Chapter Text
“It is never a good thing when the commander requests your presence,” Nox said sourly as McCree leaned against the bulkhead to pull on his boot.
He had been told many times that showing up in his grease-stained clothes was unbecoming of the captain of a ship like the Santa Fe and insulting to the commander. Nothing against Winston, but he wasn’t the “leader” type.
Truth be told, he wasn’t the “leader” type but he was doing a damn good job of stepping up to the plate. Maybe it was his science background—despite fumbling around, he was very clearly learning from his successes and mistakes.
And lately there were more of the former than the latter.
“I know, Nox,” McCree assured the AI as he pulled on his other boot and straightened his clothes. They were a little stale, with wrinkles from being packed away in his locker, but it wasn’t terrible, and it wasn’t like Overwatch was an official thing anymore.
He patted the doorframe as he passed. “Lock up,” he told Nox. “You know the drill.”
Nox muttered petulantly to himself but there was a comforting finality to the way the hatch doors closed behind him. In truth, Nox was more upset that he couldn’t go along. He loved a good secret and summons like this reeked of it.
A soldier met McCree at the bottom of the stairs and saluted smartly. The kid looked barely old enough to shave, much less be on a derelict space station like the Overwatch, but McCree chose to ignore those thoughts. He nodded coolly at the kid who was momentarily paralyzed with indecision—did that count as a salute? Was McCree even a part of the chain of command? How did he proceed?
McCree felt bad for him. The kid was no soldier but nonetheless had signed his life away, had been wooed with the promise of starlight without realizing that space was cold and unforgiving in the wrong company. He hoped that the Overwatch was the right company.
He wondered if the soldier was one of the ensigns temporarily assigned to the Santa Fe. After the catastrophic end to the Omnic Wars, it’s taken a lot of time to rebuild the Overwatch station back to its former glory. Much of the station was uninhabitable, leading many to leave the station for safer areas.
It was sad that the Edge was considered safer than what was once a safe haven for all.
With the resurgence of crime and terrorist activity that the old Overwatch had once protected against, there was a new movement to reinstate the station and its operatives. Now a new generation was taking over under the command of Winston, a former scientist with the old Overwatch. Unfortunately, book knowledge for pilots and ensigns did not translate at all to any kind of practical knowledge, which is where ships like the Santa Fe came in. With scheduled staff rotations, it allowed for more people to be trained. The down side was that it meant that McCree, Nox, and the Santa Fe were tied closely with the Overwatch.
After the incident with the Blackwatch, he knew that it wasn’t a position that he wanted to be in. Still, he knew that his siblings loved the Overwatch and believed deeply in its message. That was the only reason he was still around.
He walked past the kid and kept going, leaving him to mumble and stumble after McCree. “I know the way,” McCree told him gruffly. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“It’s not that,” the soldier protested. “Well, it is, but only because I was ordered to. I just really wanted to meet you, sir.”
McCree grunted. “Why’s that?” he asked, curious despite himself.
“They said you were on the Overwatch back in the day,” the soldier blurted, struggling to decorously keep up with McCree’s long-legged stride. “I had a poster with you on it as a kid. Everyone was all pretty and heroic looking but you looked normal enough. Like…some nobody from Old Terra couldn’t be a hero but maybe…I could be like you.”
Ouch.
“Space ain’t all what the vids make it seem,” McCree told the soldier, who wasn’t even really a kid, tiredly. He had a baby face and eyes still full of wonder. “It’s hard work and danger just like everything else.”
The soldier’s smile faded but only a little. “I’m not afraid of work,” he insisted and McCree wanted to believe him. He hoped that idealism hadn’t brought the young soldier here, hoped that the kid was running away from farming or mining and thinking that soldiering for the Overwatch was an easy gig.
“I hope not,” McCree said and meant it.
Commander Winston was an enormous man that dwarfed most others that McCree had met—including the enhanced soldiers he knew from the old Overwatch crew. Despite his almost grotesque size, he was shy and soft-spoken.
