A/N: Warnings for dark themes. I don't mean dark as in guts, blood, and gore, but more of… Hana's in a fucked-up place, mentally speaking. There'll be a lot more nihilism and general depression in this arc.
So. Continue with an open mind to this huuuuuge chapter!
It's Hana's eleventh birthday. Mother has kicked her out so that the Ssang Kal can hunker down at their house, hiding from the cops who've busted their crack ring.
She wanders the streets in a fever-induced daze, fingers and toes too stiff to curl. The world is a flurry of white, constantly shifting in front of her eyes as it dances and sways around her. Snow is so unfairly beautiful, for such a dangerous thing.
Saengerchu-ka habnida…
Saengerchu-ka habnida…
Her breath creates great, nebulous clouds in the frozen air as she hums the birthday song to herself.
On another day, someone would've called out to her. Why is a little child walking through the blinding snow unattended? They would've felt bad for her, ushering her into their own houses- poor thing, come inside, we have some stew left over, tsk-tsking to themselves over Hana's neglect. They knew about the infamous instability of Nara Song, and about her mysterious child who was rarely ever seen outside.
Yet nobody in their right mind would be outside to witness Hana today, as the below-freezing temperatures pierce into thick winter coats like icy spears. They jab through Hana's skin until she feels like her body is crumbling away.
It's too cold out. Hana stands in the main road, sprinkles of frost decorating her hair like Christmas lights. I should go inside.
But there's nowhere to go.
Being kicked out isn't an uncommon thing for Hana. Seon trusts Nara Song more than he does most of his floozies, and for good reason. Nara's severe abandonment issues has turned her into a clingy, pathetic woman, annoying to most but useful to Seon. And Nara loves Seon.
After all, Seon is the one person in her life that treats her as special, needed…. someone indispensable to his own life, which is romantic until you realize, like Hana had so long ago, that Seon gives no shits about Nara. She is a tool, nothing more.
And what frustrates Hana to no end, what had got her to eventually hate her own mother, is that Nara is blind to that fact. There is absolutely no chance of her turning Seon in to the cops, and so Seon has learned to head straight to her when the cops are after him.
It's not like Hana especially wants to be in a room with Mr. Seon, so most of the time she leaves without being told to. She can't refuse to let Seon in, or argue with her mother. She's just a little girl.
Age is something that commands respect, she thinks a little sadly.
Age, experience. Hana has neither.
During winter, she goes to the parking lot of the apartment building and lies beneath one of the hovercars. The pulse engines on the newer models are constantly running, keeping the car afloat, and generates heat as a result.
It isn't enough to make Hana feel warm, but it is enough to keep her from freezing to death. She has to be careful not to fall asleep, though, as being caught in such a suspicious position could cause dangerous amounts of trouble.
Today is just another day like that. Kicked out of her own home. For some reason, she only gets halfway to a hovercar, hands shaking in the snow like a crack addict's, before she stops.
Turns the other way.
Begins walking down the empty street.
The snow pours down in thick flakes. Hana thinks blankly, a little hysterically, that there is nothing left for me here. She decides that she will keep going and going and going until she finds somewhere she can safely call home, somewhere with food and water and a nice little roof, or maybe she'll come across Father and they'll go back and save Nara together.
At some point she falls. But it's okay. Maybe it's not somewhere in the living world that holds the glowing little family Hana has been searching for, but instead someplace in the oncoming darkness.
The first things she registers is the cold. It's so, so cold, a cold that bites deep into her flesh to the bone, creeping slowly up from her limbs to entangle itself with her slowly beating heart.
Her mind is numb. At first, she doesn't quite remember what she was doing, or where she is. It is only instinct, not rational thought, that drives her to curl in on herself, breathing through her mouth to create warm puffs of air over frozen fingers.
The action invigorates her, keeps her mind off the chill and onto something else- what exactly had happened right before she slipped into darkness?
I was walking around the streets after I got kicked out by Mother, says her memories, while the more rational part of her mind argues, That was five years ago.
With unfeeling, secretarial precision, Hana begins to organize her thoughts. They fall into place like blank puzzle pieces.
