Inside the Hydra factory’s grim cell block, Dum-Dum Dugan, a burly prisoner of the 107th wearing a worn bowler hat, slows as the group shuffles into their cell. A Hydra guard jabs him in the back with a stick, prompting a defiant glare. “You know, Fritz, one of these days, I’m gonna have a stick of my own,” Dugan mutters, his voice gruff.

The guard, unfazed, slams prison door shut.

In the murky Austrian forest, Steve Rogers moves stealthily toward the Hydra factory. Twin searchlight beams sweep from a guard tower, cutting through the darkness. Suddenly, a convoy of trucks rumbles out of the night. Steve ducks low along the roadside, then leaps into the back of one truck.

He lands silently, only to find himself facing a platoon of Hydra soldiers seated in the truck bed, their masked faces turning toward him. Steve flashes a tight grin. “Fellas.”

Rogers grabs the nearest soldiers and hurls them out the back, their bodies tumbling into the dark as the convoy rolls into the Hydra compound.