flood control, not human lives.

"You think this video was aimed at the West, Zviad?" Yanayev's voice was flat. "It was for you."

Zviad, pale and thinner than his days in office, responded with a whisper:

"You'll never stop it. Not unless you're willing to flood the streets with blood. The only way to stop nationalism now is to cut off every head and mount them on streetlamps."

Yanayev didn't blink. His reply was slow. Deliberate.

"Then that is what we will do.""We will march until the last separatist lies headless.""The war machine will not stop. The gears will grind, the steel will roll forward. And when it's done, we'll gather the heads into a pile and show the people. We will say, this is the price of tearing the motherland apart."

He leaned forward slightly. The overhead bulb carved shadows across his face, turning his expression into something reptilian.

"And Zviad—you will not be the exception."

In that moment, Zviad understood. The Soviet Union that had once been mocked as sluggish and bureaucratic, the one torn apart by glasnost and perestroika—was gone.

This new version, forged from betrayal and steel, was something else entirely. A creature reborn through brutality and clarity. A beast that would smile coldly while slicing open your throat—not because it hated you, but because it was necessary.

The Soviet violence machine had returned.

And at its helm stood a man who would not hesitate.