aperture_high | LET'S HIT THE ROAD I WAS SO CLOSE TO PERSONAL GROWTH

LET'S HIT THE ROAD I WAS SO CLOSE TO PERSONAL GROWTH

[ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO...

Are you caught up? Good. We find our heroes having recently embarked upon a two thousand-mile road trip to San Diego (a real place) from Dorado (not really a real place), in search of experimental government technology. The plan is simple--horseback to the nearest hypertrain station. Sneak across the border, then commandeer a vehicle or perhaps another horse to complete the rest of the journey. Bust into an old Overwatch outpost, steal all of their shit, acquire a new tactical visor or something similar, and then part ways and he can go back to vengeance or whatever it is he's doing.

There is, unfortunately, only one horse, and Jesse McCree and his vaguely unhinged ex-commander are not exactly light or small (they are both tall and also kind of heavy). 76 is also more uncomfortable with the animal than he lets on, but that might just be because he's riding shotgun. Is that what you call it when you're not actually driving the horse, but are sort of behind the person driving the horse, in constant danger of slipping off the horse unless you hold onto the person driving the horse (which is unpleasant because 76 doesn't like sharing personal space and McCree is an unwashed hobo who still thinks cowboys are relevant)? Do you call it driving the horse?

Either way, this is uncomfortable--but not so uncomfortable that 76 doesn't eventually succumb to the fact that he stayed up the whole night before just in case McCree decided to bail on this operation. He nods off upright for a little, jarred awake every time they hit some kind of bump (which is often). Eventually, he slumps forward, conking out right against McCree. Probably the only reason he's not drooling on McCree is because he's put the face mask back on. The visor, however, is still totally busted.

Let dad rest.]

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[Once, perhaps a very long time ago, when he was a different person, he'd understood that his augmentations came with a certain amount of responsibility. They'd been tools of the military at the time, but he'd been lucky-slash-talented enough to escape, if one can call his involvement in the crisis lucky. When it was over, however, Overwatch had afforded him some degree of autonomy, as far as that was concerned. But he's always known the cost of war and had been acutely aware of his own destructive power. How hard he can punch. How difficult he is to take down. How completely lethal he can be in a fight if he put his mind to it. Something important to keep in the back of his mind during any combat engagement, lest he end up doing something he'd later regret.

Then Jack Morrison died and he stopped caring about any of that.

He apparently doesn't care now, beating a thug into a literal pulp against the desert ground, blood streaming down his arm from the stinging wound in his shoulder. 76 almost wheels around on McCree, thinking he's another assailant (and certainly unable to distinguish him visually), but eventually his voice gets through, all but freezing him mid wind-up as McCree struggles to pull him off.

It works, but only when 76 realizes what's happening and takes a step backwards, gloves dripping with blood. When he seems to come back to himself, he wrenches his arms out of McCree's grasp with another growl.

Then, after another moment, he seems to realize he's injured, pressing his palm against his arm and inspecting the blood on his hand when he pulls it away.]

[McCree was half expecting to get clocked in his handsome mug for his efforts though the deed was well already done, dead, and half-buried in the sand at this point. He's at least relieved to rouse 76 out of his battle high lest he lose himself in it. He fully expects no thank-yous for it either. McCree pulls his hand away from 76's shoulder, unable to feel the warm wet of blood but able to see it clear as day in the fire light's glow. It stains the palm of his glove. His lip curls and he wipes it non-nonchalantly off on his pant leg.]

Can't tell if that's his or yours.

[To see calm composed former leader Morrison--the boyscout, Overwatch's proverbial poster boy, blonde-haired blue-eyed wanna-punch-him-in-his-perfect-teeth upright do-good guy, an advocate of justice and righteousness--lose control like this was a little jarring to say the least. McCree doesn't dwell on it more than a second, since there was still unfinished business whining and clutching his bloody knee on the ground over there. Right.

McCree gives 76 a once-over and deems the bullet graze as open and bleeding, yes, but something that can wait a few minutes.]

Hold that thought. [He mostly says to himself as he starts to close the distance, re-cocking his peacekeeper as he went.]

[76 takes a moment to find the source of the bleeding, clapping his hand back over it and squeezing once he realizes where the graze is. Nothing they can't bandage up with basic field medical supplies, but annoying nonetheless. Not that his jacket isn't already covered in dirt and old blood, simply by nature of the things he's been doing.]

Doesn't matter.

[He appears more coherent after another moment, nudging the bodies on the ground, checking them for any sign of movement. When he's reasonably sure there will not, in fact, be any movement, he starts to follow after McCree. 76 can't see, exactly, but he can hear there's someone still alive and incapacitated. For a moment he wonders why, but then he realizes that it might be prudent to question at least one of them.

