Cole Cassidy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
good_bamf_ugly) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
aperture_high2016-07-13 03:22 am
good_bamf_ugly) wrote in aperture_high2016-07-13 03:22 am
jesse mccree meets his new dads
[Most solitary confinements, McCree imagined, would be dark isolating places. A place you were supposed to hang your head in shame, sit in a corner and think about all the bad and terrible things you've ever done. (He's done a lot, to be fair). Not Overwatch's confinement. The miniature prison was likely built by Torbjörn himself, with cell walls blue and see-through, like four of Reinhardt's shields were boxed together. They were vaguely glowing, as if the light of them was for the express purpose of ensuring he was to be maintained like an animal on display. None of the other gang members were here. Most of them didn't have the misfortune of being captured. He decided the only thing he could do was keep his head held high and wait for the consequences when he was otherwise at the lowest he's ever been.
Deadlock had been hit pretty badly by this, though he didn't think they were dead done. Not yet.
Not a damn thing he could do about it either way. Maybe it was for the best.
His hat darkly obscures much of his face. He smells like sweat, iron and regret. He's got his hands cuffed at his front and been given one piddly chair to sit in the center of his cell, which he occupies by splaying his legs wide out and taking up as much space as he can. The spurs of his boots rest his feet at a comfortable angle for it, and he didn't have to push much to slightly tip legs of his chair. It makes a satisfying clack when he bends his knees forward, loud and echoing down here. Didn't even know exactly where he was--just that he was starting to lose his patience in waiting. If they were going to kill him they would have done it already, he's sure. Clack. He's heard whispers, something about an interview. Maybe a deal, if he had to guess. Clack. Clack. He's not sure how to feel about his prospects at all. He sort of just wishes there was something more lively to look at than these walls.]
Deadlock had been hit pretty badly by this, though he didn't think they were dead done. Not yet.
Not a damn thing he could do about it either way. Maybe it was for the best.
His hat darkly obscures much of his face. He smells like sweat, iron and regret. He's got his hands cuffed at his front and been given one piddly chair to sit in the center of his cell, which he occupies by splaying his legs wide out and taking up as much space as he can. The spurs of his boots rest his feet at a comfortable angle for it, and he didn't have to push much to slightly tip legs of his chair. It makes a satisfying clack when he bends his knees forward, loud and echoing down here. Didn't even know exactly where he was--just that he was starting to lose his patience in waiting. If they were going to kill him they would have done it already, he's sure. Clack. He's heard whispers, something about an interview. Maybe a deal, if he had to guess. Clack. Clack. He's not sure how to feel about his prospects at all. He sort of just wishes there was something more lively to look at than these walls.]
no subject