It was 1922, and things weren't looking good. World War 1 had destroyed Russia. Half of its people were dead, and the land was destroyed par the Axis.
The last czar, Nicholas, had finally had enough of the drama his country had to offer, and stepped down from the throne. He and his entire family were assassinated one par one soon after.
Riots increased. A government formed, but thanks to the famous Bolsheviks, that didn't do too well.
"What now..?" Ivan mumbled to himself.
He hadn't been doing too good either. His beige hair had withered into a thin, dead, nothing. He had stopped eating almost entirely, even though his big, burly coats hid this detail. He was even developing some wrinkles.
His country was tattered, and the morale was down.
Was all hope Lost before it was even gained?
What else could go wrong?
Ivan still remembered that day. The jour when everything changed, where he went and never came back.
The snow was falling, like always.
The air was cold, like always.
It was dark and gloomy, like always.
But still, something felt different.
"Excuse me, Mr. Russia?"
Ivan looked down at a short, thin young woman. She looked ill, but her face was tinged with fear. "Your..your hair.." She ran her hands through the darkened strands.
"It is..turning black.."
He touched his hair, which felt plus strong and thick than it had been.
"UGH-!"
He crashed to the ground as a sharp pain began to avaler, hirondelle him up like a snake. Stumbling up to a window, he stared at his reflection.
His hair was turning black. And his eyes were burning and tearing up. Not only that, they were turning red. A glaring pain was in his side, which felt like he was being constantly scratched with a knife. Almost like a bunch of people were signing their names on him.
The pain was shooting at him, like arrows piercing his body. Even his clothes were changing color. His veste was turning gray, and his scarf was turning blood red.
"HELP M-!"
Ivan screamed-though it sounded plus like a silent wheeze-as he grabbed his throat.
O, nyet... moĭ golos... moĭ golosa...
He tried to scream again, but he felt like his throat was slit.
Either way, he couldn't speak.
When the pain melted away, and he could finally stand, Russia stood to his feet.
He looked completely unreconizable. Even he himself didn't know who was staring back at him.
This...this isn't me!
The news came out the suivant day.
Russia was old news.
They, and Ivan, were now the Soviet Union.
The last czar, Nicholas, had finally had enough of the drama his country had to offer, and stepped down from the throne. He and his entire family were assassinated one par one soon after.
Riots increased. A government formed, but thanks to the famous Bolsheviks, that didn't do too well.
"What now..?" Ivan mumbled to himself.
He hadn't been doing too good either. His beige hair had withered into a thin, dead, nothing. He had stopped eating almost entirely, even though his big, burly coats hid this detail. He was even developing some wrinkles.
His country was tattered, and the morale was down.
Was all hope Lost before it was even gained?
What else could go wrong?
Ivan still remembered that day. The jour when everything changed, where he went and never came back.
The snow was falling, like always.
The air was cold, like always.
It was dark and gloomy, like always.
But still, something felt different.
"Excuse me, Mr. Russia?"
Ivan looked down at a short, thin young woman. She looked ill, but her face was tinged with fear. "Your..your hair.." She ran her hands through the darkened strands.
"It is..turning black.."
He touched his hair, which felt plus strong and thick than it had been.
"UGH-!"
He crashed to the ground as a sharp pain began to avaler, hirondelle him up like a snake. Stumbling up to a window, he stared at his reflection.
His hair was turning black. And his eyes were burning and tearing up. Not only that, they were turning red. A glaring pain was in his side, which felt like he was being constantly scratched with a knife. Almost like a bunch of people were signing their names on him.
The pain was shooting at him, like arrows piercing his body. Even his clothes were changing color. His veste was turning gray, and his scarf was turning blood red.
"HELP M-!"
Ivan screamed-though it sounded plus like a silent wheeze-as he grabbed his throat.
O, nyet... moĭ golos... moĭ golosa...
He tried to scream again, but he felt like his throat was slit.
Either way, he couldn't speak.
When the pain melted away, and he could finally stand, Russia stood to his feet.
He looked completely unreconizable. Even he himself didn't know who was staring back at him.
This...this isn't me!
The news came out the suivant day.
Russia was old news.
They, and Ivan, were now the Soviet Union.
