III
Jesse McCree had never actually been subject to a full cavity search. He thought he had. He was wrong. He decided, for the seventh and technically eighth time, that he would never go back to prison. This time he meant it. He and Jack got through processing at about the same time, and had their mugshots taken together. Jack looked stiff, holding the holoboard with his serial number white-knuckled, and seemed possessed of a powerful desire to beat the smug man to his left with it. But he did, for his part, manage to resist it. And soon, they went their separate ways.
McCree had been to prison before. A night or two in the drunk tank, a month for small time larceny. Mostly before he'd joined Deadlock, pillaging towns up and down Route 66 for the better part of his youth. Every time he'd gone, he'd decided that he'd never go back again. McCree didn't much like being told where and when to eat and shit. In light of that, it was surprising that McCree eventually chose imprisonment.
"I'm offering you a chance to something useful," he'd said. His black, dull pupils already having the stillness of death in them, even in life.
Was it something about Gabriel, that man McCree would come to know far too well, or rather the way he'd made the offer that convinced McCree it would be the better option? The way he'd said it was none too eloquent. Far more convincing were the dead bodies littering the bombed out diner, the shotgun trigger on which Gabriel's finger rested, duplicitously relaxed. "Prison" came out of Gabriel's mouth again and again, but even then, Jesse knew what would really happen. Blackwatch didn't take prisoners. He'd be killed. Either in transit or more likely just right here, executed with his hand magcuffed to the table.
So, "Doing something useful," the option Gabriel was offering as an alternative to prison, really was a prison. Just a different sort. One where Jesse fought and killed and spied and did everything he was good at until he died or just wasn't useful anymore. Gabriel offered prison or death. McCree would only see the misguided mercy in this situation much later in his life. Later still, he'd see the true cruelty.
Jesse McCree didn't much like prison, but that day, he learned that he liked dying a fair bit less.
McCree gave a lot more folks prison time than he served these days. Galivanting about in his iconic cattleman's attire guaranteed everyone would remember the name McCree. Stepping out into the yard, the cold air ripping into his hand, face, and newly shaved head, and seeing every single gaze, one by one, lock onto him, he found that such eminent cognoscibility seemed like a much worse idea. There were men and women here McCree recognized, had put away in this very place, and more still that he didn't. But they all knew him.
Despite himself, McCree kept a smug smile on his face and saluted with one finger to the mob. Rule 1 of the Jesse McCree Handbook of Not Getting Your Ass Killed: Always know something someone else doesn't. Failing that, act like you do.
McCree knew from the intel that the one-hundred or so prisoners in the Icebox were sent to the yard in one-and-a-half hour shifts from ten in the morning to two-thirty in the afternoon. McCree walked around the yard, avoiding eye-contact, looking for any sign that Jack had come before him, and found no such sign, which meant he'd be here after him. If Jack left no sign for McCree, it would mean that the target was on first shift. It would take them a day at most to find her.
Jesse looked for the target on this shift. One in three odds were better than slots, and if she were on the same shift as one of them, it made the whole plan easier. He was going to look for the pink hair, but if they'd shaved her head too, of course they did, she would be blonde now. Jesse saw her coming out of the weight room, and recalled another identifying detail. She was fucking huge.
Aleksandra Zaryanova's hair had grown out to a thin, pale buzz-cut, a corner of which was chipped away by the x-shaped scar above one of her black eyebrows. He locked eyes with her, and hoped that it wasn't just the bad guys who recognized him. If he'd had a cowboy hat and poncho on, the response could not be more immediate. After the incredulous blinking fit and flash of uncertainty, her head nodded almost imperceptibly, but she did not acknowledge him directly. That was good. Keeping her cool would be important, not just to prevent the inmates from thinking, however correctly, that the 'heroes' were planning something, but also the wardens. McCree would frame it as if none of this were planned, as if they just happened to bump into each other.
McCree was almost knocked over by a man two heads taller than him. He held up his left hand for balance, realized he no longer had it, stumbled a bit further.
"McCree," said the giant. "Remember me?"
McCree said nothing. He stood up straight. He smiled, putting his face on before turning around and getting on stage. "Howdy," he said. "I don't think I do. I'm gonna take a guess and say I put you away?"
"Put me away?" said the man, hairless brows furrowing over his pale eyes. "I was Deadlock. Or don't you remember?"
"I reckon I would have remembered someone like you. You sure you're not just pretendin' to know me to cash in on my fame?"
"You left me behind on the bank job," he said.
"I've done a lot of bank jobs, you're gonna have to-"
"San Jose. Running out through the sewer? I caught my foot on the ladder. You stopped and looked. You didn't help."
"A thief didn't stop and help you on account of the fat bag of money in his hand? I'm sorry I hurt your feelin's. Wasn't personal."
"I didn't think it was, either. But I guess being a traitor got you a real nice hard-on. You just kept doing it. You like fucking people when they aren't looking? You fucked Deadlock, then you fucked Overwatch. You fucked people all over the goddamn board, McCree. You get off on it."
