In the bustling underground military facility in Brooklyn, Dr. Abraham Erskine strides into the lab, his voice warm but focused. “Good morning,” he says to Steve Rogers, who flinches as a photographer’s flash bursts unexpectedly.

Erskine waves off the camera with a hint of irritation. “Please, not now.” He turns to Steve, his tone steady. “Are you ready? Good. Take off your shirt, your tie, and your hat.”

Nearby, Colonel Phillips greets a sharply dressed man with a firm handshake. “Senator Brandt, glad you could make it.”

Senator Brandt, glancing around the humming facility, raises an eyebrow. “Why exactly am I in Brooklyn?”

Phillips’ jaw tightens slightly. “We needed access to the city’s power grid. Of course, if you’d given me the generators I requisitioned…”

Brandt cuts him off, dismissive. “A lot of people are asking for funds, Colonel.” He gestures to a man beside him. “Oh, this is Clem, uh…”

“Fred Clemson, State Department,” the man interjects smoothly. “If this project of yours comes through, we’d like to see it used for something other than headlines.”

Brandt’s gaze lands on Steve, scrawny and bare-chested, preparing for the procedure. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Somebody get that kid a sandwich.”