"More than one, I hope," she says with a cheeky grin. She grabs a nacho and shoves it in her mouth. There is nothing remotely elegant about this, or her, and she's pretty sure he's the last person on the planet to care about that.

"I'm Russian, I judge all of your American cities by birthright," what that actually means is anyone's guess, half the time Yelena just says words and hopes they come out cohesively enough to make a sentence. "Is there tourism here at all? Or is it just all crazy bat people and manic, masked weirdos?"