A/N: Before we get started I just want to apologize for this chapter and how brutal it is ahead of time... I am sorry

Ch. 14

Present Day

Jesse McCree

McCree felt like his skull had been split in half by an axe. A searing, blunt ache burned behind his eyes – like his eyeballs were about to pop out of his head. Every move he made felt as if his bones were weighted, and shifting from his laying position on the sofa was a daunting task. McCree grunted, moaning into the calloused palms of his hands as he rubbed his face. His fingers smooshed into his eyes, trying to squeeze the pain from his head.

He had a hell of a hangover.

What had he done last night?

He couldn't even begin to remember. Everything after returning to the apartment from the Talon attack was a blur. He didn't know where he'd gotten the alcohol from, how he'd got there, or who'd brought him back home.

The flat was pitch black, and McCree's blinding headache made it impossible for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. He squinted, rubbing them with his knuckles. He still couldn't see shit. McCree stood, stumbling in the dark from the sofa he'd woken up on towards the bathroom. He had to pee very badly. Unable to see, he kicked the coffee table.

"Dammit," he muttered.

Pulling open the curtains above the sofa casted shining lunar light into the room. Everything was still within the room, shadows resting still in the glow. Hanzo's pale skin glimmered as he tossed gently under the plush bedding. He sighed in his sleep, his right arm covering his eyes idly in reaction to the sudden shift in lighting.

McCree, able to see, made a run to the bathroom. Upon his return, he lit up a cigar and stepped out onto the balcony. The night air was brisk, cold on his skin. It prickled against his nerves causing bumps to raise. The street below was dead, no pedestrians, no arguing couple. It was late – in the wee hours of the morning before the dawn broke. Three or four a.m., McCree assumed. The time of day when the city slept, and one's thoughts were vulnerable to the silence.

He could still hear Reyes's tainted voice reverberating from behind that bone white mask. A menacing, rage that torn his once pleasant lilt. "Join Talon. Join me… or be killed like the rest of Overwatch." The words still chilled him. He felt dirty for even having heard them. He'd never betray Overwatch… ever. Not even for Gabriel Reyes.

But he wasn't Gabriel Reyes – not anymore. He was Reaper. A creature made of darkness and evil. A demon that carried his voice, and that spewed manipulative memories. He was a monster. Gabriel Reyes was gone – dead and buried. Plain and simple.

So then… why did it hurt him so badly?

He couldn't fathom that the man he'd revered as a father would hurt the people that he loved. How could he destroy the thing that he'd given his life to build? Overwatch was his life. It had been for decades. It consisted of his best friends, his husband… his children… How could he just turn his back on all that he'd worked so hard to maintain?

McCree rubbed his prosthetic arm idly. The metal skull etching was cool under his thumb. He broke away, long enough to inhale a puff from his cigar. He turned slightly to check on Hanzo and assure that he hadn't woken him. His friend was still sleeping, his chest rising and falling steadily. The night that wrapped around him seemed to twitch with anticipation, as if caressing the breathing man. McCree rubbed his sore eyes, and the inky shadows had settled. He was pretty sure his head might explode. He turned back, looking off the balcony once more. With a sigh, he hung his head and blew out the smoke.

"Goddammit, Reyes," he whispered. "Why d'ya gotta be a bad guy?" He shook his head, trying to shrug off the despair that was wrapping itself around him. Embracing him like the darkness that the sky held. He was unsure how to cope with the knowledge he'd been granted. His heart was broken… all over again.

He needed a drink.

Reserving himself to wallowing in his self-pity, McCree hung his head. His arms draped over the guard rail, hanging limply over the edge and only tensing when he moved to take a drag of his cigar. He flicked off some ashes, blowing out plumes of grey-white smoke that wafted up into the air and dispersed like it'd never even existed.

He listened to the sounds of the night. Which was near nothing save the very distant purr of vehicle motors. The silence was deafening, causing a painful ring in his desperate ears. He tapped his metallic fingers against the metal railing just to hear something, making a defined clink noise of metal on metal. The smoke break was becoming unbearable. With a sigh McCree snuffed out the blazing end of his cigar, tossing it from their apartment onto the pavement stories below. He was just about to turn around and head back inside, to hear the sound of Hanzo's soft and relaxed breathing, when the hum of silence was split by a loud and piercing bang.