"Those are some fine words," Jesse's smile didn't break. "Fine commentaries on honor, son. You think they mean a goddamn thing comin' from a scumsucker like you?"
The man's meaty fist came like a viper from behind a rock, smashing through McCree's thoughts into his head, sending him toppling to the floor. McCree rolled over, blinded by the white-hot noon sun before it fell back behind icy clouds. He wiped his mouth, hand coming away greasy and red, and wondered how he'd managed not to dodge. The fog of guilt had paralyzed him, but it shouldn't have. Those words were meaningless. But they were true, no matter who said them.
"Been waiting sixteen years for that," said the man. He was being dragged away by two guards in blue uniform and black exo-skeletons. He spat.
"Was it worth solitary?" McCree calmly shouted back.
Another colossal hand grabbed the back of McCree's shirt, pulling him up. McCree's stomach sunk as he waited to be tossed. First day in the slammer and he'd already caused a riot. It never came. He was propped squarely on his feet.
Zaryanova stood behind him in a circle of convicts, gathered like sharks to taste McCree's bleeding mouth. She grabbed McCree's shoulders and walked him out of there. He shrugged the grip off and continued the rest of the way.
"I appreciate it," said McCree. "But that was the death of any reputation I might have had."
"Eh," she said. "I think you had worse than dead reputation. You had bad reputation. Now you have my reputation. Which is a different kind of bad. But so bad, it is good."
Jesse remembered having a talk like this when he was in prison last time. "Stick with me, and you'll be fine," he'd said.
"Wait," said Jesse. "Did I just… Did I just become your bitch?"
Zaryanova pondered this. "Yes. I think yes."
"Not how I thought this day was gonna go. Oh. Apologies, Ma'am. The name's McCree."
"Zarya." She said, taking hold of his good hand. "And I know who you are. Outside of prison, you have a bad reputation as well. Most recently, they're calling you… 'statutory terrorist'?"
"Yeah," said McCree. "We can talk about Petras all we want later, but look, we've got a plan-"
There arose a chorus of curses and screams accompanied by the percussive thunder of exo-skeleton footsteps, coming for them. McCree's stomach sunk again. For all his preparation, had he still underestimated the Icebox's security? But then why were the inmates screaming?
"Zarya!" shouted the guard, his voice tight and desperate. "Get down!"
The exoskeleton was upon her before she could fully react, slamming her into the wall. She put hands on the guard's shoulders, eyes wide with confusion. "Dillon," she said. "What is-"
"The suit's gone nuts!" Dillon shrieked. "I can't stop it!"
McCree kicked Dillon, and he screamed again, but that did nothing to weaken the suit. It's metal hand pressed into Zarya's upraised arm, a trickle of blood forming beneath the black fingers. McCree grabbed hold of the arm and tried to pull it away, but he was too weak. He doubted he could budge it with both arms. He kicked its thigh, it only buckled slightly.
Zarya ducked, getting her head safer, but her arm was still grasped, slammed against the concrete. Her face contorted into pain.
"Yeah!" shouted a tiny voice in the crowd. "Get her!"
McCree turned his attention to the exoskeleton's back, and saw there a battery clamped in tight. He grabbed at it, undoing the clasps. As if astonished by this possibility, the exosuit jerked backward, throwing McCree off, sending him tumbling across the cold concrete. It's focus momentarily diverted from Zarya, she was released from the grip, and she seized the opportunity, dropping two heavy fists onto the battery compartment, knocking it open. As it turned back to her, she bear-hugged Dillon, taking hold of the battery on his back and ripping it out.
Servos whined as the skeleton turned limp and fell, bending Dillon's knee a little too far. Zarya straightened it out, then asked if he was alright. He nodded, saying nothing, though his uniform was wet between his legs.
Two more guards suddenly rushed towards them, McCree saw their strides break, and then their faces shift into confusion, then horror as they realized that they were no longer in control of their bodies.
The entrance to the weight room wasn't far. McCree grabbed Dillon's keycard, then Zarya's shoulder. "Move now!"
"I am sorry, Dillon," Zarya said, following.
"He'll be fine! Just hurry up and get in." He slammed the keycard against the reader, then they went inside. McCree rested his one hand on his knee, catching his breath. Between the bars of the windows, he could see the guards steadily advancing, shoving aside dumbstruck inmates as if they were hollow vases.
"We cannot hide in here," said Zarya. "They have keys as well." She put forth a good reason, but McCree could tell that she took more issue with the hiding itself.
"We ain't hidin'," said McCree. "Grab some iron." McCree grabbed a two-pound weight from the rack, hefted it once. Looked at her again. "We need to crack them open."
"Be careful," Zarya said. "There are men in those suits." She slid the weights off the bench-press bar, grabbed the bar itself, holding it like a long club.
Looking back down at the two-pound bludgeon in his own hand, he grimaced and said, "Yeah. You don't gotta tell me twice."
The doors opened, and the two exoskeletons went through it, awkwardly at the same time. Zarya tossed a fifteen-kilo iron discus at the legs of one, tripping her, before swinging the bar at the still-standing guard, who threw up his arms in defense, but was still knocked aside. McCree jumped onto the downed woman's back, and took the weight to the battery compartment, shattering its buckles.
