A/N: The one-shot turned into more vignettes. It's just too much fun, writing for this period.
There was no surprise when the bag was ripped from McCree's head. Featureless white room, bright light shining in his face, cuffed to a chair—it was just like in the movies, down to the wall of one-way glass. He had half a mind to make a remark on the subject, but the angry face-kicker from before was standing in front of him, and neither of those other goody-two-shoes from the diner seemed to be around.
"We've got a few questions for you," Reyes asked, smirking down at the punk in the chair. He could tell from the scowl on the kid's face that he'd been about to throw out some zinger, but they both knew the score; whoever talks first wins, and Gabriel wasn't about to be steered through this little interview by some wannabe gangster.
"I ain't gonna talk, 'cause I ain't no fucking snitch!" McCree spat, glaring up at the man.
"We'll see about that, kiddo. We've got ways of making you talk." Gabriel grasped a fistful of McCree's hair and yanked his head backwards to redirect his gaze. "And if you don't talk, we've got ways of scanning your neural pathways to recover the information even after you're dead."
"Then what's the point?" McCree growled, his heart speeding up a touch at Reyes's threat. "Just kill me and rip my brains out, why don'tcha?"
"The authorities get a little suspicious when skinny-ass gringoes turn up in a suitcase with all their limbs broken and their heads missing," Reyes replied, though the smile on his face suggested he didn't really care what the authorities found suspicious. "Besides," he added, drawing an uncomfortably large knife out of it's sheath, "Where's the fun in brain scanning?"
Eight days. He'd been in the hole eight days. Or he'd at least fallen asleep eight times since Reyes had gotten bored with him.
He didn't even ask him any questions.
The door slid open and McCree was dragged out of the cell by two men in dark uniforms, holding him up on his shaky legs. He'd only been fed eight times, too. He was shoved back down into his chair, the blood from last time still on the floor.
The door opened again and Reyes walked back in, followed by Morrison, that commander that was on every Overwatch poster. What an honor.
Morrison glanced up from the file in his hands, surveying the kid. He looked like hell—Gabriel had really worked him over. His nose had clearly been broken, though the swelling had gone down on his eye.
"That's one healthy-looking prisoner, eh, Jack?" Reyes remarked, smirking.
"Sure is," Morrison replied, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. He'd never been so pleased to blatantly ignore Reyes's handiwork. This kid was almost more trouble than he was worth, and Jack almost hated that Gabriel was flirting with the idea of recruiting him to Blackwatch. "I've got a couple of questions for you, McCree," he said, sliding into his chair on the other side of the table.
"Fuck you, puto," he snarled in return.
"We know your gang deals in arms with international criminals. But what we really want to know is where you're getting the weapons in the first place," Morrison asked, leaning across the table a bit. "C'mon, you can tell me. Unless you'd rather tell Reyes," he added, jerking his head in Gabriel's direction.
"Rather tell the pretty lady what brought me in," McCree replied, "I'm thinkin' she and I could have a real nice conversation," he smirked, licking his lips and thrusting his hips lewdly.
He'd been expecting to get hit, but not by Morrison. His chair was knocked backward and he crashed to the floor, his head cracking on the concrete painfully.
"Whoa! Jack, easy, man!" Reyes yelled, grabbing Morrison and pulling him back. "Jesus, take it down." He glanced down at McCree, watching as the dazed youth spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. "Shit, man, this is my job now, remember?" he murmured softly, giving Morrison a gentle push back toward his chair before hauling McCree back upright and then giving him a punch to the gut.
"A punk like you couldn't handle half of Ana," Morrison muttered over McCree's coughs, finding his pain to be rather cathartic. "Now, back to my questions..."
McCree's gaze turned upward as the door to the room opened again, his eyes widening as Ana entered the room, her expression stern.
"I'm going to ask you some questions," she began, sitting at the table and giving the youth a once over. His lip was healing up after yesterday, but there were still bandages wrapped around his head. At this point, she couldn't tell who had done more damage to the boy.
