I'm supposed to be working on two other stories and what do I do, make this instead. This is my first Overwatch Story, I'm personally fasinated by McCree who I also main. We don't have a lot of info about him outside of the one comic, so I thought what would an introductory cinamatic for him be like. But you didn't click to read this drivel.
Let the story begin.
Jesse McCree
Broken Bottles, Broken Promises
Prologue
(What a Monster Hunts)
It's always amazed me how far humanity can fall when we lose ourselves. War, terrorism, 'contracted servitude', it amazes me what we can do to each other. We the species that has set foot on the moon, tames the seas and the sky, harnessed the powers of the nature and found a cure to almost every known disease… I looked again into the amber liquid that had been sitting in front of me for a few minutes now. Funny ain't it, that we're so flawed as to imbibe in a poison to numb the effects of reality on us. Ana'd be chewing my ass for drinkin like this again… she and the old man both.
"You alright there, Viejo?" I look up from my shot of whiskey to look at the young bartender. Viejo, damn I must have been getting old to have him calling me that. I nodded to the barkeep and shot the whiskey sucking in a soft breath to fuel the fire in my belly. I heard a commotion coming from outside the seedy little bar that I stopped at. Weren't too far from my safe house, and apparently been here often enough for the barkeep to call me old. I knew I shoulda brought my Peacekeepers with me. I sighed as I took a couple of bills from my pocket tossing them on the table. Barkeep was a good kid, tried to stop me. "I wouldn't do that Viejo, that sounds like los Muertos is finally knocking the Kings out of the city. Stay here, next round's on me, you're too good a customer to lose to some thugs in a back ally."
"Mighty kind of ya, but unfortunately I can't agree." I ran my right hand through my hair, even now I could here the Old Man's voice in my head. 'You want to rot or you want to do some good with your damn life. I know your type Mcree, when you understand who you are, what you are, no one will be able to stop you.' Damn it, I knew I shoulda brought my gun. "I can't leave'm out there, who knows who'll get hurt."
"You really are a hero aren't you?" I turned at that, apparently the kid knew who I was. How, I don't know, but he never called the cops. I spotted it out of the corner of my eye, a newspaper showing the omnic attack on Atlanta, that woulda been my third, fourth mission…
"Never was one kid, just a bad man going after worse ones." I picked my hat off the table, damned things been with me for damn near 20 years now. I placed it on my head tipping it to the barkeep. "If I ain't dead by the end of this I'll be back for another shot of Old Jack."
"I'll have it waiting." I don't even look back as I roll my shoulders. Been a long time since I'd been in a gang fight… I smirked at the memory of that one, Ana leveling that her sidearm at me from the back side of the of the blown to hell and gunshot riddled rig. It was the start of a new life, a better life. I closed my eyes and breathed in. It was time to get to work. Justice wasn't gonna dispense itself.
I opened the door and rolled dodging the four rounds that hit chest high on me I heard glass shatter behind me. Wouldn't'ave been 'nough to stop me, not after the 'dermal boosts thanks to the Doc but still woulda hurt like the devil. I popped up and did a low sweep kicking my left leg shooting out as my right arm slid back balancing me out as I shattered one of the Deadhead's kneecaps picking up the kids dropped pistol. Twirling the pistol I used the butt of the sidearm to knock out one kid as I hit another in the head with the 50 pound hunk'a composites and wire that I call a left arm. Those three down I pocketed a couple of the flashbangs that one of the punks had on him.
I tested the weight of the pistol I now held. Zerchaya's .45 Paladin, holo-sight, under barrel laser guide, nice piece for a city banger, sliding down behind a car I slid out the magazine thinking 10 shots. Nine in the mag with one in the chamber. I smirked as I slid the mag back into the pistol and saw an approaching pair of Kings. I stuck the pistol in my belt and rolled again picking up another dropped weapon. Where they found a Pulse Rifle was beyond me, they'd been decommissioned back when I first started trafficking, using the weapon for covering fire I chucked one of the three falshbangs I had at the pair. In their confused states it was easy as shootin' fish in a barrel to slam their heads together. I brushed the dirt off my shoulder as I dragged the two now unconscious Kings and hog tied them with some wire that I found. I trussed up the three Los Muertos members while I was at it. Didn't take to long before they were all awake. While I waited i emptied their pockets of anything I'd need.
