Mikhail sat quietly in his office as he prepared his letter to his father. Ever since the event that had thwarted Russia into a new world, he wanted to send more to tell him the details about the reclamation of the Romanov dynasty. Yet, he would never have that chance. The only successful letter that would be sent across the world would be his first and his last. He wondered about his predecessors and how they would have handled the predicaments that they were in. There were even moments when the tsar considered thinking about Vladimir and his life in the grand scheme of things.

A servant entered the room as he focused his attention on the middle-aged man who arrived. His hands carried a plate with glass and a clear bottle. "Your majesty, I have returned with your request."

He nodded his head in approval. "Thank you."

"Forgive my intrusion, your grace, but the staff is currently worried about your well-being. We heard you cry earlier and we wish to help as much as possible."

They had heard him when he wanted some privacy to himself. The tsar needed to acknowledge his problems lest they build up. "Ever since I was declared a tsar, I spent all this time trying to get a letter out of the country so that my father can read them. It's quite certain that he would be disappointed at my decision to celebrate with old men at Harbin. Then I became the servant of the Russian people with only one letter sent to him."

The servant approached him and placed the plate on Mikhail's desk. "I understand. You are just trying to cope with the hard life that all Romanovs will deal with in their lives. My family knows this with yours."

"Your family?" It earned his attention, "I do not seem to recognize it."

"I doubt you would ever know in the first place," He added, "My father was a kitchen boy at the Winter Palace. Old enough to probably know how Nicholas would have gone through."

Now that was surprising news to him. "He knew my great uncle."

He nodded his head. "Knew? Yes. Personally? No."

"He never spoke with him in person?"

The servant shook his head. "My father was a kitchen boy, I doubt your predecessor cared about knowing such a person."

"Now why are you telling me this?" Mikhail asked. There had to be a reason for this conversation to occur, otherwise, he would have left him alone, "Truly, there is a point to this conversation we are having."

He let out a deep breath as if he knew the weight of his words would have an impact on the tsar of all Russian people. "The German invasion happened. My father lived in western Russia and managed to let out a single letter to me before the Germans occupied our homeland. Sure, I have lost a way to talk to him and perhaps will never get another chance, but what would he have thought if I gave in? Then I found my calling the moment your armies controlled the eastern territories of Russia. I say this to you because you never gave up even when you learned of the general's betrayal."

"I have no words to describe how inspiring it is that you have brought hope where despair should be," The tsar was impressed by the wisdom a mere servant could use to humble such powerful men, "Thank you."

The man bowed in his presence. "I serve the tsar in any way I can."

"If there is anything the staff needs, ask me. I will provide."

"Yes, your majesty."


Queen Victoria prepared for her guests as she sat on her throne with anticipation. The foreigners from the west had changed the situation of the island and perhaps could improve it to her benefit. The nation of raiders that made up the Broken Coast had plagued her homeland and if she could establish a relationship with them, they would not have to worry.

The doors swung open with two of her soldiers walking in and stepping aside for the strangers. Unlike the common people she saw in the streets, their clothes were relatively clean with suits not covered in dirt and grime. Yet, there were a few soldiers clad with pre-war weapons that put her military to shame.

The queen looked to her right to see her announcer nod towards the westerners and gesture her hand towards the individuals. "Your majesty, I present you Hawkeye. He is currently in charge of an expedition from across the seas."

Victoria rose from her seat to approach him. "In all of my years as ruler of New Victoria, no one has come from the west aside from simple traders, much less a military expedition. What reason would you have to be here?"

Hawkeye slipped his hands in his pockets. "Exploration. It is quite hard to explain, even for our people since it is just so strange."

"Strange?" Had little experience with how strange the post-apocalypse had brought towards the world, "My good sir, strange would be the least of my worries."

"Russia has been transported from another world like ours into yours."

Now that was hard to believe. The monarch shook her head at the thought. "I find that ridiculous."

"Says the lady who calls herself Queen Victoria off the coast of Canada."

The royal's attitude changed as she noticed her guards become tense at his demeaning attitude of her status. "Mr. Hawkeye, I am the last descendant of a pre-war prime minister and I will not be talked to in such manner."

He rolled his eyes. "Ma'am, I am working with a government led by an emperor of Russia. Pardon me if I find this island a bit lacking in imperial grandeur."

