Almost forgot to add this but I should mention that everything happening now and later have a meaning to the story.

There are also a few warnings!
CW; Death, blood, depictions of death, homicide, mutilation of a body (crumbling/falling apart)

Thanks and enjoy :)

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The sound of rushing around and loud crashing noises woke a young boy out of his slumber. The curtains in his room were already open and he could see the sun just barely peaking out over the land in the horizon. If he had to guess, it was probably half past 6 in the morning by now, maybe a bit later than that. Groggily, he got up from bed and made his way out of his bedroom and into the hall to see what was happening, opening the door and almost being run over by a maid rushing past with a bundle of blankets and other items in her arms, not turning to apologize. Confused, the young boy looked as the once elegant halls of Buckingham Palace was now thrown into chaos as maids and butlers alike were rushing around to deliver supplies and barking out orders to each other. Used to the palace being very quiet and well run, the boy was a bit startled and shoved his way down the hall to try and find his parents to ask for an explanation, ignoring the dirty looks from the butlers and nasty words from the maids as they nearly trip over him, apologizing under his breath.

Emerging onto a balcony overlooking the main hall below, the young boy could spot his parents talking in hushed, frantic voices. The shorter of the two - United Kingdom, or Britain - bore a pleading look in his eyes while the other - France - held a look of determination in his. A minute of watching them and the boy spotted another figure running out to them with two suitcases, dropping them to hug Britain. It was the boy's older brother, Canada. He watched as Britain hugged the other boy back, his face crestfallen, France sighing as he watched. The boy on the balcony then decided it was the best time to make himself known.

"Father! Papa!" he called and all three of them turned in surprise. Britain visibly deflated in despair and France's face fell, though Canada smiled brightly as he waved up to his younger brother.

"America!" he called up. "Good morning!" America smiled a bit and waved back, still perplexed by the atmosphere in the room when a wetnurse tapped on his shoulder and he turned to her, seeing her look irritated and distressed with a wailing baby in her arms.

"Forgive me for putting this on you, young America," she sighed. "But all of the bustle around has woken New Holland and I can't get him to calm down. I was told your parents and brother are busy so if you don't mind taking him? I unfortunately have other duties to do and I can't take care of him right now."

America looked at the baby and smiled, nodding eagerly as he was always fond of spending time with and taking care of his little brother. "Of course, you can leave him to me!" The wetnurse looked at him gratefully before handing New Holland over to the young boy and turning, picking up her skirts as she rushed away to attend to whatever duties she had. Turning back with his baby brother in his arms, America began to make his way down the stairs to the main hall where his family still stood, waiting for him. Upon seeing the baby in his arms, the three of them grew a bit uncomfortable and France and Britain's faces morphed into expressions of regret. America tilted his head to the side.

"What's happening?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as they exchanged glances.

"Amérique," France began, his accent heavy with emotion as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Wé're een troubuhl... Ai am needed bak een mon tairritairy... (We're in trouble... I am needed back in my territory...)" He got down on one knee and placed a hand on America's shoulder, attempting to seem reassuring as he spoke. "Ai need 'élp and ai am takng Canada wiv mé... Ai am not suré 'ow long we'll bé jene, but ai promize you we weehl be bak as soon as we can... Tak caré of yur fathair and baby brothair until zen okai? (I need help and I am taking Canada with me... I am not sure how long we'll be gone, but I promise you we will be back as soon as we can... Take care of your father and baby brother until then okay?)"

America stared at him, trying to process what he'd just been told, looking between France and Britain and Canada and then eyeing the suitcases on the floor not only by Canada's feet, but also by France's feet. Finally it sunk in and America's lower lip quivered as he turned back to his papa.

"You're leaving us-?" he whispered in disbelief, his voice wavering. France frowned and flinched slightly as if the question stung him.

"Non, non... Wé are on-lee goéng to tak care of zum thengs... Ai promize wé weehl be bak, ma petite étoile (No, no... We are only going to take care of some things... I promise we will be back, my little star)," he murmured, pulling his two young children into a hug and giving them each a kiss on the forehead before he got back up and turned to Britain, placing a gloved hand on his cheek. America hadn't realized until now that his papa had been wearing a French military uniform.

He watched as his parents spoke to each other quietly, private things meant only for the two of them before they exchanged a quick loving kiss and France stepped back, though it looked like it was an effort to do that.