"Now then before ya'll go back ta killin' each other any of you fine five fella's wanna tell me where I'd find the leaders of ya'lls possies would ya?" The varried curses were actually quite impressive, reminded me of the time when a bastard got right pissed at the old man. I took one of the many switchblades I just became the owner of and with a flick of the wrist had the blade out and popped one of the fingernails off of one of the tough guys. Screamed like a baby. "I asked nicely gentleman that was the only one ya get. Don't worry ya'll have 49 fingernails between ya from here, and if that don't work well there's 50 more toenails for me to go through."
Then I smiled. That's the trick ya see, if ya smile at them after ya make a threat all casual like then they know you're serious. A Swedish midget taught me that one. Crazy little bastard, didn't want him pissed at you though, had a habit of riggin' your stuff ta blow.
"The Old Station, they were going to be finishing this at the Old Station." One of the Kings cried in fear. I flicked the balded closed and pocketed it. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar and a battered and worn cutter. I snipped the end and slid the cutter back into its place as I drew out a match book, only a right heathen used a lighter on a cigar, one of the many lessons my pa taught me. I took a deep breath as the matches rejoined the cutter. I tipped my hat to the gentleman as I tossed the still lit match over my shoulder. In the shootout one of the fools clipped a gas tank on an old wrecker, A nice stream of the stuff had been nearing the kids. I heard it light and the boys scream. It was fear though, not pain, two fold lesson of keeping the kids safe and putin' a fear into em they probably never had before.
As I walked I remembered my own journey, what brought me here, to this point of walkin' down an alley in Las Cruces, New Mexico. I started out life a different kinda person, Texan born and raised the McCree family had been Ranchers for generations, Pa was the one to teach me to shoot while Ma made me go to cotillion every week as befitted the family's standing. Deadeye Ranch was a moderate affair, still small enough that the wranglers all lived on the property and all shared mess every evening, The hands were all considered family, even Jericho an older model Omnic that had been with them since Pa was a teen, they were all role models growin up. Right and Wrong, how to be a man, throw a punch and when ta walk away, all taught by Pa and the hands. Then the Crisis happened, it started north, Detroit fell first in the States. Jericho asked if we wanted him ta go… we told him stay. He died with the rest of the hands when the Bastions hit, the old tin can was the one that threw me inta the cellar and told me to stay still, even as bullets tore into his back…
I snapped out of the memories as a shot kissed my cheek. The pistol was in my hand and the trigger pulled on pure instinct as I ducked into an alley.
"Baja el arma Puta.*" I chuckled, banger musta had a friend with 'im. Not that I'd expect less with a war goin on.
"¿Qué tal te tomas tu hermano no a un hospital, Amigo, lárgate de aquí antes ya se lastiman demasiado?" I called back as I used a car mirror in front of me to try and find the little bastard. Always used ta shock people when they found out I was multi-lingual, couldn't for the life of me figure it out though. English, Spanish, Arabic, conversational Japanese and German, and some French. Part of bein' an Overwatch, even Blackwatch, member was that we were there to help. Plus mosta my time was spent with either Ana, her daugher or a traitorous snake and his pet cyber-bitch.
"Respuesta equivocada, viejo bastardo." I loved it when they didn't give in easy. The Los Muertos thug never stood a chance alone. I let him charge in close enough to roll right into him driving my fist into his chin on my way up, I pulled the slide back and released the magazine spinning the pistol around my finger before bashing the side of the piece into his head dropping him hard. Son of a gun, boy was armed like his friends from before. Zerchaya's .45 Paladin, I slid the nearly full magazine into my belt and re-holstered the pistol. Put me at 17 rounds, I've worked with less. I heard the shootout from outside the old station as I walked forward. I felt something in my pocket buzz… reactivation? I shook my head, one problem at a time. Los Muertos was only a street gang in Southern Buenos Aires when I was still the brains of Deadlock. A local group we used as part of the transport ring. They'da had to of grown mighty big in the britches to claim a foothold this far north. That was when I heard a voice I knew was dead.