What happened-
…captured. I was captured.
Who they are-
Purple woman.
Man in a mask.
Terrorists. They're with Talon.
Who they killed-
Amin. Tara?
Tara. Maybe Genji. And more people.
Where I am-
Hana cricks her neck as she tries to sit up and get a better view of this place. This time, she doesn't have to try hard- someone has placed her in an upright position against a wall. A blank, grey, concrete wall, reminiscent of something you'd find in a prison.
Pins and needles prickle her skin as blood begins to circulate better. Hana turns to the front. Sprouting from the ground like steel bamboo shoots, is a series of metal bars- a jail cell. A cyberized padlock is stuck onto the door, blinking red in the dark.
The handcuffs are still there. She lifts her wrists, teeth chattering, and Genji's rabbit charm jingles merrily against the chains. At the very least, she still has the bracelet. She doesn't know what she would do without the bracelet; a cheaply made souvenir from better days and her last anchor to sanity all rolled up into one little geometric bunny head.
The feeling returns to her body, slowly, and Hana understands why she is so cold- the pink jacket Amin had given her is now lying in the corner of her cell, rumpled and stained with something that looks like blood. She raises a hand (hands, as the handcuffs demand) to gingerly probe at her forehead. It's sticky with blood. A strange ring of numbness surrounds the main injury, like her sense of touch there is all disrupted.
I got hit.
I was captured.
And suddenly, Hana lashes out with her legs, kicking at the cell. It rings dully in her ears.
She screams, choking on the word halfway through. "FUCK!"
The tang of blood fills her mouth; she immediately spits on the ground and runs a trembling wrist over her lips. A crimson smear of blood dashes across her skin, like an oozing cut. It's so ugly against her starkly white skin.
What the actual hell is all this? There is nothing she can do. She has no gun, no games, no extraordinary combat abilities. She's not used to feeling this helpless- at least when she was living with Genji, she had someone to watch her back, even when Talon came storming in. And even before that, with Mr. Seon and her mother and her disappearing father- she'd had a job. Responsibilities.
Power.
Now- all she can do is- sit here-
Tears well up in Hana's eyes, to her mild annoyance. She tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling, dark lashes fluttering furiously to catch any tears trying to slip down her face. Crying is a pointless and stupid activity reserved for children, and Hana is no longer a child.
I will not cry. I will not…
Her thoughts spiral off tangent, jabbing in random, panicked directions.
Am I going to die? Genji said they won't kill me. McCree said that, too. But they're going to hurt me, right?
Hana doesn't want to die. She's thought about it before, whether life with all its egregious troubles was worth living, and even decided a couple times that it wasn't. She'd tried to act on those thoughts before, and failed painfully. At one point, I was ready to die.
But now?
When Hana is presented with death head-on, when Hana is presented with a problem with no other solutions but death- her body screams, fights with tooth and nail to live. Every inhalation of air feels her lungs struggling to keep her alive, every pulsation of her limbs allows her to feel the thumping away of her traitorous heart.
She bites her lip, that taste of iron still thick on her tongue. What would Genji do if he were here? What would McCree do?
The thought calms her, even as her hands shake with a combination of cold and utter hopelessness.
Genji would... Genji would feel no fear, sitting here in quiet meditation as he waited for an opening. He'd take the first opportunity presented to slaughter the Talon agents, no weapons needed, and walk off into the night. Maybe grab a warm piece of goldfish bread for Hana on the way.
McCree would laugh. Spit in the Reaper's face. Take down six people all at once with his gun, bangbangbangbangbangbang- easy. Grab his hat and be on his merry way. She can almost hear his jovial voice in her head, so much warmer than the cold depths of this prison. That wasn't so hard, eh, Hana? Let's git outta here!
They wouldn't be scared. Hana grabs at her jacket, pulls it over her shoulders and hugs her knees to her chest. Her teeth chatter like shaking piano tiles; everything about her is trembling, from her legs to her arms to her fragile little heart.
I'm not scared.
