Chapter Text
If there are two things that Tracer is careful with, it's the feelings of her teammates, and her chronal accelerator. That's why it's a rarity to hear, "Hey, Winston. Mind taking a look at the accelerator? Something seems off about it."
That's enough to get the breakfast chatter to wind down, people putting down their holopads and newspapers (sue Reinhardt if he still likes the sound of turning pages, go ahead) to give concerned glances to Tracer. McCree flips the pancakes, deems them unlikely to burn for now, and sets the pan down.
The accelerator doesn't seem to be sparking or anything. Definitely not on fire. But, well, Tracer's right; there is something odd about the unsteady quiver of its glow from blue to white and back again.
Tracer chuckles at the surge of attention, scratching at the back of her head and shifting to her feet. The smile on her face is half a grimace.
"Oh. Yes, let me see that." Winston heaves away from the table, plucking a banana from the bunch as he goes. "Come along now, let's get to the lab."
"Maybe I should go too-" Mercy starts, already pushing back her chair.
"No, no- it's okay, Doc, don't worry." Tracer flaps a hand. "Winston'll get it running fine soon, it's no big deal. Enjoy your breakfast, everyone!"
McCree didn't get to where he is now by not being able to trust his eyesight, so he's very sure he isn't hallucinating anything when the tile that Tracer steps on to round out of the dining room doorway is, for a brief moment, shining like it's just been polished. There's a buzz in the space she's left behind, some kind of energy that seems almost tangible.
"Well," says D.Va. "That sounds bad."
"No shit," says McCree. Tracer's on the fritz, Talon might be actively hunting for them, and--
--and he's got charred pancakes on top of everything else.
"Fuck." McCree yanks the pan off the stovetop, hurriedly flapping the light smoke away with his free hand. No good- for all that he's (one of, as Tracer herself loves reminding him of) the fastest draws in the group, there's no saving his breakfast from this.
What a way to start the day.
"What do you mean, it's leaking?"
Winston sighs, adjusting his glasses before casting a tired glance over to Reinhardt. "If I tried to give you a more specific explanation, we'd be here for a good while. We don't have that much time with Talon breathing down our necks, especially considering that we're about to be moving out. So, suffice to say, a bit of the chronal energy is leaking out of the accelerator."
"Soooo, we're going to be time travelers?" D.Va does not sound as nervous about the fact that a teammate's key piece of experimental equipment is malfunctioning as she should be, in McCree's opinion.
"No," says Winston. "Well, not... quite. It's... Hm." He glances over to where Tracer is sitting, swinging her legs off a stool. It rattles whenever her heels strike the cheap aluminum. "Take a look over there, at where Tracer's sitting. Can you see it?"
It takes McCree a second, but yeah, he spots it. Most of the seat is corroded, leaving splotchy patches of white-gray all over its surface. But one of the three legs is pristine, shining like it's brand new. Not just the stool either, a further examination of the area shows that the pillowcase on the bed behind Tracer is bleached perfectly white while the rest of the bed covers are slightly yellowed with age and faded stains.
"Huh," he says.
"Yes, well." Winston fiddles with his glasses again. "It only appears to be affecting our environment, and only slightly, at that. I am quite sure I'll be able to fix it, but between Torbjörn's pitstop a few weeks ago and your upgrades to your MEKA, I don't have the resources here to do it."
D.Va huffs and crosses her arms. "Hey, I like people not shooting at my face! The extra armor will come in handy. You'll see!"
"I'm all for extra safety," Tracer agrees. Mercy hums and nods.
Winston sighs. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing. We should probably be moving anyway, and I suppose Deadlock Gorge is as good a place as any to stop by on our way further south."
"Hmm?" McCree tilts his head. "Say what now?"
Tracer leaps off the stool, already zipping off to clap McCree on the back with a laugh. "Looks like you're going home, cowboy."
"Time to get packing, everyone," Winston says, clapping his hands. "We'll be moving out by evening."
Groans from D.Va and Reinhardt, but everyone filters out of the makeshift lab/infirmary nonetheless. McCree's the last one out, and he can almost convince his ears that the fading voice calling, "Action!" in the distance is just the wind whipping past the curtains. That the translucent figure just rounding the corner isn't Hal-Fred Glitchbot snapping away at a nonexistent group of actors just out of sight.
He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes a second, opens them again, and there's nothing there but a slowly swinging door. Seems like whatever's malfunctioning with Tracer might be a lot more trouble than he'd thought, only in a different sort of way.
McCree is still wanted by a lot of people; despite everything else, a talking gorilla isn't exactly standard fare just yet; and D.Va isn't in the mood to be accosted by adoring fans. All of this adds up to one thing: no trains, no bus, no public transportation of any sort.