In battle, he was as cold and calculating as they came. He rarely made it out into the field but the last time McCree had fought beside him, he’d seen Winston backhand an asteroid wolf and send it flying end over end.
It was for this reason that McCree always had to find ways to hide his smile whenever he walked into Winston’s office. He looked ridiculous folded into a desk chair that seemed far too small and weak to hold someone of his great bulk.
“Thank you for coming,” Winston told McCree, shaking his hand with both of his. McCree wondered if this was what babies and toddlers felt like when adults shook their hands. He nodded at the soldier that had followed McCree to the door. “Thank you.”
The soldier saluted Winston and fled. McCree was sure that he’d have a tall tale to tell his bunkmates later.
“Water? Tea?” Winston asked, closing the door behind McCree. “No, you prefer coffee, don’t you? I’m afraid I don’t have any in here with me.” He was fussing, pacing back and forth and making an already-small area much smaller with his constantly-moving bulk.
“I’m fine, thanks, Winston,” McCree assured him, pressing himself against a wall to keep from being trampled. “What’s so important—”
“Oh,” Winston said a little too-loudly and fidgeted. “Oh, please have a seat.” He gestured at the simple chairs with more grandeur than they deserved and sat down in his own chair, much to its sighing and groaning distress.
“What’s wrong, Wins?” McCree asked tiredly. “I’m in no mood to be jumping all over the place like this. Just give it to me straight.”
Winston fidgeted, sweated, and picked up a data-pad. Seeing it—and the distinctive shape of the security module attached to it—McCree could suddenly understand why Winston was so nervous. For him, this kind of security was novel and terrifying.
For McCree, it brought back uncomfortable memories and thoughts of people he wished he could forget.
“We…are formally commissioning the Santa Fe,” Winston said awkwardly. “And I’m asking as a friend that you please accept this.”
McCree sighed, blowing out his cheeks. “Wins, it’s not that I’m against it, but—”
“Read it first,” Winston said. “And then make your decision. I just ask that you not discuss this with anyone.”
Sighing again, McCree took the data-pad from Winston and got as far as the first note.
Destination: Hanamura.
“Hanamura?” McCree echoed, looking up at Winston. “Wins—”
“Hear me out,” Winston said quickly, lifting his large hands placatingly. “Please.”
McCree scrubbed his hand over his face and looked back at the data-pad. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”
Winston fiddled with the mug on his desk. “We...have received communication from one of the...uh...families on Hanamura.”
“Clans,” McCree corrected.
“Yes,” Winston said awkwardly. He got up, shuffled to the small kitchenette, and made some tea in an electric kettle.
Winston was a shy bastard, but he wasn’t messy, and McCree watched him spill his water as he poured it. Not to mention, he was a cautious sort and was not accustomed to speaking without thinking about it first. If he was tongue-tied enough to forget one of the most well-known aspects of Hanamuran culture, it must be big.
That fact alone left a sour taste in his mouth.
The Santa Fe was a middling-sized vessel, named for an abandoned city back on Old Terra. It was hardly a step above “derelict”. Nox said that it had character.
And it was fast, faster than what most thought a ship like it could manage. McCree and Nox thought that it used to be some kind of pleasure vessel before it had been stolen a dozen times and modified to hide its identity.
Most importantly, the Santa Fe—and Nox—had been a lifeline. Without it, McCree wouldn’t have been able to escape the Blackwatch, wouldn’t have been able to survive on his own. Without Nox, who was in turn bound to the Santa Fe, he wouldn’t have the freedom he did now.
He was no hero, was just a coward, but he wasn’t about to risk something so valuable.
“Two very important dignitaries have agreed to review the Overwatch,” Winston said, breaking McCree out of his reverie. “Their cooperation would be...words cannot describe how valuable they would be.” Winston was talking quicker now, becoming excited. He sat back down in his chair and fiddled with his mug again. “Hanamuran delegates,” he said with helpless excitement. “Hanamuran delegates who could bring Hanamuran tech to the Overwatch! Or, even better, Hanamuran scientists!”