"Wé 'ave to go béfairé we miss aur ship... (We have to go before we miss our ship...)" And with that, they gave the others one last hug and grabbed their things and walked out. Britain and America stood in the front garden as they got in the vehicle to take them to the port, watching as they left and disappeared into the distance. America noticed New Holland had finally fallen silent.

-

Weeks passed, America had stopped asking when France and Canada would return, finally realizing that it was unlikely that they would. Britain spent his days taking care of the children, trying to distract them from their missing family members while also dealing with the continuing war against the Germans. The war often took him away from the palace for weeks at a time, which lead America to learn to take care of himself and New Holland - now renamed Australia. It wasn't like he minded, though. He understood his father's situation and enjoyed his time with his little brother as it took his mind off of his missing family members.

Then one morning in mid January 1917, America found himself being shaken awake by his father whom he thought was away on the front lines. In fact, he was supposed to be away for the rest of the week. The boy quickly sat up, confused and surprised.

"Father?" he mumbles, still half asleep. "Is that really you?" Britain smiled at him and nodded, causing the young boy to throw himself into his father's arms gleefully while exclaiming, "You're home!" Britain chuckled softly and nods as the young America soon threw his arms around him. The two remained in a tight embrace for a few moments before Britain pulls back to look America in the eye.

"I've got to go across to meet with an ally in the Northwest," the older man explained. When he noted America's crestfallen expression, he smiles and places a hand on the young boy's cheek as a form of reassurance. He nearly chuckles as he continues, "I plan to bring you and little Aussie with me. We leave now, put on your shoes." Then he stood from his kneeling position to allow the now excited young boy to hop out of bed to retrieve his shoes. As America rustled through his closet for his favorite pair, Britain turned on his heel and left the room; presumably to get Australia from the nursery and wait for America downstairs.

When America finally rushed downstairs, Britain grabbed his hand and began leading him outside to an awaiting vehicle that would take them to the docks where their ship would be waiting. It was quite cold outside as winter had hit, America was wrapped tightly in a coat while Australia was cradled within a thick blanket. America was unsure of where they were going - something his father hadn't yet specified - but found himself quite excited nonetheless.

-

Perhaps it was a week later, maybe more, when the ship finally arrived. Getting off of the large ship, America realized just how cold it was. There was snow covering nearly every surface and the wind, while not quite strong, was chilly and stung the young boy's lungs when he breathed in. His breath came out in misty puffs and as he looked around, he noted how miserable the people looked. This country was clearly behind industrially and the people were quite unhappy with it. Frowning, America looks up at his father as they boarded a carriage, a million questions running through his mind. Britain, however, did not seem quite as concerned as his young son was, instead preoccupying himself with ensuring Australia was comfortable. The carriage began on it's way, passing through barren shops and farmhouses with people trying to work even under harsh conditions to try and make ends meet. It was an unsavory sight to say the least.

"Father," America began, his eyes trained on the window and the snowy sights they passed. "Where are we?" He casts a glance over at Britain, who finally looked up from where he was coddling Australia to look outside.

Britain heaved a heavy sigh before speaking, "We are in the Russian Empire," he responds, turning his gaze away from the window once again. This didn't quite satisfy America as they approached a glorious looking palace. The Winter Palace as the carriage coached announced. Saint Petersburg.

They got out of the carriage - America holding Britain's hand for assistance as to not slip and fall - and approached the doors to the castle, which were promptly opened by two Winter Guards standing out front. As they stepped inside, America took note of all of the intricate architecture of the building; the arching halls with painted murals on the ceilings, the luxurious red carpet underneath, the expensive looking decorations and portraits along walls and on equally lavishing furniture... it was quite unlike anything America had ever seen before - not even back in London! The main foyer they entered was equally as glamorous as the rest of the Palace with large velvet curtains covering the equally large windows. A crystal chandelier hung overhead as the door across from them opened and two tall figures entered. One was shorter than the other however but wore quite the embellished attire. His pattern was one of three horizontal stripes of different colors; obsidian black at the top, golden yellow in the middle and porcelain white at the bottom. He gracefully wore salt and pepper hair and his gray-blue eyes were warm as he welcomed them. The taller man beside him wore what appeared to be a pristine commander's uniform. His skin was red and at the top left corner of his face were the letters "РСФСР" in gold yellow with a rectangular frame of the same color around it. His gold honey colored eyes were harsher that those of the other man's, it unsettled America.