A gunshot. A sniper shot.

The sound was unmistakable.

McCree's body bristled, rigged at the only thing that crossed his mind in the split second between his reaction and the explosion. Hanzo. The shot hadn't hit him – it had been nowhere near him. The shooter wasn't gunning for him and the only other option was that he had to of been aiming at his sleeping friend.

"Hanzo!" he yelled out. Fear and adrenaline pumped through him, causing his heart to thump painfully in his chest. He could feel each pulse in his neck, making it hard for him to breathe. "Han!" He had to get to him. He had to assure that he was alright.

God, let him be alright.

He darted back into the apartment, shoving the door open with a violent slam. He sprinted through the studio, past the couch. Sharp pricks punctured into his bare feet. Glass: small broken shards from the window above the sofa that had been splintered by the bullet. He ignored the pain, rushing towards the bed. He could see blood. Crimson liquid splashed across the faded wallpaper and staining the cotton sheets of the nearby empty bed. Milky white feet jutted out from the other side, unmoving.

"Hanzo!" McCree yelled. Tears ebbed down his cheeks, leaking as he approached the bed.

"Not one more step," a deep and ominous voice threatened from behind. McCree froze in place. His eyes locked on the scene of his murdered friend. He knew the voice – taint and rage.

"You ganna shoot me, Reyes?" McCree asked, his tone devoid of emotion. "Go ahead. You just had killed the last good thing in my life." Uncaring of what happened next, McCree moved forward. He ignored the shotgun at his back and paced towards the red bed. He just had to see Hanzo one more time… He had to hold him. He half expected for his former mentor to finish the job he'd started back when he went to go meet Sombra. He thought that he'd just put buckshot in his back before he could even reach Hanzo.

He wasn't shot, however. Instead a black tendril wrapped around his arm, locking him in place. The smoky extension of the mercenary that was Reaper was cold and the simple touch of it made his skin ache like tiny little thorns lined it. McCree tried to pull away, but the tendril disallowed any sort of movement. He glared at the white owl mask.

"Let me go!" he demanded, tugging harder even if it did hurt him something fierce. Reaper moved closer, the soot stained barrel of his right shotgun staring him down. "Let me go, Reyes! Let. Me. Go!" His screams broke into shakes, unsteady and unstable. "Please, Reyes," he whispered. He could barely muster the strength to speak. He thought he might collapse. His knees trembled, weakening. He could smell the blood – pungent grotesque sweetness that filled the air.

"Stop struggling," the ghost growled – a deep tearing rumble from deep within his chest. The tendril tightened, yanking him onto the ground. McCree didn't have much will to resist and crumbled onto his knees at the inky appendages insistence. The gun pushed into his cheek.

"I a'rdey told you, just shoot me," he muttered, hanging his head. "Go on. What're ya waitin' for? You killed Hanzo – that sniper of yours did, anyway – just take me out too. Ain't that want ya came here for?"

McCree looked out the fractured window, staring at the building across the street: the obvious vantage point. Hanzo was concerned that Talon scouts might be able to target them from there. McCree just told him not to worry so much. If only he'd heeded the warning, and kept the curtains closed then this wouldn't had happened. He was such a fool… Hanzo always told him as such, but it had never been more obvious to him that it was the truth.

On the rooftop, stood a shapely woman knelt on the ledge holding a large sniper rifle aimed towards their direction. She was shaded by the night, but McCree could see a long black pony tail whipping in the wind behind her. She wore strange arachnid-like goggles, folded down over her eyes and pressed against the scope of her rifle.

He knew her, he realized.

Widowmaker.

McCree had never had a run in with the notorious Talon agent personally before, but he'd heard a great deal about her. She'd been the assassin who murdered Mondata, and had assisted Reaper in their attempt to steal the Doomfist gauntlet. He knew Tracer had a burning contempt for the agent. A marksman without peer. Except maybe…

McCree's eyes moved to where Hanzo lay, unable to see him, but still desperately needing to. He tried to pull from Reaper, but more tendrils laced around his limbs. They tightened, holding him absolutely still. Reaper's taloned gauntlet traced slowly across McCree's jaw, drawing the cowboys face upwards so that he was looking into the hallow black eyes of his mask. McCree clenched his jaw, tears streaming across his cheeks.

