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Comin' out of her first loss since she left the Lead Rose Manor, she's optimistic at first.
Some of her gang got busted by Overwatch, includin' Cassidy. She knew some of them wound up in prison, but word from the grape vine said that no one had seen him between bars.
She'd planned prison break, studied maps bought through bribery, got word from the inside the same way—she hated to leave anyone of her gang. After enough money paid, she got some of 'em out early, under the table. And the ones she didn't, she sure tried, but after many a long hour back and forth with Smite—somethin' Cass would usually be a part of—it seemed near impossible to break into the maximum security prison. She knew what her limits were—goin' in would be suicide.
But through it all, Cassidy was nowhere to be seen.
She figured, then, that he must've been taken by Overwatch. There was no way they'd just let him go scott-free—his name was just as infamous alongside the word Deadlock as hers—but what could they possibly want with a no-good criminal like him? Interrogation? It didn't seem like something the goody-two-shoes organization would do.
Ashe readied herself to set up a scandal over it, but reckoned it'd only be so long before he escaped them. She got Smite to infiltrate their ranks, but even he hadn't seen Cassidy once, so Ashe couldn't try to do anythin' but be patient.
It wasn't her strong suit, and Cassidy was anythin' 'sides quick, but she waited anyway, hell or highwater couldn't make her budge, then.
But by the time it grew to be a year and a half, Ashe had to face the music.
He wasn't comin' back.
She'd had to accept that he died in Overwatch. She didn't know why they'd do such a thing, because they were known for bein' the sweetest and goodest little girl scouts that there ever were on this Earth.
She became a little rash too, fixin' to break into one of their bases and take hostages, drillin' Smite on what Overwatch was like, askin' him to draw up maps of the place—but he confirmed that Overwatch was nothin' but kosher, from what he could tell they were saints just like they seemed to the world.
Even though she couldn't really put her plans into action—she didn't have enough man power to break into the leadin' military organization of the goddamn world—she never let Smite come back either. She never gave up hope.
Maybe Cassidy was still alive, somewhere, but she might not ever know if she gave up. They're family—they don't desert each other.
At least, until another few months went by, and Smite came back unannounced, reportin' that he'd been drivin' and hitchin' rides nonstop, high-tailing it away from Gibraltar, 'cause his cover was blown by none other than Cole Cassidy himself.
Smite recounted: "He told me, 'I'm givin' you twenty-four hours to git the hell outta here.' When I asked him where he'd been, he said, 'Here and there.' When I told him to come back, he said no. I told him again, Deadlock for life, and he just tipped his hat and said, 'I'll be sure to write.'"
And then she'd thrown' a right fit—after cryin' a bit, but that's no ones business 'sides hers and Bob's—throwin' herself into her next heist, mad enough to eat the devil, horns 'n all. They'd nearly lost their cases of explosives 'cause she was so beside herself.
Now, even more months later, she thinks about the Cowboy too much: sees his old wanted posters and tears 'em down and crumples 'em up, pastes 'im up on a trainin' dummy and shoots bullets into his paper face, hears news 'bout Overwatch and thinks: I hope he dies out there on that battlefield, for an organization that don't give two shits 'bout him.
His wanted posters have begun thinnin' out now. He ain't wanted in the South so much no more, since he's disappeared, not like she still is; her bounty keeps climbin' higher and higher, and he's just gone with the wind. He had somethin' and now he's nothin' at all, a pawn, a nobody, workin' for the girl scouts.
Some people still ask her 'bout him, if she's killed the traitor yet, if she's seen hide or tail of him, but now he's mostly just somethin' of a Deadlock legend, an example to be made:
Cole Cassidy is a back-stabber. We're Deadlock for life. If you break that promise, I'll hunt you down 'til you ain't alive no more. There used to be a man named Julian I ran with, and he was a turncoat too. You know what I did to him? It's the same thing that I'll do to Cassidy. It's the same thing I'll do to you. Texas' got a lotta land I can dig holes in.
