Life is like a sharp stick; it's not the best analogy, Sergei admits, but it works well enough. Life is like a sharp stick in the way where you can either cultivate the baby leaflings or stab someone in the gut and leave splinters.

This woman, decidedly, has used her sharp points for the stabbing option.

It's not exactly a sharp stick that has Sergei pinned through the shoulder, anchoring him to the wall behind him-- it's the ragged end of a railing support, matte black and cold everywhere except for where it's embedded in Sergei's outer deltoid. At least it missed the bone.

How the rail got itself stuck in Sergei's shoulder is a fairly simple matter, really.

The woman standing before him with a gun in one hand and a badge in the other is the apparent occupant of the house he'd meant to search, since it had supposedly contained missing files vital to one of CSIS's agent recovery cases.

She wasn't supposed to be at home. Clearly, there had been some miscommunication on Sergei's end, because he had finagled his way through the locked back door and was immediately greeted with an uppercut from scarred knuckles that left his jaw stinging. Naturally, he fought back- what was he supposed to do, try to explain himself? That's loser behavior.

At some point, Weston- the woman who beat the shit out of him- had torn a support bar off the railing of the stairs and flung it at him, forceful enough to get him into his current predicament. Which is terrifying, because nobody should be that strong.

So now, he's losing blood a little quicker than he'd like slumped against the wall of a suburban Canadian home belonging to an officer of the law that Sergei was not briefed about beyond her name and age. He hates his job sometimes.

Sergei huffs a sigh through his nose, holding up his good hand in a gesture of surrender. "Not armed," he says, before nodding at Weston's weapon. "Can put gun away."

Weston, noticeably, does not lower her gun, but does tuck her badge into her back pocket.

"I thought Russians only spied on Americans," She says, tilting her head a little to the left. It's an easy tactic, trying to get him to spill his business being there, so Sergei shrugs and replies, "Canadians also American, no?"

"Don't get smart with me," Weston says. Her voice is unwavering and controlled, murky green eyes boring into Sergei's brown ones.

Sergei just raises an eyebrow, the pain in his shoulder dulling into a faint throb. "You are what organization?" He points to himself. "CSIS," he says, before looking expectantly at Weston.

"A good agent doesn't give up his agency unless he's asking to be returned to sender," Weston says in lieu of an answer, gun still trained steadily at Sergei's face.

Of course she's cautious. Good quality for an officer, but it's also not a terribly useless thing if you can clock another agent when you see one.

"Honesty good for trust," Sergei shrugs. "Plus, you are Canadian officer-- or agent, maybe?" he adds, and something shifts in Weston's eyes. "I am sure that CSIS tells agents to not kill each other, yes?"

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity-- but was probably only a minute or so-- Weston lowers her gun, tucking it into the waistband of her jeans alongside her badge.

"I'm not CSIS," She grumbles, adjusting her shirt to conceal her firearm before stepping forward to help Sergei dislodge the rail from his shoulder.

It takes a good minute, but once the metal has been relocated, Weston shoos Sergei onto the couch in her living room before disappearing for a moment and returning with a towel plus a pack of gauze.

Handing the towel to Sergei and beginning to unwrap the gauze, she asks casually, "You got a badge on you?"

Sergei can hear the lilt of thinly concealed suspicion in her voice. "No," he replies. "Spies not required to have badge. Not good when caught."

Weston scoffs, shoulders slumping the tiniest fraction of an inch. "Well, then, you're a shit spy if I have anything to say about it."

Sergei hums noncommittally, a small spark of relief washing through him as he sees that his bleeding has slowed enough to the point where it hasn't soaked through the towel he's holding to his shoulder.

"How come I was not briefed on you?" He asks suddenly, wondering how Weston could be some sort of agent and have Sergei not know about it.

Weston just shrugs, tossing the now open pack of gauze at Sergei's head. "I'm not accounted for as an agent in your database. This house is listed under my name, sure, but it's technically not mine," she says, and Sergei chooses not to question that particular aspect as he wads a bit of the rough cloth into the hole in his arm. "Plus, I'm not listed anywhere in the CSIS database as anything but a civilian. No CIUO agent is. We're unknown to everyone but the prime minister and your big boss."

"CIUO?" Sergei questions, looking up at Weston to see her somewhat looming over him with her arms crossed, dark blonde hair spilling over her face and casting it in shadow.

"Packing only one side isn't gonna do anything," she notes, squinting at Sergei's wound. "But yes. Canadian Intelligence and Undercover Operations. Like CSIS, but with less range. Based in Montreal, mostly," she says, before noticing the befuddled expression on Sergei's face. "What? Honesty is good for trust," she parrots back at him, and Sergei snorts.

Sergei considers her for a moment, tucking the end of the gauze wrapping his arm back into itself.

"Agent Sergei Korolyov," he says, extending a hand towards Weston. "CSIS."

Weston raises an eyebrow, and seems to grimace ever so slightly before a sort of recognition crosses her face and she accepts his outstretched hand.

"Agent Marie-Andrea Weston," she replies, her grip firm and strong. "CIUO."