Of course, during the building of my OCs between 2013-2016, there are some alternate universes and scrapped stories I made. And I want to share it to you all, because this is still part of my journey.
1. What if Dmitry killed by Vitaly? aka alternate ending of "Sacrifice"
Finally, the knife pierced Dmitry’s neck. He choked, unable to breathe. Vitaly cackled as he yanked the blood-smeared army knife free; a fresh geyser of blood erupted instantly from the wound in Dmitry’s neck. Still unsatisfied, Vitaly slashed open Dmitry’s chest and abdomen, causing his internal organs to spill out amidst another massive spray of blood.
"Belarus..." Dmitry groaned. Vitaly turned toward the agonizing sound. This realisation made him pause just as he was about to slice into the victim's vital organs.
"Final words, huh... Go on! Go on!" Vitaly said cheerfully.
"The South..."
"And then?"
"Poland..."
"And the last one?"
"G-g..." Dmitry’s head slumped, and the life faded from his eyes, though they remained half-open. Vitaly gazed at the corpse with satisfaction.
"What a shame you're dead. But doesn't matter. The important thing is that I now know a good last word to deliver for my Dasha. Turns out you were useful right to the very end! Thank you, thank you..." With that, Vitaly kneeled and kiss Dmitry's lips passionate, before he walked away with a smug.
But Vitaly did not realize that, even after he had walked a few paces away, Dmitry was still barely clinging to life. Dmitry’s eyes, previously staring blankly into the void, shifted slightly upward. Summoning his last ounce of strength, he smiled and whispered to himself before his green eyes closed completely, never to open again.
"Germany. We’ll meet again."
2. What if Dmitry, Alexei, Vadim and Vasily are drafted together in 1 front instead separated? aka alternate story of "Belorusskiy Vokzal"
The night in Kiev grew a little warmer as the soldiers gathered around a campfire. The mournful strains of a harmonica and accordion filled the air, accompanying a song of lament for the comrades they had lost in the war. Some soldiers sat writing letters, occasionally wiping away tears they had long held back on the battlefield. As the mood shifted, the melancholy tunes gave way to lively dance music. One by one, the soldiers showed off their skills, particularly in performing the gopak. Alexei stepped forward and danced the gopak, moving with a playful backward-stepping flair. The other soldiers laughed and clapped along to the rhythm. Once he had finished, Alexei returned to his seat beside his friends.
"You're crazy, Lyosha! Why didn't you just sign up to be a dancer in an ensemble? You're better than that insufferable Valeriy," Vasily said. Alexei shook his head.
"No. Their training is even tougher than ours. I'm too lazy to move my body like that."
"That's no excuse," Dmitry urged.
"I want to put on weight; I hate having a body as flat as a board. If I danced any more, I'd turn into a matchstick," Alexei said.
"If that's the problem, I'm sure you can bulk up, Alyosha. Just try eating as much meat and butter as you can!" Vasily suggested.
"Sorry, but I prefer vegetables to meat," Alexei replied with a smile.
"You're practically a vegetarian," Vasily pouted. Alexei just laughed at Vasily's remark.
"Alright, who wants a glass of vodka?" asked an unidentified soldier. The four of them held out their glasses, each receiving a half-pour. Then, they clinked their glasses together and drank.
"Hah! Even though it's only half a glass, it’s already warmed me right up!" Alexei said happily. "This isn't enough! It's barely a drop for me!" Vasily grumbled.
"You old drunkard..." Vadim said.
"Mark my words: once the war is over, I’m going to drink five bottles!" he vowed. Dmitry, Alexei, and Vadim just laughed.
"Aren't you guys writing any letters?" Alexei asked his three friends. They all shook their heads.
"I’m not sure I could tell the whole story. I don't want my father getting his hopes up about my return; if I don't make it back... it would be a shame to betray those hopes," Dmitry said sadly.
"As if I’d ever write to my father," Vadim said cynically. He then pursed his lips and mimicked his father’s voice: "Fine, just go then! You’re not coming back anyway, just like Eduard. I don't need a son like you."
"Vadik, sometimes I wonder... are you overreacting, or was your father’s parenting just too extreme?" Dmitry asked.