You're fighting a losing battle, chides DVA, voice childishly smug. Her perfect features swim in the eye of Hana's mind, twisted into a little smile. You don't have to be scared; you're not alone... We have each other. When Talon comes for you, I'll be there to help-
"I don't need any of your damn sass." Hana hugs her knees tighter, circling in on herself. Her toes feel like they're about to fall off- they'd confiscated her socks and boots, and the ground is freezing.
Hana isn't what we need right now, whispers that little voice, and when Hana looks up she sees DVA standing over her, dark locks of hair spilling past a perfect face. She's not wearing Amin's jacket or Genji's charm, standing unaffected by the cold in her simple white tee. DVA stares down at her with contempt.
And Hana hates her for it.
What message was her subconscious trying to push by creating DVA? That if Hana throws away all her morals, becomes a selfish bitch, piles on the makeup, puts effort towards her appearance, fakes being confident, and manipulates the shit out of an audience, she'll be like DVA? Someone who doesn't give a damn about anyone? Someone who can survive this ordeal.
Maybe it's true. Maybe the reason why Hana was only ever successful as DVA was because Hana just didn't have anything. Hana was a mess of a girl trying to hold onto a broken family, while DVA had a future career in gaming, millions of loving fans, and international attention- even to herself, it's laughably obvious which of the two is more competent. Hana can't survive in this world, but a deceptive psychopath can.
"But I'm not you."
Her voice trails off into a whimper, pathetic even to her own ears.
"I don't need you. I'm fine. I'm-"
"They say that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness."
She jerks up, sudden sweat beading her forehead even though the temperature dips south. The sound of a door slamming shut echoes throughout the dark hallway. Embarrassment from being heard rambling to herself like a lunatic gives way to bitter anger when she sees who it is.
Purple Woman pads on over, even more extravagantly dressed now that Hana examines her under the light- the side of her head seems to be shaved, giving her a long, floppy silver-tipped deathhawk for hair. Her stockings and gloves shimmer and glow, little points of light glowing on them occasionally. Instead of shoes, she's been given some sort of skintight leggings that cover her feet… or maybe they're cybernetics.
The woman's lips are curled up in a smile. She walks in like she owns the place.
…Who am I kidding? She probably does.
"You're cold because you lost a good amount of blood." Purple taps on over to the bars of the cell, crouches down to stare eye-level at Hana. She stares back, fascinated by the intense violet of Purple's irises. They remind her of the cosmetic eye surgeries that are so popular in Korea nowadays, changing eye colors from brown and blue to hot pinks and rainbow shades… though, knowing Purple, her eyes serve some sinister purpose instead of an aesthetic one.
"You'll warm back up in a day or so. Lo siento about that, by the way…I'm sureReaps didn't mean to hit you that hard."
Purple's voice is falsely warm. DVA whispers something- her voice is devoid of empathy. Be careful.
I already know. You don't need to tell me. "McCree warned me about him," Hana says suspiciously, the memory coming back like a drowning man lurching to the surface of a vast ocean. "The Reaper. A former Blackwatch agent from his combat patterns that surfaced after Overwatch's fall."
Purple grins, her teeth white against her tanned skin. "Jesse McCree is a smart man. In fact, I should probably kill him for that."
Hana bites back a question, how do you know him, because she doesn't trust herself to say any more about McCree. In fact, she doesn't even want to think about him.
Because Jesse McCree was right. Going to save Tara and Amin did absolutely nothing, except get me captured. She exhales a low breath over freezing lips, in hopes that they would thaw a little.
This is my mess. It's not his place to help me.
At this point, hope feels further out of reach than it has ever been. Hana scoots back against the cell, sitting up straight as she can, voice apprehensive. "What do you want, Purple?"
"Purple?" the woman guffaws. "Firstly, while I am indeed purple, I am not Purple. I am Sombra. And secondly… ach, Hana Song."
Purple- Sombra- she sits down against the ground, crossing her legs like she's sitting in a lounge chair. Her jacket is almost as mesmerizing as her eyes- a series of silvers and dark purples put together by an expert hand.
"What a stupid question. I want a lot of things, as do you, and Overwatch, and Talon. What you should be asking is," and she leans forward intensely like she's advertising a particularly intense commercial, "what do we both want?"