"Добро пожаловать! (Welcome!) Velkome to Saint Peterrrsburrrg!" the first man greeted with surprising enthusiasm. "I am RRRussian Empirrre. You may kall me RRRE. I hope yourrr jourrrney vasn't too rrrough."

What a funny accent. America thought yet kept his mouth shut. Britain gives Russian Empire a brief nod of acknowledgement in return.

"Our journey was fine, thank you," he replied with a tone that seemed quite reluctant. Russian Empire then turned his gaze to America, his features softening slightly. He knelt down and America shied away a little, unsure of what exactly was happening.

Russian Empire merely chuckled as he spoke with both hands held up as if to show he was no danger. "Kalm, молодой (young one)," he reassures gently. "I vill not harrrm you, prrromise. What is yourrr name?" The taller man behind him scoffed and rolled his eyes at this.

"Отец (Father)," he began gruffly, arms crossed over a broad chest. "Это пустая трата времени. Они здесь для бизнеса, а не для игры. (This is a waste of time. They are here for business, not playtime.)" Russian Empire looks back at him with a small smile, clearly amused by the other man's stern demeanor.

"Не надо так, РСФСР. Я только спрашиваю, как его зовут (Don't be like that, RSFSR. I am only asking his name)," he responded to which the taller man merely grunted. Russian Empire shook his head before turning his attention back to America again with an apologetic expression. "Forrrgive my son's rrrudeness. His name is RRRSFSRRR. Now, what is yourrr name?"

America hesitates for a moment before speaking, "America..." he mumbles in response. "United States of America..." Satisfied with this answer, Russian Empire stands back up to speak with Britain, allowing him to stake a seat to avoid tiring him out while he held Australia.

As the adults talked, a figure by the doorway caught his eye. It was another boy, slightly older than America himself perhaps. He looked quite awkward and hesitant to approach into the room. The boy bore skin the color of scarlet, similar to RSFSR's skin tone. On the left side of his face was a blue stripe parting down from the top of his head to the bottom of his chin. Just above the boy's left eye, placed beside to the blue stripe was a gold ensemble of a hammer and sickle. His eyes were a sharp ice blue, nearly similar to the color of Russian Empire's eyes. As if sensing the other boy's presence, Russian Empire turned to look at him and smiles.

With an outstretched hand towards the boy, Russian Empire tilts his head to the side slightly. "Малая Россия. Почему бы вам не прийти сюда и не поздороваться? (Little Russia. Why don't you come here and say hello?)" he seems to insist which then prompted the boy to approach. He wore what America could only assume was a school uniform of sorts. Russian Empire places a hand on the other boy's shoulder before gesturing to America. "Россия, это Америка (Russia, this is America)," he said warmly before turning to America again to gesture at the other boy. "Amerrrica, zis is my grrrandson RRRussia. I hope you vill get along... now why don't the tvo of you go play while ve speak?" Russia and America exchanged a glance before nodding and with Russia leading the way, thee two boys left the foyer to an adjacent room.

They sat in awkward silence for a long moment, neither one having the courage to speak. Finally, America turned to Russia and spoke up, eager to break the air of awkwardness around them.

"It's really cold in your country," he began before realizing that could come off as rude to this foreign boy whom he knew nothing about. "B-but it's really pretty too... it has it's charm." It came out much more uncertain than intended, but it was too late to take it back now.

Russia's gaze almost seemed to pierce through America before nodding and averting his gaze again, "Да... It is usually verrry kold herrre..." he responds. Then he turns his gaze back over to America, careful curiosity in his ice blue eyes. "What is it like in London? Does it snow zerrre too?" America ponders for a moment before offering a small shrug.

"Sometimes," he replies simply. "Usually it just rains. A lot." Russia's lips turned up in a slight smile at that, as if he found it amusing. Perhaps it was.

-

Their stay was only for the week. When the time came for America and Britain to leave, America felt crestfallen to be leaving his new friend. As such, before they were set to leave for their ship back to the British mainland, he ensured to leave Russia with a small trinket to remember him by until they should meet again; a small star brooch.

