•-Countryhuman Oneshots-•

•-Blood Runs Red-•

Central Moscow, The Russian Empire.
Early October, 1917.

There's a famous saying where I'm from. Fate works in mysterious ways. Perhaps it's true. I'll never know.

It's still astonishing, however, that a single decision can seal a person's fate. Something as simple as taking a different route home from work or maybe even something more extreme like deciding to go to a protest can cause life to change drastically.

My apologies. I'm rambling.

Let us get on with the story for today. A story of a man and a corpse. Well... On a technicality I suppose they are both corpses. Oh well.

We follow a quite influential individual as he wanders down the street. He had been informed of a brutal massacre that had happened earlier that morning and was tasked with overwatching the cleanup. He was the eyes and ears of the Russian Empire. What a charming job title.

The man looked to be around his late twenties or maybe early thirties. If you were to ask him his age however, he would merely laugh at you and say 'much older than you' in his deep, echoey voice.

He had short ash brown hair, a rather ugly stubble beard that drove women away from him and large green eyes. He wore many layers to protect from the harsh winter of the east. His winter coat was a rich and deep shade of green. It was quite an expensive coat. On top of his coat sat a black cloak that reached down to the top of his forearms. And on top of that was a neatly wrapped green silk scarf. Everything else he wore was just part of a black three piece suit. Oh and snow boots. You can't go wrong with snow boots in the snow.

He had arrived at his destination in a rather short time. Afterall, the man had spent many years getting to know the streets of the city and had taken a great number of shortcuts to get to where he needed to go. Atleast some of us fickle humans can be on time.

The man cleared his throat of the sharp, cold air that took effort to breathe in. He looked out upon the blood soaked square, bodies piled up in places that had only just started to be cleaned up. It didn't make him sick. He had seen so much already in his long life that this massacre didn't disturb him. Not even the faint screams and crying he could hear in the distance unsettled him. The man made his way over to one of the soldiers that was clearly organising the clean up.

Oh. I've just realised that they won't be speaking English. I'm sorry. Please, allow me to translate for you for the rest of this story purely because I am lazy and do not wish to frequent our good friend Google Translate.

"Excuse me," The man spoke with his deep voice, getting the attention of the soldier.

"This place is off limits, Sir. Please leave the area,"

The man pulled out an enclosed envelope. The seal on the flap matched that of the Tsar's wax stamp. The intricacies of the stamp made it almost impossible to replicate. The man handed it over to the soldier with a smirk, he knew this was going to happen. He was just a nobody in the eyes of this soldier afterall. He was invisible to the world. And he enjoyed that. The soldier's face paled as his eyes laid upon the wax seal. He didn't even open the envelope to see the demand that laid inside.

"R-right this way, Sir,"

The man smiled at the soldier as he walked past him. The soldier saluting him as he did so. That wasn't entirely necessary but it brought the man great joy watching the soldier practically squirm beneath his presence.

The soldier yelled to the group he was supervising, telling them to let the man inspect their work. The group yelled back with an affirmative grunt. The man walked around the massacre site slowly, taking in every aspect. There laid the already frozen pools of blood that had streamed out from the bodies of the protestors, who's faces showed nothing but the anguish of their situation. The smell stung his nose but he did not react. The man looked down at the people with pity. These were his people and yet this happened to them.