Chapter Text
It starts like this:
Ma pushes Jesse’s crying sister into his arms and tells him to run. His hands are trembling, but he grips Isabella’s blanket tight and tucks her against his chest. His vision is hazy and Ma has tears running down her face. She makes Jesse promise to get as far away as he can, to not come back. He doesn’t stop himself from turning on his heel and sprinting down the street. Jesse has always been a very good listener, after all.
So he runs away. Away from the small, blue-trimmed house under the warm sun of New Mexico. Away from the heavy footfalls of a man he never stooped to calling father (as if Joel had ever deigned himself to acting like one). Away from his mother, with her home-cooked meals and her cinnamon scented hugs.
Jesse is a block down the street when he hears fireworks. But it’s October, and a Wednesday, and barely past noon. He closes his eyes and tries to forget the shotgun Joel always threatened him and Ma with. He keeps running.
A FEW FACTS ABOUT JESSE MCCREE:
1. He has always been clever for his age
2. Ma told him he would one day do great things
3. His Ma never lies
Jesse may have been top of his class, and the first to figure out Aunt Mary’s riddles, but he was never taught what to do with a wailing, parentless baby. Normally, whenever Izzy would start crying, Joel would scream at Ma until she swept Izzy into her arms, rocking her into silence. Jesse is rocking her and she is only getting louder. His arms are tired.
He ends up at the hospital, the one Ma worked at before she had Izzy. He doesn’t recognise the staff rushing around the ER, and he can’t tell if they can recognise him. He’s thirteen now, yet to grow into his limbs but still round in the face with the same baby fat that clung to his bones three years ago.
A woman with her hair pulled back into a bun and a metal name tag that says “Amita” sits behind a curved desk. Jesse can remember her smile and the way her eyes light up when she speaks. She is a familiar face in a sea of strangers. When she catches sight of Jesse, Izzy still screaming in his arms, she is out of her chair and rushing toward him.
“Jesse, darling, what are you doing here?” Her hands are warm. “Where’s your mother?”
Jesse takes a very, very deep breath.
He is swept away in arms and worried looks, passed between the hands of Amita, then nurses, and the police, but the hospital smells more like antiseptic than it does cinnamon.
They find Joel and Ma dead in the front hall of the small, blue-trimmed house, their heads blown across the walls by the shotgun in Joel’s guilty hands. When the police escort Jesse to gather his belongings, they forcefully steer him away from the front entrance smeared in brain matter.
◆ ◆ ◆
Jesse decides that he doesn’t much like funerals. His family is there, which is nice. Aunt Mary tucks him against her hip, wiping her eyes with messy balls of tissue.
“I wish she had told me, or that I had figured out sooner, I just…” Aunt Mary is an ugly crier.
Jesse thinks Aunt Mary probably wouldn’t have believed Ma if she had said anything about Joel. He was always good at being charming when he needed to be. If nothing else, Aunt Mary certainly wouldn’t have done anything to change it.
Jesse tries to hide the fact that he’s crying when they lower Ma’s casket into the soil, but there are only so many tears he can wipe away before they become overwhelming. By the time the priest is finished speaking and the grave is being filled, Jesse is sobbing, the taste of salt dripping over his lips, down off his chin. Izzy is asleep in his arms, wrapped in the same blanket she was wrapped in a week ago. Jesse watches a teardrop splash on her cheek.
Amita has been keeping Jesse at her home after he begged her not to make him stay with Aunt Mary. His aunt is a wonderful woman, but Jesse knows two extra kids are too much on top of his four cousins. Amita’s wife, Rani, makes stew that’s rich and warm with turmeric and cardamom, and he gets a bed that’s softer than the one he had before, and double the size. Their house glows orange from the inside out, and feels like home is supposed to feel. When Jesse stands in the bathroom, yellow light dancing across his skin, he can’t help but shift his weight to his heels, seeing the stark contrast of him against the delicate backdrop.
PICTURE THIS:
A boy that is sharp edges
and too long limbs
stands in a yellow bathroom
with yellow lights
and orange towels.