"I ain't no snitch," he replied, spitting—or at least making the motions of spitting. His mouth was far too dry to spare any actual spit for the insult.
"Oh no, we're going to have a nice conversation," she said, her gaze narrowing for a moment with motherly disapproval. His gaze quickly fell, and a touch of shame sank dark and sour in his stomach as he thought back to the remark that had earned him his most recent roughing up.
Ana settled back in her chair, sighing softly. "What's your name?" she asked. McCree's gaze popped up again, his brow furrowing.
"Y' already know it," he said.
"Tell me again," she said, her expression unchanging. Her gaze was unnerving in its severity.
"...Jesse," he murmured, "Jesse McCree."
"What's my name?" she asked, her hands folded in her lap.
"...You're Ana Amari," he said, a touch of reverence in his voice. "You're one of the best gunslingers in the world." He couldn't even be mad anymore, knowing he was bested by the best.
"That's right," Ana said, almost cracking a smile at his addendum. "It's nice to finally meet you properly. Though still on unfortunate terms."
"The pleasure's all mine, ma'am," McCree replied automatically, though his voice was rather small.
"Now...how did you get mixed up with the Deadlock Gang?" she asked, her brow creasing.
McCree's gaze fell again, his jaw tensing. Coming back around to the gang sure didn't take long. Silence reigned for several long moments, and a soft sigh left Ana.
"How did you lose your family?" Another moment of silence.
"What makes you think I did?" he asked in reply.
"If you had a family to be with, you wouldn't have been with those men," Ana said softly. "And the gang certainly didn't teach you your manners," she added, a hint of a smile on her lips. McCree gave a snort somewhere between genuine laughter and derision.
"My parents made me do cotillion when I was a kid," he muttered, ignoring the fact that he was still a kid, by most measures. Ana smiled politely, though she had no earthly idea what McCree was talking about.
"So what happened to them?" she asked again, settling back in her seat.
"Don't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Why should it?" McCree asked, "They weren't your parents."
"Was it during the Crisis?" she continued. It was an obvious question—she would be shocked if he said no. There were so many war orphans... He was silent for a few more moments.
"Yeah. They put me down in the root cellar when the tin cans rolled up. Heard everything," he said softly. "They died on their feet," McCree said, his voice growing stronger. "They didn't run, and neither will I. McCrees die on their feet," he repeated with the conviction of a revival preacher.
"I understand. Amaris are the same," Ana replied. "My father died defending Port Said. I was so angry, because I was there and I couldn't save him." McCree's brow wrinkled.
"Why're you tellin' me all this?" he asked, squirming uncomfortably in his chair. It didn't make sense for someone to hand out emotional ammunition like that.
"You're angry. And I understand," Ana explained softly. "I think you joined that gang because you were angry and felt small. Just like when I left to join Overwatch," she added. She leaned forward, her expression stern again. "Was the everything you hoped for?" she asked.
"I ain't small," McCree muttered, "An' I ain't weak, an' I ain't gonna talk," he added, ignoring the question of his anger and hopes entirely.
"Oh, no, of course not," she replied sardonically, "You're a big boy now, and you wanted to fight. But now the war is over and yet you still fight, for what? First the people feared the Omnics, now they fear you. Is this the man your parents died to protect?" Ana asked, her gaze narrow. "If this is what they fought for, a boy only concerned about his size and strength, whose business is hurting innocents, then maybe their sacrifice was in vain."
"You leave them outta this!" McCree snarled and strained against his restraints, his heart beating faster as he realized the trap he'd been lead into. They'd both exposed their bellies, and she was the one to strike first.
"Prove me wrong then," Ana spat back, "Prove your life is worth the price your parents paid—what my men paid!" she added, her fists slamming into the table. "Either do something worthwhile with your life, or I'll personally throw you in a cell where you'll rot for the rest of your life! Inshallah!" With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, her face filled with rage.