Hana doesn't understand the point of all this. She'd been expecting torture and mental assault, not some Spanish-speaking terrorist playing word games around her. Sombra's fakely warm personality creates a sense of rising tension, like Hana is slowly approaching the top of a roller coaster.
"There's nothing we have in common," she spits, hands clenching around her jacket. She glances down- they're bone white, and trembling slightly. "Nothing that we both want."
A smile remains on the Sombra's face, so friendly and nonchalant. Hana has to keep reminding herself that this woman is from Talon. She killed Amin. She killed… she…
"You'd be wrong there, chica." She begins counting off on her long fingers, which are gloved in a shimmery purple material. Her voice is almost sarcastic in the way it is so uncaring. "We both want to keep you alive. We both want to negotiate peacefully. And…"
That smile stays there, so smug.
"…we both want to kill Mr. Seon."
The entire world jumps as Hana's head shoots up. Sombra's long lashes flutter innocently as she examines her long, modified fingernails. That little self-satisfied smirk on her face makes it clear that her words were no accident.
What the fuck.
"How-" she begins, and her voice is breaking, because Seon feels like a lifetime away, and how does she know-
"His bank account," Sombra replies casually, as if that explains everything.
But of course it doesn't. Hana stares. The Hispanic woman sighs and rolls her eyes.
"Transactions have been happening between his holo card and your BuyPal account for the better part of a decade. He's been extorting money from you, escasa chica, since you were, what- nine?" The woman tut-tuts, splaying out her fingers in the light. She gazes up at them, features softened with mock pity.
"Poor creature."
So Talon knows about Hana's pathetic past. She shrugs the jacket further up her shoulders, holding it tighter around her, a little flit of fear running through her chest. "Why do you want him dead?"
"Because he's annoying," Sombra promptly replies.
At Hana's incredulous look, Sombra rolls her eyes for the third time in the last twenty seconds. Her voice drips derision.
"Oh, I'm sorry. You meant, why does Talon want him dead, not me. Talon wants him dead because he's a useless drain of resources, mm?"
"You're… a part of Talon," mutters Hana defensively, unsure of what to make of this bizarre turn in the conversation. Sombra reels back, seemingly offended by this, if the arching of her eyebrows is anything to go off of.
"A part of Talon! Me! I am no subsidiary of some organization, chica," she complains with childlike sullenness. "I am the organization! Hear its name- Sombra. You see? I am representing them as a… partner."
Talon, friends of Talon- as far as Hana is concerned, they're all the same jackasses that messed up her life. Her fists tighten around her jacket. "Whatever you say, Purple."
"That's more like it." Sombra suddenly leans forward, and Hana scrambles back, an involuntary spike of alarm jolting her heart. "Whatever I say. So you'll join us? We offer so many things, with no laws to restrict us."
Hana sputters. "I don't-"
There is something to be said about how casual Sombra is as she says, "If you'd so have it, we can string Seon upside down from the Korean president's lounge and use him as a piñata. Whatever you want, chica."
A little wink.
"…If you've been watching me for this long, then you should know that I'm on my way to join Overwatch," said Hana quietly. "You think I'll leave to join the enemy organization just because-?"
"Fuck Overwatch." Sombra narrows her eyes. "I mean, come on, Song. Look at you. Where is your precious Overwatch now?"
And that's a good point. Hana's childhood heroes are nowhere to be seen.
The entire way Sombra has presented Talon is so different from what Hana had anticipated. Sombra speaks of joining Talon like a college student speaks of admitting some freshman into their sorority, while Hana was thinking more along the lines of thumbscrews, broken bones, and waterboarding.
And presenting Hana with Mr. Fucking Seon on a silver platter... it's one huge incentive for her, as well as proof that Talon has Hana's interests at least somewhat in mind. That they don't necessarily have to be opposites in terms of wants, Talon is saying. Come with us!
They're trying to manipulate me.
But oh, is it so damn tempting-
"Hana Song."
