The cold wind cut across the open expanse of the military base, carrying with it the distant echo of drills and barking officers. Juri Stalin stepped out of the transport truck, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. The heavy briefcase in his hand seemed to grow heavier with every step, though not because of its weight. Inside was his life's work—the blueprints, calculations, and technical papers that would prove his vision was more than a dream.
Ahead, the central administration building loomed, a squat structure of concrete and steel that seemed to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it. Soldiers and officers moved about the base in neat formations, their uniforms crisp, their faces stern. Juri barely noticed them; his focus was on the task ahead.
He adjusted his coat, the cold biting at his exposed skin, and marched toward the building. Each step was measured, deliberate. This was no time for hesitation.
Inside, the warmth of the building hit him immediately, along with the faint smell of coffee and old paper. A young clerk at the reception desk looked up, startled by the imposing figure now standing before her.
"I need to speak with Colonel Makarov," Juri said, his voice steady and commanding.
The clerk hesitated, glancing at the briefcase. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No," Juri replied. "But he'll want to hear what I have to say."
Something in his tone silenced any protest. The clerk nodded and gestured toward a set of stairs at the end of the hall. "Second floor. Office 204."
Juri nodded and made his way up the stairs, his boots echoing against the metal steps. When he reached the office, he knocked firmly on the door.
"Enter," a gruff voice called from within.
Juri stepped inside to find Colonel Makarov seated behind a large desk, flanked by a wall of bookshelves and a window overlooking the base. The colonel was a broad-shouldered man with sharp features and a permanent scowl, his uniform immaculate. Across from him sat two other officers, their faces turning toward Juri with mild curiosity.
"Who are you?" Makarov asked, his tone brusque.
"Juri Stalin," he replied, setting the briefcase on the desk. "Engineer. I've come to show you something that will change the future of warfare."
Makarov raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "You've got my attention, Stalin. Speak."
Juri opened the briefcase with a satisfying click, pulling out a stack of blueprints and technical papers. He spread them across the desk, the pages overlapping in a flurry of intricate designs and detailed calculations.
"This," he began, pointing to the largest blueprint, "is the T-95—a tank unlike any other. It's faster, stronger, and more heavily armed than anything currently in use. It's designed to dominate on any battlefield, regardless of terrain or conditions."
The officers leaned in, their eyes scanning the blueprints. Makarov picked up one of the papers, his brow furrowing as he examined the specifications.
"The turret alone can support a 152mm cannon," Juri continued, his voice steady. "With the right materials, it will fire shells capable of obliterating enemy armor in a single shot. The armor plating is angled to deflect incoming fire, and the tracks are reinforced for maximum durability. It's not just a tank—it's a fortress on treads."
One of the officers snorted, shaking his head. "And what engine do you propose to use for this monstrosity? No engine exists that can move something this size, let alone at the speed you're claiming."
Juri allowed himself a faint smile. "I've built the engine myself. It's ready. Tested. Functional."
The room fell silent for a moment. Then Makarov let out a sharp laugh, leaning back in his chair. "You're telling me you've built an engine that can move this?" He tapped the blueprint with a finger, his voice dripping with skepticism.
"I'm not telling you, Colonel," Juri replied. "I'm offering to show you."
The second officer chuckled, exchanging a glance with his colleague. "Let me guess. It runs on magic and dreams?"
Juri's jaw tightened, but he held his composure. "It runs on innovation and hard work, two things I wouldn't expect you to understand."
The officer's smirk vanished, replaced by a glare, but Makarov raised a hand to silence him. "Bold words," the colonel said, his tone sharp. "But even if your engine works, this design is impossible. Do you realize how much steel and ammunition it would take to build something like this? The resources alone would bankrupt the department."
"I'm not asking for unlimited resources," Juri said, his voice calm but firm. "I'm asking for a chance. Provide me with a crew and the materials to build a small batch of ammunition. Let me show you what this machine is capable of."
"And if it fails?" Makarov asked, folding his arms.
"It won't."
Makarov studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes searching Juri's face. The room was tense, the silence broken only by the faint ticking of a clock on the wall.
Finally, the colonel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But guts aren't enough to win wars, Stalin. You want me to bet on your miracle machine? Prove it. Bring your engine here and show us it works. Until then, this conversation is over."
Juri's fists clenched at his sides, but he nodded curtly. "Fine. I'll bring it to you."
Makarov smirked faintly, leaning back again. "I'll be waiting. Dismissed."
Juri gathered his blueprints and papers, sliding them back into the briefcase with sharp, precise movements. Without another word, he turned and left the office, his boots striking the floor with renewed determination.
As he stepped out into the cold air, he glanced back at the building, his expression hard.
"They'll see," he muttered to himself. "They'll see what this machine can do."
The T-95 wasn't just an idea. It was a revolution. And Juri Stalin wasn't about to let a room full of skeptics stand in his way.