"I don't know... Probably a bit of both."
"What about you, Vasya?" Alexei asked.
"I don't want my wife to have a miscarriage because of a letter from me. She’s suffered enough just knowing I’ve been conscripted. What about you?"
"I don't know. Even if I could write one, would the letter actually get there?" Alexei’s words trailed off. The four of them fell silent again as an accordion began to wheeze a mournful tune.
"The bottom line is, none of the four of us are writing letters," Alexei said.
3. What if Ismail's alternate name is Evgeny? aka potential alternate story of "Wrong-Placed Pity"
A conversation once took place between Dmitry and Ismail after they had entered their teenage years.
"It must be nice to have a name that so many people use," Ismail said one day, sounding envious.
"Doesn't everyone use your name a lot, too?" Dmitry asked.
"But only among Muslims. And even then, having it puts me at greater risk of getting arrested. Whereas the names people mention all the time are the common ones. Alexander, Ivan, Boris... Even your name."
"Actually, I envy the fact that your name is used only within a certain circle. Me? I constantly run into people who share my name. Dmitry this, Dmitry that. Only the surnames differ..."
"I’ve got an idea, Dimochka!" Ismail said suddenly, his tone cheerful. "In that case, I want a name other than Ismail!"
"Huh? Like an alias or something?"
"A name... a nickname, really. I want you to call me by a common name—but just between the two of us!"
"Are you sure? Your father would be furious if he found out."
"He won't find out, don't worry... You can pick whatever name you want for me, as long as it's a common one!" Ismail pleaded. Dmitry just laughed at the request.
"Alright, Ismail. Let me think of a name that suits you," Dmitry said. The green-eyed young man fell into thought, recalling names he knew. "To be honest, I want to give you a name that isn't too popular, but isn't rare either. Something like... one in seven people having that name."
"It doesn't matter, as long as it's common."
"Evgeny. With the short form 'Zhenya.' It means 'best birth.' How about that?"
"Best birth... That sounds good! Should I come up with a nickname for you, too?"
"No need, Ism—"
"ZHENYA," Ismail cut in.
"Alright. No need, Zhenya. Just keep calling me Dimochka."
4. If Vitaly avoiding Dmitry since beginning aka alternate ending of "Disregarded Attention"
"Lyosha, so here you are!" he said. I rolled my eyes, itching to tell him that the person standing before him was Vitaly, not Alexei.
"You say that as if you’re hoping I’ll fall off the train, die, and never be found by anyone, Dima," I said, my tone laced with my usual sarcasm.
"Come on, don't sulk just because the three of us woke up later than you did," Dmitry pleaded hopefully. Unbelievable, I thought. I wanted nothing more than to kill him, yet somehow he possessed a power that made me feel a twinge of sympathy for him. It was nothing like how I felt toward the two young men standing behind him; Vasily and Vadim... whom I regarded as utter imbeciles suffering from some sort of dual psychosis. Always cracking jokes, laughing constantly, and waxing nostalgic about the "glorious" Soviet era.
Still, I held onto my anger. I shook my head at Dmitry and walked off toward carriage five to compose myself. Dmitry tried to follow, but he soon lost track of me, as I hid in the wagon's toilet as soon as possible. I heard him called out for Alexei.
Then I peek, witnessed Dmitry hang his head in dejection and say, "I’ll never be able to understand you, Lyosha. But I won't give up."
Oh Dima, my dear Dima. You really are naive.
5. What if Vitaly already openly attempted to kill Dmitry in 1941? aka messy alternate story of "Fishing"
Upon arriving at the apartment complex, Dmitry hurried toward his unit, even though no one was chasing him. He wanted to burn Darya's letter immediately, before things got any worse. In his haste, he stumbled as he turned toward his door, causing his key to fly out of his hand and slide into a crevice just out of reach.
"Damn it!" Dmitry cursed. He tried to retrieve the key but failed; it had slipped too far back. He grabbed the round doorknob, attempting to force the door open. Suddenly, the sound of the lock turning came from the other side, and a hand yanked Dmitry's fur coat into the apartment. He was thrown onto the living room sofa, his right leg scraping against a wooden table with sharp, angular corners, leaving it bleeding. It was Alexei inside; he stared intently at Dmitry, a sinister smirk playing on his lips.