He picks up his rifle and lets McCree do the talking, hovering threateningly close behind.]

Edited 2016-07-12 05:26 (UTC)

[McCree kicks away a small pistol that was already well out of the kid's reach, just to be safe and remind him he's in no position to do anything right now. The kid squirms on the ground and hisses in Spanish at the cowboy.]

You piece of shit. My fucking knee...!

[McCree shrugs with a crooked smirk, not terribly sympathetic. He even eyes the wound with a vague sense of pride he hit that little thing dead on from his distance, half in the dark.] Yeah it's pretty broken I'd say. [Broken knee was painful as hell but not the worst he could have done.]

What are you waiting for then? [The kid hisses again, sand sticking to the side of his face for how badly he was sweating out of misery.] Do it. End it. You and your psychopath friend. [76 gets a particularly nasty glare before his eyes wildly dart back to McCree and his Peacekeeper.] Do it fast.

[Begging for death? Not McCree's style. He raises his hand placatingly, as placatingly as a robotic hand can look while the other is still holding a revolver.] Hold your horses there, kid. Ain't got but a few questions for you first.

[Sure would be nice to put a name to this little gang out here, just for information's sake. McCree starts looking for tattoos and finds one on the kid's ankle. He rolls said ankle with the tip of his boot to get a better look at a stylized goat-sucker monster as a gang symbol, complete with matching label.] Chupacabras? [McCree snorts, points the gun at the kid as if it were a 6th finger.] This the whole ensemble or is this going to end with you?

No... I have two brothers. They didn't want to come. They weren't ready. Weren't strong enough.

[To which McCree asks in a low, slow drawl.] Are they going to come?

If I die, they will. They will kill you.

[McCree shrugs again and looks to 76 as additional consult. Or if maybe he had any questions on his mind before they figure out what to do with the kid. McCree wasn't a fan of unnecessary killing these days, no more than he was leaving blatant and dangerous loose ends.]

[Ah. Spanish. 76 has picked up a little from running around in Mexico, and from some people who spoke it once upon a time in another life. He's never been good at holding a conversation, but he can pick up a few choice words here and there. Enough to understand the gist of what's being said. He can't tell if the threat of brothers is a bluff or not, but if they're dealing with a gang, he doesn't want to chance it.

Not that he thinks the two of them aren't capable of wiping the floor with more mooks, but he'd rather not. They have a train to catch, and the more people they run into, the harder it will be for them to stay under the radar.]

Knock him out.

[He sort of wonders if McCree expects him to say they should kill the kid.]

Tie him up. We'll take turns keeping an eye on him tonight and dump him in the closest town.

[While he says this, however, he hefts his rifle in the event the kid doesn't speak English--scare him a little more.]

Take the weapons. Check him for anything that might alert someone to our position. [A phone, a GPS. Despite himself, he says it like he's giving orders. It still comes far too naturally to him.] Tell him if he tries anything funny, I'll kill him. [Here, look, he's going to point at this unfortunate soul.] Voy a matarte. Comprende, niño?

[He knows how to say that much. 76 is that after his current display, he should want a quick death by McCree's peacekeeper in comparison. Hopefully that will deter him from trying anything funny.]

Edited (finding typos...so much later...) 2016-07-13 08:32 (UTC)

[The kid gets that, spitting back Comprende Old Man in plain (if accented) english. McCree rolls his eyes, mostly at how easily 76 falls back into that commanding tone of voice, but also at the idea of having to babysit for the next however many hours they plan on camping out here. He's much rather that than offing the kid, but still. Pain in the ass.]

Alright kid, buenas noches.

[McCree makes it quick, pistol-whipping the kid at the back of the head with a well-practiced flick of his wrist. He drags him by his good leg closer to their campfire and sets about tying him up, taking his pistol, rummaging through his wallet for the heck of it (Miguel of the Chupacabras, eh?) and then discovers his phone. Might be a problem. He tosses it to 76.]

What do you want to do with this?

[They could destroy it, turn it off, throw it in the middle of the desert somewhere... though an unanswered call might call unwanted attention. Any of those sounds better than letting Miguel keep it, however.

Meanwhile, McCree sets to bandage Miguel's knee. Easier to do with him unconscious, though it's not exactly the kind of care he'll need. Not McCree's problem.]

[76 is hard-pressed to be intimidated by some punk kid, gang or not, and remains unflinching in the face of the English meant to mock him. He waits patiently for McCree to finish taking care of him before circling back to the campfire and watching McCree go through his wallet. He supposes if there's anything interesting, he'll be alerted to it.

Since there's no announcement to prelude the phone being tossed his way, he catches the movement in his periphery too late and misses it. The device falls to the ground with a dull thud, and there's a pause, like he knows McCree knows he should have caught it.