Reinhardt's vote for walking down south is immediately vetoed by everyone else. That leaves the cars scattered around the streets. ("Road trip!" Tracer cheers. Mercy sighs, and drags a hand down her face.) Half of them aren't quite in working order, remnants from past conflicts in the area. The other half require a bit of a helping hand from Winston and Athena, but they do manage to get two cars in working order within the day.
"No," says McCree. "One, you don't have a license. Two, I've seen you waltz your robot around the battlefield. You're not driving."
D.Va pouts. "I am not that bad! Do you even know how to drive? It's not the same as riding a horse, you know."
Heh. Cheeky kid. "Not like we have that much of a choice anyway."
Fitting Reinhardt and Winston in the same vehicle is an exercise in futility- the problem is compounded by Reinhardt's stalwart refusal to remove his armor, and the sleek tiny sports cars favored by those who used to frequent Hollywood in the past.
So that confines Reinhardt and Winston to the back seats. Winston doesn't want to let Tracer too far away from him in case something goes severely wrong with the accelerator. And also given that fact, he's not very comfortable with letting Tracer drive either; McCree can't disagree with that decision. Mercy volunteers to go along with them, so she's driving.
And that leaves D.Va and McCree squabbling for the other driver's seat.
"We really should get moving," Mercy says as she passes by, hauling her caduceus staff along. Silhouetted by the setting sun, she almost looks like she's in her suit, golden wings and all. "You could Rock, Paper, Scissors for it," she adds.
D.Va spins back around to face him, the fire of competition already burning in her gaze. Mercy chuckles when McCree tosses her a distinctly unimpressed look.
"McCree!"
He sighs. "Yeah, yeah. Fine, let's do it."
"Kai, bai, bo!"
Using his metallic arm on a whim, McCree tosses out paper. There's a muttered curse, and D.Va withdraws her fist with a pout. "Looks like I win," he says. Honestly it's not really worth it, but he gives her a cocky grin anyway. She rolls her eyes.
"Are you done yet?" Reinhardt shouts. "I'm not getting any younger waiting for you two!"
"We're going, we're going!" D.Va sighs and starts making her way over to the blue car. There's a little lump of misshapen metal sticking out of the hood from where Torbjörn went a bit over the top with the molten metal spraying about, or at least that's what McCree supposes happened. He follows after D.Va, noting how the other car seems to suddenly have a pristine set of tires.
"That's everything, right?" Mercy asks. She gives a glance over to the trunks of both cars- hers is crammed full of bags and sacks of clothes, toiletries, other necessities. Meanwhile, Reinhardt's hammer and one foot of D.Va's disassembled MEKA is sticking out of of their own car; they had to find some rope to hold the whole thing as close to shut as they can manage.
"Looks like," Winston agrees.
McCree slides into the driver's seat, and D.Va hops right over the low door--this poor car looks to have forcibly been made into a convertible--to plop in the seat right next to him. She fishes a packet of chips out from her backpack and offers it over her shoulder to Reinhardt.
"Time to move out," he says. Goodbye Hollywood, hello open road.
...Just his goddamned luck that Reinhardt turns out to be the backseat driver to end all backseat drivers.
"You can go faster," Reinhardt encourages. "Look! No traffic!"
"You take one down, pass it around," D.Va sings, "22 bottles of beer on the wall. 22 bottles of beer on the wall, 22 bottles of beer..."
This is her second repetition of the song. She did have her chance to drive after Mercy made them all switch drivers for a shift--Winston trying to shove himself into the driver's seat was hilarious--but McCree's back driving now. Credit where credit is due, D.Va wasn't that terrible of a driver, but that might just be because it was getting close to midnight and there weren't very many obstacles in her way. And now that her shift is over, apparently it's back to boredom central with her.
Three hours to go.
"Don't miss the turn!" Reinhardt calls.
"There ain't no turns, Reinhardt. It's a damn straightaway," McCree says, tiredly. No matter how terrible the coffee will be, he'll be making a cup--no, an entire jug--for himself the second they get to the Gorge.
Tracer groans. "There is dust. In places. Where there should never be dust."
McCree chuckles. "Welcome to Deadlock Gorge. Enjoy your stay."
"How did you live here for so long?"
"Eh."
This is their third day in the area, because as it turns out, the Deadlock Gang seems to have stashed their contraband and smuggled military tech somewhere a lot more secure following their latest collision with ex-Overwatch. Seems that at the very least, 76 paid them a visit while he was in the area, if the scorched impact craters are any indication.
"What a shame we missed out on the fight," Reinhardt had commented when they arrived.
"No," said Mercy, flatly. "Not a shame." And that had sparked a back and forth that quickly spiraled into German that nobody else understood, and well...