In the next room, Gabriel and Jack watched through the one-way glass with trepidation.
"...You gonna go talk to her?" Jack asked, glancing over at Reyes.
"Me? I'm not going after her, you talk to her," Gabriel replied.
"I've gotta ask him questions, you go," Jack answered quickly, heading for the door.
"Uh-uh, no, I've got questions to ask," Gabriel interrupted, reaching for the doorknob.
"I'm the commander, and I say I'm asking the questions—you talk to Ana," Jack said, darting through the door as soon as Gabriel opened it. "I won't beat him up this time, promise," he called back down the hall.
"...Ana?" Gabriel called, peering into the sparsely populated lounge. Reinhardt's blonde head swiveled widely at the call, his good eye seeking out the speaker.
"Ah, Gabriel! Care to join us for a game?" Reinhardt asked, waving him over.
"Not right now, gotta talk to Ana," Gabriel replied, sidling up to the couches. Ana was tucked under Reinhardt's arm, holding a hand of cards with an expression of deep concentration; Torbjörn, apparently her opponent in the game, seemed grateful for the interruption.
"C'mon, Reinhardt, probably command business," Torbjörn said, happily throwing down his hand of cards and hopping off of the couch. "Best leave 'em to their work." Ana sighed as Reinhardt rose from the couch as well, laying down his hand of cards with a smile.
"We can talk later if you need to," Reinhardt smiled, giving Ana's shoulder a gentle squeeze. She continued to stare at her cards, her lips twitching into a frown.
"Gabriel," she acknowledged, not looking up.
"The kid's not gonna talk," Gabriel began, crossing his arms and shifting from one foot to the other.
"He doesn't know anything," Ana remarked. Her cards had slowly drifted down into her lap, but her gaze remained fixed. None of his vitals that she could detect with her cybernetic eye had changed between any of his answers during any of his 'interviews', at least not until he got his hackles up at the end—either he had no tells, even down to heart rate and skin temperature, or he had nothing to conceal.
"Did he really get under your skin that bad?" Gabriel asked, plopping down on the couch next to her and frowning.
"He was just a foot soldier to them," she remarked, ignoring his question. "People died for him, people loved him, but he was just another foot soldier to those men." She shook her head, letting out a shuddering sigh. "That could have been me. That could be Fareeha. Angry and alone." Gabriel continued to frown, though he did put an arm somewhat awkwardly around Ana's shoulders. He wasn't good at comforting people—he never had been.
"You know Jack n' I wouldn't let that happen to her," he said softly, giving her a little squeeze.
"But it happened to that boy. Him and others..." she murmured. Those orphans, angry and alone, they were the ones joining the Red Blades, the Australian Liberation Front, Talon, the Deadlock Gang...victims becoming villains. It made her heart ache.
"He can't tell us anything...but I still think he could be an asset," Gabriel ventured. "I mean, I'm not crazy about him, but he's got a lot of spirit, and I hate to admit it, but he's a crack shot with those pistols..."
"Okay," Ana said softly, her eyes sliding closed.
"...Okay?"
"I know what you're trying to say," she said, glancing over at him for a moment. "Blackwatch is your project. If you want to recruit him, fine."
"Jack isn't gonna like it," Gabriel said, chewing his lip. He'd been expecting that line to come out of her mouth, rather than his.
"I don't like it, either," Ana murmured. "...But none of the other options seem any better."
"I'll go make him an offer," Gabriel said, standing up before she could change her mind.
"I have one condition," Ana said, standing as well, her expression serious.
"Name it."
"He can't just be a foot soldier again. He's not just going from one gang to another. Overwatch is a family," she said, holding her voice steady even as her hands shook. "He's family, and we have to help him." Gabriel chuckled, shaking his head for a moment.
"That little punk needs some tough love, that's for sure."
"Fine by me. That'll be your job," Ana said, almost cracking a smile.
a/n: inshallah - "God willing"