The opening notes from El Bueno, el Feo y el Malo seemed to echo inside his head as he stared down the iron sights at his target, the gap between his breathing lengthening. Some part of him knew it was hilariously cliché for him to use this song, what with all the old westerns the score had been used in, but he found it strangely grounding, an easy way to focus in the middle of a mad firefight. And it fit him so well, as the boss liked to say.

He emptied his weapon, and the training bots, undamaged moments before, hit the floor, crumpled like pop cans. He put Peacekeeper, now empty, down and stepped back to view his scores, nearly jumping out of his boots. A tall figure had seemingly materialized behind him, peering curiously at the digital scoreboard.

"Don't ya know not to sneak up on people?" Jesse grumbled.

"My apologies." The doctor gave him a thin smile that did not reach her mismatched eyes. "I didn't think this was a private space."

Jesse grunted. "Can I help ya find someone?"

"Actually, yes. I'm looking for Commander Reyes. I have something to tell him."

" I'll let him know for ya. What's the message?"

O'Deorain's smile widened slightly. "I'm afraid it's something he doesn't currently wish to share. If you would like in on it, you had better ask him, not me."

"Anythin' else?"

"I was simply admiring your accuracy. You really are extraordinary with that pistol of yours. Top marks with an old-fashioned six-shooter, no recoil dampeners…" She clucked her tongue. "Remarkable. How do you do it?"

"Practice. Lots and lots of practice." He picked up Peacekeeper, flicked the safety on, and holstered it. "Has the boss given you clearance to go on mission with us? That why you're asking? Hopin' to pick up tips or somethin'?"

"No," she replied simply. Jesse relaxed a little. He'd seen O'Deorain's first scores on the range, and…well, she definitely wasn't any Ana Amari, that was for sure. "I am merely getting to know my coworkers and what makes them so efficient in the field." Her smile became a smirk. "There has to be some reason that you're using a six-shooter instead of a pulse-rifle."

He shrugged and ignored her jab. "Been using it a long time. Got used to it."

"And yet, despite all the advances in technology…" She gestured at the scoreboard. "You have almost-perfect scores." She still stared at him, her gaze scanning him, making his skin crawl. He was pretty sure he knew what she wanted and was just waiting for him to ask so she could drag him into her lab and analyze him.

He wasn't stepping into that trap.

"I should go. Skipped lunch." He tipped the brim of his hat with the bare minimum of respect.

She tsked at him as he stepped around her, folding her thin arms. "You really should take better care of yourself," she scolded.

Jesse rolled his eyes. She was one to talk; she didn't even try to hide the scarring or discoloration on her arm from when she'd done…whatever she'd done to herself. He'd never fuck himself up that badly. Yet another reason to stay as far away from her as possible. He tipped his hat further down, glowering to himself and wondering what kind of crap Reyes was up to with her. He knew the commander was sick, but Reyes didn't talk about or mention it much, always getting cranky when someone asked him how he was doing.

Someone stepped suddenly into his path, and he nearly collided with them.

"Be careful!"

He looked up, straightening his hat.

"Sorry, Genji."

"Have you seen the commander?"

Was everyone looking for the commander? "Nah. He'll be holed up in O'Deorain's lab soon as she can find him anyway."

"I hope she does not keep him too long. I need some help, and he'll want to know." He flexed his left hand. His fingers twitched like he had the shakes.

"Problems with your cybernetics again?" He asked, grimacing in sympathy. Problems meant repairs, and repairs meant recalibration, a process that was…unpleasant, as the technicians had to check and recheck the neural connections between the mechanical graft and living nerve tissue.

"Yes."

"Going to see Angela about it?"

"I am hoping the problem can be solved with a simple repair that will not require her input, but the administration has told me that Dr. O'Deorain is equally qualified to handle it."

He ground his teeth on the butt of his cigar. He'd gotten the same damned email, but they were batshit crazy if they thought he'd run to O'Deorain for help. He didn't trust her as far as she could throw him. "I'd still go to Angela if I were you."