He said somethin' a long time ago that Elizabeth has never been able to forget.
"I would ride into the sunset on one of them hoverbikes, I'd drive so long I'd get lost and never find my way back. The credits'd roll or somethin' like that, like I'm in a Western."
"You want your credits to roll that badly, I'll end it for ya."
"Join the line of people fixin' to." The Cowboy had smiled.
Ashe didn't get it then. She mighta once, when she was still trapped in the Lead Rose Manor, but then she'd gone and gotten everything she ever dreamed of: the gang was amazin', so was makin' a name for herself and stealin' and livin' exactly how she pleased, with people who cared 'bout her. It was everythin' she had ever wanted, and she rode that high of never failin' for as long as it lasted; she didn't have any thoughts to spare for ponderin' life no more—she couldn't fathom how the cowboy could either, when he was also part of Deadlock.
She still don't entirely understand it, but Elizabeth can sorta figure what he was gettin' at by it now. At least, better than before. All she had to do was taste defeat first: the only turncoat to leave Deadlock and be alive to tell the tale. Of course it'd be Cassidy.
Too little too late; that cowboy's long gone.
She's thought long and hard 'bout what her punishment for him will be when she finally catches him, stayin' up late imaginin' scenarios in her head where he's dead, where she finds him stranded out in the middle of nowhere and he begs her to give him a ride on her hoverbike, where he thanks her for savin' his ass when she stumbles into him in the middle of a gunfight, where she opens the door to the shitty motel room she's stakin' out in and he's down the hall, and she shoots him in the head right there in front of the underpaid room cleaner, no exit plans, no alibis, just the rage that's been simmerin' in her for years. One bullet to end all the long nights of wonderin' 'bout what he's doin', then hatin' herself for carin'.
Maybe he'll get himself killed 'fore she even can. She stalks the news 'bout Overwatch that's been all over the headlines lately, the controversy, the exposés, the war.
The Cowboy's not anyone important, she reckons. There would never be any news 'bout him, and if he died they wouldn't much care enough to report his name or anythin' like that. Just another faceless soldier for them to use in their grandeur 'bout changin' the world.
Really? Cassidy? In a miserable ol' military, runnin' the straight 'n narrow? She sure as hell can't imagine that cowboy bendin' to no rules—he used to make it a daily pratice to challenge her authority. (Indulgently, she'd let him.) Not to mention that Overwatch is just a buncha girl scouts; that cowboy wasn't no angel before. What made him change his mind?
Elizabeth hates change.
If her parents had loved her, she'd have been content to live that lifestyle forever: pleasin' them, bein' the perfect daughter, livin' rich and havin' everythin' she ever wanted. But of course she had to go and want the one thing she could never have, so she ended up without any of it at all.
But she had the last laugh in the end, gettin' it all back with her two shootin' hands and a will so strong that she wouldn't move camp for a prarie fire. She built herself somethin' new without 'em: a family of her own, a business of sorts worth investin' in. So she gives as many shits 'bout 'em as they do her now; she don't need them dead or alive.
But she needs that cowboy dead.
Maybe a part of her thought that he would come crawlin' back to her someday, beggin' to be taken back into their family. Ashe wouldn't let him of course, but she'd finally get to pat herself on the back for bein' more than he'd ever amount to, the proof plain to see in front of her eyes.
So when she sees his name on the news, reported as one of the main agents in somethin' called Blackwatch, she has two thoughts:
Of course that snake sonofabitch would end up in the shady half of the people known for bein' goody two shoes.
And:
Ain't it unfair that he still made it without me?
He used to talk 'bout his Westerns. His sunsets. His hoverbikes.
Part of her hates all three now. But she tries not to let it show. She's never been particular to Westerns in the first place anyways, and sunsets are alright, but she sees 'em every day. As for her hoverbike... the whole Gang helped her build it—not just him alone—so she's determined not to let him put her off 'em.