Genji's voice is too serene. Hana wants to shut him up, tell him to stop moving and talking- there's a fucking hole in his torso-
"You have been able to cope with things that most people have never had to face, and never will. They have been difficult, but in the end, you overcame them, and here you stand. Still alive."
Hana stills.
It's strange, how the smallest memories and details of a person's life can push them to do the opposite of whatever they were leaning towards just a second ago. Because even Hana is surprised when she hears herself coldly spit,
"I'd rather swallow broken glass."
The corners of Sombra's glossy purple lips slide slowly down, like a withering flower.
Hana watches as she stands up, abruptly, her voice shockingly icy. The air of warmth has disappeared, and the friendly glint in her eyes has winked out of existence.
"Well, I'll tell Reaps that I tried. Can't blame me for anything anymore."
Her gaze wanders back to Hana, who flinches. There is no anger in Sombra's violet eyes; just cold disappointment.
"You realize no food will be coming your way for, what… a week?" A tilt of the head, an uncaring expression fixed onto those pixielike features. "So long as you say no. Are you still saying no?"
Her heart and mind say "Yep" with utmost casualness while her body panics and shouts, screams, NO.
It's foolish for her to put up resistance like this, when there is no hope of escape. No exit in sight. But Hana's pride won't allow it, and Genji's voice won't allow it, and Tracer at her mission in Russia won't allow it, McCree wandering somewhere alone in Busan won't allow it, and-
-and Amin and Tara, with their smiling faces as they choked down some overcooked dinner and laughed with her over Starcraft. They won't allow it either.
One sneer, and Sombra disappears. Quite literally. One moment, she's there, then after one sound like crackling cellophane later, there is nobody but Hana. Hana with her freezing limbs and bloodied face and jacket from a dead woman.
Things aren't so bad.
She bows her head, dark curls falling around her face like drops of ink through dispersing through water.
How long can she go on like this, anyway? The last time she ate was an entire day ago, at Amin's house. Her stomach is already complaining from lack of food, as if something in her is gnawing at her insides.
A smile splits her face, crooked and crazed, and a furious hum fills her head, and a laugh comes spilling out, like something burning in her mouth.
…things aren't so bad.
She's beginning to understand those who resent Overwatch. Where are they now, when she needs them the most? Ms. Amari had been the one to recruit her, Genji had been the one retrieve her. But where is Genji now?
Bullets pepper the dust kicked up by Jesse's heels. He sprints across the sand like he's on fire, clutching the package in between his little arms with everything he's got. If he drops it, then tonight he'll be sleeping in a grave.
BANG, BANG, BANG- phtphtphtpht- the bullets miss flesh; Jesse makes it to shelter. He scrambles in head-first, nearly falling on Yoder as he tumbled from the entrance to the floor of the little hole-in the-ground.
The older man doesn't even look at Jesse. He slams the trapdoor above them shut, then grabs the brown paper-wrapped parcel from Jesse's arms, tearing it open with one careless hand. Jesse lays there on the ground, his lungs shifting up and down like great bellows.
He hasn't run like that in ages, like the Devil himself was on his heels. Though, I figger Boss Jehovah is close enough to th'Devil, he decides.
Boss Jehovah. The Devil of the West. Jesse shivers. Anxiety is building up in his system and sets his hands all a-shakin', even though he hasn't even shot anyone today.
Something falls on his face- brown paper, torn off a package. Jesse swats it away, sits up straight, to find that Yoder is holding a note, a box, and a little black gun. He silently mouths the words as his eyes scan the paper, mustache twitching like a live black mouse on his upper lip.
Jesse pipes up. "Well? Whatsit say?"
Yoder's mouth stops moving, but his eyes keep staring.
He folds the paper in half with a strange solemnity. Jesse watches him in apprehension. He didn't know the man very well, and their relations to each other were strictly professional. Yet Jesse found himself trusting Yoder more than he did the others.
Perhaps it was his age; all it takes is luck to survive into your thirties as a Deadlock hustler, but anything beyond that requires something special. Yoder often told Jesse that he was probably somewhere in his forties to early fifties, though he'd lost track of his birthday a long time ago. Impressive.
Age is something that commands respect, he thinks suddenly.