"Dr. O'Deorain is a competent professional,"Genji replied in his calm voice.

"Yeah, but-" He didn't know how to finish the thought. He knew there was something wrong about her, but he couldn't for the life of him put his finger on it. All his other complaints about her were public record, and 'a bad feeling' wasn't enough to fire her. He harrumphed and crossed his arms, chewing on the end of his cigar. "You do you. If I've got issues, I know who I trust." He pointed a finger at Genji. "Don't say I didn't warn ya when you wake up one day with gills, though. Or something equally unnatural."

"You are paranoid," Genji said flatly as Jesse stepped around him.

"Nah, just bein' cautious. Better safe than sorry." He raised a hand in a short farewell and ducked into the nearest bathroom. Talking about any sort of cybernetic issues made his lost fingers tingle uncomfortably. He couldn't imagine living with more than half his body replaced by tech; it may be stronger and faster than flesh and bone, but it was definitely not tamper-proof. He wondered what would happen if someone were to find a way to hack cybernetic limbs and shuddered, flexing his fingers. Another reason he didn't trust tech any more than he had to.

A retching and spattering sound made him whirl around. Someone else was in here, getting sick. Drunk?, he wondered. Jesse hovered for a moment longer, unsure of what to do. The toilet flushed, and the door swung aside about a minute later, and a sweaty, pale Gabriel Reyes stumbled out. The commander froze for a second in Jesse's stare, then glared at the cowboy. Reyes was a frequent drunk, but always after a mission and in off-duty hours. He never ran the risk of being intoxicated on the job.

So why was he puking his guts up during the middle of the day?

"Jefe? Y'all right, pardner?"

"Fine, Jesse." Reyes growled defensively, crossing to the sink and splashing his face.

"You sure? That didn't sound okay t-"

Reyes straightened, jabbing a dripping finger into Jesse's chest. "Not a word about this. I'm getting help, and I'll be fine."

"Angela?"

"Sure," he said, his tone short. "Whatever you want it to be." He shoved his hands under the dryer.

"O'Deorain was lookin' for ya."

"Oh." His voice pitched in surprise. "Thanks." He shook the residual water off his hands and made for the door.

"What are you up to with-"

The door swung shut. Jesse gave chase, refusing to be deterred so easily.

"Gabriel! Hey, Commander!" He shouted at the man's hastily-retreating back. "REYES!"

Gabriel did not turn or stop, rounding the corner and vanishing out of sight. Jesse grumbled. There was no point trying to get his attention when he was this distracted. His mind drifted to what O'Deorain could possibly want him for. Most likely she wanted to show off some new science project.

But…but what if she didn't? What if she was using him,a small voice in his head wondered.

He shook his head and snorted a laugh at himself. Gabriel wasn't blind or stupid. Surely he'd be able to see any sort of backstabbery coming. And surely the geneticist wouldn't risk her precious funding so soon. It had been barely a month since they'd brought her on. Still, the redhead seemed intent on burying her hands in everyone else's business, only to pick them apart and analyze every detail for her own ends, whatever those ends might be. And whatever business Reyes was wrapped up in with her, he seemed quite distracted, possibly enough not to notice this less-than-comforting detail about their new scientist. Fortunately for Reyes, he had more than himself looking out for him.

I'm watching you, Doc.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Commander! Good heavens, you gave me a start." Moira stepped aside and let him into her lab, still grinning like a cat that had gotten the canary.

"You're in a good mood," he noted.

"What, I can't be pleased about progress?" she drawled.

"No, but you're never happy about being interrupted."

Her smirk twisted and widened. "Aren't you a voice of reason. And that's mostly true, yes. But I wanted to show you something." She led him over to a the lab table holding three pet carriers. "Meet your future."

"Are you going to tell me you've turned the interns into rabbits?" he commented, giving the ordinary-looking animals a cursory glance.