"Reyes," his begged simply in his tone.

The shadow was silent for a moment. He cocked his head to the side, a questioning look despite the static expression on his mask. Finally, his dark voice whispered, "It'll be ok." With that, the brunt of his shotgun came crashing down against McCree's face. He barely felt the pain of the impact as he was instantly knocked out cold.

"You're the most beautiful man in the world, ya know that?" Jesse's voice filled with adoration. He'd turned away from the warm stove to view his husband as he walked into the kitchen.

Golden sunlight shined through the window, causing the soft white cotton curtains to glow. The kitchen was quaint, decorated with chipped faux-wood cabinets, worn linoleum floors, and a fridge covered in those alphabet magnets. Jesse couldn't even remember buying them. They'd just always been there. They'd been shifted around to spell out, "HIGH NOON," in an assortment of rainbow: bright greens, oranges, and yellows. The small room smelled of brewing coffee and frying eggs.

"Good morning, anata," Hanzo hummed, strutting into the kitchen like an angel in black slacks and a white dress shirt. He kissed Jesse gently on the lips, a soft peck of endearment and familiarity. Jesse brushed his fingers over the white wings that jutted from Hanzo's silky black hair. He loved those soft puffs. "Spoiling me with breakfast again, I see." Jesse wrapped his arm around Hanzo's thin waist and pulled him to his side. He kissed him on his delicate forehead.

"Nothin's too good for you, darlin'." The forehead kiss turned into a deeper kiss on the mouth, and Hanzo's hand grasped the stained grey cotton that covered Jesse's pec.

The sizzling of the cooking breakfast turned into a pop, and hot grease splattered on Jesse's arm. He jerked, jumping to the side and away from his husband. He looked at Hanzo who was snickering at his pain.

"Not funny," he said, smiling despite himself.

"Hush up and finish cooking. I have to be at the school in an hour." Hanzo kissed where the grease had hit Jesse before pouring a cup of coffee and sitting down at the table. Jesse blew his husband and kiss and turned back to the stove. He carefully flipped the frying egg with the expert skill of a marksman.

"Daddies!" a small, high pitched shout alerted both men to the small girl entering the kitchen.

"Musume," Hanzo said, motioning their daughter towards him. "What are you wearing?" Jesse glanced over at the child who walked into the kitchen. She was dressed in yellow leggings under a denim skirt with a too small pink parka over top. "It is summer, and very hot outside. Take that off."

"But its puffy," she argued.

"Listen to your father," Jesse said, looking away. He used the scolding tone that always got Ayami to obey. She sighed, stripping of the too thick jacket and throwing it haphazardly on the kitchen floor. Hanzo sighed, not bothering to argue with her about picking up her laundry.

"Now come here," he said.

"You ganna do my hair, daddy?" she asked, following his beckon. Her small cowgirl boots thunked against the hallow floor. She had Jesse's sense of style, Hanzo would say.

"Yes, love," he said. He kissed the small child on the top of her head and pulled her up into his lap. He brushed back her soft, black, and straight hair into two pig tails.

"Ayami, you ready for breakfast?" Jesse asked, smiling back at the girl.

"Hungrier than a baby pig," the girl said in a childish southern accent.

"Good. I made too much food again." Jesse chuckled, plopping a plate of eggs down in front of his husband. It held much more than what Hanzo alone would eat. Ayami preferred to eat off the plate of one of her father's rather than have her own.

It was a pleasant breakfast full of laughter and bonding. Such as it was with the family. It was nothing but love and happiness. Jesse could not imagine being happier. His life was perfect.

"Jesse, do we have an aspirin?" Hanzo asked. "My head is killing me." His voice sounded odd as if something was muffling him.

"Yeah, there's some in the," Jesse glanced up, "medicine cabinet…" his voice faded away, mouth dropping. "Han?" His voice was distant, stunned.

"What is it Jesse?"

Jesse couldn't breathe.

