Warning: There will be mentions of suicide, the aftermath of suicide, rape/its aftermath, mental and physical abuse, torture, and gaslighting, throughout the fic.

If you'd like specific warnings before I post individual chapters, PM me and I'll accommodate as best I can.

"So you two broke up," Tool said, glancing up from her leg. Now that she'd come out of hiding, he could finish the detail on the raven's head. Everything but a few feathers was done for the custom job he'd happily never do again. Cowboy hat hanging against his back, his hair was tied back and he'd ditched his vest. Sweat beaded on Tool's nose and clung to his chest hairs, the humidity all too apparent even with four pedestals and two ceiling fans going. "Shame losing a beautiful woman like that."

She sighed and nodded, reaching down and grabbing a partially frozen bottle of water. Isabelle took a sip before holding it out to Tool who just shook his head. The hum of the needle gun was relaxing, a dull buzz she hadn't heard in years and didn't plan to again. Two tattoos were enough for her. Turning her body into a walking canvas how Tool had his wasn't her style. "Once her father died, that was it. The romance fizzled last year but I think we both stuck around for the sex."

Tool chuckled. It's always the sex. He understood the sentiment — maybe if you slept with someone enough times you'd find that spark again, but it never worked. At least not in his experience. "What kind of job you looking for now?"

"Something easy. Translator, preferably."

She hadn't told him the truth about where she'd been the past four years, or what'd happened. So long as he kept believing the lies she wove, there was no need to make things complicated by trying to explain the truth. As far as Tool was aware, she'd been living in her villa just forty minutes from Bordeaux since the 'bad breakup' five years ago. The money was starting to run out and she needed more, or so she'd told him.

"You got enough clothes for a two month holiday?"

"Depends where I'm going."

"Russia," Barney said, buttoning up his shirt as he entered from the garage and walked towards Tool. He noted Isabelle on the chair, a pair of black wrap-around sunglasses concealing her eyes, and right leg propped up so Tool could get easier access to her outer thigh. "Swaziland, possibly. Wherever this son of a bitch goes while we hunt him. You said you're looking for work as a translator?"

She nodded and stayed reclined on the seat, left fingers curled around the small ceramic shiv in her pocket. In this heat, anything thicker than cotton was going to cause problems, and she didn't want to feel restricted by her clothes. After years of wearing a tight jumpsuit, having the freedom to move was refreshing. Her white wifebeater revealed thin arms that should've been thicker with muscle, and the words 'oderint dum metuant' were tattooed along the inside of her left wrist in black ink. Translated into English, the tattoo read: let them hate, so long as they fear. "I am. Forgive me, who are you?"

"Barney Ross." He extended a hand towards her but she made no move to receive it, left hand in her pocket and right holding a bottle of water. Barney dropped his arm a moment later and planted his ass on a chair, getting comfortable as he waited for the others to finally arrive. Doc was coming in his '49 plum purple Pontiac convertible, Lee was trying to placate Lacy's concerns, and the others had rung up to say they'd be there when they got there.

She set the bottle down then reached up and nudged her sunglasses down, revealing one eye and —

Jesus fucking Christ! Barney remained composed, meeting her gaze and refusing to look away. There was fire in her eye, a fierce raw unbridled hatred. A look he guessed was directed at him. Someone who could wear a mask like that day after day wasn't someone he wanted standing behind him with a gun, but if she could do the job, that was all he needed. "Your leg. IED?"

From the top of her right shin down, it was titanium: a fine piece of work he'd never quite learn to appreciate unless he lost his own leg. If she could lose part of her leg, her entire left eye, and still walk into Tool's wanting a job, perhaps he wouldn't have to ring around and find a translator on short notice.

"Landmine, luckily." An IED probably would've turned her into mince meat.

"Ouch."

"It's the risk you take, right?" Isabelle kept her cool, his name rattling around in her head as she let go of the shiv and waited for Tool to lean back before she sat up. She'd never dreamt in a million years that she'd find herself opposite him, yet there he sat. Was it karma paying her for the past few years, kismet, or dumb luck? If not for Tool's presence, her shiv would've been buried in his carotid the moment he'd identified himself. She slid her sunglasses off and tucked them in her pocket, revealing the full extent of the scars around her left eye socket. "Mind if we finish it later, T?'

Tool nodded and turned the gun off before he stood and stretched. He cracked his neck then peeled his shirt off and used it to wipe his face and pits. He took a whiff of himself before crinkling his nose. Definitely couldn't have Cheyenne coming home and finding him smelling like Barney or he'd be made to sleep in the bathroom. "There's just some fine details I want to ink again on the girl's face, then it's done. I'm gonna take a shower, alright? Play nice."