***

March 15th, 1917

It was a cold winter morning. The sun was not yet visible, but the sky was painted in magenta and deep violet. The palace was cold. They had a limited amount of supplies, considering the way raging on to the west of the large territory. The fires had long died out and bits of frost coated the elegant gold window sills. You could see one's breath as they spoke or breathed out. It was about -24℃ outside, but the snow had stopped hours earlier. The palace was silent and barren... Or at least it should be at this hour.

A tall, muscular figure walked down the long, extravagant hallways, arms folded behind his back and his heavy boots thudding as he walked. His trench coat was ripped at the hems and dirtied from soot and gunpowder. He kept his eyes trained ahead, determination in his sharp golden irises, never bothering to turn at even the slightest sounds. He was a man on a mission. Behind his back, he fiddled with something before reaching up to fix his ushanka on his head more securely. His stomach was full of nerves and dread that he refused to show. But the closer he got to his destination, the more nauseous and nervous he felt. He stopped just in front of a large white spruce door. He paused. Did he truly want to do this? He didn't know. He didn't even know if it would end up being worth it either.

No. He had to do this. For his country and to secure his spot of authority. And so, he pushed aside any doubt and nerves to the back of his mind. He can just deal with them if they come up again in the future anyway. Right now, he had a job to do. One he had planned for years. He can't back out now. His country needed him, especially in these times of war. With that thought in mind, he raised a large gloved hand and knocked on the door. It was only a second, but that second felt like a lifetime and the silence was dreadful. The large man shifted his feet. There was a shuffle from behind the door before a voice then called out.

"Заходите (Come in)," it called out. The voice was quiet and laced with exhaustion, but gentle nonetheless. The man sighed and opened the door. It was a study with bookshelves on two sides, a large mahogany table, and a cushioned chair behind it. The bookshelves were filled with old books and documents, the rug underneath had seen better days and the desk was littered with papers with an oil lamp on the edge as a light source. But that was the least of the bulky man's concerns. Behind the desk was the man he was looking for. His father. His father stood graceful as ever in front of him, only the desk being what separated them. His face looked grim and tired when the man opened the door, but when he saw who it was, his eyes filled with recognition and he smiled gently, his stiff shoulders relaxing slightly.

"О, мой сын... СССР, это просто ты. Тебе что-то нужно? (Oh, my son... USSR, it's just you. Did you need something?)" he asked, folding his hands in front of himself. The man, now identified as USSR, nodded slowly.

"Да (Yes)," he replied, his voice rough and deep. "Я хотел узнать, не хотите ли вы... помолиться со мной... Я знаю, что эта война была очень... трудной... (I wanted to know if you would like to... pray with me... I know this war has been very... difficult...)"

His father stared at him, unable to hide the surprise in his expression. He knew his son hated the influence of religion, and would often find a way out of praying or doing any of the sorts. But then, his heart swelled with warmth at the idea that his son is doing it for him, possibly seeing how the war has worn him out. He smiled and chuckled softly before nodding. He could use the comfort of religion right now and he hasn't had much of a chance to do so.

"Да, конечно. Я бы с удовольствием (Yes, of course. I would love to)," he replied, before making his way to the door. USSR moved to the side to allow his father to pass through before following him, letting him lead the way to the Grand Church. They made small talk along the way. Mainly the two trying to bring up and reminisce about the USSR's childhood memories, even if there weren't many he could remember, his father filled in most of the holes. Though USSR didn't believe most of what happened happened, it was nice. A good final conversation between father and son.

Soon enough, the two entered the Grand Church and USSR couldn't help but turn to look up at the beautiful murals painted on the dome ceiling, knowing it would likely be the last time he would ever see it again. The pair made their way to the sanctuary, the father bowing to the Image of Edessa as they passed, giving a silent prayer to the image as he did. The sanctuary was just as vacant and cold as the rest of the palace, but the two men merely batted an eye at the temperatures. It wasn't anything they weren't used to already, but that didn't necessarily mean it was comfortable. USSR watched his father step forward before kneeling on a soft cushion placed at the feet of a statue of Jesus Christ, placing his hands together and raising them slightly with his head bowed in a prayer position. He held a cross tightly in his hand. Once his father began speaking, USSR finally removed his hand from behind his back, revealing a polished Nagant M1895 revolver. He raised it slowly to the back of his father's head, waiting for him to finish his prayers. He wanted to face him one final time. When he did, the smile on his face quickly melted to that of shock and terror, looking from the revolver to USSR, his eyes filled with betrayal and pain.