"Apologies for the lapse in orderliness, ma'am," he growled.
He dropped the weight and wrapped his fingers around the battery, but the exo-skeleton thrust itself upward, sending McCree's back almost into the ceiling. He landed on a bench sideways, side and spine exploding in bright, nauseating pain. Instinctively sensing the exo's next move, he rolled over the bench just before it bent under the force of a bone-shattering hydraulic-powered stomp.
"Would you stop me already!?" the woman shouted. Her voice was angry, but powered by pure fear.
Zarya whirled the forty-five pound staff into the exo's right shoulder, then its left, severing a cable and sending putrid hydraulic fluid spraying. She grabbed the now useless arm, yanked, sending the disoriented exo spinning drunkenly into the bent bench.
McCree rolled to his feet, grabbing a tiny two-kilo weight a bit bigger than his hand from a nearby rack. He swung it like a brass knuckle in a right hook punch, hitting the helmet of the exo, then ducked, swinging into the crook of the exo's knee. Zarya thrust her pole into the exo and it toppled backward over the bench. McCree, seeing the man's exo starting to get up, tossed the disc at its good arm, knocking it down, before advancing and removing the battery.
"Thank you," said the pilot. "Thank you."
The woman's exo hadn't stood. It had learned that it had no chance of victory in combat. But it had the advantage, no mercy, no compassion, and a built-in hostage. It wrapped its hand around its passenger's neck, squeezing.
"Oh, hell no," McCree snarled.
The woman's horrified, sputtering face turned purple, coughing. Zarya grabbed her to get her up where she could remove the battery, but the exo's free arm grabbed her, holding her fast. Zarya stomped on the guard's arm with all her strength, she screamed in agony as it broke in two, but Zarya had also severed another hydraulic cable, spewing the dirty brown fluid everywhere and restricting the arm's movement.
It let go of Zarya, rolled over. It bent its legs, poising to ram the guard's head into the wall and shatter it. Zarya grabbed the exo's body again, but McCree could tell that it may be still too strong for her. McCree's fingers slipped over the greasy battery, the tiny cuts on them burning as if they'd been dipped in gasoline. Zarya's rock-hard arms, veins bulging with effort, began to tremble. McCree finally managed to loosen the battery, but his fingers slipped again. Growling, heart pounding, he knew this woman might die soon, which only made him more frustratingly undexterous.
Zarya's grip slipped, and the exo lurched forward just as McCree fully removed the battery. It went limp, the momentum of its dying push resulting in the weak thud of the guard's helmet against the wall.
McCree let out a massive sigh of relief that turned into a hooting laughter as he fell backward onto the bench. Zarya stared. They weren't out of this yet. There were many more guards trapped in exos, all of them could certainly rush to this block. In that case, McCree couldn't last forever, even provided the weapons and the bottle-neck the weight room provided. Of course, they might not even attempt that. They might hold their pilots prisoner or ransom, or they might all be asphyxiating themselves to death, crushing their own necks right now.
The PA system shrieked with feedback, then spoke. "You putas happy yet? It was going to be all quick and clean and mysterious, like, oooh, who done it? Now you just fucked it up. Okay. You win. I'm feeling really lazy now, so thanks for that. Luckily, I've got a whole prison full of cabrones who want to kill you without me saying anything. So, boys, go ahead. Kill Aleksandra Zaryanova. And her desperado puto, too."
There was no reaction. Peeking through the bars, McCree saw that the rest of inmates were just as confused and more than a little frightened.
A tiny voice piped up, the same voice that was cheering for Zarya's death. He still couldn't see the source. "Oioioi! We're master criminals in here! No one tells us what to do!"
The voice on the PA grumbled angrily for a few seconds. "Okay," she said in a distressed chuckle. "Okay, that's fine. We'll just structure this a little differently. Kill Aleksandra Zaryanova, and… whoever does it gets to leave. How about that?"
"What happens to the rest of us?"
"You… I dunno, you die."
"Now there's your proper motivation!" said the tiny voice, cheerily. "Let's kill her!"
"No way!" said another voice, the deepest McCree had ever heard. Modulated. An Omnic's voice. "Only the one who kills her lives? What happens if we all kill her right now?"
The PA had no answer. The murmurs became more and more panicked.
"'Fuck you think you're goin'?" said the Omnic. "No one's killin' Zaryanova but me! I've been in here too long! I'm going the fuck home!"
"You? You've been in here half as long as me!"
The words turned to blows, first in the center of the crowd, where McCree couldn't see, then out to the edges, where it became bloody anarchy. Breaking bones, splattering blood and shouts of agony. The tiny voice cackled madly. The voice on the PA ordered the mob to stop but in a disinterested, frustrated tone. McCree could look no longer. He turned back to Zarya sitting on the bench.
"You said you had a plan?" she said. A lump lurched down her throat. Someone screamed outside.
"Not any-fuckin'-more."