The hollow winds and mountains of Eastern Europe knew nothing but cold. The white blanket with its invisible teeth that sank its icy grip into the hearts of those that dared to inhabit such desolate and unforgiving lands. The Westerners, those with their warm beds and spoils of war, knew nothing but comfort and riches. They grew fat off their processed foods and died long deaths from their smoke-filled cities and air. They poisoned themselves and called it freedom, called it progress.

It is not a surprise, thought he, that Marxism, communism, took such a strong root in this part of the world. The snow blanketed everything, caring not for the poor nor rich inhabitants. The snow provided insight into the unforgiving mind of Mother Nature. She cared not for how much money was offered to stave her anger. Her mercy was not bought and her rage was equal. The snow was equal and everyone thus equal beneath its wrath.

So why was it a surprise, especially to those Westerners, that communism sparked in the Eastern confines of Europe? Churchill called it the 'Iron Curtain' slowly making its way across the world, providing an elimination of the rich and poor, a concept so maliciously created by capitalism. Those who embraced communism, the preaches of Karl Marx and Stalin, had known indifferent equality their entire lives. Their ancestors had faced the unforgiving snow for generations, a force that bowed not to the rich and their piles of false money and lies. The snow had become so integral within their culture and traditions that communism was nothing more than an extension of it.

He stalked the outskirts of Kolochava, a desolate village that struggled to exist in the harsh winters of the Ukraine. The snow here was fierce, unrelenting on its mission to damn humanity back to the holes from which they had crawled out from the ground. The village itself would have remained indifferent to his gaze if it weren't for the few puffs of smoke that arose from makeshift chimneys under large impressions in the snow, suggesting that these were houses and not hills.

The target was rumoured to be staying in Kolochava, a small and unimportant town. They were a traitor to the cause, an unfaithful loose end that needed to be cut. The war had not ended, even if all the false Westerners and their leaders had signed those damn papers. He knew better anyway, they knew better. War was inevitable, humanity's desire to rip one another into pieces was part of their animal nature.

Wars led by the Westerners were never intended to create peace. They wanted to watch the East burn, they wanted to sink their teeth into the towns and countries that communism and equality had liberated and rain down capitalism, to tear apart the equality and allow the rich to rule with their bureaucratic nature.

But the war led by Hydra was not a war at all. It was a mission, a mission for peace. Even communism itself was flawed, he knew that. Hydra offered a different kind of peace, one in which all barriers would be eliminated, country, racial, social and economic would be rendered nonexistent. However, the war, the war to end all wars after the two bombs had dropped and silenced a terrified world, had taught Hydra that humanity needed to surrender themselves to this mission.

Humanity, like he knew, was always violent. However, it wasn't until the photos had surfaced from Nagasaki and Hiroshima, radioactive corpses of women and children charred to the bone, their mutilated forms forever scorched in their dying moments. Mothers holding their children as their jaws hung open in a silent scream as the radiation of the impact had ripped apart their flesh. The survivors with the cancer that rippled through their skin, large abnormalities that reminded the entire world of the silent killer that atomic warfare would bring.

Humanity was beginning to realise their devastation, their cruel internal nature. They knew that another war like the one that had brought about Hiroshima and Nagasaki would bring about atomic devastation on a scale undreamt of. Humanity for the first time had begun to recognise the mission that Hydra had been fighting for since the very beginning. That their precious Western freedoms of democracy and individualistic choice were fantasies. All humans resorted to chaos and self preservation. They needed a dominating force, a solid and unrelenting government that would serve for their own best interests. One world government to be exact, one that ruled without borders or national interest.

This man, Rolov Akiston, had lost sight of that vision. The moment that the Soviet flag was raised in Berlin did he turn tail and run for the mountains, abandoning his faith in this mission, in Hydra's good work. He was mistaken in assuming that Hydra was only tied to the skeleton framework within its respective sect in the Nazi army. In a way, Hydra was like a cancer. It had metastasised within all areas of humanity, all parts of the body, but most importantly, the mind. Even now were its angels labouring away in South America, welcomed into the folds of the American government, spreading their liberation.

Yes, Hydra was a cancer, a cancer upon the whole of Western civilisation and its push toward late stage capitalism, a world where the rich dominated the few and the working class slaved away until their fortunate death. Communism was no different, he knew that. Communism too relied on a ruling division of leaders that merely ended up exploiting their own citizens to lavish in riches from their expeditions.

Eventually the cancer would seize the whole brain, the whole inner workings of humanity. Civilisation would convulse in a grotesque seizure before collapsing to radioactive ash. But they would surrender their lives, their will, their freedom gladly. For they had seen the devastation of their own scientists, of the so called American heroes that had laboured for weeks underneath a college football field learning the secrets of atomic physics, to split the atom, to start the chain reaction to engulf whole cities, eventually the world.