"Мой сын... Что это...? (My son... What is this...?)" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared up at his son.

"Прости меня, отец... но это то, что я должен сделать ради страны и коммунизма... Я должен избавиться от тебя (Forgive me, Father... but this is what I must do for the sake of the country and communism... I must get rid of you)," the large man replied, his voice low with a dangerous tone to it. "Здесь умирает Российская империя. (This is where the Russian Empire dies.)"

Seconds passed as the two stared at each other. Then, finally, Russian Empire smiled fondly at his son, his eyes still full of hurt but there was an air of acceptance about him.

"Понятно... (I see...)" he murmured. "Я всегда предчувствовал, что это случится... Я только молюсь, чтобы вы не повторили моих ошибок... (I always had a feeling this would happen... I only pray you won't make the same mistakes I had...)"

USSR frowned slightly at that. But he quickly shook his head and sighed.

"Прости меня. (Forgive me.)"

"Правда. (I do.)"

There was a moment of silence as USSR got prepared to shoot him.

"... Я тебя люблю... (... I love you...)"

He pulled the trigger.

Bam.

It was instant. The Russian Empire collapsed onto his side, blood oozing from the hole in his forehead, the legs of the statue behind him tainted in his blood. USSR stared for a moment, taking in what he had just done. Then, he knelt beside the body of his father, who was already beginning to disintegrate before him.

-

Upstairs, a young boy sat up, having heard the gunshot perfectly through the deafening silence. For a moment, he was terrified. Had the Germans reached the palace? Where was his father? And his grandfather? Did the Germans kill them? Is the German Empire on his way to kill him now too? He had to find them. Slowly, he got up from his bed, placing his feet carefully on the cold marble floor. He winced slightly as a shock ran through his body from it. Ignoring it, he stood and grabbed the dagger he kept under his pillow. It was one that his father made for him pretty much as soon as he learned to carry such things, which was when he was a few months old; he's seven now. But that's not important. He made his way to his bedroom door and peeked out. Through the dark, he could see the long and empty hallways stretching on either side. He slowly slipped out of his room, making sure not to make any noise as he crept down the hall, flinching at every sound that penetrated the darkness. He didn't know where he was going or what awaited him at his destination, All he knew was that something had happened and he had to see what it was. He was thankful that he was a light sleeper. The war made it so, as he was always terrified of the day the German Empire would arrive. Now it seems he has. He knew his grandfather would likely be downstairs working and his father could have gone down to help him, having great intelligence regarding war and battle in general. And so, the young boy made his way to the staircase and cautiously descended them, his feet numb from the cold now and the nearly frozen carpet digging into the soles of his feet. Peeking out into the hallway once more, he determined that no one was out and about and slipped down the next hallway, making his way to his grandfather's study. Once he reached the study, he noted the open door and poked his head in, too anxious to think about the manners that were instilled into him about knocking.

To his surprise, it was empty. Only a faintly glowing oil lamp sat on the desk surrounded by papers. No sign of the Russian Empire. Frowning, the boy was forced to continue searching. He wouldn't rest until he knew his family was completely safe and sound. But he began to notice how quiet it was now. No sound of footsteps, no yelling, no more gunshots. All had gone still and quiet again as if it had never happened. But it did happen, the boy was sure of it, and he was determined to find out what it was. Quickly, he picked up the pace as he looked in every room in the hall, getting closer to the Grand Church. Just a few feet from the entrance, he could hear the shuffling of clothes and the echo of boots hitting the floor. Looking in, it seemed empty at first. But his gaze was stuck on the entrance to the sanctuary, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he gazed at the doorway. There was a light on. There was someone inside. Clutching his dagger tightly in his hands, the boy moved slower than he has before to the door of the sanctuary, passing his grandfather's beloved Image of Edessa portrait that hung by the door as he peered in.

At first, he wasn't sure what he was seeing. It looked like his father was kneeling in front of the statue of Christ, the Russian Empire lying in some sort of unconsciousness in his lap. Only when he noticed the stains on the statue did it register what might have occurred. His grandfather was shot. Someone had shot his grandfather and he was dying in his father's arms. But why didn't his father call for help? The boy stared for a moment, shock clear on his face and unable to find any words to form at the sight that was in front of him. Finally, after a minute of gaping at the scene, he spoke in a small voice that didn't sound like his.