Age, experience. Jesse McCree has neither.
Yoder turns to the tunnel at their right. It's Deadlock's pride and joy; used to smuggle a metric ton of cocaine every month. It's so immense that Jesse wonders if the authorities have detected it a while ago, but are simply letting it slide. Jehovah's probably stuffing enough greenbacks down their throats to shut them up for a while.
…Yeah, that's probably it. Slimy gits. The authorities aren't to be trusted.
There's a long moment of silence as Yoder stares into the darkness of the tunnel. Jesse jumps to his feet, shoving Peacekeeper into his belt from where it had been clutched in his hand. "Yoder? You finally up and died, old man?"
"Shut yer gob, Jesse." Yoder's wrinkled, sun-spotted face scrunches in on itself like a drying prune. "We need to go."
At Jesse's confused stare, he grabs Jesse's arm and begins on down the tunnel.
He stumbles forward, feet dragging along. Something isn't right. "We can't do that," he reminds Yoder. He jabs a thumb behind him, pointing in the direction of the New Mexican desert that expanded around them.
"Morden's still out there. We gotta open the door for him. It's the only way fer him to get-"
"Morden's dead," says Yoder shortly. Jesse can't make out his expression from this angle, facing Yoder's plaid-covered back.
It's been a while since Yoder has been this wrong. "Nah, he ain't. He was with me, see, in the foxhole, and he told me to run with the package, to give it to you. Said I was smaller and quicker-like, so I should run first, and then wait for him to run in to the tunnel with us," informs Jesse. They are far enough from the trapdoor for Jesse to smell the musty clay scent that occupies the main tunnel.
"You listen to me now, Jesse McCree," snaps Yoder. He turns, quickly; his fingers dig deep into Jesse's shoulders. Jesse flinches, eyes wide, as they stare into Yoder's green irises.
"Morden is dead. Do you hear me? HE IS DEAD."
"He's not dead, he just got his leg grazed, sir," pants Jesse, squirming in his grip. "We need to go-"
"He's dead." There's an intense expression on Yoder's grizzled face, something coldly determined that Jesse has never seen before. "He's dead, and we're leaving."
He sets off again, this time steering Jesse in front of him with a vicelike grip on both his shoulders. Jesse cranes his neck behind them. With this brisk pace they've set, no way they can get back in time to open the door for Morden.
Three minutes of trudging down the tunnel later, Jesse first hears it. An echo, bouncing off the tunnel walls from a distance.
"M'CREE! LEMME IN!"
Bam, bam, bam.
He can almost see Morden in his mind's eye- big, strapping fellow with a gold-tinged beard that wrapped around his face like a bush, on his knees and pounding at the trapdoor in a panic. Yoder curses under his breath, breaks into a run.
Not towards the trapdoor, but further down the tunnel. Jesse digs his heels into the ground, forcing them to stop. "Yoder! I told you, he's alive, he-"
"WHAT THE HELL, GUYS! OPEN UP, YOU LOT A SONSABITCHES!" The echoes grow steadily fainter. "THEY'RE COMIN', HURRY-"
"He's dead." Yoder tugs on Jesse sharp enough for Jesse to lurch forward. "And we'll all be dead, too, if we don't git down the tunnel fast enough."
Jesse sputters. Is it possible for a man in his fifties to go senile? "I don't git-"
Yoder brandishes the note in Jesse's face- too bad, Jesse doesn't know how to read, so he slaps it out of Yoder's hand. "I DON'T GET-"
"They know where the tunnel is!" Yoder spits. He drags his sleeve across his wrinkled forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat. "They know where the tunnel is, an' they'll be down here in a moment. We can only make it if we keep goin', 'Cree. If we waited for Morden, we wouldn't have had time."
"JESSE!"
Morden. Something in Jesse's heart seizes, like he'd been shot in the chest. It hurts.
"But Morden-"
"Morden's good as dead, kid." Yoder lets go of Jesse, gives him that contempt-filled stare that all the adults give him when he doesn't obey orders. "You don't go back to 'save' someone who's already dead. There ain't no point in savin' the deceased. You wanna be a part a'the deceased, too? Go on ahead."