Blood ran down the side of his face, streaming from a large and violent hole in his beautiful head. He didn't even seem to notice, confusion painted on his face. But it was there. A large, round chunk ripped from the side of his head, leaving behind messy scarred pulp. The leaking blood washed across the right side of his face, staining his milky skin and matting his silken hair. He was hardly recognizable.

"Hanzo," Jesse croaked, his voice weak.

"Jesse?" Hanzo asked. His voice was even meeker – barely audible even. Blood exploded from his opening mouth, spraying Jesse and soaking him in his husband's life blood. When he wiped the mess from his eyes he only saw Hanzo's lifeless body slumped on the table.

"Daddy?" a small voice questioned, pulling Jesse's attention to his daughter, sitting in the dead man's lap. "What's happening?!" she demanded in a frightened voice.

"Ayami!" Jesse called, but it was too late. The small girl's form was fading from view, turning transparent. He reached out to her, trying to grab her but she was intangible and his hand passed right through her.

"Daddy," she managed one last squeak before vanishing entirely.

Jesse could only sit there, watching the scene in horror. His heart ached. He was horrified.

"Join Talon. Join me. Or be killed like him," a demonic voice hissed from behind.

"C'mon, McCree, you know we're going to be the winning side," a Mexican accent chimed in the other ear.

"The winning side," the demon mimicked. A cold and thorned tentacle wrapped around Jesse's throat. "It'll be ok."

McCree shot up, jerking upright. Everything was hazy, clouded in his mind. Perhaps, a result of the painful hangover that was pounding in his head. It felt like he'd been pistol whipped by a shotgun.

Where was he?

He couldn't remember, but he had been slumped over on a cold steel table. Drool from his deep sleep had stuck to his cheek. The room was dark, void of light besides a small glowing florescent one above his head. It illuminated only his table, and nothing much more. Maybe he was still in the bar and had passed out on the table.

Man… Hanzo was going to be mad at him. He needed to get home.

McCree stood up straight, pulling himself from the chair and pushing off from the table. He stumbled, the effects of his hangover hunkering him down. He walked around, but was jerked to a stop by something entangling his right wrist. Startled, he looked down and saw a silver hand cuff clasped around his wrist. It was attached to the table by a linked chain, anchored into the top right corner.

"What the hell?" he gasped. He pulled against the restraints, tugging with all his might but the table didn't budge. It was bolted to the ground, and McCree was trapped.

Shit. Where the hell was he?

He wracked his brain, trying to remember what had happened the night before. He remembered calling Winston, warning him about Talon bombing Vishkar. After that, he had gone to the bar down the street from the flat he and Hanzo had been staying at. From there it got a little fuzzy. He remembered the harrowing dream, however. The sniper shot that ended his friend's life, and then his fantasy corrupted to despair. He could still hear Reaper's voice in his ear, "It'll be ok."

A shiver shot down his spine.

What if it hadn't all been a dream?

Had Talon actually came for them? Was Hanzo really dead?

It all started to become clear to him. He'd really experienced it, and now… he was Talon's prisoner.

He collapsed back into the chair at the lone table, reserving himself to his fate. There was nothing more he could do, but wait and sulk about his situation.

Hanzo was actually dead.

McCree felt like there was a hole in his chest and the waters of agony were flowing into it like a sink drain. It was like all the air had been sucked from his lungs, and every gasp sent needles prickling into the muscle. Despair was swallowing him, sucking him into its depths to which he'd have no hope of escaping.

The only man he'd ever truly loved was dead… and he was heart-broken.

He couldn't help but shake the guilt. It was his fault. He hadn't protected him well enough, hadn't been observant enough. Instead of keeping an eye out, instead of focusing on their mission, he went out and got shit-faced. He had hit rock bottom… As low as he'd been before, he wasn't sure he could set a new record. Now, Hanzo was dead, Reyes was a monster, and he was captured. Things couldn't get much worse.

As McCree wallowed in self-pity, he heard voices approaching from outside his room. They were growing louder as they got closer. At first, they were just mumbled, but when they became clear enough it was obvious that the two speakers were arguing.

"You know the Shimada was an important part of our plans," a deep and heavily accented voice yelled.

