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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[We'll all ignore the terrible irony in 76's phrasing. The duo make haste for their new destination. The sun is insufferably hot and McCree shares his water and rations while as they ride. By the time they make it to ruins (he was right! there's totally ruins around here) and get off the horse she's visibly fatigued. There's a few scant trees around (which the horse is tied under one of them), shrubs and grass but it's still mostly open desert, aside from the haphazard stone ruins which provide some better cover. Not the best but they'll have to make due. McCree's not going to bother with his stupid sandpit trap again when he's really not sure what they'll be up against. Not likely a single target.

Now they wait. Maybe they'll come at night, or maybe they'll brave the shitty desert sun too. McCree isn't keen on being in it any more regardless and also takes up a shady spot to rest under a tree.]

[To 76's credit, he weathers the journey to the ruins without complaint. He's already thinking ahead--who might come after them, where they might come from, what they might be packing. How they're going to deal with them between McCree's peacekeeper and 76 being secretly half-useless. He's pretty sure he can still point and shoot, but he knows he won't be nearly as effective.

The smart thing to do, of course, is to just come clean about the potential hindrance, but wary as he is, he just kind of keeps his mouth shut.

This continues as they get to the ruins and make camp, finding a relatively defensible position (or at least one where they can hopefully see people coming). 76 ~~pets the horse a little~~ helps, to his credit, gathering brush and wood for a campfire, and re-organizing their supplies (more squinting) before finally settling down to clean his rifle. Probably while McCree makes food.]

I'll take first watch.

[Maybe there will be more light for first watch.]

[McCree's making food! He's had to learn being on his own for so long. He's not uncivilized. That said, it's not exactly the lap of luxury out here; dry foods he had on hand along with whatever he picked up at their beachside pitstop. It's somewhere between soup and beans and ramen. Easy to cook on a fire and any extra water they can put into their bodies out here, the better. Now that the sun is setting it's starting to get more tolerable temperature-wise.]

Sounds fair. [He pauses. He's caught 76 squinting at stuff every so often and he wasn't really put much thought into and after a moment's hesitation shrugs and decides 76 wouldn't volunteer on risky business if he wasn't up to the task.]

You just give a holler if you have any problems.

[McCree's fine with resting. He's going to get cozy against a sleeping Betty Sue and put his hat on his face.]

[As the temperature drops, he puts his jacket back on, more than aware of how cold it can get in the desert at night. That's the only reason he even allows a campfire, but he does try to keep it small. When he's satisfied with the state of his rifle and sidearm and the rest of his equipment, he wordlessly joins McCree to eat, nodding in silent thanks as he takes the bowl. 76 slurps down noodles like someone who's mostly been eating nothing but caloriemates. Otherwise he says little else, making note of the spot where McCree goes to sleep.

He has no trouble staying away, but when it gets dark, 76 loses the benefit of a light source to help him make sense of smears of shape and color. He doesn't expect company right away (most likely they'll wait until they think everyone's asleep before making a move), but he knows it's coming eventually.

With the fire, he can make sense of the immediate campsite, but everything beyond that dissolves into blackness. He's used to it, by now, and though he spends most of the time in his visor, he still knows how to listen--which is what he does.

It's easy to zone out with limited vision and the dark quiet of the ruins, but soon enough he hears what he expects to. 76 can't see them, but he knows the direction of the footsteps. Slowly, quietly, he sits up and slinks his way over to the sleeping cowboy.]

Get up. Company.

[He speaks in little more than a low growl, nudging McCree roughly.]

[McCree, despite the looming danger, finally hit that sweet spot of actual resting sleep and doesn't immediately react beyond a disorientated groan and roll of his head. He swats 76's hand away and mumbles something unintelligible. He's not hard to rouse with further nudging, suddenly snapping awake and sliding the hat up over his head. He blinks the vision in his eyes awake proper and belatedly registers 76's words.

Company. Of course. He hears them too--footsteps that went silent at his rousing but still given away by the shuffling of feet on stone ground. Little hard to tell exactly where they were other than they were uncomfortably close--shoot, did 76 just wait for the lot of them to wander in?--so McCree gets to his haunches and gives 76 a nod.

All it takes is for a careless mook to break an old dried up twig to give himself away through the dark and shrubs, and that's plenty enough of a signal for McCree to leap to the side and place a bullet right through said mook's head. From there all hell breaks loose--but that's just fine with him.]

[The visual impairment has been degenerative. When he'd pulled himself out of the rubble, he'd known that the explosion had fucked up his eyes (among other things), but it hadn't been so bad that he couldn't function, initially. That changed far too quickly for his liking, and he only expects it to get worse. There had been some time before he managed to acquire the visor, and he'd needed to adapt. It's not ideal, but he's still capable in a fight without it. He's had no other choice but to find ways to work around it.

He can't see details, and he can't see past the glow of the campfire into the darkness that surrounds them, but he can see movement against the flickering orange glow. 76 uses that to launch into action, the crunch of boots and the contrast of shadows tipping him off to where the mooks are coming from. With that, he launches into action.