But he isn't going to say anything to bring more attention to it, instead considering the phone for a moment before raising his boot and stomping on it with a crunch. 76 grinds it under his heel to finish it off.]

Tie him up when you're finished.

[You get to tie him up, McCree. 76 is going to stalk off a little.]

[That dull thud sounded a lot heavier than it should have, and McCree stares at him pointedly like he knows 76 knows McCree knows he should have caught it. He opens his mouth but it's overshadowed by the poignant crush of glass. McCree shuts his mouth and frowns, busing himself with Miguel knowing his pistol-whip wasn't going to keep him knocked out all night. The cowboy grumbles to himself while he mulls on the series of incidents that, alone, are nothing really to think of but strung together start to arouse the suspicion that 76 might be hiding an Achilles heel. Normally he'd not make it his business or care, but if it's one that could potentially handicap them both if not addressed proper, then he's going to make it his business.

McCree's so into his perturbed musing he doesn't realize he's probably tied Miguel up a little too tight. (He's a cowboy, he's got rope, of course he's got rope). Oh well.

He fishes Miguel's wallet out one more time and catches up to 76, holding it out to show. He's found something that needs proper addressing.]

Hey, what do you make of this?

[Presented is Miguel's wallet, and what McCree points to is a discount card to a local grocery store. Literally nothing important on it. What is, is the fact it's full of small 6-pt sized font.]

[76 is halfway back to the campfire when McCree interrupts him, and he doesn't seem all too happy about it. His gloves are still dripping blood from the thugs, to say nothing of the graze in his arm that he should probably treat, if only a little. The way he comes to a stop indicates that he's entirely exasperated by the entire evening, and McCree shoving something into his face is the last straw.

He's not stupid, and it occurs to him that after missing the phone toss, he's being tested. Though he's been trying to downplay his vision problems, he expected the cowboy to pick up on them eventually. 76 snatches the card out of his hand with the hope that he'll be able to feel what it is, in lieu of being able to read it.

It's not an ID. The shadows cast by the campfire do not help him at all. He tries not to squint too noticeably.]

Doesn't seem important.

[God, he hopes it's not important.]

[McCree won't be so easily intimidated by his former sort of boss stalking back to the campfire covered in blood. Calmly, he points to the text on the card with a metal finger. Tap tap.]

This part right here.

[He's not eyeballing the part he's tapping at however, he's very plainly scrutinizing 76's face for any hint that might betray the fact he actually can't see shit.

Or is illiterate, but McCree figures that would have been a world of problems noticed a long time ago.]

[Okay, yeah. McCree knows, and is testing him, and that ticks him off. 76 tries to remain inscrutable, but the truth of the matter is that he cannot read that tiny text, and the cowboy is more than aware and is just trying to get him to admit it.

He stares at the card. Stares at McCree. Shoves it back into his hands. Keeps stalking off. There's blood on it, now.]

[Yeah, that's plenty telling without having to say a damn thing. McCree hisses and out of sheer frustration throws the wallet at 76's head.]

You son of a bitch!

[He's not stopping there and stalks after the other man and grabs his wrist. He knows it's a dangerous move, likely just invited a punch to the face, but they're two adult men and unfortunately they're two adult men who have to survive together now and this could compromise it.]

Hang on there!

[There's a reserved strength in that robotic arm of his, one he doesn't like to use for a lot of reasons. It's not the same as having an entirely augmented body at a genetic level but McCree's not letting him run away from this. Enough running.]

How long's this been goin' on, huh?

[The reflex is instantaneous. As soon as that metal hand closes around his wrist, holding him back and keeping him from making an exit, 76 is wheeling around with his free hand to slam his fist right into McCree's face. He doesn't need to see to land the hit, and he doesn't hold back, letting out an animalistic snarl and lashing out with his full strength.

Which is, of course, considerable.

It's not exactly the same kind of force he used with the gang member (it seems 76 has some self-control left, after all), but there's a similar sentiment behind it. He won't be compromised. He's never had to address this with someone, let alone one of his ex-agents. Maybe Jack Morrison would have been able to do it. Soldier: 76 is not about to expose his own weaknesses, and reacts very poorly to being trapped.

If McCree doesn't let go (that bionic arm's grip is nothing to sneeze at), 76 will just hit him again, until he does.]

Edited 2016-07-17 06:25 (UTC)

[In slow motion that fist nails McCree right in the face, twisting his neck and causing his hat to fly clear off his head. He reels back, stumbles, spurs jingling haphazardly. All his weight tugs with gravity but 76 is strong. McCree doesn't go down. He just keeps hanging on like a fool.