She liked hoverbikes just as much as he did, used to do some racin' for fun, always bettin' on herself. And she used to be mighty good at it too, used to practice at it just to hear the Cowboy tell her she'd done good—
Anyways, the point is that she takes her damn hoverbike and rides it all the way down Route 66. Into the sunset too. And surprise surprise, there are no end credits for her, and life keeps turnin' like she expected it to. It's exactly what she thought would happen, logical and uncomplicated reality, it'd be silly to think or want otherwise.
What'd he have to go and get so complicated for?
She takes her hoverbike all the way down to see some monuments of Overwatch too. She hasn't heard of them in the news for months now—she stopped watchin' after the Cowboy was presumed dead—and when she goes to look, there's grafitti all over Strike Commander Morrison's purty face. It's almost depressin'. Almost.
See? This is what Overwatch's come to. They're ruined, the Cowboy's been thrown out to the coyotes for violatin' some rules, nothin' more than buzzard bait now, and she's the one eatin' good at the end of the day. Just like she wanted, she gets the last laugh once the dust settles.
The Cowboy can't ruin this for her.
She's got her own sunsets, hoverbikes, and she could damn well go watch a Western movie if she cared to—which she don't; she's here, rich, livin' life singin' along to her own tune, smugglin' and stealin' and shootin', and he's probably dead in a ditch somewhere.
…
He's probably dead in a ditch somewhere.
…
She's supposed to be happier than this.
…
…
She always knew he was gonna die young. She figured she would too. Still thinks so.
…
But not like this.
Their ends were supposed to be somethin' with a bang, one last heist they took on, one last gunfight, one last explosion, one last run. Not this. This shit.
Where's his sunset? His end credits? All he got was headlines on a holopad 'bout bein' an awful person. She read the columns—everyone was thankful when they reported he died. Blackwatch scum.
And he is an awful person; he's a dirty thief, he's got a lyin' mouth and a sharp tongue, he's a killer and a fiend and a scoundrel, he's quicker with a six-shooter than any good man will ever be…
But he's also more 'n that.
He stubbornly smokes the same hay and coffee smellin' cigar they used to sell at the diner up Route 66 but stopped stockin', he's got that stupid lopsided smirk that only comes out when he's bein' smug, he's fast with his quips and loud with his laughter.
He cares.
He comforted Elizabeth once when she was sad, so awkwardly, but he was there when no one else besides Bob was, he was there for her in the early days of the gang when she had nothin' to her name 'sides closed credit cards and daddy issues; he helped build it just as much as she did.
He gave her that keychain too.
"Is that gold?"
"In black steel. Didn't want you to forget where you came from, but also that it didn't need to be the only part of you. Maybe you've been as rich as gold, but you're tough as steel, too, Ashe.”
Stupid, sentimental words that she ain't ever been able to fuckin' forget. He was the first person to look at her and like her for who she was, as she was, not out of sympathy, never tellin' her to be better or tryna fix her.
He thinks about sunsets and Westerns and hoverbikes and has some sort of dreams that Ashe will never understand, and it ain't fair. It ain't fair 'cause all he is now is that fucker from Blackwatch, yellower than the inside of an egg, who's run from the law, who's dead body turnt up somewhere despite it, who's rottin' in hell now. They'll never know how closely he knew her, how he wound up always bein' able to call her bluffs, how his belief in her was the beginning of a stupid, shitty, wonderful love she had never ever known before, not once in her life, and his betrayal was nearly the end of her world. They'll never know. They'll never know.
She's always wanted the things she can't have. It's such a a shame that she can't just be satisfied with what she has; Cassidy is dead now, it's all over, and it should be enough for her.
But no. He can't be dead yet. She just won't accept it.
What can she say? She's a girl who knows what she wants and won't stop at nothin' to get it. She's goin' to beat him to death and dig his grave with her own hands and her own goddamn shovel. He's got hell to pay for, and she's not asking him to answer to the rest of the world—he needs to answer to her.
