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

[mylawn]

[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.]

Comments

[mylawn]

[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.]

[good_bamf_ugly]

[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.]

[mylawn]

[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.]

[good_bamf_ugly]

[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.]

[mylawn]

[and so...]