"Something like that," she answers a shrug of her shoulders from underneath that over-sized jacket, not giving away details about the contents of her duffle bag. No sense in telling him anything she didn't have to until she had a better grasp on what was going on. What he wanted. It's not even a lie, he is part right-- it has her Red Widow outfit from SHIELD, the keys to her motorcycle, SHIELD tech and a number of other things. But a lot of the things she wouldn't want someone like him getting his hands on are personal. The cellphone she calls Oksana on. The iPod Natasha gave her for her tenth birthday, a twist of Alexei's hair. She'd been in the Red Room long enough to know what those sort of people could do with attachments.
She takes that statement in, and her lips thin, and that look in her eyes turns to something that's part defiance and part accusation, though it doesn't color her voice. She's not the same as Natasha, not quite so cold, not so good at killing her emotions. Ava has a lot of the Red Room scars, but she clearly hadn't finished her training. "I remind you of Natasha Romanoff."
She'll have to go through him.
She holds the option in her mind, considers it. It's dangerous, probably the wrong call, but Ava knows far too much about Natasha. But, he doesn't know that, or else his questions would be more precise (unless he's playing her, trying to lure her into a sense of security when all he's really looking to do is confirm what he already knows--) but for the moment she brushes the paranoia aside. Odds are he probably doesn't know about her powers, at least. She might be able to hit him hard enough to get away, throw her bag through the window, dive after it if when she's free.
She's slowly shifting her weight in that subtle way that doesn't really seem like movement. But to the particularly sharp, she's trying to get a line on the side door that goes to the hallway, though her eyes never leave his face. Don't fight the Winter Soldier, Ava. She wants a distraction for this, a way to catch him from behind, give a chance to make sure that first shot really hurts, but any tricks she has are in her bag. Which means if it comes down to it, she'll just have to go with what she has-- which is nothing but a bad idea.
Nat wouldn't fight, she knows. Not yet, anyway. She'd keep him talking, find out exactly what he was looking for, lull him into the closest the Winter Soldier might get to complacency, but the truth was that Ava wasn't as good at the social aspects as Nat was. She could manage a few lines, a smile and a look, even, but really playing someone? Not her best skill, even with the knowledge of how it worked there in her head.
She sighs, shaking her head as she tucks the knife back into the sheath at the back of her belt where she'd pulled it from. Her hands are empty when they come back, her lips thinning. "Why are you interested in her? She'll just disappoint you," she says, letting herself tap into that old anger as her arms cross over her chest and her mouth turns into a frown. They'd worked through some of it, bonded through shared pain, but eight years of resentment was a hell of a thing.
She's intentionally not lying to him -- she assumes he's probably better than her; the perfect soldier, perfect predator, like he might smell it in the dark. But not all truth is honest, either.
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She takes that statement in, and her lips thin, and that look in her eyes turns to something that's part defiance and part accusation, though it doesn't color her voice. She's not the same as Natasha, not quite so cold, not so good at killing her emotions. Ava has a lot of the Red Room scars, but she clearly hadn't finished her training. "I remind you of Natasha Romanoff."
She'll have to go through him.
She holds the option in her mind, considers it. It's dangerous, probably the wrong call, but Ava knows far too much about Natasha. But, he doesn't know that, or else his questions would be more precise (unless he's playing her, trying to lure her into a sense of security when all he's really looking to do is confirm what he already knows--) but for the moment she brushes the paranoia aside. Odds are he probably doesn't know about her powers, at least. She might be able to hit him hard enough to get away, throw her bag through the window, dive after it
ifwhen she's free.She's slowly shifting her weight in that subtle way that doesn't really seem like movement. But to the particularly sharp, she's trying to get a line on the side door that goes to the hallway, though her eyes never leave his face. Don't fight the Winter Soldier, Ava. She wants a distraction for this, a way to catch him from behind, give a chance to make sure that first shot really hurts, but any tricks she has are in her bag. Which means if it comes down to it, she'll just have to go with what she has-- which is nothing but a bad idea.
Nat wouldn't fight, she knows. Not yet, anyway. She'd keep him talking, find out exactly what he was looking for, lull him into the closest the Winter Soldier might get to complacency, but the truth was that Ava wasn't as good at the social aspects as Nat was. She could manage a few lines, a smile and a look, even, but really playing someone? Not her best skill, even with the knowledge of how it worked there in her head.
She sighs, shaking her head as she tucks the knife back into the sheath at the back of her belt where she'd pulled it from. Her hands are empty when they come back, her lips thinning. "Why are you interested in her? She'll just disappoint you," she says, letting herself tap into that old anger as her arms cross over her chest and her mouth turns into a frown. They'd worked through some of it, bonded through shared pain, but eight years of resentment was a hell of a thing.
She's intentionally not lying to him -- she assumes he's probably better than her; the perfect soldier, perfect predator, like he might smell it in the dark. But not all truth is honest, either.