In the interrogation room of the Strategic Scientific Reserve in London, Dr. Arnim Zola sits across from Colonel Phillips, his voice calm but weighted. “Schmidt believes he walks in the footsteps of the gods. Only the world itself will satisfy him.”

Phillips leans forward, incredulous. “You do realize that’s nuts, don’t you?”

Zola’s expression remains steady. “What? The sanity of the plan is of no consequence.”

“And why is that?” Phillips presses.

“Because he can do it!” Zola replies, his tone sharp.

Phillips narrows his eyes. “What’s his target?”

Zola tilts his head, puzzled by Phillips’ question. “His target is everywhere.”

The scene shifts to a cavernous aircraft hangar, where the Red Skull strides beneath a colossal aircraft, its sleek form dwarfing the masked Hydra soldiers standing at attention. He pauses by a small table holding a bottle of schnapps and a glass, then turns to face the assembly, his voice ringing with conviction. “Tomorrow, Hydra will stand master of the world, borne to victory on the wings of the Valkyrie. Our enemies’ weapons will be powerless against us.”