He was the silent knife, the instrument of the cancer that helped carve its way throughout the body. He sliced through all resistance, pushed all challengers back into the depths from which they had crawled. Rolov Akiston was merely another name on a frustratingly long list of individuals that had since departed from the ways of Hydra, a spare head that had developed a mind of its own.

Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.

He reached the outskirts of the village, making sure to press against the tree line. His attire varied from what he usually wore, a white shroud matching the stark environment around him. The mission was imperative that there be no witnesses, given how close the village of Kolochava was to the border of the failing Soviet Union, a tyrannical government led by a mad man who did not need to be frightened with talk of a ghost that stalked the winter night.

Akiston had arguably made the mission easy, choosing to settle almost a kilometre from any other family within the village. It occurred to him that perhaps this was intentional. Akiston, after all, was well aware of the Winter Soldier programme and Hydra's desire to clear up all lose ends, all free-thinkers. He cursed himself for not realising this sooner, especially if it meant jeopardising the mission for the sake of an ambush of others resilient to Hydra's will.

He pondered his next move for a few minutes before his attention was diverted to the front door of the hut opening. If this was the start of an ambush, it certainly did not seem well devised. Ambushes always played off the element of surprise and walking out the front door did not meet that criteria. His hands tightened around the knife and gun fastened around his belt, wondering which to use first. The gun guaranteed accuracy and precision in face of the harsh wind that accompanied Ukrainian winters, but the shot would be heard well within the village nearby, even at their distance away.

The knife required a maximum distance of perhaps fifty metres, provided a clear shot with no other obstacles. It was also assuming a constant wind speed that could be accounted for when marking the trajectory at which to throw the knife, the best way to kill...

It was a child that walked out the door.

He froze for a moment within the dead clutches of winter, watching as the child reached out their hand to catch a snowflake, marvelling at the white magic that seemed to come from the gods. They had seen snow their entire life within Eastern Europe but had never been ceased to amaze at every snow fall, no matter how deep the temperature plummeted.

The child, it seemed, was not a hostile and seemed preoccupied on a mission to town, as it was heading north. He watched as the child pocketed the key to the hut underneath the rug outside the door before embarking on their mission.

He waited for another minute before making his way to the hut, circling the exterior as it stalking prey. The fireplace inside was still lit, implying that there were others still enjoying its warmth. He caught the sight of a man reclining within a fur chair, head next to that of a woman. He knew it would be inevitable to kill the both of them, as the two were joined not only in matrimony but situation.

He grabbed the key from where the child had hidden it and slowly turned the lock, making sure to muffle the noise of the mechanisms within the door slowly coming undone. His hand wrapped around the linen handle of the knife, slowly unsheathing it and placing it within his right hand.

The woman said something to Akiston, most likely about replacing the cheese they had been eating in front of the fire. As the woman stepped into the entry way, he moved in one fluid motion and wrapped his white glove around the women's mouth, placing pressure on her jugular. The lack of blood flow to her brain was immediate and she sank into unconsciousness. He would kill her last, placing a multitude of slashes around her chest so the locals would rule it out as a mere bear attack.

He spoke for the first time in five years. "You have been charged and tried for abandoning the mission, for abandoning your brethren. The penalty is death and for those who try to defend you."

Akiston's reaction was imminent and he sled from his domestic lifestyle to the robotic movement that accompanied all soldiers of Hydra, even the traitors. The cancer never truly left the body, no matter how many times you tried to carve it out. All that was needed was one cell, one atom of it to remain and the cancer would grow back even more fierce than before.

"I remember you," Akiston mused, his surprise wavering to contempt. "I remember when you first came into our camp, one of many American test subjects, but the first to survive the serum."

The words meant nothing to the soldier. They were part of his Before and all that mattered was the Now and the Future.

"You're too lost within your own programming to realise the horrors, the futility of Hydra's mission. There is no hope for global unity anymore, humanity will never surrender its freedom, especially the West. We will never surrender - "

Akiston was not able to speak much after that as the knife tore through his intestines and caused the contents of his guts to spill out onto the dirt floor of the hut. He added two extra parallel slices for good measure to mimic that of a bear attack before doing the same to the woman. He did not have time to wait for the child to return in fear that locals would accompany, causing more of a mess than preferred. It was easy to write off the death of two adults, especially a thin woman such as this, to the power of a bear starved in winter, but not potentially three adult males.

He wiped the blood off the knife on the sleeve of his white coat, leaving a red splatter-like pattern on his left sleeve, mimicking that of the red star on his metal arm beneath. He turned out the door and into the woods, marking the mission as complete.

The child watched through the window as the ghost vanished into the woods before letting out a cry, climbing back into their house to cradle the severed body of their mother and father.

*