McCree scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d have to be stupid to not know how advantageous that would be, and he may be a fool, but he wasn’t truly stupid. “What’s the mission?” he asked, looking down at the data-pad.
Winston’s excitement faded slightly. “Fly to Hanamura and retrieve the delegates,” he said simply. “Bring them back to the Overwatch.”
Suspicious, McCree squinted at Winston. It was a deceptively simple task. “That’s it.”
“That’s it,” Winston confirmed, the rest of his excitement waning in the light of McCree’s obvious distrust. He fidgeted. Sweat was beading on his forehead. “There and back. A simple errand.”
For a long moment, McCree was torn. He was tempted to remind Commander Winston that he isn't their errand boy and was opening his mouth to do so when he saw the commission price at the bottom of the page. If he could bear to part with the Santa Fe, if he could manage to remove Nox intact, it would be more than enough to buy an entirely new ship, brand new—hell’s bells, he could probably buy himself a luxury ship, commissioned to his exact specifications. He’s not greedy but the sum of money was enough to make his head spin.
“It is a portion of what they are giving us,” Winston told him very carefully, clearly guessing what he was looking at, what had made him stop in his tracks. “To give you an idea of how…important this task is. We need those dignitaries here. Hanamura tech is on par with Vishkar—and if we can establish a rapport with Hanamura, Vishkar might be interested enough to follow.”
McCree scrubbed a hand down his face. Currently, Overwatch was running on fumes and a large portion of the station was inoperable. Getting even one of those great tech producers on board with their project would be extremely advantageous for the station.
“The situation is much more…sensitive than simply that,” Commander Winston told him carefully. “And here, I am putting my trust in your discretion, as this is not something for the common ensign to know.”
Secrets.
Big ones.
McCree hated them for the trouble they caused, but Nox loved a good secret. It was like crack to the damn thing.
“The…dignitaries that have requested access to Overwatch,” Winston said cautiously. “They are the two oldest sons of the Shimada Clan.”
Shimada. Despite himself McCree whistled, impressed. Weapons, his mind supplied helpfully. Defensive tech. Infiltration. Black Ops teams dreamed of working with Shimada tech. It had always amused McCree that Shimada had also been well known for their artistic pieces—they were beauty and death all in one.
That the two oldest sons were being sent told McCree that the Shimada were very interested in working with Overwatch—traditionally, Hanamuran women were the brilliant minds and scientists who created the tech; the men served as their mouths to outsiders. Sending two of the oldest sons of the clan was an enormous concession, better by far than sending the average negotiator that such deals might normally warrant.
His mind raced and his stomach felt cold and oily with fear. Shimada Clan was a major producer of Hanamura tech; their two oldest sons were important figures. “Shouldn’t this warrant a fleet? Not just a shitty rust bucket like the Santa Fe?”
Winston sighed, his shoulders drooping. “It wasn’t an easy decision,” he admitted. “Do I send all of our ships or do I send a small group? But…” he rubbed a hand down his face. “We’re run thin—very thin. A handful of ships are still in the shuttle bays for repairs. More are needed to send support—biotics, supplies, engineers, the works—to colonies at the Edge. There aren’t many that we can spare and…there aren’t many freelancers that we can trust with this kind of assignment.”
Sighing, McCree leaned back in his chair. “I’ll need a new crew,” he said after a moment of deliberation. It wasn’t a matter of if he’d take the job, really—just what he’d need to complete it. He knew what the station meant to his siblings. “The ensigns you gave me won’t cut it. I’m requiring all of them to have certs at least at Combat II and Engineering II—no, level III in both.”
Winston scribbled down a note. “I will forward candidates to Nox for you to review,” he said. “Any other requirements?”
Mind racing, McCree nodded. “I’ll need an upgrade—nothing major,” he assured the commander when he frowned. “I need a shield boost. If we can keep the engines from being destroyed, the Santa Fe can outrun most other small- and middling-sized vessels. And supplies.”