"I always play nice," Barney said, feigning offense.

"I know you do. She doesn't."

Can't argue with that. When had she ever played by the rules? Isabelle chuckled and smiled as she leaned down, looking at the details on the feathers of the raven's head. The Day of the Dead girl was missing her left eye and clutched the bleeding dismembered head of a raven in her right hand. At twenty three, she'd walked into Tool's shop and asked him to sketch out a design she had in her head. He'd come recommended and hadn't failed to impress. His work was excellent, but no one in their right mind expected any less from the Yoda of New Orleans. He was the best tattooist this side of the Warehouse District. If a mercenary needed advice or a job, they always found their way to his shop.

"Work hard to come by in France?" Barney said, pulling his chair closer. It was either that, Canada, or Belgium. Best to go with the easier option that wouldn't cause outright offence. That fire had dimmed in her eye, but it still burned beneath the surface. Tool's saying she didn't play nice allowed for two options: either she had a tendency to go rogue, or she was a rogue asset.

Isabelle shrugged and let her ponytail out before fixing it up in a bun, making sure her fringe was pulled back as well and her socket on full display. Bruises at least a few days old marred her legs and arms, and more purple-black bruises partially encircled her wrists. If she lifted her shirt, there'd be scars and bruises revealed on her ribs, stomach, and back. She flinched as she pushed off the chair and straightened herself out, pulling away when Barney moved to touch her arm.

Physical contact was going to be an issue for a while if the past three days were any clue. When Tool tried to hug her and welcome her back to the States, she'd recoiled and nearly thrown him into the floor. Luckily he wasn't the type to take offence at an unintentional slight. At the transit hub, wherever she'd been, she resigned herself to standing outside in the rain rather than sit next to her fellow passengers.

"You good?" Barney said, noticing how she moved to avoid him. The bruises around her wrists looked like someone had gripped her tightly and thrown her around a few times. Her omission of a name hadn't gone unnoticed, but Ross let it slide for now. She still hadn't said whether she was taking the job or not, nor had he stated if he'd hire her.

"I'm fine," she said, fetching her backpack. Isabelle made for the service elevator, the weight of the shiv in her pocket a reminder she would have a chance to defend herself, and Tool's presence drilled home the fact the parlour was a safe haven. It was meant to be anyhow. They can't find you here. "Just need something to eat."

Less than ninety-six hours ago, she'd woken up in a motel room. According to the manager, a bald asshole in a suit had paid for the room. After that, she found a set of clothes hanging in the bathroom. Sitting on cold tiles for an hour, she scrubbed every inch of her body under a scalding hot shower before finally getting dressed. Isabelle broke into a room two doors down once it was after midnight, stole some tourist's backpack and loose change then headed for the nearest payphone. Her first call was to Tool, the second to an offshore automated bank service that would transfer some of her emergency funds to her main account. She bought a bus ticket that day and immediately headed for Louisiana.

x - x - x

Barney gave no reply, instead he walked straight through the side door and into the garage. Large gas bottles were propped up against the right wall near the large roller door, the word 'empty' spray-painted above them. Tool still hadn't learned the art of organisation after all these years, regardless of that beauty in chaos bullshit. The sound of an old engine rumbled outside, followed by the roar of multiple hogs. It's about damn time.

He busied himself with collecting oil-stained rags Tool had left lying around and dumping them in a bucket to be washed another day. Barney glanced up from the main workbench as his team parked their bikes out of the way and forced a smile when Lee slid his helmet off. "Tool's upstairs taking a shower. Might be leaving sooner than we think."

"Tool's coming with us?" Lee said, raising an eyebrow. Odd, he didn't normally come along on any missions. So far as Lee could remember, he never had. Tool was retired, Barney said, but it didn't mean he wouldn't ever pick up a pistol again.

"No. Potential translator's here."

"I told you my Russian is fine," Gunnar snapped, hanging his helmet off the handle of his bike. He was better than fine and Barney knew it, but the bastard still outsourced. Eastern Europe was his speciality, something he took pride in seeing as half his team were incompetent. "So's Doc's Swazi 'n' Swahili."

"I said potential," Barney snapped right back. "I didn't say I was hiring her, she's just an option."