"Папа? (Papa?)" he squeaked. He watched his father flinch and whip his head around, his eyes widening when he saw his son standing there. How long had he been there? Did he see what happened? Did anyone else see? He had to leave. They had to leave.

"Россия... Что вы здесь делаете? (Russia... What are you doing here?)" his father began before shaking his head and getting up, grabbing Russia's hand and dragging him out of the church. "Неважно. Мы должны уйти. (Doesn't matter. We have to leave.)" He dragged the shocked boy out of the palace, the boy nearly slipping on the cold, frosted ground and dropping his dagger as they left the palace grounds.

"Уехать? Что случилось с дедушкой? Папа, что ты сделал? (Leave? What happened to Grandpa? Papa, what did you do?)" the boy demanded desperately, hot tears began running down the boy's red cheeks, unable to feel his feet anymore with all of the snow. His father didn't respond as he picked the boy up and carried him in his coat, the sun rising and glowing on them. Russia strained to see over his father's shoulder to watch the Winter Palace disappear into the distance.

~ 74 years later ~

December 25, 1991

The room was silent aside from the sound of labored breathing through gritted teeth, each breath sounding like it took too much strength to intake and each exhale sounding painful and wheezing. A lone figure stood in the room - an office - gripping his stomach and using a desk for support. He couldn't die yet. Not without bringing him down, too.

Red skin cracked and fell apart. Almost his entire right hand was gone. Inky black drops of blood pooled under his feet and on the desk. How did everything go so wrong? This wasn't meant to happen! What of his legacy? What about his son?

A knock on the door snapped him out of whatever delusions were swimming in his head. The heavy wooden door creaked open and in stepped another man, dressed in a business suit. There he was. Just the man whose arrival this poor soul had been waiting for. The other man seemed surprised to see him in such a sight, as if he hadn't expected it.

"Soviet? What's happened to you?" His voice echoes through the silent office, a melancholy sound that surrounded them and it only made the dying man even more agitated. He didn't want to hear another word.

"Keep yourrr fucking mouth shut, сукин сын! (Son of a bitch!)" Soviet snaps in return. The other man's voice was grating to him in the worst way. Even though it held no malice intent, he couldn't shake off the way it just seemed to mock him, taunting him for his weakness. Blood pooled at the corners of his mouth, slowly dripping down his chin. He knew he probably looked grotesque; bloodied, missing a few fingers and literal holes in his torso, oozing with the same dark substance. Soviet could almost see his own heart barely beating in his opened chest cavity.

And perhaps he deserved this for all he's done. All he's done to his people, the country he promised to create for them, others around him, his children and even his own father who was killed by his own hands 74 years ago. Maybe this slow, gruesome and painful death was all deserved for everything he had done. Maybe he should just accept this, there was no more reason to keep fighting.

But if there was anything to note about the Soviet Union, it's that he's stubborn and if he was going to go down, he would bring his enemy down with him.

The other man before him must've been talking, but Soviet was no longer listening. Instead, he forced himself upright, pulling a revolver from his coat and taking aim. It was a Nagant M1895 revolver.

~

"Мой сын... Что это...? (My son... What is this...?)"

~

"Soviet... What is this?" This scene felt all too similar and it only served to harden Soviet's resolve. The other man looked terrified, an expression Soviet had never before seen on him. It would just take one pull of the trigger. One push of his crumbling finger and then-

BANG!

The other man fell where he stood, a bullet hole right in the center of his forehead. His eyes were wide, once bright blue depths now dulled and stared lifelessly at nothing as blood began pooling from his head. It must've been a quick death. What a pity.

Soviet kicked at the body slightly with his foot as if to check if the other man was still alive. Then, he kneeled down beside the other man's body. By now, Soviet's left arm and right foot had completely fallen apart into a pile of flesh, blood, muscle and bones. As he stared down at the other fallen man, Soviet felt a strange surge of sympathy for him as he used the remaining half of his hand to shut his eyes, unable to bear looking at those lifeless blues. Standing upwards once more and raising his head with a mix of triumph, satisfaction and remorse, Soviet sighed as his right arm, followed by his torso and legs continued to fall apart in a horrifying mess.

With what was left of his own life, Soviet uttered a final declaration of victory - one that seemed to top the Russian Revolution and the Second World War;

"Соединенные Штаты Америки окончательно мертвы..."