[The desert can be strangely loud when it wants; between the buzz of insects, wind rustling through dried old sun-baked plants, and loose sand stirring against rock, to say nothing of the adrenaline fueled altercation taking place. McCree's spurs clatter as he shuffles in the struggle, he's growling, maybe about to yell something, call him stupid, tell him to just stop... but it all goes dead silent with one frighteningly accurate chop.
McCree's wrist bends at an angle it, even robotic, should never bend. He sees metal chips fly, tubing and delicate wires suddenly spark. All in slow motion, like fucking silent poetry. There's no pain but the sudden loss of sensation, and seeing his grip give up and go limp is every bit as shocking.
76's back is to him, quickly receding in the near distance. The sudden weight of failure, and the crushing realization someone he once looked up to as a bastion of altruism and sacrifice did that to him, and with nary a second thought about it, is somehow more devastating than knowing the resident gunslinger was now down a working arm to fight with.
McCree's knees hit the sand and sink in while he clutches his arm and lets out a choked groan of despair, anger and frustration. He's mad this happened to Jack. He's mad Jack chose this as a result of that. He wants to yell but he lifts his head and sees a stranger sitting at the fireplace tending to his wound, and all at once McCree's anger dissipates into something like bitter pity. He hates it. He clutches his arm to his chest tighter and hangs on to it for a moment, deciding if he needs to grieve for Jack a second time or if that's too much giving up on the man.
He's just not sure.
Eventually McCree joins the campfire, sitting on the opposite end of 76 and thinking he's just going to tend to his arm and sit in awkward silence or something and that'd be that... but instead he just stares at him.]
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McCree's wrist bends at an angle it, even robotic, should never bend. He sees metal chips fly, tubing and delicate wires suddenly spark. All in slow motion, like fucking silent poetry. There's no pain but the sudden loss of sensation, and seeing his grip give up and go limp is every bit as shocking.
76's back is to him, quickly receding in the near distance. The sudden weight of failure, and the crushing realization someone he once looked up to as a bastion of altruism and sacrifice did that to him, and with nary a second thought about it, is somehow more devastating than knowing the resident gunslinger was now down a working arm to fight with.
McCree's knees hit the sand and sink in while he clutches his arm and lets out a choked groan of despair, anger and frustration. He's mad this happened to Jack. He's mad Jack chose this as a result of that. He wants to yell but he lifts his head and sees a stranger sitting at the fireplace tending to his wound, and all at once McCree's anger dissipates into something like bitter pity. He hates it. He clutches his arm to his chest tighter and hangs on to it for a moment, deciding if he needs to grieve for Jack a second time or if that's too much giving up on the man.
He's just not sure.
Eventually McCree joins the campfire, sitting on the opposite end of 76 and thinking he's just going to tend to his arm and sit in awkward silence or something and that'd be that... but instead he just stares at him.]