"Good evening, Dima. It turns out I was right. It's Dasha's letter you tried to hide from me earlier today. I may not know exactly what it says, but I know for a fact he was talking about me." Alexei’s voice was not cheerful; it was heavy with suppressed rage.
"...I have my own privacy! Stop meddling in my affairs!" Dmitry snapped.
"Fine, but on one condition. Hand over the letter you’re carrying, and I won’t bother you again," Alexei said, holding out an open hand to demand the letter from Dmitry's trouser pocket.
Dmitry glanced around, racking his brain for a way out of the situation. His gaze fell upon the kitchen fireplace, which had not been extinguished since earlier that day. He knew Vasily must have forgotten to put it out, just as Dmitry had instructed before leaving for the House of Culture. Yet, for once, he was deeply grateful to Vasily. He sprang up from the sofa, shoving aside Alexei—who was startled by the sudden reaction—and ran toward the kitchen, located to the right of the main room. Alexei, however, deftly grabbed Dmitry’s left arm, taunting, "Think you can get away, eh? Hand it over, or..."
Before Alexei could finish his threat, Dmitry whipped out the grease-stained letter, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the fireplace, where the iron cover stood half-open. The embers flared up, emitting a loud, firecracker-like pop. Startled by the noise, both men leaped back to avoid the flames. The explosion was brief, however, and no serious fire broke out. Dmitry immediately got to his feet and glared furiously at Alexei.
"You will never know what was in that letter," Dmitry said in a low voice. Alexei picked himself up, but as he looked at Dmitry, the vengeful, murderous glint in his eyes was gone; his expression had shifted abruptly to one of confusion.
"What... what is this all about?"
Unable to tolerate Alexei’s attitude any longer, Dmitry shouted, "Get out of my house! Get out!"
"What do you mean, Dima? I don't even know..." Alexei was cut off by another threatening shout from Dmitry: "Get out, Alexei Mikhailov! Or I’ll report you to the Militsia for trespassing! And attempted murder! GET OUT!!!"
Dmitry pushed Alexei towards the front door, forced it open, kicked Alexei in the back out of the apartment and slammed the door and locked it twice. Dmitry leaned against the door, then slowly slumped and sat down. He held his head, almost screaming in anger because his mood got worse within a day.
6. What if Vitaly never kill Vasily, and what if he never suffered at hell after Alexei sacrificed himself? aka alternate story of "Above The Dreamline"
When I opened my eyes, I found myself in a room filled with children's toys. My right hand held a small paper party horn, and my left clutched a plastic knife. Above me to the left hung a calendar displaying the month: May 1988. Before I could make sense of the situation, a young woman approached me and spoke cheerfully.
"Oh, Vitya, darling... So you were the one with the knife! It’s still too sharp for you, sweetheart," she said, gently taking the plastic knife from my grasp. She then carried me into the living room, where a man with a thin mustache greeted us joyfully.
"Ah... my handsome son, just like his father!" he said proudly, stroking my head. What was happening? Why had my body shrunk?
For some reason, my memories seemed to have been wiped clean. I had forgotten the events that came before. Why was I here? How had I become a small child? I no longer knew. All I could remember now was the warmth of the love shown to me by the woman and man I called "Mother" and "Father."
Then I grew up, playing ball with friends my age. I attended school, where I developed an interest in history and art. By the time I entered junior high, I had met and befriended four other people.
"Hi, I'm Vitaly! And you?" I asked.
"Vadim!" replied a boy with long, black hair reaching his neck.
"Vasily!" replied a boy with pale skin and thin brown hair.
"Dmitry!" replied a boy with straight black hair. The four of us chatted away, swapping stories about all sorts of things. Funnily enough, we all shared a love for both classical and rock music! We ended up exchanging recommendations for great classical pieces and popular songs of the day. Just as we were deep in conversation, a boy with curly brown hair shyly approached us.