She sighed, and he could practically feel her eyeroll. "Of course not. These three animals have survived both my best reproductions of the SEP serums used on you and my treatment. They could hold the key to your survival." She waved him over to her computer and booted it. Six snapshots of what looked like microscope slides appeared on-screen, each captioned by a series of numbers. The left ones of each pair were stained with noticeably darker splotches.

"Before and after," she explained. "The evidence for my treatment's effectiveness is all right there."

"I assume this is something about fixing a cell on a genetic level?" He guessed, squinting at the pictures and trying to remember long-past biology lessons.

She nodded, peering thoughtfully at the images. "Though this is part of the cure you asked for, I assure you it is effective in preliminary tests. I'll want to start human tests as soon as possible to see if that trend continues."

He shrugged. "Dunno if that's the best idea…"

She leveled a look at him that screamed exasperation. "And why would that be? You said yourself you wanted answers quickly."

"Look, I've just been kind of sick lately. Don't know how I would take experimental crap being pumped into me."

She pointed, and he hesitantly sat down on the new lab table in one corner.

"I wouldn't start trials directly on you anyway, Commander. That would risk a nasty reaction and possible severe side-effects," she said sharply, wrapping a blood-pressure cuff around his arm and taking his wrist. Her cool fingers felt good against his skin, but didn't distract him from what she'd said.

"You're worried about yourself," he accused.

"My concerns lie with both my work and my patients. I would be an utter failure as a doctor if I didn't try to treat your condition or hastened your death." She dropped his wrist and put a hand to his forehead. "I take it you did not hire me in such a specific field to perform just one specific task, and I assume that Overwatch presumed I have some rudimentary training when they took me on." She tutted and withdrew. "I thought so. You're running a fever. You should be resting, not running amok with the cowboy."

He frowned. "Is it connected to the SEP shit?"

"Not likely. There's a bit of a bug going around, and you won't have physical manifestations from the SEP vector this severe until later. I recommend rest and fluids. And not spreading it around," she finished pointedly.

"And what about the SEP stuff?"

"Dr. Ziegler already identified some of your psychological symptoms as being frontotemporal disorder, which is classified as a kind of dementia affecting the areas of the brain that govern higher processes and association. The specific cause of this type of dementia has been linked to mutations in Chromosome 17q21-22, probably triggered by the SEP serums in your case. I have singled out other mutations on your DNA due to the serums, but I likely won't be able to fix them all at once." She turned and began rummaging through her cabinets.

He groaned, his head aching both from trying to keep up with her jargon and at the thought of more SEP-like bullshit. "So, plan for multiple sick days?"

"I'll try to keep the reactivity to a minimum, but yes. Hence the lab animals and the copious amounts of testing and re-testing. I'll want more samples at some point so I can have some idea of how your body will react."

"Of course you do," he grumbled.

"You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important." She handed him a bottle of pills, then shooed him off the table with a flick of one hand. "I'm done with you for now. You should go; I don't want you spreading your contagion to my rabbits."

"How kind of you," he said, rolling his eyes.

"A precaution. Unnecessary complications means wasted time. Besides, you should be focusing on getting better, not sitting around my lab, chatting."

"Bet you're a scream at parties," he muttered, making his way towards the door.

"I can't say I've ever been," she said nonchalantly, turning back to her work. "If you don't feel better in a few days, talk to the base physician, and I will follow up to make sure it's not something that needs my attention. Now, if you're quite finished…"

He left the lab, scowling. He could kind of see Jesse's point: she was a work-obsessed maniac.

But she was getting results.

She had literally laid the proof right in front of him. If it worked, he would survive.

He had to tell Jack.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Notes:

Well, this took me way too long to write.
Many thanks to those still reading or those who have been patiently waiting.
Sometimes it may take a bit for my beta to get back to me, and sometimes I suffer writer's block.
I hope this chapter was enjoyable, and I hope to have more for you soon.
Thanks! :)