The Gallows | @oldfashionedrule
They may call Jack Morrison the heart of the Overwatch Initiative, but Gabriel Reyes is most certainly the mind, the wit, the sharpest of intellects.
This close and even in the dim light of the room, the Commander’s eyes are the coals of a slow-burning fire, molten at their cores - the kind of eyes that burn a man’s masks to so much brittle ash and dust, leaving the raw intent beneath any attempt to deceive him exposed, ready for dissection and attribution. If he is phased by the cowboy’s temper, it does not register in his calm and steady features, but behind those eyes the gears turn, calculating, picking the meat of his recruit’s mindset apart in scavenger fashion - worry, confusion, outrage, nervousness and false bravado to counteract it, dejection, reigned insolence. Fear. Doubt.
Satisfied but dissatisfied with this appraisal, he sighs and leans back, the intensity of that gaze muted marginally by the distance created. A bitter smirk turns the corner of a lip. It’s like Jesse believes he’s been called to the principal’s office for handing the school bully his ass instead of his lunch money, and that thought (however amusing it may be) reminds him for the umpteenth time just how strikingly young his newest recruit is. In truth, the fighting matters little; it was to be expected - penciled somewhere in the financial ledgers as “medical expenses” because you get enough testosterone-amped adrenaline-junkies with itchy trigger fingers and abraised knuckles in one place, you’d be a fool to think everyone will just sit around holding hands and singing kumbaiyah.
No, this is a matter much more serious, and much as he is loathe to admit it, the nagging voice in the back of his mind that says Jack might have been right seems to be gaining favor by and by.
“He’s reckless, Gabe. Dangerous. He’s a loose cannon. Why are you so interested in him?”
A nonchalant shrug, the twist of a smile. “We both know I’m a gambling man.”
“Gabe-” Stern, scolding. Not good enough.
Reyes laughed - a warm, full-throated sound that had a familiar softness to it. He waved an
easy hand over his shoulder. “Let’s just say I have my reasons. Leave it at that.”
“Gabe-” Jack Morrison veered around, voice rising, hand tightening its grip on his desk. We’re
not done.
But the click of a heel, the ding of the electric door, and Gabriel Reyes made his exit.
A hand slides the folder Jesses’ way - details, accounts (firsthand and otherwise) regarding Blackwatch’s most recent assignment, which, all-in-all, had been a success (albeit marginal at best). It is not their duty, however, but rather the way in which it’d been handled - or more specifically the way one man in his charge in particular had handled himself - that left a sour taste in the Commander’s mouth and prompted such bold action.
Of every variable he’d taken into consideration bringing the gunslinger on board, he’d failed to account for the possibility that a man so certain of his shot could be so unsure of himself, so willfully ignorant of the worth of anything beyond the hand holding the weapon to the point of nearly wasting himself (count them) three times right out of the gate on his maiden mission.
There’s a stark difference between cheating death and being rejected when you go looking.
“Saw the vids from the last mission. You have a death wish? You can take it up on someone elses’ watch. I’m not interested in having some punk kid’s blood on my hands. Talent doesn’t matter much if you’re dead.”
|| @renegadewraith
McCree does not fear the man in front of him; not Reyes’ eyes nor the thoughts he keeps hidden from view. The gunslinger fears being locked away. He fears being left on the streets again to starve. He fears something he does not even dare look at or put a name to. Those fears do not survive the overwhelming indignation fueling him. So that’s what this is all about.
Where most people might have held their tongues, remembered their position and debts owed or felt shame at being chastised McCree’s anger burst from his mouth with no regard for consequence.
“I hit every damned shot! Every mark. Didn’t waste one bullet. Didn’t hurt any ‘innocent’ folk. So what if I took a risk or two,” he growls as his right hand hits the desk on top of the file, “It’s my life to take risks with. You ain’t gonna find better and I ain’t gonna die just by rolling the dice!”
He had done everything that was asked of him. He had done more than what was asked of him. Take out the targets, don’t hit anyone or anything unnecessary.
Why did the commander even care? That thought came last. It barely survived the raging storm of thoughts which follow. Paperwork. Money. Explaining it to the higher ups that the gang kid got himself killed. They wouldn’t care. McCree wasn’t about to start fooling himself into comforting lies. He knew better. He knew his worth was his aim. McCree knew that his worth was being one body they could afford to lose on a mission even if his skill might be missed.
Who’s gonna care if one more waste of space kid dies? Who’s gonna care if you die?
The thought echoed in his mind, and the young man forgets where he is; forgets who sits in front of him. He’s back in his childhood home. He is back with the gang. He is everywhere except Commander Reyes’ office. McCree doesn’t fear death, nor an unlived life, but death is going to be on his terms. If there is one thing the kid has always known it’s that he would die young. No one in his family made it to old age. None of them died nice deaths He’s alive because of his skill with a gun, and he knows it.
“I’m an asset,” the anger drips from his voice, “S’what if I take a risk and end up dead. That won’t cost you nothing. I’m dyin’ either way and I ain’t gonna just play the good soldier. I get the job done. You won’t find better than me.”
What’s one more dead kid on the streets?
No one’s going to remember his name. Not for anything good. Jesse McCree knows that. At least this way his life might have some worth, something more than fighting to make it to another sunrise.
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