"Who do you work for, exactly?" She asked.

The man glanced at the guards equipped with bolt-action rifles before he began. "Let me get this cleared up. I don't work for them, I work with them. Mikhail Romanov, the tsar of Imperial Russia. He's the reason why we're exploring around."

It was a strange exchange of information. The wasteland had always been a dangerous place that housed mutants and raiders, which hampered civilization. Why did it take them all this time to show up? "Well then, what grand purpose would this emperor have to send for an expedition."

"We're here to see if the United States of America or Canada was here," Hawkeye answered, "Based on what I am seeing, they're not."

This revelation changed everything, but the queen realized that his information was incredibly outdated. The pre-war United States that she once read about in the past was long gone. "My apologies, but the land you are looking for was destroyed in nuclear fire."

His eyes hardened at the response. "What happened to them?"

"A great war that swept the land. My people were relatively lucky, but the mainland has suffered hard. It is the reason why I am the queen."

"I see," The individual acknowledged, "Well, I hope we could do something about that."

"What do you propose?" She wondered, "Surely, we could agree?"

He paused for a moment. "Before we arrived at your… country, our convoy was attacked by pirates who call themselves the Broken Coast."

Victoria resisted the urge to smile, knowing that this opportunity would strengthen her people. "The Broken Coast, I am not surprised. How much damage did they cause?"

"Damage?" He scoffed at the idea as if it were a joke, "Ma'am, they barely survived their encounter with the destroyers. I doubt they would be much of a fuss, but I am curious of the long-term threat they pose."

"They are sea raiders," She informed him, "They thrive off of pillaging the surrounding lands. Thankfully, our meager navy has managed to thwart them from landing. We would try to destroy them, but they're too big for us to handle."

Hawkeye glanced at one of the soldiers in the room and spoke in a foreign language. A few minutes passed before he stopped and returned his attention to the queen. "If that is the case, we would like to request military access so we can set our troops down and perhaps help you with this situation."

It was an outrageous consideration given that both their peoples had just met right now. "What makes you think I will let your troops take a foot on our island?"

"Russia is a large nation and is rich in resources that your island might need. If you accept, I'll pass it over to my associates and they'll inform their superiors about the matter. You need help and we have the means to provide it."

Someone ran past her guests and stormed into the room. A dirty dockworker arrived in time with a note in hand. "Your majesty, a dispatch from the coastal guard. Graven is assembling his forces and is on the move."

"Alert our naval forces and engage with their fleet," The queen looked towards the man from another land, "Help my people settle this conflict and you shall have your access."

"Thank you, I'll inform the Russians," He glanced towards one of the foreign soldiers, "Gleb, join the divisions, I will see if I can coordinate with the mercenaries."


It was a troubling thought that the Russian Empire would have to employ foreign mercenaries to defend the fatherland. Yet, it was their employment that allowed the reclamation of the throne. As more men were conscripted to form new divisions on the western border, the fate of the mercenaries was a question on the entire military branch. The economists and industrialists have managed to bring the country's pitiful status from the ground up that the military did not have to worry about paying them.

Preparations for the reclamation were in progress, but the necessity of the mercenaries who fought for his sovereign was being questioned. The empire had more than enough reserves and manpower, but mercenaries without a war in another part of the world to fight in or have any meaningful impact in the grand-strategic scope would be trouble waiting to happen. The strange arrival into this world changed everything and the expedition into the United States would provide this guns-for-hire the needed activity to obey the imperial forces and their payrolls.

General Volkoganov sat in his seat on the couch as he waited for a leader of a mercenary outfit to walk into the lounge. He did what he could to be presentable by adjusting his collar and taking a look at his medals. Then he placed his hands on his lap as he heard a pair of footsteps arrive at the door.

Voices were muffled in the back, but Dimitry heard the last sentence quite clearly. "Sir, the general is this way."

When the door was unlocked, Dimitry looked to his left and watched as one of his staff officers entered the room with a gesture for his guests. Those who followed after him were two men dressed in suits and made their way to the couch across from the general. After the room was sealed shut, he eyed the duo who were waiting for the silence to break. "I am General Volkoganov. Who am I currently talking to?"