A flash of instinct encourages McCree to raise his other hand in defense but he's not fighting back. It's half-hearted at best, like he knows even a serious effort isn't going to work against the raw ferocity of 76's hits. He just keeps taking them. Another one to his very handsome jaw. Another to his temple. He sees stars, tastes copper in his mouth. His head pounds. Hair sticks to his face. He chokes out a gurgled grunt before composing himself and looking 76 dead in the eyes, growling low and dangerous.]

I ain't lettin' go.

[It's stupid as hell. He should just let him go, but that'd feel like he's letting go of an old friend, granting them the ability to wallow in their own self-destructive misery. Maybe they're strangers in a way, but that's just not right to do by a fellow man. He's mad of course that 76 has been jeopardizing their adventure by keeping quiet about this... but more than that McCree takes the hits because 76 being as resourceful as any vigilante on the run would be, probably found a work-around to his handicap. And McCree probably shattered it into little pieces with the same hand that held on desperately.]

I deserve to know if I took that away from you.

[After the third punch, it's no longer satisfying. The fourth doesn't have the same kind of force behind it, and as he raises his hand for the fifth, McCree makes his intention clear. He's not letting go. 76 tries one more time to wrest it from his grasp, but eventually gives up when McCree locks eyes with him. That much, he can see.

He'll keep jerking his hand away intermittently for the next few moments, testing to see if McCree will relent. He narrows his eyes.]

It's not your concern.

[Well, it is, because they're traveling together, but 76 is stubborn. This is something he's come to adapt to, and he'll maintain that he can hold his own, even without the visor. McCree has already figured it out and knows the answer, anyway, so 76 isn't going to dignify him with the response that he wants.]

Let go, or I'll make you.

[There's no witty retort, no sass, no one-liner. His head hurts and he's too addled for that. All he can keep focused on is the task at hand, the other man's wrist in his and that he's not gonna' let go. McCree keeps holding on, eyes angry and pleading.

Logical thought has been punched out of him already and a baser instinct convinces him he might need to punch back if that gets 76 to calm down. Knock some sense into the asshole--McCree'll do it. But the thought comes too little too late, and the way he rears his other wrist back is sluggish, easy enough for even an old soldier to see.

He's going to have to make him.]

[76 will oblige. Augmented as he is, he's still not strong enough to sever anything, but he delivers a well-placed blow right to the vulnerable joint of McCree's bionic arm. The strike is practiced, efficient, and more than forceful enough to break the wrist. He's clearly not thinking about what this means for their road trip--a soldier who can't see properly and a gunslinger without one of his hands.

He hears the crunch of metal and tubing, and the grip around his wrist loosens. 76 capitalizes on that immediately, pulling out of McCree's grasp, apparently uncaring for any pain this may or may not have caused him.

Having put the exclamation point on the sentence, he's quick to turn on his heel, putting his back to McCree and stalking off in the direction he intended before he was interrupted, like none of that even happened.

He sits down at the campfire and starts shrugging off his equipment harness and jacket so he can get a better look at the graze on his arm.]

[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.]

Edited 2016-07-21 07:03 (UTC)

[He peels off his jacket like McCree isn't even there, revealing the tight undershirt once again, though this time he doesn't take off the chest armor. 76 rolls up the sleeve and takes off his glove, hissing a little as he touches the graze and tries to wipe away some of the blood.

McCree's eyes burn through him--he can feel it, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He digs around in one of his pouches instead, pulling out what seems to be first aid supplies.

There's a long, excruciating silence as he cleans the wound and bandages it. Eventually, he speaks up in reference to the metal wrist he just broke, like he's only now realizing that he did it.]

We can take a look at that tomorrow.

[When it's light out. 76 still sounds infuriatingly casual about the whole thing, like McCree definitely should have known better. He still doesn't seem to want to address the other elephant in the room.]

I told you I ain't who you knew.

[Perhaps that sounds a little despondent. Maybe it's the closest thing to an apology that McCree will get.]

[It's not anything like an apology and for someone like McCree who is generally well-mannered with his pleases and thank yous, it's a cherry on top of all the offense. His nostril flares but he can't muster up the energy to yell anymore. It's so pointless. He's tired. He ain't got time for this shit.]

I will look at it tomorrow. [He corrects, then rises off the log. He'll let 76 tend to the fire. He can't trust the man with his own arm but he'll trust him to keep a watch since he doubts he'll sleep any after all this. Even if he does (and McCree thinks he should sleep), he doubts any other Chupacabras will come stalking around so soon. Miguel is, fortunately, still out like a light. At least that's one blessing to count on.]

Damage already done. On many accounts, Jack.

[McCree excuses himself to look for Betty Sue, wherever that dang horse ran off to.]

Edited 2016-07-23 04:44 (UTC)

[and so...]

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LET'S HIT THE ROAD I WAS SO CLOSE TO PERSONAL GROWTH

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