"Come on you useless motherfuckers, We are Los Muertos." I felt my anger boil and my eyes go red with rage. Henry G. Kilroy, founder of the Deadlock gang, I thought he died way back on the day I was saved. He took us, the orphans of the Crisis that had nowhere else to go and turned us into weapons. He was doin it again. He wouldn't for long. I felt it coming on, I hadn't just lost my arm in Atlanta, my left eye was replaced also. I heard the bells chiming in my head.
-Ring-
I walked forward, I'd be breaking a promise I made to Ana's grave, to the 25 year old Fareeha, I smiled sadly at the thought of the beautiful woman she had become, just like her mother had been. She cursed me for calling and not seeing her in person. For never coming home.
-Ring-
I kicked open the doors firing a round into the head of a King as I ducked behind cover.
-Ring-
Two more shots dropped another King, they panicked now Los Muertos rallied back. They didn't know who I was, all they knew was I wasn't killing them. They started coming forward. Good.
-Ring-
I stayed in cover for a moment before popping up pulling the trigger again and again the sound of the bells keeping time with the rounds as they flew into the last group of Kings. Four Los Muertos men stood two flanking Kilroy on each side. They were to focused on the death in front of them.
-Ring-Ring-Ring-Ring-Ring-Ring-Ring-
Even As I wild fired I focused on the next series of movements even as I palmed the magazine.
"Kilroy!" I called as I felt the the last bell ring in my head. The man turned, his white hair pulled back, he lost the beard he once had. His eyes were searching for a second, you could see the realization as he remembered me. Then the color drained from his face as he reached for his gun."It's high noon."
The exchange happened to fast for most people to see, my right thumb tapped the mag release even as my left hand brought the seven round mag into place. He drew his pistol… A Peacemaker, even as my left hand chambered the round. HIs guards shouldered their rifles.
-Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang-
The four guards all dropped as did the old man's gun. He fell to his knees even as he gripped his bleeding hand to his also bleeding chest.
"McCree, I thought you got grabbed when Overwatch hit us." I kicked the old man flat on his back. He was just doing it again, new kids… same as we were, angry, hurt, no future, no hope. He coughed up blood. "Nice to see that fire never died kid, still a killer, still one of us…"
"No," I pulled my hat low as I leveled the pistol at the old man's head, The bullet I fired into his chest would have pierced a lung, he could in theory live through this. I broke my promise to the second woman I'd call ma, to the girl that grew into a strong beautiful woman. I'd killed again. "I'm worse."
I pulled the trigger spraying the ground with grey matter and blood. I dropped the piece and tossed my smoldering cigar but down next to the bodies. I turned and walked away. I'd have to leave town, the fed would be after my ass again, so would the UN once they learned I was still alive. I walked back to the bar again. Sirens wailed as I avoided the main streets.
"Hey, Mijo." I stopped at the open doorway. Place looked the same as I remembered leavin it save for a glass of amber liquid on the bar and the busted bottles on the barback… one, two, three… only three broken bottles. My eyes went wide as I ran to the bar and looked down. Bullet through the chest, he was in a pool of blood and wasn't breathing, in the blood was a broken bottle of Jack. I lost an innocent, a good kid… Damn.
I took the glass in my hand and toasted the kid, toasted the past, the people I had once been: the Good Kid who was brought down to Hell and turned into a monster; the woman who gave him another chance to be more and the man who spurned him to overcome; the torn man seeking peace. I downed the shot. If I was to be a monster, least I could do was make sure that the innocents of the world had a monster workin for them.
My name is Jesse McCree, Re-formed Outlaw, Ex-Member of Overwatch, one time protege of Ana Amari and Gabriel Reyes. I'm not a good man, but if you are an innocent, if you need help that a good man can't give you. Find me. I'll see what I can do. After all.
Justice ain't gonna dispense itself.
* English translation of the Spanish exchange between McCree and a thug.
"Put the gun down Bitch"
"How about you take your brother there to a Hospital, Friend, Before you get hurt too."
"Wrong answer Old Bastard."
Read. Review. Let me know what you think, should I stop here, keep going with it? If i do they will be sporadic and non-liner oneshots.