“Requisition order sent,” Winston assured him. “What else?”
The speed that everything was being approved was intoxicating. McCree struggled to keep his requests reasonable, to not get greedy. “We need to retrofit two areas in the ship for Hanamuran habitation. I’ll need—”
“The xenobiologist Dr. de Santos will meet you at the Santa Fe in two hours.”
McCree shot Winston a finger-gun with an ease that he didn’t truly feel. “I’m set for now. If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“We will have the repairs we discussed completed by tomorrow afternoon,” Winston said, glancing at the screen in front of him. No doubt his AI, Athena, was sending him updates on request processing. “Current estimate is 1200 hours with a suggestion that it may be completed sooner. Once you have everything ready, have Nox send Athena an update—keep the subject of your visit and your projected flight plans a secret.”
Nodding, McCree stood and left—since he was not technically a part of Overwatch, he didn’t need to salute or wait for a formal dismissal. Not that Winston required such from him—McCree had too much history with Overwatch.
“Well look who’s returned,” Nox drawled as he climbed aboard the Santa Fe. “I had almost expected to learn that you had run off into the dark corners of Overwatch.”
Despite the oily feeling of fear that was still filling his gut, McCree laughed. “As if I could leave you behind, Nox.”
“Good,” the AI sniffed. “I would be forced to follow you, if only so I could kill you myself. So, tell me, O Captain, My Captain.” McCree rolled his eyes. “Why is Athena sending me documents with a notice to choose a new crew?”
McCree wrinkled his nose. “Hard lockdown, Nox. I’ll tell you only when we’re secure.”
The speakers whistled and McCree rolled his eyes. These days, Nox sounded almost human—a terrifying thought in the days after the Crisis, but this was Nox. He could never be afraid of Nox, not after all they’d been through.
“That’s tough shit,” Nox said. “You know I hate doing that.”
“Wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
The AI made a popping sound through the speakers—his equivalent of a grunt. “I know,” he complained. “I’m just saying. I don’t like the secrecy.”
“Yes, you do,” McCree argued, rolling his eyes. “Are we secure?” Nox grumbled but confirmed that everything was locked down. Just to be safe, McCree climbed into the cockpit and then the sealed room that housed Nox’s core. The doors sealed behind him. “Next stop: Hanamura,” he told the AI, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Nice this time of year,” Nox drawled. “We will arrive at the height of the season called hanami. An auspicious time for visitors—or perhaps simply a good time to visit, as the trees will be flowering.”
A satellite map of Hanamura appeared. Once upon a time it had been a planet similar to what McCree knew of Old Terra, with large land masses sticking above the waters. Sea levels rose until only the tallest mountains poked above the blue waters like islands. McCree had been there once, had served another clan as the bodyguard for their daughter until she was married off to another clan. He remembered that he had liked the climate: not too hot, not too cold, not too humid.
“How long will we be staying?” Nox asked.
McCree made a face. “With hope, not long. We’re playing courier. Picking up two dignitaries.”
“Why is Overwatch sending us to the capitol?” Nox wondered. “Even on Hanamura there are bounty hunters—and there are minor clans all over the place looking to fund their research.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” McCree grumbled. “No, we’re not going to the capitol—we’re going to the Shimada Clan.” He let Nox process that for a moment. “We’re to pick up the Clan’s two oldest sons and bring them to Overwatch.”
The AI was quiet for a long moment. “Fuck,” he said at last. Then, “tell me more.”
McCree did, and then told him the commission they were promised.
“This is a trap,” Nox opined.
Sighing, McCree slumped to the ground and stared up at the reinforced metal ceilings. “Yeah. And we’re fucking stupid enough to go after it.”
“Yup.”
McCree let himself have a moment to think about all of the terrible choices he’d ever made in his life. This would take the cake. Then he sat up and found that Nox had already loaded the dossiers of their crew candidates and displayed them in front of him.
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s start with…this guy. Shit, is his name really Dick Stane?”