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

The men who once took up arms for Chechnya's independence now sat trembling in the shadows, their defiance evaporated in the face of steel and fire. No longer warriors—just ghosts in waiting.

"Useless. All of you. Worthless cowards."

The commander's fury erupted. His voice cracked with rage and disbelief. As the groans of the wounded echoed in the dusty, shell-riddled room, he tore the headscarf from his face and flung it to the ground with disgust. His boots ground it into the dirt as he drew a Magnum revolver from his side holster.

The soldier who had dared to complain barely had time to blink before the gun went off. A single shot.A skull cracked.A body slumped to the ground, twitching once before falling still.

CRACK.The gunshot rang out through the hollowed structure like a gavel slamming on a death sentence.

Silence fell again—deeper this time, stained by fear and finality.

The commander swept his cold gaze across the room.

"Those who can still stand—to the front," he growled. "If I hear one more word of doubt, you'll meet the same fate. Guards, watch them. If anyone refuses to fight, shoot them on the spot."

The metallic clack-clack of rifles being chambered followed his words. Wounded men flinched. Some whimpered. One soldier with shrapnel in his side leaned on a rusted pipe to push himself up, face pale and drenched in sweat. Another, dragging a bloodied leg, tried to tighten his bandage and staggered toward the exit.

No one dared defy orders.Not anymore.

One by one, they emerged into the war-torn streets of Naurskaya—a city now stripped of shape and soul. Smoke spiraled from shattered towers. Streets were piled with ash, rubble, and the remains of dreams that once called themselves freedom.

They had believed the Soviet Union was weak, fractured, finished. That Afghanistan had broken the bear's back.

But now, as they faced the rolling thunder of Soviet tanks and rocket artillery, they understood:The bear was angry.The bear was awake.

One kilometer ahead, Soviet forces advanced relentlessly. The battlefield echoed with bursts of rifle fire and the deep, concussive boom of artillery.

Retreating rebels scrambled backward, returning fire in desperation. But it was no use.The Soviet armor, unmoved and unmerciful, ran down the wounded where they lay.

There were no orders for prisoners.

"No Geneva Accords.""No mercy.""As they did to our people—so shall it be done to them."

Above the ruined city, Mi-24 Hind helicopters circled like vultures. But these were no passive observers. Their gun pods roared, strafing enemy strongholds into dust.

And from loudspeakers mounted beneath their bellies came the final assault—not of fire, but of fear.

The voice that echoed through the broken bones of Naurskaya was deep, metallic, emotionless:

"Chechen rebels…""Your corrupt city is surrounded by iron.""You have no escape. No hope. No future.""The will of the Soviet Army will be done.""Give up resistance.""Abandon your homeland.""Give up… hope."

It played again. And again. And again.A hypnotic drumbeat of despair—turning fear into panic.

Inside shattered apartments and burned-out mosques, fighters wept in silence. Others stuffed cloth into their ears, trying to block out the voice of inevitable defeat. A few clenched their weapons tighter—not out of bravery, but because they no longer knew what else to do.

"We are not fighting soldiers," one whispered. "We are fighting monsters."

Surrender Is Not an Option