There's a dull, wet crunch, and Yelena's vision fuzzes grey around the edges; when the sword slices through the remaining coil of wires, her arm drops to her side, limp, and there's something disquietingly wrong about the angle of it. Between the stiff leather of her jacket and the general chaos, there's no diagnosing at a glance exactly what the problem is.

"Deal with Steel," she says to Cortana, voice gone sandpaper rough. "I'll try to lead them away. If he dies, I'm thinking they'll stop trying to eat anyone."

She's less than optimally graceful as she veers off at an angle from the bier, shoulders rounded in a protective hunch that isn't feigned so much as exaggerated, in hopes that whatever sentience or programming controls the wires will react as most living creatures would - by attempting to pick off the weakest link before refocusing on her companions.