My three new friends looked curious as he walked over. I wondered what his story was. I held out my hand and said, "Nice to meet you, friend! What's your name?"
The boy lowered his head shyly and answered, "Alexei." I was momentarily stunned; we shared a similar build, though my face was square-shaped while his was oval. Shaking off the thought, I said, "Come on, Alexei! Join us."
After the introductions, Alexei settled in with the four of us right away. He shared our passion for music, too. We continued chatting and getting to know one another better before the school bell rang.
After that, the five of us remained close friends through thick and thin, even attending the same music university in Moscow. In 2011, after graduating, we formed our own band. We blending operatic vocals performed by Dmitry and Vasily with the rock guitar sound provided by Vadim. Alexei and I played wind instruments; he played the trumpet, while I played the tuba. Although we weren't particularly famous, the income from performing at cafes, restaurants, and small parties was enough to support the five of us.
7. What if Vadim forgiving his abusive father? aka alternate story of "Brief Sunshine"
Ah! How long had I been lost in daydreams—wandering from memories of my childhood to the realities of the battlefield? I glanced at the station clock; it was already one in the afternoon. I needed to hurry and find a carriage to take me to the village outskirts so I could reach home sooner. Suddenly, I spotted a young man with shoulder-length hair approaching me outside the station. To my surprise, it turned out Mark had also gone to war (though to the Crimea) and had made it back safely. We embraced tightly, having not seen each other for seven years. We quickly hired a carriage to take us to the border between the town and the village, which lay quite a distance away.
It turned out Mark had experienced the same things I had: dreaming of Eduard during the war and eventually longing for family—especially Father. Deep down, he couldn't deny his feelings, even though years ago he had chosen to simply give up on trying to get along with Father. He, too, had decided to return home, bringing along his favorite set of tools—a gift from kind neighbor years ago that was still in perfect working order.
Upon arrival, we hurried to the modest house where our family had lived since the revolution. I knocked on the front door; without delay, Mother and Zinaida opened it together and rushed into my arms.
“Vadim... Mark... Thank goodness you’re both alive!” Zinaida murmured, her face still buried against my chest.
“Of course. Your big brother isn't the type to just drop dead...” I joked. Then, I embraced Mother; she had fully aged, yet she still radiated the beauty of her younger years.
The touching atmosphere vanished abruptly when Father appeared at the top of the stairs. There he was—an old man whose hair had thinned significantly, leaving bald patches, though he still kept some of his graying locks long enough to brush his shoulders. His thick mustache remained, though it had turned completely white. He looked surprised to see Mark and me return home safely. I was certain that, after that, Father would act cold, as usual.... or perhaps even throw me out, since he had hoped Eduard would be the one to come home, not us.
But I was completely wrong. Father immediately wept like a child and hugged the two of us tightly. Naturally, I was bewildered, until Mother explained that he had been terribly worried ever since Mark and I stopped sending letters. She had often caught him weeping over us, especially after news of World War II reached the towns. He would call out our names: "Vadim" and "Mark", and pray for our safety. Once a week, he would also write to Zinaida, who was attending university in Irkutsk, asking if there had been any attacks on the province (even though such a thing was unlikely, given that my home province lay in the Soviet East, far from the battlefront). He feared that if Irkutsk came under attack, it would mean Mark and I had perished in the war against the overwhelming might of the Germans. Zinaida who finding this change in Father’s demeanor both unusual and heartening, patiently replied to those weekly letters. Father confirmed this himself, making me realize that he still cared deeply for us.
For the first time, dinner was a truly cheerful affair. Although Father remained somewhat stiff. Accustomed as he was to the silent, formal dinners of the aristocracy... seeing him smile faintly was something that filled me with pride. He told us that on the day we were first locked in the storeroom, he had a nightmare. Eduard appeared in the dream and berated him severely for treating us so harshly. That dream haunted him long after, and over time, he came to regret having destroyed the trust we once had in him.
8. What if Vasily's death is purely from bomb but not Vitaly? aka alternate story of "Sadistic Deceit"
"He... is still there..." Vasily whispered. The nurse beside him was busy bandaging his abdomen, which was riddled with bullet holes.
