Lenin stared at a copy of Jake's leaflet, his fingers gripping the cheap, flimsy paper so tightly it threatened to tear.
"This is not revolution," he hissed, his voice a low, venomous thing. "This is a children's fairy tale about a demon with gold. It is an insult to the intelligence of the proletariat."
He threw the leaflet down on the massive table in the center of the former palace ballroom. It slid to a stop in front of Trotsky.
Trotsky stood before the assembled Central Committee, a whirlwind of intellectual energy and theatrical confidence. He saw the problem not as a threat, but as an opportunity to display his own brilliance.
"Koba's methods are crude, certainly," he announced, his voice ringing with self-assurance. "But we cannot deny their effectiveness. The masses are not ready for complex theory. They are children who need simple stories."
He picked up the leaflet. "So we will adopt his methods. But we will refine them. We will replace his populist slogans with the steel of true Party ideology. We will turn his ghost into our machine."
The scene shifted.
Later that day, in a Bolshevik-controlled printing press, the air thick with the smell of ink and metal, Trotsky was putting his plan into action. He was personally rewriting one of Koba's leaflets.
He stood over the shoulder of a harried-looking printer, a red pen in his hand, striking out and adding words.
He took Jake's simple, powerful line—"THEY WANT YOUR BLOOD. THE SOVIET WANTS YOUR BREAD"—and scrawled furiously in the margins.
"Excellent sentiment," he declared to the printer, who looked profoundly unimpressed. "But it lacks theoretical rigor!"
Trotsky added two long, dense paragraphs. He wrote about the dialectical necessity of the proletarian struggle. He explained the historical contradictions of the bourgeois state. He was turning a sharp, effective weapon into a dull, heavy lecture.
The printer let out a long, frustrated sigh. He knew this new version was too long. The workers in the factories wouldn't read it. They would use it for kindling.
Back at the palace, Lenin was facing a different, more pressing problem.
A delegation of Kronstadt sailors had arrived. They were the armed fist of the revolution, the most feared and respected military force in the city, and they were famously, dangerously independent.
Their leader, a giant of a man named Stepan, with a beard like a black spade and eyes the color of a stormy sea, met with Lenin. He was respectful, but he was not deferential. He did not carry himself like a subordinate.
"We are with the Soviet, Comrade Lenin," the sailor said, his voice a deep rumble. "The men of Kronstadt will always stand with the revolution. But the men... they want to know where the Golden Demon stands."
Lenin's expression remained like stone, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.
"He is a man of action, not just words," Stepan continued, oblivious to the storm he was creating. "He fights in the streets. He bleeds with the people. They trust him. They want to know if he is with you, or if you are with him."
The statement was a clear, if unintentional, insult. It was a declaration of where the real power in the streets lay. They were telling Lenin, to his face, that his rival's legend carried more weight with their men than his own.
The Kronstadt sailors, the most vital military asset in Petrograd, were Koba fans.
Lenin's face was a thundercloud. He realized the problem was far worse than he had imagined. Koba wasn't just a political nuisance. He was a rival center of gravity, pulling the most important pieces on the board into his own orbit.
After the sailors left, their heavy boots echoing in the marble hall, Lenin turned to Trotsky. The raw frustration had boiled away, replaced by a cold, hard strategic resolve.
Rewriting pamphlets was a fool's errand. Chasing Koba's shadow was a waste of time. He had to confront the legend head-on. He had to remind the revolution who its true father was.
"Your words are not enough, Leon," Lenin said, his voice flat and hard. "They do not respect poetry. They respect strength. They respect presence."
He looked towards the grand windows, towards the distant naval yards of Kronstadt. "They need to see the mind of the revolution, not just its ghost."
Lenin grabbed his worn worker's cap and his heavy coat from a peg. The gilded, ornate palace, which had felt like a trophy, now felt like a cage. He needed to be out there, in the fire, not directing it from a map room.
He strode towards the door, his purpose absolute, his small frame radiating an immense, focused power.
Trotsky watched him go, a flicker of alarm in his eyes. This was a risky move, a departure from their strategy.
Lenin paused at the door, but he didn't look back.
"Assemble the guard," he commanded, his voice ringing with authority. "I am going to Kronstadt myself."
He finally turned, his eyes burning with a cold, determined fire.
"It is time I reminded those sailors who the true god of this revolution is."