Cole Cassidy can't be dead yet, 'cause she wants him to be alive—needs him to be alive—so that she can kill that sonofabitch herself.
Memories of a conversation are dredged up after that backstabbin' son of a gun made off with her latest score.
She'd almost shot him where he stood. But then, she had other things 'sides the robot which she had to transport, and it was bad timin', killin' him right as soon as she'd met him again.
And then he'd gone and drove in and out of her life again—after not seein' him or hearin' a single piecea news 'bout him in years, after thinkin' he was dead but quietly hopin' he wasn't for years—just as easily leavin' her behind a second time.
It pisses her the hell off.
"We could buy a new hoverbike with all this money," He suggested.
"Slow down, Cowboy, we gotta put some food on the table first."
"Not even a robotic horse?"
"Hell no. If we're buyin' a horse we're buyin' a real one. You got enough brains up there to blow your nose?"
"You could try comin' up with somethin' original for once, Darlin," he says with an eyeroll. "We havin' a feast then? I saw you eyein' up that diner over yonder."
"Darlin'," She mocks, and sniffs all uppity-like. "Don't get ahead of yourself. We're doin' what I say with the money."
But he grins at her like he knows he's won. "I always wanted to drive one of those things all along Route 66."
"We'll get caught that way. No one uses those roads anymore, 'sides smugglers."
"Gotta live a lil' bit."
She shrugs, not exactly agreein', not exactly disagreein'. "I'll come with ya then, 'fore you get yourself killed doin' somethin' risky alone."
"Who knows, maybe the credits will roll 'n everythin' too if we ride into the sunset. Like one of them Westerns."
"Westerns are cliche." Ashe rolls her eyes.
"Some of 'em are cliche," He allows. "There are a few good ones though."
"They're all stupid. The cowboys in those movies are always preachin' to the choir a lil' too much for bein' sinners 'emselves."
Cole takes a drag of his cigar. Coffee and hay. He looks away for a second. "Guess so."
She must've said somethin' wrong. "…Suppose the Six-Gun Killer wasn't too bad," She concedes. Just for him, only ever for him.
"We should rewatch it." He smiles up at her with a gleam in his eye, and all is right in her world.
She never thought that this ol' dream of hers would come true: the one where she's savin' Cass' ass in the middle of a gunfight. It's just strange, 'cause the settin's all off—she finds him in the middlea one of her warehouses. She don't visit it much so she figures whoever tied him to that chair reckoned it was abandoned.
She gets out the Viper soon as she hears gunshots, and when she sees the Cowboy's pinned down with his bullet chamber half open, she aims at the man holdin' him down. One shot, and he's fallin'. Good shootin'.
She hops down from her vantage point. "Look what the cat dragged in," She greets, standin' above him and lookin' down. He's a little roughed up, but it don't look like nothin' too serious.
"Hey." He grunts, spittin' blood out his mouth and winkin'. "Fancy seein' you here."
"Charmin'," She says sarcastically, and reaches a hand down to help him up. Before he can grasp on, she kites it up, suspendin' it in the air for a second so that she can tell him: "I'm goin' to be the one to kill you one day, so don't you go dyin' on me."
And she really ain't playin'. She's said it about him to everyone in her gang, she's said it to him while throwin' fits when they were younger, but she's never admitted it like this: all assured-like and serious.
She lets her hand back down, and helps him up none to lightly.
"Sorry, Darlin', you'll have to join at the back of the line. There's a lotta of people fixin' to do me in," He says with a kiss to the back of her hand, still held in his, before droppin' it.
Ashe hates how happy it makes her, reflections of a long lost past. It don't mean nothin' to the cowboy though, she reckons it's just a regular Sunday for him.
"What're you doin' all the way out here alone?"
"Could ask the same of you."
"Hm."
They size each other up for a moment, 'fore he asks, "Say, d'you take commissions?"
"Depends. Who's askin'?"
"Me."
"What for?"
"Can't tell ya 'till you agree."
"Hm… And the payment?"