He feels his lungs fill
up with turquoise.
◆ ◆ ◆
It is nearing December when Jesse decides he has long overstayed his welcome. He packs his meager belongings (his mom’s hat, his old leather bound notebook, the new clothes Amita and Rani bought him), grabs a box of granola bars from the pantry cupboard, and prepares himself to leave the place he got used to calling home.
Izzy is asleep in her bed, and he kisses her oh-so-soft on the forehead. He stands in the cozy living room, digging his toes into the plush carpet and breathing in the scent of familiarity and family. He hoists his bag to his shoulder, casting one last longing look across the house. When he finally leaves, he does not look back, forcing himself to run away instead of falling once again into the house’s warm embrace.
A MISSED MOMENT:
Amita and Rani come home
with pizza and good news
in the form of adoption papers
hard won from the courts.
◆ ◆ ◆
Deadlock is not kind. It does not care if he goes hungry for days, it does not care if he keels over and rots in a ditch, it does not care that he is only thirteen and should not have a revolver nestled into the palm of his hand.
Jesse can appreciate that.
Andre is tall and blonde and lithe. He rules by fear and beautifully composed rhetoric, rather than strength. He leaves fighting to his subordinates. Jesse has never spoken to anyone smarter, and Andre certainly does love speaking with Jesse.
Jesse learns that he’s a hell of a shot; it’s one of the things Andre has told him and Andre is always right about those kinds of things. He shows Jesse how to keep a steady hand, exhale when firing. He presses a little too close to Jesse’s back. Jesse bites his tongue and doesn’t protest, terrified he’ll be kicked to the curb. Or worse.
Andre sweeps Jesse into his life, forcefully adopting him as an apprentice. He begins to mold Jesse into the perfect weapon (all charm, all bite). Deadlock is a strong enterprise and it needs a strong foundation. Andre promises that Jesse, Peacekeeper in hand, is that foundation.
Jesse doesn’t see the appeal of being the leader of a criminal empire. It comes with far too much responsibility, and a deluge of assassination attempts. Jesse should know, he’s taken enough bounties on the heads of rival gang leaders. But Andre smiles when he says it, and pushes Jesse’s hair back off his face. Jesse has never liked the dampness of Andre’s breath as it creeped up his neck, but it was better than fists and curses.
A CATALOGUE OF ITEMS IN ANDRE’S ROOM:
1. A shiny light blaster
2. A leather jacket on the back of the door
3. A window overlooking the canyon
4. Don’t think about the mirror
5. Don’t think about the bed
◆ ◆ ◆
“You should take off that hat, sweetheart, it hides your pretty eyes.” Andre’s voice is like burnt sugar. Jesse keeps his mouth shut.
“Come on, Jesse, don’t you care what I think?” Andre says.
“I don’t keep you here just to ignore me!” Andre says.
“I told you to take off the fucking hat,” Andre says.
Jesse wonders what would happen if he left Deadlock behind. There is a blade pressed to his throat that tells him Andre would not let him leave quietly.
Andre’s fingers press tight around Jesse’s windpipe. It’s always too much for too little. The pressure gets sharper, the blade cuts a sliver into his skin, just enough for blood to bead, for Jesse to cry out softly.
Andre apologises, like he always does. He promises he only wants the best for Jesse, that he can only do so much in the face of Jesse’s uncooperative nature. He says that Jesse is destined for great things.
Jesse doesn’t really want great things, anymore. He would settle for good, or happy, or safe.
◆ ◆ ◆
This is not Jesse’s first firefight, but it is the first one where his opponents are dressed in full tactical gear. He watches the members of Deadlock fall around him, littered with bullet holes. Jesse ducks his head behind the flipped diner table he’s using as cover. His allies fall. And fall and fall and fall and
Andre surrenders.
Jesse didn’t expect much else, if he’s being honest. Andre has always been a narcissistic asshole. The type of man to take a safe jail cell over the cold honour of death. With Andre down for the count, the rest of Deadlock is quick to follow. Some give a similar white flag of submission, some turn instead to stubborn suicide.