"Don't be ridiculous. He already turned down several of your offers. He'd joined Overwatch. Hanzo Shimada had chosen his side," the sinister and familiar voice of Reaper replied.

"And your former protégé hadn't?"

The voices were muffled, and McCree held his breath so that he could hear them better.

"We've already discussed this," Reaper growled with annoyance. "I'm done with this conversation." There was a short pause.

"The only thing I see is an old, sentimental man." That pause was longer.

"You know me better than that, Doomfist. I made a strategic move that I believed would benefit our organization."

Doomfist, hm. McCree had heard about his prison break. He'd been jailed by Overwatch shortly before the disaster, and since his escape Talon had gotten ruthless. He'd been the one who seized King's Row in the first place. They were making bolder moves, and becoming a bigger threat to the world under his guidance. He was here… that was a frightening thought.

"Walk me through your thinking," he said. Reaper scoffed.

"My thinking? Hm… My thinking was that McCree is weak-willed. The shock of seeing me coupled with the loss of his only earthly connection…"

"Hanzo is…" The other man started, but Reaper silenced him.

"Hanzo was stronger than you gave him credit for. He was reconnecting with his brother, and falling for an old flame. We had a window of opportunity to recruit an Overwatch operative. It was between Hanzo Shimada and Jesse McCree. Shimada would have required both the death of McCree and his brother Genji. Genji, as you know, is out of our reach currently. McCree, however, was the perfect target." Doomfist didn't reply. "Now, are you satisfied with my decision?" When he said nothing further Reaper added, "Unless you wanted to break into the Overwatch base and assassinate the ninja on your own without being spotted?"

"Talon wanted Shimada," the accented man finally replied.

"You wanted Shimada."

"I am Talon." Reaper chuckled humorlessly.

"You are a board member. As am I. This whole conversation is academic. Hanzo Shimada is dead. Jesse McCree is in that room, and if you don't mind… I need to get to work."

The sound of heavy clinking boots neared McCree's room. He took a breath, ready to face Reyes. He had to steady himself. He knew this would be a difficult interaction.

"Reaper," the voice of Doomfist called again, halting the mercenary from entering the room. "Would you like me to do it?"

There was no hesitation as Reaper replied quickly with a deep and stern, "No."

"You're sure you're strong enough? He is your former apprentice."

"Positive."

"You understand that your failures in terms of your ex-husband and friend tell us of your incapability to let go of the past, don't you?"

"All for the greater good of the grand scheme." There was silent tension between the two that was obvious even to McCree.

"I'm not sure if I give you too much credit, or not enough." Reaper chuckled a dark and dry laugh.

"Guess you'll have to find out," that sounded almost teasing or threatening… maybe both?

The brash sound of Reaper's heavy boots thumping against the metal floor resumed. They were close now, only feet away. McCree inhaled, readying himself. A loud creek emanated from somewhere on McCree's left, but he couldn't see a door open. Dreadful silence followed as he looked around desperately trying to see a glimpse of stray light reflecting off of Reaper's enamel white mask. There was simply nothing. He could feel that he was being watched, but he was unable to see the perpetrator. He felt like he was being haunted by a ghost: a silent and unseen spirit observing him. In some ways… that was accurate.

The stillness drug on for what seemed like forever. Under the certain intense stare McCree felt raw and exposed. It was an uncomfortable sensation that caused a pinch in his breast bone, an ache of anxiety. The dreadful expanse of silence was finally broken by McCree after he just couldn't take it any longer.

He said, "I know yer there, Reyes. Stop being fuckin creepy." There was no reply – not for what seemed like at least a few more minutes.

Finally, a sinister voice rasped, "Don't like hide and seek, huh?" Heavy boots hammered across the metallic floor, circling around where McCree was held hostage.

"Not really able to seek - what with bein' fuckin' chained the table n' all," his words came out in a growl. He was getting sick of the games. He'd watched Hanzo die, and he didn't have the patience for it. He just wanted to know why.