He shoves Jesse away from him. Jesse stares at Yoder, who scowls down at him.
"Go on ahead."
Yoder spins back around and starts off down the tunnel again. It's like two things are pulling Jesse at once in opposite directions- the figure of Yoder's retreating back in front of him, Morden's faintly ringing voice from behind.
"…JESSE, PLEASE!"
There ain't no point in savin' the deceased.
Jesse follows Yoder.
There ain't no point in savin' the deceased.
And yet here McCree is, attempting to do just that. Going against one of the first lessons he'd learned during his Deadlock days.
Nightfall brings lower temperatures and the blinking lights of the city. It's more difficult to see things in the dark, sure, but for some reason Jesse McCree feels calmer. More relaxed. In daylight, he had always felt awkward, like he didn't belong anywhere.
Not to mention that at night, people are less likely to notice a hostage.
Sujin has been losing her composure with every step they take from the apartment complex, which is… understandable for a woman being threatened at gunpoint, honestly. He would feel worse for her if she hadn't slapped him, long, elegant nails scratching straight through McCree's cheek.
He'd smiled at her, wiping away the thin trails of blood with the back of his hand. Sorry, lady, but you've lost. Come with me.
Sujin's bare feet (the heels fell off somewhere on the elevator down) trip and stumble against the concrete. She makes no attempt to re-align herself with McCree's gun, which is pointed at the small of her back.
"You're a murderer," she intones, voice dull, before she slips back into incomprehensible Korean. They make slow but steady progress back towards the Ssang Kal's hovercar, from which Sujin will guide McCree to Seon's next hideout.
"For the last time, I didn't kill 'em. Their legs are a little messed up, sure, but there ain't nothing that can't be fixed," replies McCree with annoyance. He flicks his gun, prompting her to move again. "And I won't kill you either, missy. As long as you take me to Seon's other hiding spot."
A responsible vaquero would've disposed of the gangsters immediately, but then again, McCree wasn't a responsible anything. The poor shmucks were just doing their job, he rationalized; what harm would there be in letting them live?
(Talon will hunt them down and interrogate them anyway. All because of you and your damn mercy.)
His eyes burn from the use of Deadeye, going blurry and dry every couple seconds. It's annoying, but he'll have to deal with it… that, and the exhaustion slowly setting in his limbs.
To be completely honest, he isn't sure at all about what to do with Talon. Using the upper echelons of the Ssang Kal to reach Talon- sure, that's reasonable enough of a plan. But what will he do once he gets there? Bust Hana out of her holding cell, all by himself? There's no point in knowing a prisoner's location if there's no way to retrieve them.
A righteous action is just an action until it accomplishes something righteous, as Ms. Amari had always lectured him after his brash attempts to save his comrades (most of which had failed miserably). Don't confuse a stupid move with a brave one.
Now, now, Ms. Amari, he chides himself as he strolls to the Ssang Kal's car. Don't get pessimistic here. I've lived through situations where I should've died on more than one occasion, eh? Is this any different?
Yes. Ms. Amari's voice is pointed. This time, it's not just you- another person's life hangs in balance.
"I can never win when it comes to you," he whispers softly, under his cigarillo-scented breath.
Sujin stops abruptly in her tracks, and McCree snaps back to attention. For a moment he thinks she's stepped on something sharp, or maybe they've reached something impassable… but no, he realizes as he checks in front of them with a quick glance. There's just pavement, and the Ssang Kal car ten meters ahead of them.
McCree nudges her with Peacekeeper. "Hmm? Lady, I haven't got all day-"
She holds up her fist in a peculiar gesture, with her thumb tucked between her index and middle finger, as she turns her head slightly. Bitter anger burns in her dark eye. Hair falls in loose strands around her face, as she spits something in Korean that sounds as appropriately vengeful.
He cricks his neck, unsure of how many times he's been cursed in some foreign language at this point. More than McCree's fair share of people have created grudges against him, and he's learned to brush it off over the years. What's done is done. Whether they consume themselves in revenge or not isn't McCree's business.