Jesse thinks about fighting until a well placed bullet puts him out of his misery, but instead he puts his hands up and doesn’t resist while a gruff woman puts him in handcuffs. He’s shoved into the back of a van. Andre is seated across from him, and he hisses that Jesse is a coward for surrendering.
“When I get my hands on you, you’ll be dead, you fucking bastard,” He screams, “You hear me, Jesse? I’ll kill you myself!”
He’s always been a terrible hypocrite too, Andre. Jesse keeps his eyes on his own knees and ignores Andre’s curses and insults.
Jesse is passed from hand to hand once the vans reach their destination. He sees the Overwatch logo embroidered on the shirt pockets of the people pushing him through the fluorescent, linoleum halls. Eventually, he ends up in a solitary interrogation room, staring up at the one way mirror but only making eye contact with himself. He can hear yelling as he inspects his split lip, blood and dirt caked hair, hollow cheeks and hollow eyes. He doesn’t care to listen.
A CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO STUBBORN MEN:
“He’s a fucking kid, Jack, what am I
supposed to do with him?”
“I don’t care that he’s a kid, he
killed good men today.
He’s old enough to know right
from wrong!”
“I can’t… You know I can’t let
them lock him up.
He’d be dead within a week…”
“Who says that’s a bad thing?”
A man comes into the room, eventually. He is tall and imposing. He sits across the table from Jesse, silent. He places a glass of water on the table and nods at Jesse to drink it. Jesse cocks his head, but accepts the glass. It’s ice cold.
“My name’s Gabriel Reyes.” The man sounds rough around the edges, tired. “I'm only here because Morrison is making me, so don’t think I’m enjoying this.”
Jesse quietly sips his water. He rubs his free hand along the redness around his wrist, irritated by the cuffs that weigh his arms down. He knows the name Morrison.
“You know, the asshole shoves you onto me, along with a whole stack of paperwork, while he gets showered with praise from the US government for taking down the Deadlock gang. Take a guess as to who brought your boss into Overwatch in shackles, ‘cause it definitely wasn’t Goldenboy over there.
“Anyway, Jack—”
“Jack Morrison, right? Like, the face of Overwatch, Jack Morrison?” Jesse knows this already. He also knows it’s unwise to speak without a lawyer, but a lawyer won’t make him any less guilty on several accounts of murder.
“Yes, Jack Morrison.” Reyes looks confused and vaguely irritated.
“What’s he like?” Jesse asks. His eyes widen when Reyes actually tells him.
Reyes complains about Morrison and his stacks of paperwork for a good thirty minutes before he starts the proper interrogation. Jesse knew it was coming, but it didn’t stop him from cracking a few smiles in the moments beforehand.
“How old are you, kid?”
“23”
Reyes laughs. “Try again.”
There’s a long pause. Jesse stares at the ring of water around the base of his empty glass. A bead of condensation finishes it’s decent down to the table.
“I’m seventeen.”
“You don’t have a lot of options here, and none of them are all that great,” Reyes says to Jesse’s still lowered head, “Either you get tried as an adult, inevitably get a guilty verdict, and go serve a few lifetimes in a maximum security prison, or—”
A beep cuts Reyes off. He grabs his phone from his pocket, glances at the screen quickly as he turns off the ringer, and sets it face down on the table.
“Or, you join me. Become a member of Blackwatch. Atone for some of the shit you’ve done.”
A TEXT FROM JACK MORRISON:
“Back down, Gabe”
“I don’t regret killin’ your guys. I’m old enough to know what I’m doin’,” Jesse spits.
“So I’ve been told. Join my team or rot in a jail cell, kid.”
Now, Jesse McCree may be prideful, and may harbour a good deal of misplaced conceit, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Being a Blackwatch operative sounds like a much more pleasant alternative than a lifetime in a cramped, cold cell.
He swallows his pride.
“It’s Jesse,” He says.
“What?” Reyes says.
“Jesse McCree,” Jesse pauses, “Boss.”
Reyes smiles.
