Deep in the Strategic Scientific Reserve Headquarters beneath London, Steve Rogers stands before a tactical map, discussing how Bucky Barnes thought that Hydra equipment was being shipped, “…to another facility that isn’t on this map.”

Colonel Phillips nods, turning to Peggy Carter. “Agent Carter, coordinate with MI6. I want every Allied eyeball looking for that main Hydra base.”

“What about us?” Peggy asks, her tone sharp.

“We are going to set a fire under Johann Schmidt’s ass,” Phillips replies, then looks at Steve. “What do you say, Rogers? It’s your map. You think you can wipe Hydra off it?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve says firmly. “I’ll need a team.”

“We’re already putting together the best men,” Phillips responds.

“With all due respect, sir, so am I,” Steve counters, his gaze steady.

Later, in a smoky, crowded British pub, Steve sits at a table with his 107th comrades—Dum Dum Dugan, Gabe Jones, Falsworth, and Jim Morita—tankards clinking in the dim light. Dugan leans forward. “So, let’s get this straight.”

“We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back?” Gabe asks, incredulous.

“Pretty much,” Steve replies, unflinching.

Falsworth grins. “Sounds rather fun, actually.”

“I’m in,” Jim Morita says, belching and nodding.

“Moi, je combattrai jusqu’à ce que le dernier de ces bâtards soit mort, enchaîné or bien pleure comme un petit bébé! (I’ll fight until the last of those bastards is dead, chained, or crying like a little baby!) ” says Dernier, in French.

“J’espère pour tous les trois! (I hope for all three!) ” says Gabe, answering in French.

“Moi, aussi! (Me too!) ” says Dernier, also in French. The rest of the crew doesn’t understand the conversation.

“We’re in,” Gabe explains, nodding to Dernier and exchanging a look with the others.

Dugan chuckles, raising his drink. “Hell, I’ll always fight. But you got to do one thing for me.”

“What’s that?” Steve asks.

“Open a tab,” Dugan says, smirking.