He dispatches the man with all the brutality he's come to be known for. Whereas McCree starts firing, he doesn't even touch his rifle, grappling with the first unfortunate interloper who tries to jump him. McCree will certainly recognize the inhuman strength and speed, the efficiency of advanced military training, but there's a feral, ruthless quality to it now as he all but beats the man into the dirt before wheeling around to tackle the next one.]

[It'd be nice if maybe this scuffle didn't erupt the way it did but this was very much a shoot first ask later kind of scuffle. There was no doubt these men were after their blood when the return of gunfire is immediate. Pistols and rifles from the sound of it, nothing proportional to the number of bodies moving around and nothing more fancy or advanced than that to indicate this was anything more organized than a greedy local gang. Fine with him. It's their funeral.

Still trouble if they'd let it be.

McCree moves back towards the ruins, his boot spurs drawing distance and splitting the group up as intended. Here he uses moonlight and the flat walls for cover and waits for rounds of bullets to stop before peaking out behind a corner and firing twice. Two dull thuds follow.]

I'll give you and your friends a chance to back off, and might I suggest you should take it.

[One of the more armored mooks yells back in Spanish something like, "You killed two of my men--that just makes it two times easier to split your rewards."]

Not too good at math, are you?

[For his quip, McCree gets a bullet hole put through his hat and a reminder he should be ducking maybe an inch or two lower behind his wall. He pulls the hat off his head and whines--that's the second damn bullet in this hat this trip. Terrible. Just terrible. He hears the crack-punch of what sounded like a jaw being broken closer by the fireplace and elongated shadows play out on the adjacent ruin walls of 76 throwing one of the mooks to the ground. His fists follow and the wet pulp of flesh being broken is as distinct as any gunshot, and it's enough of a distraction for the armored mook to turn his head. McCree leaps out from his cover and comes out of his tumble fanning his hammer, unloading a volley of shots into the mook. It stuns him but doesn't put him down, and it's all McCree can do to get behind cover again before the ruin walls are peppered with bullets.]

Edited 2016-07-08 07:06 (UTC)

[He hears gunfire but that doesn't deter him, even if he can't at all see who is shooting and who is facing what direction while doing so. As loath as he is to admit it, he needs to rely on McCree to keep the thugs with guns off him before they turn one his way 76 is more than occupied with the few that have decided it's a great idea to go hand-to-hand and toe-to-toe with him.

It's not a great idea. It's a terrible idea.

76 loses himself to the survival instincts--the automatic response to the possibility of being apprehended. It goes deeper than that, of course. There's too much at stake to allow himself to be compromised at all, and it sends him into overdrive, punching one goon to make sure he's down and then spinning back around on the other, all but slamming him into some nearby rocks. He's vaguely aware of the guns, but isn't about to stop, not when he hears McCree try to give them a warning and certainly not when everyone starts shooting again.

To the cowboy's credit, he manages to draw fire away from his little campfire throwdown, but eventually someone picks up on that and 76 feels a stray bullet tear through the sleeve of his jacket. His response is immediate and almost animal, an outright snarl as he swings a punch right into the face of the mook who thought it was a good idea to get this close to him.]

[The barrage of bullets cease momentarily and McCree chances sticking his head out from behind cover. Some men are reloading, other's are only now noticing the immediate threat 76 is. He's certainly a force to be reckoned with and provides an easy distraction as McCree sneaks around to the other side. He starts thinking it might not be a bad idea to leave at least one of these mooks alive to grill for intel. McCree targets the scrawny looking kid hanging near the back and off to the side--he's waiting for a good opportunity to strike on 76/staring vaguely in horror at 76 rethinking any opportunity will come at all but will soon find his knee all but erupting in pain with a bullet from McCree's Peacekeeper. Down he goes, screaming in pain. All that's left now is the big armored guy and two mooks still tussling with 76.

The armored guy starts looking for McCree again now that he's fired a shot and unleashes another round of bullets at the wall. Stone starts to crumble and McCree casually reloads his gun. He can't risk letting this big guy carry on and once he stops firing McCree lobs a flashbang blindly over the wall, jumps out and finishes him off before he even realizes what's happened. Down he goes with nary a sound.

An unseen third mook joins the other two and tackles 76 at the back. It's not a smart idea at all and he's flung off by the raw fury of the old solider. The other two that have taken a beating don't need to take much more before they stay down, and 76 makes very short work of this third combatant. He hits the ground still conscious and cowers, probably regretting every life decision he's ever made in that moment. It's only when 76 continues to wail on the downed guy and starts producing gobs of blood that fly this way and that that McCree feels his chest tighten with disgust and something else he can't quite identify. He's done some shitty things for certain but that was in the past, and this kind of brutality was something else entirely.

Yeah. That thing he can't identify--that's because he realizes not looking at Jack right now.]

Hey--Hey! [He barks louder and after taking a furtive glance at the kid with the broken knee (nope, definitely not going anywhere) he bounds over and tries to pull 76 off the mangled body that was an unfortunate and foolish mook.] Easy now! You got him! That's enough!

Edited (redundancy dept of redundancy and weltgobs) 2016-07-11 04:35 (UTC)

[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.]

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

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