◆ ◆ ◆
The rest of Blackwatch isn’t near as keen on Jesse as Reyes is, but he really can’t blame them either. Jesse is good at dealing with the split knuckles and the black eyes, the sprains and bruises from sparring matches that are on the wrong side of friendly. He doesn’t bring it up to Reyes.
It’s on an infiltration mission in Istanbul when Jesse’s silence finally bites him in the ass. Another agent, Willingham, decides to take the resentment he holds for Jesse beyond playground fights. He leaves Jesse stranded on the top floor of the building, surrounded on all sides as Willingham shuts an iron reinforced door behind him.
If Jesse weren’t so quick on his feet, he would have been dead, but he takes out three of the seven guys before they can notice he’s at a disadvantage. He uses the distraction to make a break for it. A bullet grazes his cheek as he spins and sprints through an open door, into a stairwell. He thanks every deity he can think of for Reyes having had them memorise the building’s floorplan.
He doesn’t make it to the extraction point in time.
Jesse watches the hover jet zip away toward the horizon, while he hears footsteps hurrying up behind him. He makes sure Peacekeeper is loaded and tucks himself behind a parked car to wait out his demise. He barely fights back as the men, assault rifles raised, round the vehicle to his hiding place. It earns him a bullet to the shoulder and another to the gut.
He’s got his final round in the barrel, lifting his gun neatly to his temple to at least give himself a clean death. He starts to let his eyes close, trigger finger heavy, when the bodies advancing on his position fall. He sees a familiar face throughout the blackening haze. A seemingly solid and very convincing image of Gabriel Reyes moves toward him. Jesse guesses that he’s lost enough blood if he's started hallucinating. Huh.
There’s a litany of curses on Reyes’ lips, and he scoops Jesse up off the ground. He has one arm under Jesse’s knees and another under his shoulders. He’s sprinting through the halls, trying to keep his arms steady, but Jesse still cries out as Reyes’ steps pull at his wounds. Jesse curls into Reyes’ chest, warm and solid. It hurts, everything hurts, but it’s also soft and dark. Jesse fades into his fever dream, thinking death isn’t all that bad.
MEANWHILE:
Gabriel Reyes clutches a dying seventeen
year old to his chest and prays
that he gets this kid to the jet before
he bleeds out.
Nothing feels more like a bad omen
than blood soaking through his shirt.
Somewhere on the stairwell between the second and first floors, Jesse’s vision blacks out completely. He only has a searing sensation throughout his torso. He would scream if he could get his tongue to work, and when he tries to move away from the source of the excruciating pain, it only gets worse.
He’s changed his mind. Jesse McCree would rather not have to die. At least not yet.
◆ ◆ ◆
Jesse wakes to a face he’s never seen before. The woman is haloed in blonde hair with an indent between her eyebrows that doesn’t seem to match her youth. She’s got enough gauze in her hands that she could wrap Jesse’s whole body in it twice over.
It’s all very red.
Jesse has never considered himself to be squeamish person, but there is something horrifying about seeing so much of his own blood. The woman’s fingers are dancing across his bare torso, scarlet smeared across her gloves. Jesse’s stomach is numb, but he vividly remembers the heat tearing through his flesh.
The woman sees his eyes are open and she suddenly looks extremely concerned. She begins to speak, but there is only ringing in Jesse’s ears. By the look on her face, he reckons she’s yelling at him, but his mind is too far away to focus on the words her lips are forming.
He looks down again at all that red. God, it sure is a lot.
Jesse closes his eyes.
◆ ◆ ◆
The blonde woman is still there when Jesse wakes up, though looking at her now he realises she could barely be much older than him. She is sat beside him on a plastic chair instead of hovering over him mid-surgery. She’s got a laptop in front of her that she’s tapping away on. Jesse tries to speak, but only lets out a soft moan. She looks up.
A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF ANGELA ZIEGLER:
There’s a young girl holding two boxes
that carry the ashes of her parents.
She decides in that moment
to save as many children as possible
from the same fate that she had.
