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Montreal, local LIMB clinic, middle of the night…

~"Red, respond. Mission status update required. Report to OR for debriefing. Acknowledge! Unable to establish location-trace."~

Fedorova's gaze narrowed fractionally, ignoring the summons via her Infolink, as she dug deeper into an I/O port behind her left ear with a piece of wire, looking herself in the mirror, trying to short-circuit the locator implant there. On her retinal display, the effort was registering as 'external interference' in her systems-monitor readout.

You don't say... more like getting RID of external interference.I won't let you find me, Jaron. Not… not yet. Not like this. Not until I know what she meant...

Was her thought, tussling a strand of her black hair from her left eye, as she slowly worked the piece of wire into position… until she felt a sharp, slightly disorienting crackle of static electricity, which made her inhale sharply in pain, and stumble slightly to one side. Focusing past the disorienting sensation, she dug the wire in deeper, reaching her free hand for a strip of duct tape nearby. She taped-in the piece of wire more securely into the port, before closing it up. The disorienting sensation was a necessary sideeffect, until the implant burned itself out via overvoltage. Not the cleanest way to disable it… but the woman didn't have the luxury of a LIMB physician to do it for her.

And if I did… I'd have to kill them after, anyway. No loose ends.

That reflexive thought made her scowl deeper. She shook her head slightly. Good thing then, that it was the middle of the night.

She stepped away from the mirror, briefly gliding over to the window, taking a look outside. Aside from a pair of late-night passerby, and a single police officer on patrol, nobody was in sight. Her break-in was perfect, and inconspicuous, thanks to her gaining entrance from the roof, via skylight. Nonetheless, she was very careful not to be illuminated by the spillage of a streetlight outside the window, before she stepped away.

Then, she took a seat at the chief physician's terminal, accessing the clinic's inventory manifest. Neuropozyne… thermoptic materials… polyfibres… cyberboost packs… lubrication fluid... bioenzyme canisters… she needed all of it, to a greater or lesser degree, given the significant damage and injuries she sustained during her duel with Adam Jensen. Again, self-diagnosis was not an ideal solution, and self-maintenance even less so, but she couldn't be choosy. Despite her currently being in a semi-functional state, that wouldn't last. Her systems were resilient and self-repairing to a degree, high-grade milspec gear, but there were limits. Not to mention, she still felt the taste of blood in her mouth, and was coughing wetly. The biorestorative matrix also had it's limits, and to fully recover, she WOULD need proper medical attention. But that would have to wait.

Adam Jensen.

The silent woman leaned back, staring at her own distorted reflection in the computer screen. Expecting the hatred to well-up again. Strangely, it didn't. If anything, it was replaced by a strange sort of ambivalence.

Outside in the hallway…

Pushing a cleaning cart next to him, the nightly janitor went about his business, mopping the floors in every office and surgical bay, whistling a catchy tune to himself. Suddenly, he spotted a faint glow under the door on the far end of the hallway. It was too faint to be a light, but it might have been an active computer screen.

Did the doc forget to turn off his computer again?

The man thought in some amusement, sauntering over to the door, and inputting the access code into the keypad next to it, to check it out. The doors whooshed open, and the terminal was indeed lit. Shaking his head slightly to himself, the janitor began walking over to the desk, before something else caught his attention… pieces of discarded duct tape on the shelf next to a wall mirror, a pair of tweezers, and partially-unfurled spool of wire.

"What the hell…?" - he muttered, starting in that direction. A whisper of movement off to the side was his only warning, before a slender but strong arm snaked-in under his chin to grip him in a firm choke, the other positioning itself in a crosswise posture behind his neck. He felt his vertebrae straining, as he stiffened.

"Wh—kkhh- whoever y-you are… p-please… d-don't-" - his breath caught in his throat, as the pressure tightened, as his head was twisted further to the side, his neck on the verge of breaking. Weakly, he scrabbled at the forearm beneath his chin, as he felt someone's hot breath on the back of his neck.

A day ago, even a couple of hours ago, Yelena Fedorova would have killed this man without a second, or even a first thought, just on instinct, clinically snapping his neck, as she had done to countless people, over the years of assignments for the Tyrants. Collateral casualties. Witnesses. Loose ends. Or just personal pleasure-kills, off to the side. Given her training, the number of ways she knew of killing a person, and the amount of ecstatic joy she derived from it, it was like breathing, to her. But in this instance…

...she hesitated, seeing her own reflection in the mirror, and that same… confusion on her face, remembering what Eliza Cassan had asked her. She could feel the janitor's struggle, the desperation to live. Feel the rapid thump-thump of the pulse in his neck. Normally, that would simply be an added incentive to kill, in pure sadistic impulse. But for some reason, this time, her victim's desperation… fear... resonated… with her. She could see herself there, on the floor of room 404, about to pull the trigger and blow her brains out...

The question is, what do you expect of yourself, Yelena?

Suddenly, the janitor felt his unseen assailant letting go. He coughed, stumbling forward, out of breath, supporting himself on the wall, wheezing in reaction, feeling his neck throbbing from how much it was twisted up. Slowly, he turned around, then made a sharp inhale, pressing back onto the wall, seeing the tall, heavily augmented, aquiline looking, dark haired female figure right behind him. One look into those shaded, empty eyes made him swallow, hard.