"Where is he?" the nurse asked gently.
"Not far... I have to... help him..." Vasily tried to rise, but the nurse held him back.
"I'll ask another nurse to go get him," she said.
"He... is still there... not far... I have to... help him... without me... he'll collapse..." Moments later, Vasily lost consciousness.
At that very moment, Vasily suddenly saw his wife in a room. His wife, Lena, was weeping, clutching her abdomen in pain, while a midwife and her mother tried to soothe her. Vasily moved to embrace Lena, but was shocked when his hand passed right through her head.
"Push again! The head is halfway out!" the midwife urged.
"I can't anymore...!" Lena gasped.
"Come on! You can do it, Lena! Vasily will be so proud of you!" her mother encouraged.
"I don't have the strength left, Mother..." Lena whispered. Vasily held Lena's hand, even though he knew his own was transparent.
"Lena, I hope you can hear my voice. Don't give up... You can do this! Your struggle is just like mine out there... Fight on; one day, your child will honor you just as the nation honors me and the other soldiers..." Suddenly, Lena looked toward Vasily, and she pushed once more.
"Thank goodness! The baby is safe!" the midwife cried out.
"Lena! It's a boy!" her mother exclaimed joyfully.
"Thank you... I'm sure Vasya will love him so much when he comes home..." Lena said.
Vasily fell silent. He wasn't sure he would ever make it home to kiss his wife, let alone hold his own flesh and blood. Tears slowly trickled down his face. "So, what name do you and Vasya want to give him?" his mother asked. Lena, still exhausted, remained completely silent. Vasily whispered something to Lena.
"Pyottr, Lena. Pyottr." Shaking off her exhaustion, Lena said, "Pyottr!"
"Are you sure about that name?"
"I am. Because I heard Vasya's voice just now. He kept saying 'Pyottr'." Everyone was startled, unable to believe Lena could say such a thing.
"Ve... very well... From now on, your name is Pyottr Vasilyevich Nandev!" said the midwife.
(This story scrapped because Vasily's son already born in 1941)
9. What if Dmitry saved and he meet dying Vasily later? aka alternate story of "Before Fugue"
Upon entering the recovery tent, he was shocked. Vasily was dying right in front of him.
"Vasya!!" he cried out.
"Heh... hey, Dimka... Dmitry..." Vasily greeted him. He winced in pain as he lifted his head.
"Your wounds..."
"Eh, let it be. I already knew I wasn't coming back."
"You... Do I need to douse you in vodka to get you back on your feet?"
"You know it, hehehe," he chuckled. Dmitry could hardly believe it; his friend could still laugh in such a grim situation.
"But..." Vasily’s expression darkened again. "Forgive me, Dima..."
"For what?"
"Lyosha... he... the bomb..." He turned his face away, unable to finish the sentence clearly. Dmitry understood what Vasily meant, and his first reaction was to sit beside Vasily’s stretcher and weep.
"I don't know why it had to be this way... Was he completely torn apart?"
"I didn't see a single trace of his body at the blast site. I'm sorry, Dima; I only passed the spot where he died an hour after the bombing stopped."
Silence fell between them once more. Dmitry nodded, signaling that none of it was Vasily's fault.
"It's alright. But I'm glad you're still alive, Vasya!" "I’m glad you’re still alive, too... still healthy. But..." he coughed violently, nearly out of breath. "Dima. Will you take a message to Lena for me?"
"Lena? I don't know if I can deliver a message. Besides, we're still at Prokhorovka! Berlin is a long way off!" Dmitry asked.
"Just in case. Please."
"All right..." He then clasped Vasily's right hand.
"Buy a copy of Pravda before you go home, then give it to her and deliver my message: 'This is my last free Pravda. No need to trade it for food; the birth of our child is the most precious payment of all for me.'" Vasily’s instructions were clear. Dmitry’s eyes grew red as he fought to keep the tears from spilling.
"I’ll remember it, Vasya."
"Thank you so much, Dima..." Slowly, Vasily closed his eyes, and his skin began to grow cold. Dmitry simply held Vasily's hand in the silence, and without realizing it, he too drifted off to sleep in the darkness.