Bruno stood in the snow filled streets of Saint Petersburg. The gunfire that had previously echoed across the region had come to a silent halt. The battle was won, and so quickly at that. 80,000 reds lie dead in a sea of their own blood.
The snow itself being stained with the overwhelming volume of the liquid which poured across it as a result of the hundreds of thousands of rounds that had been fired down range in the span of ten minutes.
Bodies lie blast apart by the artillery shells, which impacted on their positions, as they foolishly charged against an entrenched and fortified position. One that had far more heavy weapons than they realized.
And yet Bruno’s hands were as still as the dead. The shakes he frequently gained were nowhere to be found. Why was this? Because it was not the sound of artillery and gunfire which haunted him on a subconscious level.
Nor was it the sea of corpses whose lives were taken by men acting on his orders. These things, they were calm, soothing even as the man had long sensed grown accustomed to them. Rather, it was the peaceful silence, the silence when the gunfire ends that terrified Bruno. He could not find a way to live with it.
And because of this, here and now on the battlefield, or what remained of it he was as calm as could be. Callously counting the dead of those who followed him into battle. There was no silent prayer for the souls departed, nor a thought of the humanity lost. To him they were simply numbers.
It was while Bruno was counting the losses which they had suffered in the charge, which was far less than the enemy. That his soldiers approached him with a prisoner in tow. As Bruno had ordered, the officers who cowardly hid behind their own fortifications while sending their men to their deaths were executed upon capture.
Only one man was permitted to live. The commander of the Red Army, or at least the field army which had surrounded and besieged saint Petersburg for the last few months. Bruno was surprised to find that the man who had so brazenly attacked such a significant city was none other than Leon Trotsky, a man he held great resentment for.
The Red Army’s commander was forced onto his knees in front of Bruno who simply pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke as he gazed upon the hated face of his enemy. A man whose actions and ideals had caused the deaths of countless innocent souls in his past life.
Leon was never a physically imposing or intimidating man. But he was more pathetic than history had depicted him. Especially now, as he was crying, his eyes red and puffy from the overwhelming tears he had let loose since the moment he realized his army was destroyed.
All the while his nose was dripping with snot, while his body trembled uncontrollably. He was bound by ropes with his arms behind his back. And when Bruno gazed upon the man, he was surprised to find that there was no anger, nor hatred in his heart towards one of the founders of the Bolshevik revolution.
Nor was there any sense of disdain or contempt as there had previously been. Instead, there was nothing but indifference. Perhaps it was because Leon Trotsky, here and now, was not the man he had been in his past life.
Sure, he was on the same path of destruction, death, and despair. But Bruno had stopped him from achieving infamy in history. Instead, as Bruno gazed upon the pathetic state of the would be despot, he was just another poor soul to be sent to the afterlife by Bruno’s hand.
Because of this, Bruno exhaled a deep plume of smoke in Trotsky’s face while he leaned down to stare at the man on a personal level. Perhaps if the man had the balls, he would spit in Bruno’s face and curse him out. But it was clear by the way he was acting he didn’t have such manhood.
No, the man kneeling before Bruno was a broken and defeated man. One who would only beg for mercy in the face of his death as if he had already been thoroughly castrated by his victorious opponent. And because of this, Bruno’s lips curled into a cruel sneer as he posed a simple question to the one of the primary founders of the Bolshevik revolution.
“Do you know who I am, little man?”
The last part was a personal insult, no doubt because of the man’s insignificant stature, especially as he kneeled in tears and soiled trousers before his conqueror. Leon Trotsky stammered over his words, refusing to meet Bruno’s sinister gaze as he trembled in fear knowing all too well the man who had defeated him, and so swiftly at that.
“You are… The Wolf of Prussia…”
Bruno’s smirk turned even more malicious as he got up to his feet and stared down upon the whelp, mocking him as he walked behind his prisoner’s back all while speaking a villainous monologue.
“Oh? So you have heard of me… Then it should be no surprise to you why you have failed here in Saint Petersburg. You see, the thing is I’m also all too aware of who you are. History is, of course stained with the blood of your victims….”
Trotsky tried to turn his head around and gaze upon Bruno who was behind him. But was quickly hit with the butt of the rifle, which belonged to one of the members of the Iron Brigade who had captured him. Causing him to wince in pain as his head hit the snow, the chilling cold reminding him of what his fate was to become.
Still, he had done this out of confusion. Victims? What victims? And the way which Bruno spoke, it was almost as if he was not addressing Leon in the present. Rather from the perspective of the future. It was deeply confusing to the Bolshevik Revolutionary. Only further adding to the chaos in his mind as death loomed on the horizon, watching and waiting to claim his soul.
Meanwhile, Bruno stood there in silence as took another drag off of his cigarette at the same time reflecting on how he would handle this situation he had suddenly found himself in. He had, after all not expecting Leon Trotsky of all people to be the commander of the Red Army which now lay dead in the snow.
And while Bruno contemplated in silence, Trotsky knelt in front of him. Forced to gaze upon what remained of his army, which now painted the snow red with their blood. Which he was only now realizing was on full display to him. It was a gruesome sight, one which the Bolshevik leader could not accurately describe with words.
The sight of his failures, which had resulted in such a complete and utter massacre caused the Bolshevik revolutionary to cry once more with his hands bound behind his back. After taking some time to think about how to proceed, Bruno suddenly pulled out his luger from its holster and pointed it to the back of the man’s head.
He let out a large puff of smoke from his lungs before saying the final words that the communist leader would ever hear in this life. And they were ones that only added to the confusion he currently felt.
“I have often thought about what I would do to you and Lenin if I were ever able to get my hands on either of you… I mean the suffering the two of you have caused in this world. It is truly on a scale that few humans are capable of comprehending.
And yet millions of people around the globe venerate you as some kind of ideological saint. It is truly sickening… Especially when other dictators, warlords, and maniacs who have committed far less evil in this world are so despised.
However, despite my previous intentions I have to admit. Now that you are in my custody, you seem so pathetic… It is almost as if you are not even worth the hatred which I have held for you for all these years.
I suppose I should thank you. Seeing you act like such a despicable and insignificant creature in the face of death has only confirmed that you are simply unworthy of provoking any emotion from me.
Allow me to gift you with these parting words of advice: if you are ever given another chance at life, you would do well to reflect on what brought you to this point and how you can properly repent for your sins.”
*Bang*
The body of Leon Trotsky fell to the floor with the sound of a gunshot. His brains blown out all over the snow in front of where he had kneeled just moments before. All the while Bruno took one last drag from his cigarette before tossing the butt on the face of the corpse he had just made. Without any concern to putting it out. It was his last gesture of disrespect towards a man undeserving of being remembered in history.
All the while the soldiers of the Iron Brigade, the Black Hundreds, and Russian Army gazed at Trotsky’s corpse after his execution with conflicted feelings. Surely this was a sign that the Bolshevik revolution was coming to an end was it not?
Unfortunately for them, the war had only just begun, and Trotsky’s death at the hands of Bruno would make him a martyr in the eyes of those who shared his cause. In the coming days, hundreds of thousands of peasants would flock to the Red Army, easily replenishing their ranks from those who had died on this day.
