It's late afternoon in Berlin, and Everett Ross, having just sent a few analysts off to do further due diligence what they know about vibranium, is just starting to think that maybe he's got a handle on this day.

The second the call request chimes on his office screen, he curses himself for a fool and stabs at the icon to accept with more force than strictly needed. "What?" he snaps. "If you're going to tell me he's run off again--"

The image resolves clearly enough for him to see Barnes sitting right there with Riley and Nilsson, and he breathes a slight sigh of relief. "I guess not," he says, grudgingly. "Nilsson. Riley. ...Barnes. To what do I owe the pleasure?"