One of the suited men was jaded and had a white buzz cut that could describe his jaded life. He was older than his companion in years but seemed to be experienced enough. "Arnold Frenken, I am the head of Sicario. My group is small-timers and so there are doubts you have heard of me."

Dimitry nodded his head. "You are correct on that. Since you are a mercenary, what makes you different from the rest of your colleagues?"

"Aerial operations, my outfit are well-trained pilots who will do everything to earn their pay," He answered, "In your case, we'll do everything we can to make sure you have your money's worth."

The details of his mercenary group were enough to garner the general's curiosity. "Any combat experience with your pilots?"

He nodded his head. "South Africa mostly. The Germans tried to take the continent's last democracy and we were hired to defend it."

That was more than enough to convince him that this man was worth the money. "You're hired."


Graven's flagship formed the epicenter of what was going to be his largest offensive against Queen Victoria's forces. All he needed to do was ensure that Ragnar suffered the losses first. His nemesis had hoped he would not prioritize the Victorians first so he could push him off the throne, but that opportunity would not come to be. If he went on the offensive against the woman who dared to stand against her, Ragnar's plans would be thwarted.

All he needed to do was assert dominance by landing troops on the island. If his forces could get there with enough haste and take over the naval facilities, it would be a matter of time before the other powers would fall. Once Victoria falls, this coast would be his.

The control room was a fine area to command his fleet from. No one in his fleet would be aware of their leader's gaze. In return, his full view would allow some form of loyalty through fear. A radioman in the room quickly turned his head towards him. "Boss, the screens picked up that the Victorians are moving against us. They're also accompanied by some large warships."

Graven stared at him. "What kind of warships?"

"No sails," He answered, "They report large mounted gun turrets. They look a bit pre-war so it must have been salvaged."

His armored gauntlets clenched into a fist. "That can't be. In all of my years, Victoria does not have the means to make a proper navy. Check their flag."

The radioman relayed his orders before hesitantly looking over his shoulder. "They say it's a two-headed eagle."

It was possible that Victoria had found new allies to help her people. More reason to eliminate her before she could possibly threaten him with a conglomeration of factions. His fleet could not focus on fighting their fleet at sea as that would put his transports of landing troops in jeopardy. "Dispatch orders to the transports and their escorts. They need to be prioritized for the landing while we distract the Victorians."

He quickly turned to his radio as Graven took the moment to step out from the control room and feel the wind meet him. The Broken Coast feared him, his neighbors feared him, and soon he will make a name for himself where even the world learned of him. Portions of his fleet broke off to meet with the orders while everyone else moved into attack position.

Sails were deployed en mass as the ships within the fleet distanced themselves from one another. Each ship acted on its own accord. Some would fire catapults and trebuchets, others would get close enough for the ballista artillery to launch a volley. The more aggressive of forces would try to get in close to launch grapple hooks, assaulting the Victorians with their favorite form of warfare - boarding actions.

The situation changed when several thunderous claps flashed in the distance, only to scream in their direction. Graven watched with fury in his eyes to see the first casualties of his fleet as he witnessed a former fishing boat get overturned from the impact of one of the shots. Yet, the other two missed and managed to throw a wrench in the formation of warships. It was going to take some time until he properly destroyed them or captured them for his own.

A pirate on top of the sails had shouted. "Victorian ships closing in!"

His hateful gaze watched the smaller, but more maneuverable ships of New Victoria with the sun against their back. They were large enough to be recognized but small enough to maintain their profile. Yet, there were three that stood out amongst their ranks.

The war machines of the old world were rare finds for scavengers and raiders alike. Few would ever see the true might of them on the battlefield and fewer would know how to make them effective. Somehow, Graven felt a strange sense that these were no mere strangers who turned to warfare, but someone who understood the great power they possessed.

Three of those large steel beasts had gotten far ahead that they outpaced the fleet that was attached to them. It seemed strange of them to risk the full protection of their peers when their numbers were too few to handle. When they shifted to their broadside, he realized their tactic was far worse than he imagined. They had armored turrets that provided immense firepower none of his ships could match, but there were secondary guns that were 'pumping' shells into his formations.

