In the examination room, Steve Rogers stands straighter, his voice quiet but clear. “Brooklyn.”

Dr. Abraham Erskine’s eyes soften, a faint nod sealing the moment. “Congratulations, soldier,” he says, his tone carrying the weight of a promise. Erskine stamps Steve’s enlistment papers with a large “1A” rating.

The scene shifts abruptly to a cold, cavernous laboratory deep within a Hydra installation, its walls humming with the pulse of machinery. Johann Schmidt, his face shadowed with ambition, looms over a complex array of equipment. “Are you ready, Dr. Zola?” he asks, his voice sharp with expectation.

Dr. Arnim Zola, a pudgy scientist with nervous energy, adjusts a dial with meticulous care. “My machine requires the most delicate calibration,” he replies, his words tinged with caution. “Forgive me if I seem overcautious.”

Schmidt’s eyes narrow, his patience thin. “Are you certain that those conductors of yours can withstand the energy surge long enough for transference?”

Zola hesitates, his gaze flickering to a strange, glowing artifact at the heart of the machine. “With this artifact, I am certain of nothing,” he admits, his voice low. “I fear it may not work at all.”