“Jesse! You’re awake! It’s nice to see you not covered in blood. I’m Dr. Angela Ziegler, I’m interning here and I had the honour of stitching up all of those holes you earned.” Dr. Ziegler leans forward in her chair, smiling brilliantly.
She tries to explain the nanotechnology that’s helping knit together the three gaping holes in Jesse’s body, currently packed tight with gauze. He’s intriguing and curious, trying to cling to her words, but his focus is shot to hell.
“You’ll have to explain it all again, when I’m a little more present for the conversation. Mind as well as body.” Jesse grins.
Dr. Ziegler laughs and it sounds as rich as chocolate.
“I promise a full lesson later, then," She says.
“Hey, what happened anyway? I don’t remember anything beyond Reyes findin’ me,” Jesse asks.
“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but I heard Reyes telling Morrison in the debrief that he realised you weren’t with the group as soon as everyone rendezvoused at the extraction point. Reyes had the pilot take up the jet so Talon would let their guard down, while Reyes looped back to find you. You were half dead when he did.” She lays a hand beside Jesse’s. “He’s been in to see you, by the way.”
“Reyes?”
“Who else?”
Jesse’s face falls. He looks away, and clears his throat. “So, uh, Talon, huh? Is that what these assholes are callin’ themselves?”
The conversation drifts away. Eventually, Dr. Ziegler tells Jesse he’ll be free to leave the medical wing tomorrow as long as he stops in for check-up, re-dressing, and lots of physical therapy.
Jesse doesn’t really want to leave.
◆ ◆ ◆
Jesse is standing in Reyes’ office, leaning heavily on the crutch under his good arm. His head is down, but he maintains eye contact with Reyes throughout their whole conversation.
“Willingham will be facing severe repercussions for his actions. He will never even think of pulling that shit again,” Reyes pauses, “But, McCree… Jesse, we have to have a serious discussion.”
Jesse was waiting for this. His eyes close and he takes a deep breath. He falls to his knees, less than graceful and jostling his wounds. He deserves this; he fell behind, he didn’t complete his orders, he jeopardised the mission and the safety of his team. His fingers are numb as he reaches for Gabe’s belt buckle, hands refusing to stay steady. He can barely breathe.
A CATALOGUE OF ITEMS IN GABRIEL’S ROOM:
1. An old baseball cap
2. A photo of Reyes, Morrison, and a
woman Jesse doesn’t know
3. A jar of jellybeans
4. There’s a couch in the corner
5. Don’t think about the couch
Jesse isn’t expecting a firm hand on his forehead, pushing him firmly away. Reyes looks disgusted. Jesse isn’t sure what he’s done wrong, what part of him wasn’t good enough. He falls backward, back against the metal door, spouting apologies.
His breath comes shorter, the edges of his vision blur until all he can see is the linoleum tile below him. He can feel everything from the tips of his fingers to the balls of his feet. There are hands on either side of his face, and he thinks he hears buzzing that rings something like Reyes’ voice. A sing song voice in his head that sounds like Dr. Ziegler tells him clinically that he’s probably having a panic attack.
Oh.
This isn’t very good.
He can hear Reyes in the back of his skull. Something about breathing. In and out, that sounds simple enough. In. Out. His head clears, but only a little bit. Reyes tells him to breathe in time with him. Jesse focuses on the rise and fall of Reyes’ chest. His forehead is rested right against it. When did that happen?
It’s solid though, Reyes’ chest.
It takes minutes, hours, days before Jesse starts to feel human again. Reyes is staring him right in the eye when he can finally focus on him. They’re on the floor, the light above them flickering slightly. There’s a long moment of silence before Reyes wraps his arms firmly around Jesse’s shoulders. They sit on the floor for just a bit longer.
“Jesse, why did you have your gun to your head when I found you?” Reyes isn’t using his normal, attention commanding voice. He’s quieter.
“I didn’t wanna die because of them,” Jesse says, voice crumbling, “I wanted it on my own terms.”
Reyes pulls Jesse’s head to his shoulder, thumb rubbing along his neck. “You never have to do anything you don’t want to, Jesse. Anything. Andre Martin isn’t here anymore. He will never touch you ever again.”