Regardless, it does make Winston's search for supplies to fix the accelerator a lot harder. It doesn't seem to bother Tracer much, since she's still zipping about the canyon looking for anything to help.
D.Va seems to have joined Reinhardt in shoring up their defenses in case the gang scurries back to the Gorge sooner than expected--or if Talon tracks them down, whichever comes first. Mercy and Winston are going over whatever's left behind, and the few scraps that Tracer's managed to recover.
"I'll check this side, you take the other?" he suggests. It makes sense that he'd be sent out with Tracer to look for any hidden caches.
"Sure!" Tracer gives him a thumbs up and skips over to the far end of the main street, going through the buildings in hopes of uncovering something like a hidden trap door. McCree watches her go with some kind of relief, doing his best to ignore the clank of a horde of footsteps behind him, the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder lingering heavy in the air.
It's not that he doesn't want Tracer around, but out of everyone here, he's the only one with skeletons in the closet to expose, considering where exactly they are. Nobody's stumbled into a vision of himself yet, but it's really only a matter of time; whatever Tracer's accelerator is doing, it's getting more frequent and more... immersive as time goes on. A man deserves a bit of privacy, doesn't he?
There's no campfire for dinner. If McCree's being honest with himself, he is a bit disappointed. But, well, there's nobody to stop him from taking a plate out and eating under the purple skies. It's warm enough outside that it's basically the same thing.
That, and Winston doesn't like him smoking indoors.
"Mind if I join you?"
McCree turns back a little, sees Mercy walking up with her own half-finished plate in her hands.
"Not at all," he says, shuffling over to give her somewhere to sit. She doesn't like the smoking either, and he figures he'd at least do her the courtesy of putting out his cigar. Not as if he won't be able to find another one around somewhere, if he does end up running out.
She smiles and settles down, the sound of clinking cutlery following her down.
"Nice sunset," he says, when she doesn't seem to offer any conversation starters.
She laughs. "Indeed."
It's a subdued laugh, emphasized by the way she shoves food around her plate rather than eat. McCree gives her a moment. If Mercy has something to say, he has the time to wait for it.
"It's been a while since we were last here, hasn't it?" she says at last. It's not like Mercy to be consumed by random nostalgia, especially given that as far as he knows, she's only been here once before.
"Yeah," he says. Best to see where she wants to take this conversation. "About ten years, right?"
"More than." Her smile tugs a bit to the side. "You were quite the scrappy one back then."
"What, am I not scrappy enough for you now? I'm hurt."
Mercy laughs again but it trails off quickly. She sets down her plate and shakes her head. "No, it's..."
"Come on, Doc, don't look so down. We'll get this mess with Tracer sorted out in no time," McCree says, taking a guess as to what's bothering her.
"I do hope so." Mercy sighs. Another moment of hesitation, and then she gingerly pats him on the shoulder. "Be careful, okay, Jesse?"
Now that's odd. "Sure," he says, not quite knowing where she's going with this. Her brow is furrowed, expression distant. "Really, what's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost." It's a long shot, but the familiar banter may help.
It doesn't.
She gathers her food, practically untouched since she stopped by, and stands. "Might as well have," she murmurs.
"That was you?" D.Va asks. Her eyes are wide as she snaps her gaze from McCree, to the illusion around the corner.
"Yup."
For the most part, everyone's been respectful considering the circumstances. It's not like McCree's hiding the fact that he used to run with the Deadlock Gang. Yeah, he's done things he's not proud of, but most of that happened outside of the Gorge. Here, whatever flashes of his past that pop up aren't likely to be anything other than mildly embarrassing. And so far, whatever people have run across aren't anything to do with him. Just flashes of people he hasn't had cause to stop and think about in over a decade, and of many more he doesn't recognize. Gangs tend to have a very short turnaround, after all.
But it looks like that streak's broken today.
They're peeking around the corner--not like there's much need to, since the echoes, as Tracer's taken to calling them, can't tell that they're here.
"You look... young," Tracer comments. She turns to glance at him, then back to the echo helping to haul a LumeriCo crate into a cave. Hair a little less shaggy, a bit shorter than he is now, a left hand that's still flesh instead of steel... Yeah, no denying that he's changed quite a bit since then. "That's so weird."
"Pretty good looking, am I right? Bet I could've given Lúcio a run for his money."
"Don't be so vain, McCree," Reinhardt says with a booming laugh. "Be more modest."
He's glad he's not the only one to turn around and stare disbelievingly.
"Tell me I'm not listening to this right now," McCree says, looking back to Tracer and D.Va. "Tell me I'm not hearing this from Reinhardt, of all people."
Around the corner, his echo lets out a laugh in response to a joke that none of them can hear, and fades away, disappearing in a silent shower of white sparks.
"At least your past self has a sense of humor," Reinhardt grumbles.