"W-wh-who… a-are y-y-you? Don't… don't hurt me… p-please…!" -

She gave a slow shake of her head, then motioned him towards the computer screen. Every movement fluid, reminding him of a coiled snake.

"G-go t-there? Wh-what do you… w-want?" - he managed, blinking. The woman's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and he quickly nodded.

"Okay… o-okay. Just don't hurt me!" - he moved in the indicated direction, keeping his eyes on her. Then he glanced at the computer screen, seeing the opened inventory page, and the search results.

"Y-you're a… Nu-Poz thief? A sm-smuggler or somethin'? H-how did you even get in here? The doors are locke-" - he was cut off, by the sudden chopping motion of her hand, as she pointed at the screen again, more animatedly, then at herself, specifically at certain parts of her body.

Only then did he notice the considerable damage and dried blood, clinging to exposed flesh under the torn-open segments of… some kind of hi-tech black armour she was wearing. Scarring. Incompletely healed skin. And the way her cybernetic legs seemed to be twitching slightly, obvious damage to their fake-muscle structure.

"Uh… um… I'm no doc… b-but I'm sure s-she'll be in tomorr-" - he was cut off again, as the woman shook her head vigorously, eyes narrowing once more, then pointed at the screen again, then the access-code pocket on the front of his work overalls.

He blinked. Was she mute or something?

"I d-don't know what you mean… you – you want me to give you my code-card? It-it needs my biometrics to work, y-you won't-" - he began, then was suddenly grabbed by the collar, as she yanked him in close, eyes narrowing even further, in very obvious irritation.

She pointed at the screen again, more intensely, then at his code-card, then down the hallway outside, vaguely in the direction of the clinic's medical storage rooms.

"W-woah… I w-wanna help, I just d-don't know… OH! You… want me to open the storage up, f-for you? Right?! Ok… ok! I can do that! Take it easy, l-lady."

She nodded, then let him go, motioning him forward. Before they left the room, she stopped him again. She pointed vaguely outside to the street, then at his mouth, then made a throat-cutting motion.

The meaning was clear, as the janitor swallowed hard.

"I… g-got it. If I call for help… I-I'm dead. Got the message. D-don't worry… I'm not eager t-to die."

This got him a… weird… look from her, that somehow sent shivers up his spine, but she just nodded, motioning him to keep walking.

Two hours later… cargo loading terminal, Montreal train station

Gaining access to an automated cargo train bound for USA border, was a simple matter for Yelena and her talents at staying out of sight, as well as stowing-away aboard, tucked in safely and inconspicuously among heavily-shielded crates of bioneural chips. The interference from their contents would prevent any potential satellite-trace made for her Infolink signature. Yes, she had disabled the tracker implant, but spoofing the Infolink trace was a much more involved procedure. By now, Namir must have realised she had become a rogue, given her lack of compliance to the recall order, which they both knew was an euphemism for termination. She had seen the same protocol implemented, five months ago, after Ben Saxon went AWOL, following their… aborted… confrontation on the Icarus. Then again, if Jensen's breadcrumb-following crusade stayed on it's predicted schedule, the one Jaron himself outlined during her briefing, before sending her to Picus to intercept the tenacious Sarif attack-dog… Jaron Namir would have bigger things to worry about then her, soon enough.

She might have an easier time vanishing, then Saxon did. The irony wasn't lost on the woman. Five months ago, she was the one most… incensed… by him slipping away. She considered it a personal insult, betrayal, given their night together. If at any point, she caught a whiff of his potential whereabouts after Icarus, she would have been HOUNDING Namir to send her to finish him off.

Now, thinking about it… all she felt was ambivalence. Same as with Jensen.

Briefly, she thought about the janitor, whom she left, unconscious and tied up, back at the LIMB clinic, after she got what she needed from him. Unconscious, tied up, likely concussed, but… alive. Very much alive. For the first time in as as long as she could remember.

Next stop – Detroit, Michigan. It was funny, how things ran in circles, the Russian woman thought, lying comfortably atop of one of the crates, allowing the train's soft rumble and tussle to lull her to sleep.

But the Highland Park facility had been their staging area for a long time. And given the rush of their evacuation from there, two weeks ago, there was a better-then-even chance that FEMA had not yet returned to repossess the site. Especially given the… damage control… needed, after Jensen's infiltration. What better place to regroup and plan her next move, get supplies, and rearm, especially given the equipment they had to leave behind. Not to mention a direct uplink to the Killing Floor. Which she needed, in order to erase her Infolink signature from the system, and deny her… masters… any chance of tracking her. And that was a priority. She knew, better then anyone, how nigh-impossible it was, for anyone to leave the fold. She herself, was sent after fugitives, many times, in the past.

Who would they send after me? Gunther? Jenna? Assuming Jaron is no longer a factor? We have taken so many losses recently. Not many actives left. If Jensen kills him...

She shook her head slightly to herself, closing her eyes. No point worrying about that at the moment. And afterwards… she needed answers. To questions that began to manifest themselves, now that her mind was no longer it's own prison.

Now that she began to have a clear idea, what she expected of herself. Now that she even had 'herself' as a self-identifying factor. Now that she began to realise, just how much was taken from her.