“How much did he tell you?” Jesse is impossibly quiet. Barely making a sound.
“Enough.”
◆ ◆ ◆
Jesse meets Ana Amari two weeks after his eighteenth birthday. She introduces herself by putting a two cups of tea and two large pieces of pie on the table in front of him. She sits down and wishes him a happy birthday.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, I can’t say I know who you are,” Jesse says, eyes wide, “No offense or anything.”
She laughs, pushes the plate and mug closer to Jesse. “My name is Ana Amari, Gabe has told me all about you.”
“Only good things, I hope.” Jesse smiles. “It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. Amari.”
“Technically, it is Captain Amari, but you can just call me Ana,” she says, “Now eat up, you look like they’re starving you.”
Jesse eats his pie (which is definitely store bought) and drinks his tea (mint and honey). Ana sips from her own mug, playing what looks like a game of sudoku on her phone between bites of pie. She is smiling softly and Jesse wonders if it’s just her normal expression or if she’s simply trying to be less intimidating.
“Why didn’t I meet you any sooner? You and Reyes are close are you not?” Jesse asks as he finishes his last bite of pie, “He’s got a picture of you, him and Morrison on his desk.”
“I have been at the Swiss headquarters being a glorified tour guide. On the bright side, UN officials are very easy to charm, and my flattery and hard work for Overwatch a bigger budget,” Ana says.
“I don’t suppose any of that’ll go to Blackwatch,” Jesse mutters into his mug.
“Now, I am not in charge of that side of things, but I wouldn’t get any hopes up.”
They sit in comfortable silence until Ana is called away. She makes Jesse promise that they’ll speak again. She makes Jesse promise that they’ll speak again, and soon. Jesse smiles and crosses his heart.
They have tea every Tuesday and Friday when they’re both at the Watchpoint.
◆ ◆ ◆
Ana’s daughter, Fareeha, likes to steal Jesse’s hat during breakfast.
OTHER THINGS FAREEHA AMARI LIKES:
1. French fries with vinegar
2. Braiding beads, feathers and
flowers into hair
3. Angela Ziegler
Fareeha is thirteen years old but acts five years her senior. Jesse has one conversation with her before he decides that they will get along spectacularly.
Fareeha makes Jesse sit through bad movies (she particularly likes actions films), and Jesse drags Angela along just to watch Fareeha blush. Angela brings along stacks of paperwork and various research projects. She lets Jesse read through them under the guise of proofreading. Most of the time it ends in Jesse asking countless questions and Angela happily explaining them. Angela always says that a sign of a good paper is being able to explain it to someone who isn’t in her field.
It’s a Saturday. They’re watching an old spy movie, Fareeha braiding Jesse’s hair and Angela marking through a paper with a sea of red ink, when Morrison sweeps into the room and steals Angela away with nothing more than a firm, “Dr. Ziegler, a moment.”
Jesse and Fareeha share a look. An echo of Ana saying “curiosity is to be encouraged” can practically be heard through the room. They wait barely a moment before they follow Morrison and Angela out of the room and down the hall. Jesse is a little less than stealthy, so he lets Fareeha slip ahead, light on her feet. Morrison ushers Angela into a briefing room, one that looks packed full, and shuts the door behind him.
Jesse and Fareeha push their ears to the door.
“There’s been several bombings across New York. An estimate of 200 dead, hundreds injured. Talon claimed responsibility within an hour. All the areas that were attacked were communities known to advocate for omnic rights. Every organisation with a comprehensive medical team is being enlisted into crisis management.” Morrison sounds like the commander he’s supposed to be. “Now, I know we’re stretched thin as far as actual doctors, but all of you are trained in traumatic first air. Now’s the time to put it to practice.
“Pack your bags. Wheels up in twenty.”
There’s movement on the other side of the door. Jesse and Fareeha jump back to let the door swing open. Reyes is the first one out and he doesn’t look pleased when he sees them.
“What’s goin' on, sir?” Jesse asks, attempting to be the picture of innocence.