And that's what enables him to be perfectly cool and polite when he replies, "Sure, m'lady, whatever you say. Get movin'."
They get into the car in silence, McCree sitting on the driver side while Sujin assumes the role of passenger. He flexes his real fingers (the metal ones are becoming difficult to control at this point) over Peacekeeper to assure her of his own power, before telling her to point him in the direction of Seon's hideout.
She sits there for a good three seconds, a world-weary line creasing between her brows. There is something tragic about how hazy the look in her eyes are.
Then she finally nods.
They get stuck in traffic almost immediately. Busan's cities are a mess of cars and taxis and mass waves of pedestrians swarming over crosswalks. It's an almost nostalgic feeling for McCree, who hasn't been able to wander about in the open city like this for a long time. Doing so would be like waving a bag of forty million dollars around in the open, screaming come take it, with nothing but a single gun to defend all of it with.
A damn good gun, sure. But a single gun nonetheless.
It's the third red light. He's drumming his fingers over the wheel, humming I'm Burning for You, when he glances over at Sujin and immediately regrets it: Sujin wears the look of a crushed woman, slightly smeared lipstick and all. She stares dully out the windshield, a pale shadow of the suave woman who'd tried to seduce him back at the bar.
For some reason, he feels like he should console her. Or at least try to. Jesse McCree is a gentleman, after all… aside from all he killing, robbing, destroying, and assaulting he's been doing lately.
"Hey." He ceases his drumming, gets Sujin's attention. Smiles a little. "Quit it with the long face. Things ain't so bad for you."
She considers this for a moment.
Then she scoffs.
"What would you know, cowboy? You ruined eight of my men, took me prisoner, and are forcing me to betray my boss."
McCree's hand tightens against the wheel of the car as Sujin looks away. I mean… she's not wrong. "With all due respect, miss, you'd do the same if you were in my position."
"And if I were in your position, mister," she says acidly. "I would understand why my prisoner is so upset. You have taken years of progress from right under my feet with that gun of yours."
"Tough break, I guess."
"Tough break?" Sujin straightens, and some of that lost composure comes back. "I was Yi Sujin, one of the best drug dealers in Busan!" She scoffs, lowers her gaze.
"Now look at me. Pathetic."
"It's to save a life," McCree offers. "I'd say dealing drugs is hardly comparable to saving somebody's life."
"Then you, Mister, have the pleasure of knowing that nine lives have been exchanged today for your one." She fiddles with the edge of her skirt as she turns to stare blankly at McCree. Her tone is sharply accusing.
"And the worst part is that you have probably done this before, and not felt sorry at all. Am I correct, you self-righteous bastard?"
Witty rebuttals die on McCree's lips. The Korean gangster drug-dealer woman is right (which is something he'd never thought he'd say). He's sacrificed the majority to save the minority multiple times before, though, that was mostly on Gabe's orders. Right now, I'm actin' by myself.
It's all on him now. There is no Blackwatch, no Overwatch, no U.N. or Petras Act for him to blame.
He focuses on Hana, pissed off and stubborn, arms crossed over a faded hoodie. Her laughter as she stared down the ruins of the destroyed subway station, skin covered in a fine layer of ash. It's true that he doesn't know her very well, it's true that he's being selfish, but it's also true that he can't live with himself if he just lets this kid go.
So he might as well just break into a gang's hideout, interrogate its leader, get a terrorist organization's location, drive to it, shoot down the guards, and break Hana out of there… right?
The light blinks from red to green.
He steps on the gas.
Translations:
Chica- girl
Escasa chica- poor (pitiful, unfortunate) girl
Fist with thumb between fingers- Korean variation of the middle finger
A/N:
I've been working on another project (Overwatch-related as well) with a particular artist and it's taken up a good bit of time. It'll be worth it when it finally comes out, though!
As for the story. Things are beginning to come full circle… Overwatch, Amin and Tara, DVA, the Ssang Kal, Hana's mother, Talon, McCree, and yes. Even Genji. Things are beginning to get resolved.
I, for one, am very excited to have gotten this far. As always, I look forward to reading all your reviews, and thank all those who followed this story in my absence!
