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(General P.O.V)
-1944, 7 months after Project Rebirth-
-Somewhere in Russia-
The sun was setting over the village of Voskaye, casting long shadows across the snow-dusted ground.
The gale blowing through was bitterly cold, and especially loud against the silence hanging heavy over the small Belarusian hamlet.
A handful of villagers—mostly women, children, and the elderly—huddled inside their homes, their breaths misting in the freezing air.
The war had taken their men, their livestock; everything from them, yet they clung to what little remained: hope, faint and fragile as it was.
The distant rumble of engines broke the silence.
A convoy of German soldiers approached, their vehicles crunching over the snow-covered road.
Fear spread like wildfire through the village.
Mothers pulled their children close, elderly men and women exchanged wary glances, and the younger ones prepared to hide.
Among the refugees in one house, Mikhail, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard, stood near the doorway. The home, his own, was crowded with people seeking shelter.
Poor, sick, crippled, traumatized, Mikhail cared not. He didn't consider himself a good man, preferring the term 'understanding' instead.
One of the refugees was Froyja, a young boy no older than ten, whose haunted eyes told the story of his family's massacre at the hands of these same German invaders.
He had seen too much death for someone so young, yet his spirit burned with defiance.
In the corner of the room sat another figure. Unlike the others, this man seemed detached from the chaos and despair around him. Mikhail's only rule for the refugees was to not disturb him.
His face was obscured by a hood, and his broad frame was hidden beneath a heavy coat. He said nothing, barely moving, his presence unsettling.
Froyja had heard the refugees whisper about him in hushed tones, unsure whether he was friend or foe.
The actual foe soon showed up when German soldiers stormed into Mikhail's house, rifles raised.
"Everyone outside! You hear me dogs?!" They barked orders in harsh voices, throwing slurs while tearing through the little privacy the refugees had left.
One of them stepped toward the hooded man, his lip curling in disdain.
"You!" the soldier spat in broken Russian. "Stand up!"
The hooded man didn't react.
The soldier snarled, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him upright. "I said, stand—"
"Leave him be, the man is sick." Mikhail said, stepping forward.
The soldier turned, his fist snapping out in a vicious punch that sent Mikhail sprawling to the floor.
"Anyone else?" the soldier growled, his eyes daring anyone to intervene.
No one moved. Fryoja seethed while helping Mikhail to his feet.
"Do as they say." Mikhail told the refugees, nursing a bleeding lip.
Outside, the Germans barked more orders, forcing everyone in the village to line up.
The villagers complied, clutching their writs and identification papers.
Rumors had circulated that the Germans were offering safe passage to those who cooperated, but Froyja wasn't convinced. His gut told him the soldiers couldn't be trusted.
"We need to run!" he whispered fiercely to Mikhail and the others, his young voice trembling with urgency. "They'll kill us if we stay!"
"Quiet, boy," one of the older women whispered back, her face drawn and tired. "If they hear you, we'll all be killed."
"Mikhail?" Fryoja turned to their benefactor, but the old man looked away without a word.
Froyja clenched his fists, his frustration mounting. They didn't understand.
When the villagers were herded to the church, Froyja's worst fears came true.
The soldiers locked the doors behind them all, laughing cruelly as their leader stood in front of the church.
"Anyone who wants to live," he barked in Russian, "can climb out through the roof."
A ripple of hope spread through the villagers inside the church—until he added, "But you'll have to leave your children behind."
Panic erupted. Mothers clutched their children tighter, tears streaming down their faces. The villagers realized the truth: there was no escape. They were going to die.
Froyja looked around the church. People were crying, shaking, praying.
Everyone, that is, except the hooded man. He sat against the wall, silent and still, until he let out a low sigh. Slowly, he stood.
The German soldiers outside laughed and joked, their leader savoring the villagers' terror. He raised his hand to give the order to light the church on fire—
Bang!
And then his head exploded like a watermelon, a single bullet tearing through it with precision and force.
"Enemy attack!
Chaos exploded outside.
The soldiers scrambled for cover, shouting in confusion, rifles in hand.
Another shot rang out, and the chains locking the church doors shattered.
The doors burst open, and the hooded man stepped out, his tall frame backlit by the light spilling from the church.
He tossed the hood aside, revealing a chiseled face and piercing blue eyes. In his hands was a modified sniper rifle.
"Nazi's for breakfast? Someone's spoiling me." Bond said in a scratchy voice.
The German soldiers looked at each other in confusion at his boldness.
"British mongrel! Kill him for the Fuhrer!" An officer yelled and the soldiers turned their weapons on him, but before they could fire, Bond flipped the rifle's selector switch to automatic.
The gears in the modified weapon clicked and reset into a shorter but stockier shape, more advanced than anything the Germans had.
The rifle roared, mowing the two dozen Nazi unit in a hail of bullets.
The stragglers tried to retreat, but Bond was relentless.
He moved like a predator, methodical and efficient. When his rifle ran dry, he unsheathed a large knife from his back.
The blade glinted in the fading light as it slashed through the air, severing bones like butter, decapitating heads smoother than an executioner's Axe and cutting down anyone in his path.
The snow turned crimson as Bond dispatched the last of the Germans.
The Officer, bleeding out on the ground with severed legs, stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes.
"The Ghost of War," the Officer rasped in German, blood bubbling from his lips.
Bond said nothing, driving the knife into the man's neck before stepping away.
The villagers stared at him in shock, their fear mingled with awe.
Mikhail, clutching bruised ribs, managed to stammer, "Who... who are you?"
Before Bond could respond, the rumble of approaching vehicles reached their ears.
Russian partisans and SSR agents spilled into the village, their weapons raised.
"Secure the village. Dispatch enemies on sight." A familiar female voice gave the order.
Bond stiffened, turning around. At the front of the group was Peggy Carter, her determined gaze locking onto Bond at the same time.
"James," she called, relief and exasperation mingling in her voice.
Bond wiped the blood from his knife and sheathed it, turning to face her.
"Carter, Don't suppose you came all this way for the sites?" he asked simply as she approached.
"I'd have picked Australia. At least they have Kangaroos" Peggy joked, then her expression turned serious. "It's time to come home, Sergeant. We need you. Steve needs you. We're planning an important Hydra campaign, executed by a squad of the best of the best the SSR has to offer, called the Howling Commandos. You promised Erskine you'd protect the world. This is how."
Bond's jaw tightened at the mention of Erskine. The memories were still raw, but he nodded slowly. "I'm coming."
Carter was taken aback. "That didn't take much convincing."
"You came all this way for me Lieutenant. What kind of Gentleman would I be if I refused a date to kill Nazis?" Bond smirked.
Before leaving, Bond walked up to Mikhail, patting the man on the shoulder. "You did what you could. That's enough."
"Go well my friend. We will not forget you."
Mikhail told him with a grateful nod.
Bond knelt in front of Froyja, pulling out the bloodied knife and its sheath. The boy's eyes widened as Bond handed both to him.
"Courage," Bond said, his voice low but firm. "It's the first step toward strength."
Froyja stared at the blade, then back at Bond, nodding solemnly as he sheathed the blade.
"Thank you. For saving us." Fryoja yelled at Bond's retreating back.
With a final look at the villagers, Bond joined Peggy at the convoy.
As they drove away, the villagers watched in silence, the weight of what had just happened sinking in.
For them, the Ghost of Belarus was not just a man, he became a legend—a force of vengeance that had delivered them from death. A legacy, that unknown to Bond would be carried on and built into a force of reckoning by one 10 year old Fryoja.
But for Bond, it was another step in a war that seemed endless, a promise he had made to a dying man to protect a world forever on the brink of destruction.