“Now, if you were meant to know, don’t you think you would have been invited, kid?” Reyes raises an eyebrow.
“Reyes, sir, if there’s something goin' on, I want in!”
“Why is it you only call me sir when you need something,” Reyes sighs, “I’ll talk to Jack, but don’t have any expectations, kid.”
He hurries off in the rush of people, Jesse shouting a “thank you” in his wake.
Twenty minutes later, several jets take off while Jesse and Fareeha stay on the ground.
◆ ◆ ◆
It is three weeks of an empty Watchpoint. Angela texts them on a regular basis, giving them live updates of the situation on the ground. Jesse and Fareeha spend their time flipping through various newscasts, watching as the death toll in New York rises from 218 to 387, then 423, then 497. Fareeha braids Jesse’s hair while they video call Ana.
When everyone comes back to the Watchpoint, it is in very morose silence.
◆ ◆ ◆
Jesse has never been to California. When the jet touches down, they step onto molten tarmac and breathe lung-fulls of Los Angeles smog. Reyes claps Jesse on the shoulder as he walks past him, and Jesse skitters along behind him.
They go to the Watchpoint far South on the coast, and Jesse stares out at an unending collage of blues and doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to staring at the ocean. There are gulls picking at the concrete, and the smell of salt and rotting kelp hangs in the air. It’s quieter than Switzerland’s Point, an easy current of activity that leaves the atmosphere undisturbed. Jesse feels out of place, loud and stumbling through fluorescent halls.
Reyes drags him to three meetings and one mission brief before they start the long drive to San Francisco. Reyes drives along the coast and Jesse keeps his eyes on the ebb and flow of the water. They only stop briefly for snacks and bathroom breaks, making the eight hour trip into a six hour one.
San Francisco beckons Jesse closer with slanted streets and bright sidewalks. Reyes buys them dinner at a tiny bistro. They sit in the window, glowing orange in the setting sun, and eat sandwiches on still warm bread. They drop their bags off at a hotel with towering windows and soft beds. There’s a vibrance to the city that Jesse hasn’t ever felt before.
The port is a different story. Jesse and Reyes huddle down for a long night’s stake-out in the muddy inbetween of sea and city. Boats trudge in and out of the docks, cranes pile crates tall on the barges, workers in highlighter orange lumber through menial tasks. Jesse opens a can of soda and a bag of chips and settles into the passenger seat of their little navy car.
“I grew up here, you know?” Reyes breaks the silence.
“San Francisco?” Jesse asks.
“Here and LA, yeah. My first job was at a Starbucks on Market Street. I worked there till I joined the army, and then Overwatch.”
“How bad was the Omnic Crisis here?” Jesse tilts his head toward Reyes.
“Bad enough that I felt the need to fight back. San Francisco avoided a lot of the fallout but LA wasn’t so lucky. There were plenty of protests as well, lots of impassioned people with their own agendas, politics getting in the way of public safety. There was a massacre at a sit in at City Hall, 150 dead, and I decided it was my responsibility to keep the citizens of my home safe.” Reyes sighs.
“Were you there? At the protest?” Jesse asks.
The conversation cuts short as Reyes surges out of his seat, pistol in hand. “They’re starting early, kid. Let’s go!”
Seven masked Talon members storm the docks to a large barge that Jesse knows is carrying enough firepower to level a city. Overwatch sent them specifically to protect the shipment of munitions before it left for Japan
“There’s only seven of them,” Jesse says.
“I guess they needed bodies elsewhere. Keep close, let’s get this over with quickly,” Gabe huffs as he moves through the shadows of stacked boxes.
They apprehend the Talon members as they’re climbing a ladder to the ship’s dock. When Reyes shouts out to them, the member still on the dock rushes to a nearby worker and hold a gun to his head, while the others try to scramble up the ladder.
It’s over so fast.
The bullet enters the worker’s head and he falls dead to the wood planks of the dock. Jesse’s world narrows. This has happened before. It’s what caught Andre’s eye all those years ago. When Jesse’s head shakes out of it, Peacekeeper is empty and there are six dead Talon members around him. The seventh is tucked up on the ship’s deck, and Jesse can hear him speaking through a comm asking for backup.