"You always liked to back talk," Reaper's hiss came from McCree's flank. He hadn't even heard him approach. Suddenly, his voice was right at the cowboy's lobe, growling menacingly into his eardrum. McCree reacted to the threatening proximity by jerking his free arm back. His prosthetic balled into a fist, aiming towards the source of the voice. McCree wasn't a hot-headed man, but he had been pushed to his breaking point. He couldn't take anymore. His attack was jarred to a stop. Reaper's hand snatching his wrist before he could manage to punch him. His left arm locked him in a vice grip so hard that McCree was unable to pull free even by pulling away with all his force. "Ingrate," he yelled. Reaper's left hand came down hard between McCree's shoulder and elbow, his palm slamming into the bone. The phantom's right hand held McCree's arm taut and the force of the blow into his forearm caused his humerus to snap like a twig.

McCree barely recognized his own voice in the pained scream.

When he was released, he just crumpled onto the table. He breathed, glaring at the owl mask as it's wearer circled around to the other side of the table. Reaper just stood: arms straight with clenched gauntlet-clad fists. He watched wordlessly while McCree gathered himself after having his left arm broken.

"Are you done?" he asked, allowing him only a few moments. When McCree just growled in frustrated agony he added, "You've had worse, kid."

The use of his old nickname angered McCree further. How dare he? How does Reaper have the nerve to use the name Reyes used to call him endearingly? It sounded like an insult coming from behind the skull mask – all the affection from what it once held drained and replaced with nothing but contempt.

"Fuck you," he growled, glaring up at Reaper. There was nothing of the Reyes he'd once known standing before him. This creature was not him. "What have they done to you?" McCree's question was feeble and quiet.

Reaper snorted and said, "Really? All the question you could start with and that's the one you settle on?"

"That's the question that matters," McCree said more confidently. "I ain't gonna ask why – why you killed him – why I'm here… You're just a buncha terrorists and murders who like killin', chaos, and agony. I'm done trying to understand you. I don't wanna."

"Tell me, McCree, do you think Sombra is a murderer? She's told me about your… time together. She calls you her friend."

"Murderer? Nah, but she's obviously a cyber terrorist. And she ain't no friend of mine."

"Hmph," Reaper snorted. "Sombra is a good girl… however misguided, and she is too damn smart for her own good. Or at least she thinks she is."

"What does Sombra have to do with anything?!" McCree snapped, tiring of the riddles.

"You were always a bright kid, McCree… innocent and too trusting… You cared too much… about me, about Genji, about Fareeha." He sighed, deep and emotionless. "Some people overlooked you – saw nothing but the commander's pet. You knew the truth though, didn't you, McCree? You always understood… You realized just how much corruption had eaten Overwatch away."

"Hard not to," McCree grunted, cradling his left arm to his chest, "when it's spelled out for you loud and clear."

"You braved it while Jack Morrison cowered in fear or let himself be blinded by his own ignorance. Whichever is worse." Reaper moved around the table, stepping up beside McCree who craned his neck to scowl at him. "Why don't you try using your eyes right now, kid. Can't you see the truth?"

"All's I see is a traitor," he hissed.

"Shame…"

"Whattaya want, Reyes? You ganna ask me to join Talon again? My answer is still no. You can kill me right fucking here because I will never join Talon!" He clenched his fists. Heat burned in his chest – anger rising like crackling flames.

"Overwatch is a dead end, McCree. They will lead you to your death!" The mercenary pounded his fist hard onto the metal table, sending near painful vibrations into McCree's right arm. He withdrew, leaving behind a crater imbedded into the surface. Reaper's voice held a tinge of passion that McCree wasn't expecting. He seemed to feel very strongly about the topic, or he just really wanted to convince his former apprentice to join him once more. "After what happened…"

"Overwatch ain't ran by the UN no more, Reyes!" McCree argued. "We're just a bunch of guys and gals wanting to save the world from monsters like you and your disgraceful organization. Ain't no one there corrupt… they're heroes. Just like you used to be." Reaper looked away from the cowboy. He turned his head, seemingly to gaze off into the darkness. "When did you stop caring about us? When did you turn your back on the world? Did you ever care at all?" The mask recentered onto McCree.

"I'm too old to give a single fuck about the world, McCree." He shook his head in slow, jerking motions. McCree was pretty certain that the creature before him was beginning to turn transparent. He could see light glowing through his chest.