"Since when the hell do you let a woman join the team?" Doc said, leaning against a bench and crossing his arms. He eyed Barney suspiciously, trying to read his face, searching for any sign that this translator was the elusive Maggie whom Christmas had mentioned the other night. All he knew was a) she was drop dead gorgeous, and b) Barney was head over heels for the woman — those two qualifications alone made her a viable addition to the team. "Is it Maggie?"

"No, it's not Maggie. She'll be meeting us at the airfield."

Of course she was. Lee shook his head at the way Barney's eyes lit up at the mere mention of her. What had begun as simple flirtation and admiration had turned their leader into a full-on high school boy with a crush on the hot cheerleader. He understood the sentiment, however. Maggie certainly brought some colour to Barney's black heart. "So what's her name?"

Barney shrugged. "She didn't say."

"You been smoking something other than Cubans lately, Barney?" Doc queried. For all they knew, this mystery woman of Barney's was just a hallucination induced by magic mushrooms, or LSD-tainted cigars. Doc tilted his head back and sniffed the air then pushed off the bench and walked into the shop, going straight for the stairwell that led upstairs. It smelt like Tool was cooking something good, a spicy savoury smell that had him salivating as he took the stairs one at a time. Taking a shower while the stove was on wasn't something even he did, but then Tool was pretty blasé about walking around buck-ass naked in his own house.

"What languages does she speak?" Gunnar said.

Barney rolled his eyes. If this turned into a dick waving contest, he was going to have a problem on his hands because she, whatever her damn name was, did not look to be in the mood for any kind of contest. Nor did he fancy witnessing Gunnar strut around like a puffed-up peacock trying to prove who had the bigger IQ. "You can ask her yourself. She's upstairs."

Lee waited until Gunnar went to catch up with Doc before approaching Barney. He knew that look well. Barney was as uneasy as they were, and if he said the mission was a no go, then they'd be stuck in New Orleans for another month. All he wanted to do was get away from the neighbours and their fucking dinner parties, the ones Lacy dragged him to that he always ended up slipping away from. No one noticed he was gone half the time anyway, until Lacy found him sitting on the steps of their house spinning a blade on his finger. "So this woman's real, yeah?"

Barney nodded. "She's missing an eye and a third of her leg."

"Uh-huh." Of course she was real. If she looked as bad as Lee pictured in his mind, this was going to be a field day. Usually anyone Tool threw their way was completely intact, so how the fuck would they operate with someone who was apparently half blind? Lee shook his head in disbelief, wondering how they'd fallen so far. First they'd lost Billy, then Barney had kicked their arses to the kerb and hired young guns — as if that hadn't been a reality check — and now he was hiring wounded vets. "If we get killed, it's on you."

"It's on Tool, you mean."

"Same difference. So Maggie's definitely coming?"

"Church wants her to babysit us." Barney learnt to stop asking questions about how the Agency operated when Drummer showed up instead of Church. There was no point wasting breath if it wouldn't get him anywhere.

"We don't need a babysitter."

"You think I didn't tell him that?"

"Hey, Caesar." Barney nodded to the huge black guy just as he and Yang walked in, followed by Toll in a still-fucking-ugly denim jacket. "Might be leaving in two days, so make sure you're packed."

"I thought we were chasing a guy," Toll said. "Shouldn't we be leaving tonight?"

"You think too much," Yang said. "It's all covered, the plan is good."

Lee scoffed. Barney didn't plan, he improvised. "What plan?"

x - x - x

Isabelle grunted and slammed the cabinet door shut before she reached to her left and felt for a parmesan cheese rind. The damn overhead cabinets stuck out too far, and if you didn't duck or move out of range. you'd find yourself with a lump on your head. Worse, they were still far too low. Another foot higher would've been perfect, but Tool refused to renovate the kitchen. She lifted the pot lid, tossed the rind in, then dropped the lid suddenly and splattered near-boiling liquid on her hand and arm. "Fuck!"

Stabbing pain radiated from her stomach as Belle gripped the counter, breathing through the sharp pains that threatened to tear her body apart. The hunger pangs would subside once she ate something, and then she'd be locked away in the bathroom as her stomach reacted to the sudden change in diet.

"Chére, you need a hand?" Tool called out from his bedroom.

"Non, merci," she said through gritted teeth. Isabelle found a tea towel and wiped her arm before tossing it on the bench and fetching a bag of mixed seafood from the fridge. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps and shrugged it off as Tool getting dressed, only to hear a door creak followed by two sets of squeaking footsteps. As much as she wanted to rip up the hideous striped linoleum floor without telling Tool, it certainly came in handy when two someones were coming out of nowhere.

