THE WHISPER OF PAPER over laminate, a file slid from one side of the table to the other; open to grainy snapshot of a bunker somewhere in the mountains. Nestled between heavily corniced rock and dark, gleaming ice sits a stronghold of broken memories. One of Hydra's many human abattoirs. Soldiers bred like beasts for slaughter, with numbers instead of names, and minds emptied of anything but their orders. It's a familiar evil under an unfamiliar title. But changing their stripes does not change what they are. A Nazi by any other name is still Nazi. And the only good Nazi, is a dead one.
Emet drags a finger over the photograph, tapping twice to steal James' attention away from the mug of coffee that's gone cold between his hands. They both have a tendency to check out mid-conversation, minds wandering to some remnant of the past. It's both their jobs to keep them on track. The mission may be simple, but that doesn’t make it easy.
« You know this place? » He signs, carefully avoiding eye contact with the woman behind the counter who's just a little too interested in what they’re doing.