"You taught me too good to let people like Talon blow up innocents… so my answer ain't just no… it's fuck no. Fuck you and fuck Talon." Reaper didn't reply. He didn't make a single noise. He didn't even move. He just stood before the cowboy, staring off in contemplation.

"We can do this the easy way… or the hard way. Join me," he said, apparently selecting to ignore the last several denials.

"No," McCree said firmly, not budging on his morals. Reaper shook his head once more. He sighed, a deep grating noise like a machine that wasn't working properly. It wasn't human or even organic sounding. It reminded McCree of the machines that Genji used to have to plug into every night.

"I was kind enough to give you an option, but really… you have no choice. You will join Talon. I am… sorry it has to be the hard way."

He was sorry? Then, why was he doing this to him? Still, that had been the first ounce of real emotion he'd heard in Reaper's voice since he'd found him in King's Row. McCree had a pit in his stomach. Reaper wasn't lying. There was certainly something more going on. He didn't have much time to contemplate what it was because suddenly Reaper was holding a shotgun in his right hand. McCree hadn't seen him retrieve it. It just seemed to materialize out of nowhere. As fast as it appeared, it was being fired. A bullet ripped into his left leg, shredding his jeans, his skin, and his muscle. He screamed out.

McCree wasn't even given a second to recover from the gunshot wound to his leg before Reaper was in front of him. He'd hooked his foot around the leg of McCree's chair and spun him away from the table. He forced the butt of his shotgun down into McCree's face hard enough to knock him out of the chair and onto the floor. His right arm was twisted in a painful and awkward position due to the chain that tethered him to the table. The jolt sent shockwaves of pain through his broken arm. He grunted, moaning in pain.

Reaper stood above him, staring down at him with his blank yet menacing mask. The shotgun vanished from his hand in a wisp of smoke. He knelt before him, bending down and placing one arm over his knee. He leaned forward, lingering uncomfortably close to McCree's face. McCree wanted to retaliate, but his body hurt too badly to do so. Every breath felt like he was being impaled by knives.

"What ya gonna do?" McCree challenged. "Interrogate me?" There was stillness beneath the white owl mask. The sound of labored breathing was the only noise in the dark room.

Finally, the apparition hissed, "Yes."

The low volume, but intense sound of metal rubbing against metal awoke McCree from his unconscious slumber. The pressure of the rooms shifted as the heavy door opened and another person entered. A mimicking creek followed as it was closed behind them.

McCree could barely process what was going on. His head pounded and throbbed mercilessly, and it felt to him like his brain was swollen against the lining of his skull. That was how bad it hurt. Amongst that his left forearm was on fire and his leg was totally numb. Through the fog in his brain, he could tell that he was laying on something semi-soft. The plush pressed around him, wrapping him in warmth.

The soft patter of light feet shuffled across the metal floor, coming closer to the cowboy. His back was towards the person, facing a bare wall. He turned slightly, rolling sluggishly onto his back and attempting to identify his visitor. His right arm twisted inside the brace of a handcuff as he did so. He was chained to the bed. He blinked his eyes, attempting to clear his blurry vision and focus in on the figure that loomed over him.

"Buenos días, señor McCree," an accented and feminine voice said – a little too loudly. The sudden sound made McCree's sensitive ears ache. He cringed back in reaction.

"Sombra," he muttered in a groggy and slurred voice. He attempted to reach out to her, but the crippling agony of his fractured bone cause him to recoil the attempt.

"Shh," she hushed, moving to his side. She took his prosthetic hand in her own and gently placed the incapacitated limb over his chest. "Stop moving it, cabrón, you're going to hurt yourself." He moaned in place of a proper answer.

"Why are you here?" he finally muttered. She took a seat on his bed next to him and turned slightly.

"I still owe you, 'member?" McCree tried to shrug, but nothing actually happened.

"That mean you're lettin' me go?" Sombra sighed.

"Nah, but I thought I could make you more comfortable." McCree scowled at the hacker. He turned away from her, rolling back onto his right side with discomfort.

"Then what use are you?" Sombra huffed, but didn't budge.