Reyes curses and drags Jesse toward the ladder. “Up we go, I’ll cover you. It’ll be easier to deal with one asshole than several.”
Jesse hurries up the rungs, Peacekeeper still warm in his hand. The man at the top does not look overboard to see Jesse approaching, and when he bounds over the rail, the man barely has a moment to be surprised before Jesse has smashed the butt of his gun against his temple. The mask remains emotionless as the man hits the ground.
Reyes comes up the ladder moments later and tears the man’s mask off so he doesn’t suffocate in the rubber. Jesse knows that this is their sole bargaining chip, their only escape from the onslaught en route. Sandy blond hair with freckled, sun worn skin greets them. Jesse curses when he sees his face, seeing a boy who couldn’t be older than fifteen.
“Like looking in a mirror, hey kid?” Reyes says.
Jesse swallows and hopes they make it out of this alive.
It’s less than three minutes before Talon’s reinforcements swarm in. The blond kid is blinking awake, eyes bleary green with one pupil blown. When he sees the barrel of Peacekeeper aimed at his forehead he bursts into tears.
He blubbers apologies, but Jesse can barely catch any of the words. Reyes is yelling at the Talon members on the docks, not daring to peek over the rail at them. He offers the kid’s life for his and Jesse’s. The answering call is gunfire.
“Guess you’re not worth as much as we hoped, darlin’.” Jesse smiles at the kid.
There’s a crack in the air. Jesse can feel his hair stand up on the back of his neck.
Reyes screams to get down and the world goes up in flames.
◆ ◆ ◆
When Jesse was six years old, Ma drove him down to his favourite restaurant in Santa Fe and gave him a hat that was a little worn along all the edges. She told him it was hers, but she wanted him to have it instead.
A week later, she and Joel got married. Jesse brought rings down the aisle, and smiled when his mother said “I do”. Jesse was scared of Joel (that never stopped), but Ma seemed to be happy and that was what mattered to him. Jesse was young, and when his mother smiles he believed it to be true.
THINGS JESSE CAN’T SEE:
1. The bruises along his mother’s ribs
2. The moment when he looks away from Ma’s smile
3. The shotgun that hasn’t yet threatened him
The first time Joel hits Ma in front of Jesse, it is his seventh birthday. There is still icing on his cheeks, and his mother moves to clean him off. She tells Joel that she’s taking Jesse to go see a movie that night. Seven years old and sugar sleepy, Jesse can’t follow the shouts between them. He can follow Joel’s hand, though, as it swings down upon Ma’s face. His ring catches her cheek and tears through the flesh.
Joel doesn’t bother hiding after that.
The first time Jesse stands up for Ma, he gets the shit kicked out of him, but Ma stays safe. His left arm still aches from where Joel snapped the bones in his forearm and didn’t set it right afterward.
◆ ◆ ◆
Jesse’s left arm aches, and he thinks it’s the decade old burn of old, fragile bones. There is a thick smoke billowing into the air, and he’s soaked from head to toe. He can feel something solid under his back, and see Reyes’ exhausted form grasping onto a wooden palette. Jesse’s makeshift stretcher.
Reyes heaves himself half onto the palette and his eyes close. Jesse calls his name, tries to reach his aching arm toward him. It doesn’t bend when he asks. He tries so hard. Reyes’ eyes don’t open.
Reyes is barely breathing. Jesse can see blood leaking from his mouth, from his stomach, along his arms.
Reach, Jesse, just lift your fucking arm.
He looks down to see the damage on himself. Bruised, bloody, tired down to his core. He looks at his arm.
He only sees red in the place of his hand.
A RESCUE NO ONE WITNESSES:
A boy with sandy hair and a freckled face
dives into icy waters and drags his enemies
to shore. He calls an ambulance with
a waterlogged phone, holding wounds
shut on two dying strangers.
He bleeds out before the paramedics
get to the shrapnel riddling his chest.