Isabelle quickly slid her wrap-arounds on and kept cooking, pretending to be focused while she listened for more footsteps. The shades both concealed her injury and partially hid the scars that remained. Most of the scars were from the surgery, a few from her own attempted removal of the then compromised eye.

"Can I help you two?" she called out, turning the gas stove off and fetching a bowl. A slight tremor affected her hands as she began loading her dinner onto a tray, heart rate increasing along with the frequency of the tremors. A chill ran down her spine as uncomfortable silence fell over the upper floor, the footsteps falling silent as suddenly as they began. She couldn't even hear Tool now, just the blood rushing to her head and a quiet voice in the back of her mind that told her to run.

There was always two. Sometimes three. One to watch the door and one to have his way, then they'd swap. The third would find other ways to amuse themself.

You're safe, she reminded herself, finding the ladle and quickly serving herself from the remains of Tool's soup. She hadn't heard them coming upstairs. The stairs hadn't creaked and there was no noise from the lift. How had they gotten up here without her knowing?

She never heard them coming. They were always silent one minute and there the next. Torturers moving in the shadows and never showing their faces. Men without souls who only cared about one thing: tearing her apart physically, then psychologically.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Just looking for Tool," Gunnar said, glancing over the paint job in progress. The peach-coloured walls were as ugly as Barney naked — not that he'd willingly expose himself to such a horror, but if Tool liked it, who was he to complain? None of them had to live here except him, and if one of them ever slipped through the cracks, it was doubtful any of them would willingly reside here even then. "And a beer."

He looked over his shoulder at Doc before continuing to walk down the short hallway that led to the kitchen. All he'd heard was a southern French accent, probably from Nouvelle-Aquitane. The voice itself was feminine, with an underlying harshness. Unless Tool was fucking with them, Barney's mystery woman seemed like she might be real. Jensen focused on the sudden rapid heavy footsteps. Sure, he weighed two hundred pounds but he knew how to move quietly and so did Doc. Tool? Highly unlikely, unless he'd gained more weight.

Gunnar reached for his Bowie knife and unsheathed it, listening for any sound that would tip them off if Tool's translator was about to shoot at them. Mystery women were a rare occurrence here. French women even more so. There was something familiar about her voice that made him hesitate, a wavering fear he hadn't heard in so long.

"Beer's in the fridge, Tool's in his room."

"Uh, thanks."

Their footsteps drew closer as she hauled ass, refusing to look over her shoulder and waste the few seconds headstart she had. Isabelle walked into the small bedroom Tool designated hers and pushed the door shut with her foot, breathing heavily as she set the tray down on a wooden dresser by the door. Sweat trickled down her neck and soaked into her wifebeater, turning the shirt more transparent. Her heart was pounding, slamming against her ribcage, trying to flee faster than she could. The tremor in her hands interfered with her turning the lock, but seconds later she managed to push it to the right and hear it click before her legs gave way.

Isabelle collapsed against the door and slid down, sunglasses falling into her lap and wifebeater riding up. She could still hear footsteps, growing louder and closer with each second. A heavy metal door creaked, signalling impending pain. Sunlight flooded the room and warmed her skin, but she couldn't move, couldn't feel. Most of her senses had stopped functioning. Something was wrong, and all she could do was lay there and listen.

"Think she's awake?"

"She's been doped up on xylazine, bitch won't know up from down."

Isabelle nicked her leg with the shiv, the stinging pain pulling her out of her head and forcing her to focus on the present. You need to eat, she reminded herself. Pick up the pieces and keep moving. It was something her boss had said a few weeks after her eye had been destroyed. He'd told her no matter how much pain she was in, she needed to pull her shit together, pick the pieces up, and keep fighting. The world she'd joined was harsh, and it didn't give second chances to the weak, injured, or dying.

Nor did he.

He sympathised, he cared — he had a daughter, he had feelings, he reminded her — but the job came first. Survival of the fittest, strongest, and the rich, was how her new world operated.

"Fight or die, Isabelle," she murmured, resting her head against her knees as a few stray tears mixed with the sweat on the left side of her face. There was nowhere else to go now. Any headstart she'd had was used up. Once they found her, it wouldn't take long before she was dragged back to that hole kicking and screaming. "Fight or live in fear for the rest of your miserable life."

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter!

The lines about dinner parties/Lee walking out and no one noticing was taken from a scene in The Expendables 3 Working Draft script dated 22 July '13.