"Bollocks," she huffs. Puffs. Announces her indignation to the small room wherein she and Captain Rogers crowded a narrow table filled with busted handsets. Once again, Peggy lifts one off the table and cranks her fingers 'round the little dial that should have given them something: static or screeching radio noise. With frustration, she tears the note from the radio's front.

"What a bloody lot of help you've been, Roy. Whoever you are. Were." Tantrum over, she nevertheless grabbed a second radio from the table. And then, to explain herself: "We might yet find someone capable of fixing them."