#no. 11

Brigitte looks at her leg.

“I suppose that’s what you think you’ve given me, removing my tracker, hey?”

She rolls her eyes.

“But really all you’ve done is doomed me. They’ll capture us, reprogram us or punish us for trying to escape. And I didn’t even try!”

Yelena scoffs.

“Like it matters to them.”

Brigitte shifts and tests the bonds.

“No, I don’t suppose it does.”

Yelena watches her closely, continuing to think out-loud.

“Do you want to be like Dani? Drug yourself to the point of insanity? Or maybe like Anabel who took herself out? Or like Sissy, who tried to kill us all with the poison? Hasn’t there been enough that you feel any sort of self preservation? What we do, what they make us do, how could you ever think…”

“What does it matter?” Brigitte growls.

“Get off your high horse, Yelena.”

“Up until a couple of days ago, you were one of us. You killed and destroyed like one of us. Then they go and target your sister - who isn’t even your sister by the way. And who’s an American,” she spits.

“Why is this the thing that makes you defect? After so many deaths, after so much deceit and torture, that this is the thing that you decide is the last straw?”

Yelena shrugs.

If she’s honest with herself, it’s not. She could have continued on.

It was just opportunity, and she hates herself for that.

She was able to break the chemical imbalance and dig out her tracker. It wasn’t bravery or anything that had been said or done, and if she was honest with herself it probably wasn’t even wholly about Natasha.

She’d just… had enough of this being her life.

Yelena pulls herself into standing.

She’d been wrong to try and talk sense into her. Wrong about so many things.

This wasn’t about Brigitte. She’d killed Dani, and they were now trying to kill her.

She taps her knife against the chair and pushes her feelings down, her face schooled into nonchalance.

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter. Tell me where my sister is.”

Brigitte rolls her eyes.

“Why would I?”

Yelena holds up her knife and her gun and sighs.

“Maybe for a couple of reasons.”

.

Clint stares at the menu.

He wondered what she liked.

McDonalds had seemed like a good idea but now staring at the menu it had way too many options.

He can’t stop thinking about Natasha and how scared she must be.

He catches himself and orders chicken nuggets, burgers and chips and then apple pies on a whim.

He doesn’t know what Yelena likes but maybe food will help them think straighter.

.

Yelena slides the knife between Brigitte’s fingers.

“I forget how much this hurts,” she whispers in her ear, “how easy my knife can slide through these tender bits. How it will hurt and crack and heal but will take days.”

She hasn’t asked a question, just let the blood drip from a few neatly placed wounds.

“You’re free to go at any point, you just have to tell me where they’ve got Natasha.”

She slides the knife under her nail, and flicks up.

Brigitte screams, initial pain releasing her control before she gathers herself and smiles.

“None of us are ever free? You think it’s just the tracker that holds us in stasis? You’re a fool.”

Yelena smirks and pops off the second nail.

“Maybe, but I’m not the fool that’s holding onto worthless information.”

“Yelena?”

A male voice pierces through the eerie silence of the warehouse.

Yelena closes her eyes, and sheaths her knife.

“If you weren’t scared of me, maybe you should wait until he gets you.”

It’s the first time fear seems to even register for Brigitte and Yelena looks at her curiously.

Fear of men is something the Red Room sews into them then beats out of them, but for Brigitte, it seems, it hasn’t quite gone away.

“I’ll leave you two alone.”

Brigitte pulls on her bonds.

“No.”

She’s knows she’s played her hand.

“No?”

Clint steps forward.

Yelena estimates him to be around 6;2 his agility belayed by his bulk. He looks intimidating in his fatigue, even as he holds up Mcdonalds.

“Come and eat and we can deal with her later.”

She nods.

Clint looks warily at the dripping blood from her hands and finger tips and narrows his eyes.

“Maybe you can deal with her,” she says suggestively, playing off Clint’s apparent distain for bloodshed (interesting in itself) and Brigitte’s fear of being captured by a man.

Clint plays his role predictably, and nods.

Brigitte struggles and Yelena turns away, a ghost of a smile on her lips as she takes the bag of food from Clint .

.

Francesca retraces the steps of the capture of Natasha Romanoff.

The car that flipped has long since been removed but there’s still signs of the struggle that followed.

The building security lets her in as she identifies herself as interpol, flashing a fake badge and credentials.

She can see where they boarded up the window and traces of blood that hadn’t been properly cleaned.

Heading outside, she sees how Natasha might have survived, the dumpster long and still bloody.

Had someone helped her?

Francesca looks around, the apartment building quiet even though the time of the day.

If she knocked, would they tell her anything?

She doubted it.

She glances at the time and wonders what timelines Ysabel had in mind.

She was the best tracker in the Red Room, and so, she doubted that they would rush her if they wanted results.

A quick phone call affirms this and she climbs into her car, staking out the building, watching it carefully.

.

Clint stares down at the woman in front of him and pulls up another chair.

Yelena had stepped outside and he wasn’t really sure why.

She doesn’t look at him, and he can see the way she slightly panics when he stands over her.

He doesn’t like how it makes him feel like a predator, but he’s tired and she knows where Natasha is.

He pushes his discomfort aside.

“Tell me where she is.”

He drags the chair closer, forcing her to look up at him.

“Tell me and…” he senses her discomfort, “I’ll go.”

He looks down at the blood on the floor and her fingernail-less fingers.

Clint reaches down and takes her hand, she recoils and he asks again.

“We don’t have her,” she whispers, still not facing him.

“She escaped.”

.

Francesca stares at the building.

Movement at the front as a door opens.

She sits forward in anticipation. A child holds the door for her mother.

Francesca sits back in disappointment. She wonders how long to wait before storming the building.

She uses the binoculars to where the little girl is waving to someone up in the window. She expects to see a father.

Instead she sees the Black Widow waving back.