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“There’s no way out. Don’t bother,” the man wearing the olive-green jumpsuit says in German.
Zemo turns back from the bedroom and stares at the speaker in the main room, willing his mind to process what he sees. The man glances at Zemo again, then back at the tv screen and pushes his glasses up on his nose. Like Jumpsuit, the man sitting next to him on the sofa has short-cropped, dark hair, but he wears a black fedora and has a cigarette clamped between his lips. There’s another man at the table in what appears to be a kitchen area. He has light curly hair. He is eating yogurt and glaring at Zemo in suspicion.
Except for some slight differences in appearance, all four men are essentially identical.
“What is this place?” Zemo asks in German. He is feeling inside his pockets and around his waist for a weapon. What is the last thing he remembers before that bedroom?
“We thought you might fucking know,” grunts the man at the kitchen table, also in German.
Fedora is looking back and forth among the others. He says something in what Zemo thinks is Spanish, but Jumpsuit nudges him and redirects his attention to the tv screen. “A and B to spin around. Look.” It is unclear whether Fedora understands the other man’s German.
Fedora scowls and presses buttons on the video game controller in his hand and then cries, “Puta madre!” which Zemo infers is an expression of disgust at his game performance.
“Ok, now B. B!” Jumpsuit insists, tilting his own controller to point out the correct button.
Zemo has found no weapons on his person and wanders into the kitchen area casually, his eyes constantly roving. “Who are you all?” he asks.
“Ourselves,” replies Jumpsuit, his eyes on the screen as he drives a small cartoon car. A turtle shell smacks into his little car, and he curses. “And somehow,” he adds, recovering control of his vehicle, “also each other.”
Zemo ponders this while rummaging through kitchen drawers. He turns his head to see Yogurt eyeing him while he selects a good knife. At this proximity Zemo can see the curly-haired man’s overbite. “Don’t try to get anything sensible out of him,” Yogurt says, cocking his head at the German on the couch.
“I’m sorry you’re not an expert in string theory and particle physics too,” Jumpsuit snipes. Next to him, Fedora is generating what appears to be a constant string of curse words as he pilots his own video game car. He tips his hat farther back on his head, presumably to see the screen better.
“The star!” Jumpsuit yells suddenly. He and Fedora practically crash into each others’ bodies, physically steering their devices toward the center of the couch in a futile effort to guide their vehicles on the screen. Zemo takes the opportunity of Yogurt’s attention being focused on the players to slip the kitchen knife surreptitiously up his sleeve.
Suddenly there’s a change in the room’s air, and the door to the bedroom from which Zemo emerged rattles. There comes a sound like a sonic boom, but very quiet, a thwoomph. Zemo checks for the closest exit, then remembers he hasn’t located any yet.
“It happens each time,” Jumpsuit reassures him, eyes flicking from the tv to the bedroom door.
“Each time what?” Zemo asks.
The man who steps out of the bedroom is very young but also definitely them. He is dressed in a manner that Zemo pegs as early 20th century. The youth stares at the other men in the room with wide doe eyes. He says something aloud in a language that is neither German nor Spanish, and no one responds.
“I think that’s Polish,” Zemo announces.