The Last Romanov (Under Editing)

A Personal Investigation

          

Anastasia stood on the rooftop of one of St. Petersburg nicer apartment buildings, looking out over the city. Her city. At least, it would be, once she got those damned Bolsheviks under control. They were a thorn in her side, and it was about time that she plucked it right out, before it festered out of control.

She stood in the very spot that sniper had set up her weapon. The place still looked like a sniper's hole, to her: when they found the spot and a shot Sasha in the elevator of the building, the sniper rifle and the tripod the sharp shooter had set it up on were both still there. Some cigarette butts still littered the ground, even. Whoever this sniper had been, they'd just missed them.

In fact, the odds were pretty good that they walked right past that guy getting up to that building, but didn't realize it.

This execution is a sign, Nastya, a voice in her head told her. She recognized that voice well enough: it was Rasputin, the mystic that brainwashed her mother into thinking that he would be able to heal her brother from his blood disease. She heard that voice beyond the grave every once and awhile, mainly when she wasn't sure what her next step would be: she was ashamed to say that she'd been a little brainwashed, too. History will repeat itself, my child. Your father's fate will become yours.

No, it won't, Anastasia thought back. I'm not going to let these people do to me what they did to my father.

Oh, my dear child, Rasputin's voice continued, soft and inviting. Anastasia almost gave in to that voice, until she remembered the evil man behind it. You don't have a choice in the matter: not even you, the Czarina of Russia, can control the hearts and desires of other people-

"Your grace?" The guard behind her prompted, tearing Rasputin's voice out of her ears. "Your grace, are you feeling well?"

Anastasia turned to face the guard, scowling. "Why do you ask?"

The guard grew pale. "Y-you just don't seem to steady on your feet, your grace: like you're on the verge of passing out." He bowed. "Forgive me, your highness: I meant no offence."

"No offence was taken," Anastasia said as she stepped off the ledge of the building. She didn't realize just how much her legs were wobbling until then. She needed to get some food in her: she hadn't eaten all day. "I commend you for your concern, actually: I do ask you to try and keep those concerns to yourself from here on out, however; as you can see, I'm perfectly fine."

The guard nodded. "Yes, Czarina. Thank you."

Anastasia looked out over St. Petersburg, again, scanning the skyline. "What have we learned about this sniper?"

"Whoever it was, Czarina, it was a professional job," the guard reported. "This building is nearly a kilometer away from the execution site. I know of plenty of men in our own army who couldn't make that shot. I believe that whoever did this may have been a sharp shooter in the red army before we took the city."

Anger flashed in Anastasia's mind. "Kozlov."

"We don't think so, your grace," the soldier said. "The ballistics don't add up to him making the shot and shooting himself, both with his own rifle, then going down the stairs to that elevator. And don't forget the fact that his gun was missing, and that there was a standard issue Bolshevik weapon up here, despite the fact that Kozlov had his white army weapon on him, that day. Somebody shot him on this roof and left him for dead."

Her blood cooled, but only just slightly. For once in his life, Kozlov had managed to do the right thing.

Well, maybe, anyway: just because he wasn't the shooter didn't mean he wasn't involved, somehow.

"Do we know anything else about this sniper?" Anastasia asked. "Has anybody reported seeing anything?"

"I'm afraid not, your grace," the guard said. "The sniper seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet: the Bolshevik citizens of the city are likely keeping their mouths shut about it. Frankly, they might even be intimidating the loyalists who may have seen something to keep them from talking."

More anger stirred up in her. She thought that he was probably right, and that really, really pissed her off. She'd returned the country back to the way it had been, been merciful to a fault, and this was how they repaid her? By sending a sniper to come and try to kill her and send this country right back into the state of chaos she'd rescued it from? How dare they! How dare these men think that they could do a better job of controlling her own country!

Something in Anastasia's mind snapped like a twig. She used to think the way her father did things was a little heavy-handed, especially back before the Bolsheviks murdered her family and nearly killed her, but now, she didn't think that way. If anything, Czar Nicholas II had been much too soft in regard to these red menaces. These people didn't listen to words or mercy: they would only listen to swift, decisive action in this matter. If she wanted to get rid of this problem, she had to come down on these people like the righteous hand of God.

They wanted her to be some sort of evil tyrant, did they? Fine. She would be quite happy to play the part, if it meant bringing order back to Russia.

"Your grace, do you have any orders for me?" the guard asked.

Anastasia looked back at the guard. "What's your name, private?"

The soldier stood up a little taller. "Pavlov, your grace."

"Tell me, Pavlov," Anastasia said, resting a hand on the pommel of her sword. "What do you think would happen if I reinstituted the draft and lowered everybody's rations until somebody gave up our sharp shooter?"

Pavlov swallowed. It wasn't hard to see that he didn't exactly appreciate that plan, but much to his credit, he didn't voice it.

"... May I speak freely, your grace?" Pavlov finally asked.

Anastasia nodded. "You may."

"I'm... not sure that that's the best idea, your highness," Pavlov said. "I think it may cause a lot of chaos, and I'm not sure how well we'll be able to handle it, considering the fact we're already spread so thin."

"But what would it do to the people's spirit, Pavlov?" Anastasia asked. "Do you think they may feel more inclined to give up our sharp shooter?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "I think so, Czarina."

She nodded. "Then, that's exactly what we'll do." Anastasia began to walk towards the door leading down into the apartment building, her face darkening. "We'll see how those people feel when those Bolsheviks bastards get their sons sent to the front."