He sighs, sitting back. It figures that Zola had figured out some way to survive. The damned little Swiss rat. He runs his flesh hand over his face. "I don't know..." He trails off, knowing certain things that won't help, but he's staring at the ceiling, watching a spider crawl across the white expanse. "It's the only thing we have." He points out. Really, what else are they going to do? He'd say ask Steve, but Steve would get suspicious, and the damned bloodhound that he is, would root out what's going on.

He wishes he could talk to others. Second World War vets, maybe someone from the old neighborhood. Someone, anyone that might know something. "What about Thor?" Or better.... "Or his brother?" Because they might know more than they did.