"Where's Reaper?" McCree asked. He said his name with not just distaste, but hate. He snarled as he spoke it.

"He's on business," she replied casually. There was silence between them for a few minutes. Sombra normally wasn't that quiet. "Doomfist ordered me not to come here." That was surprising to McCree. "He's says it'll just disrupt the process, but I figured I'm still in your debt so I might as well disobey a little more."

"What process?" McCree was unsure what she was talking about, but he knew there had to be a reason why they were doing this to him. Reaper hadn't actually "interrogated" him. He'd just beat on him, injuring him for no apparent reason.

"Oh, ya know the process." McCree turned over abruptly, jerking towards her. The quick movement caused pain to shoot through his body. He flinched.

"What process?" He demanded. "What are you talking about?!" Sombra sighed.

"Guess that's why he didn't want me comin' in here. Me and my big mouth."

"Sombra… you owe it to me to tell me…"

"Yeah, yeah. I owe you. But I've already helped you out a lot, amigo." She leaned back, pressing her back into McCree's side and using him for support. Her weight sent shockwaves of pain through his body. "First I was kind enough to deliver your old Blackwatch reports and disabled that alarm you idiotas triggered. Then I gave you the Vishkar info, so I think I'm pretty far ahead on my retribution." She shrugged, lifting her hands dramatically in the air while touching her shoulders to the lobes of her ears.

"Sombra," McCree begged. She sighed.

"Ok, ok. Since we're friends and all I guess so…" She stood up and lifted her hands dramatically in the air. "Indoctrination," she said. McCree looked at her in confusion.

"Indoctrination?" he questioned.

"Yeah… they plan on brainwashing you…" That wasn't something that McCree was expecting. Brainwashing? That was possible? The thing that hurt the most was the idea that Reyes would voluntarily let Talon brainwash someone he'd once considered a son. It was devastating to know that Reyes was really that far gone. He truly was beyond help.

"They did this to weaken me, didn't they?" McCree asked.

"I don't know the linguistics of it. I'm a hacker not a neurologist, but yeah… that's the gist of it."

"Then what do they plan to do with me? Ganna wipe me clean and plant all this pro-Talon bull in my head then what?" Sombra shrugged casually.

"Don't know, amigo. Though, it's possible they'll send you back to Overwatch as a sleeper agent." McCree sighed.

"Shit, Sombra," he huffed, plopping his head into the pillow. "Anyway, you can let me go?" Sombra looked at him with nothing but amusement, her arms crossed.

"No," she said.

"Then kill me. Just… don't let me be their puppet." She leaned down, her face inches above his.

"No, Señor McCree, you are a very important piece of a very large puzzle. If I toss that piece in the trash then the puzzle will be incomplete. And we can't have that can we?" She smirked, like she knew some secret that he was unable to even grasp. She backed away, removing herself from his personal space. She tossed him a baggie of bread that she'd apparently swiped from the kitchen. "I gotcha some food, though. Thought you might be hungry." She spun around, swaggering off to the door. She pulled open the large metal door and took a back step outside. "¡Adios!" she called, and vanished into the hall as the room closed in behind her.

McCree was left totally alone with nothing but pain and a baggie of plain white bread. McCree fucking hated white bread. It tasted like eating a mouth full of flour. Could Sombra have not at least brought him wheat bread?

This was how it ends? The love of his life dead, his father-figure beating him, and left for Talon to brain fuck him. That was never how McCree would imagine his life to end. Maybe he could kill himself before they used him to undermine Overwatch. Maybe agents would arrive and rescue him before he was lobotomized. He doubted it, though. Even if he was rescued there was nothing much left for him in the world. With Hanzo gone and Reyes insane what did he have to live for?

McCree wondered what it was like to be a mindless zombie. Would he still be him? Would he be trapped in his own body screaming while it made decisions without his consent? Would he stop feeling all together?

It wasn't a reality that he wanted to live. It seemed, however, no one was going to save him this time.

A/N: Again... I'm sorry for how bleak this chapter is. Don't worry though, things'll turn around for our Main Man Jesse in no time. Also remember that I cherish every review like it was a gift from the angels. Thanks for reading and... I'M SO SORRY.