Graven watched as his brave warriors charged ahead to fire their payloads through archaic methods, but the shots fell short while the enemy's guns pounded at his fleet. It would been easier if it was him against their three, but he worried about the Victorians capitalizing on this strength. Whoever these people were, needed to feel his wrath as he eyed the green and white flag that carried a two-headed eagle.

The closer his flagship was to them, he noticed strange tubes on the side that began to launch something into the waters. Then he remembered the stuff he read about pre-war weaponry. These were not harmless as they seemed, but to see them into reality was a totally different matter. When they reached his warships, explosions beneath the waves had erupted, some large enough to disturb multiple ships.

Someone stepped out of the control room. "The Victorians tried to stop us at the beaches, but we have a beachhead. Orders for them?"

He turned to his right to see the fear in his eyes. "Send them south. Queen Victoria will feel my wrath. Inform the fleet to break off the attack and move north."

"You want me to tell them that?"

The raider pointed his gauntlet at the losing fight. "We are clearly outmatched."


Gleb remained silent in his sleet as the jeep made its way towards the front. He was lucky enough to hitch a ride with one of the few vehicles that were being distributed from the transports alongside the heavy weapons. The roads were a messy affair and without anyone to maintain them, it was lacking any maintenance whatsoever. It almost reminded him of a different time in life.

Warlord Russia was a hellscape still fresh in his mind. East of the Ural Mountains, any infrastructure or even a hint of Soviet monuments were defaced or outright destroyed. Zealots, bandits, various ideological armies found themselves exchanging territory to change the landscape as they saw fit. It was worsened when the German bombers would arrive both day and night to disrupt this anarchistic way of life that they created for the Russian people.

Then Gleb was reminded of his time in the Southern Urals, his home, and his hell. Being neighbors with the hated Dirlewanger Brigade made him angry that they were being unpunished for their ways. They were monsters of the highest sort, but then he recalled how he was being ordered to deal with the NKVD division. Once upon a time, they were men, but those who served the scientist underneath the Black Mountain were corrupted by what they were dealing with. Perhaps they thought the experiments for a supersoldier program to destroy the fascist threat could be justified, but how could one kidnap families and not break down?

The jeep skidded to a halt as he looked to the driver with disdain for interrupting his thoughts. "What the hell?!"

He pointed towards the front and Gleb noticed the Victorians. They were in poor shape to be called soldiers, some wearing armbands to identify their association as fighting force with armor made out of sports gear. Most of them were armed with old rifles or makeshift firearms, like the pirates to assaulted the convoy.

They were crossing the road to reach the forest on the left side of the road, firing blindly at the tree line on the right side. Then a redheaded girl, in a checkered shirt had, froze in place when she noticed them. Those were eyes of inexperienced innocence as a bullet flew past her and disrupted the retreating action.

The Russian soldier reached for his assault rifle and pointed it in the direction the attackers were coming from. "Everyone dismount, contact right flank!" Gleb stumbled out of his seat to land on the pavement of the road as he pointed his rifle from a laid down position and fired away. He turned his head to the right to find his comrades step out of their vehicles, some turning their turrets to unleash a burst from the heavy machine guns. Then there were the APCs with the autocannons that tore the trees apart.

Just as it happened two hundred years ago, war… war never changes.


Author's Note: Apologies for the lack of updates, I straight-up forgot that I have a backlog of several chapters lying around in my Drive.


edboy4926: And I'm back again.

Mandalore the Survivor: I'll be honest, I didn't think it would be received well due to the content I'm working with but I'll take the reception anyhow. As of right now, the Old World Blues mod is going to help deal with barebones or nonexistent lore before things jump over into the Fallout we know and love. I don't want to use it as a crutch so it's going to have some limited usage in this fic to prevent my mind from jumping between what is effectively three different sets of lore. While this post-apocalypse world is shocking, it may become familiar territory for the Russians as they've been used to waging wars among various statelets for decades, minus the mutants and radiation. That being said, there is a strategic concern that is going to loom over the heads of the White Army due to its strong political and social importance for the nation as a whole.

JawsOnYou67: Yeah, it's an ISOT of a TNO country where a French-speaking Australian with no rights to the throne, becomes the royal sovereign that Edward Swallows wishes he was.

guywhoreadstuff: Right now.

Perseus12: Thank you. I hope it will be satisfying in the future.