"A cut of the invent'ry."
"Oh, you fixin' to steal somethin'?"
"Maybe," His eyes sparkle.
"Well," she starts, "good luck, Cowboy. Maybe you'll finally pull off a clean heist if I pray for you hard 'nough." And she starts walkin' towards the crates stacked up, sortin' through them.
"That a no?" He asks, eyes followin' her 'round the room.
"Yup," She confirms. "Deadlock ain't in the habit of trustin' traitors, you should know." She smiles, all teeth.
He hums.
She finds what she's lookin' for, and closes the crate back up. "Time for me to light a shuck, Cowboy. But don't go missin' me too much, 'cause the next time I run into you it'll be the last."
"You takin' me out? Sounds like a date."
Foolishly, her heart picks up, but she keeps her expression as fixed as ever. "Nothin' more romantic than homicide," She remarks uninterestedly as she hauls the crate up with two hands. "By the way, you steal anythin' from in here, I'll make it slow and painful."
He follows her out then, and when he tries to help load and strap her crate to her hoverbike, she glares at him, nudgin' him away. "Hands off the merchandise."
He stares at her a long time for some reason, enough to put her ill at ease, so she decides to hurry things up a bit. She hops onto her hoverbike, and then—
"You wouldn't happen to have room on there for two, would'ya?"
"…Y'ain't got a ride?" She asks, incredulous.
"Well…"
She almost laughs at the absurdity of it, this very situation she's dreamed of, but then rage flashes across her face when she realizes—"Where's that motorbike of mine, Cole Cassidy?"
"Don't you get your panties in a twist, it's fine. Not a scratch on it, I just didn't ride it 'ere," He quickly assures her with exasperation in his tone.
She sniffs. "If you want a ride so badly, you can beg." When she's met with silence, she eggs him on further. "Go on, git."
"…Can I please get a ride?" He grits.
She stares. "Hmm…"
"…Purty please?"
"Well, I dunno…"
"Cherry on top?" He manages to make it sound suave somehow, she thinks, annoyed.
It's still funny as all hell though.
"Nice try." She kicks her bike into gear. "I'll be seein' you." And then she's speedin' off on her hoverbike, leavin' the Cowboy behind in the dust—not even tryin' to hide the fact that she's laughin' like a hyena.
It feels nice to be the one doin' the drivin' away for once.
"Never thought I'd live to see the day you joined up with Overwatch, Ashe," the Cowboy whistles from his hoverbike.
It's not the one he stole from her, she notes. She walks up and just gives him a look. "I'll ask again: where's my hoverbike, Cole Cassidy?"
"Like I said before, it's perfectly fine." He pats the back of his bike. "I know it's not the same, but this'll have to do, Princess."
She wants to put a bullet through his skull. But she can't, not now, so she just hops on the seat behind him.
Like this, they're almost back in their twenties again; the image of Cassidy in the present overlaps with the Cole she used to know. It makes her heart soar; it makes her wanna kill somethin'.
"Might wanna hold on, darlin'." His voice shatters her reminiscing.
Inspired by annoyance instead of nostalgia, she bites out, "Might wanna hurry up and start drivin'."
He shrugs, and they're off.
She's rode horses wilder than this, but she winds up holdin' on. If she closes her eyes against the wind, holds onto his chest and her hat, smells the coffee and hay in the air—she ain't smelled this bran in years, she can almost pretend they're right back at the start and Cole is whisperin' in her ear as they stare down the most well guarded train in the world: "You sure about this?"
The thrill of that heist in that valley at dusk, the excitement and chill in the air, the gunpowder blowin' in smoke clouds, her heart thrummin' in time with his and him tossin' explosives over her head and yellin' at her to duck.
She thinks about old times all along the road to their destination, until the ride is over and she is dragged back to reality. She steps off the bike mechanically and wordlessly follows him into the hanger.
"Cole Cassidy! You're back," A voice greets once the electronic door slides open with a hiss.
"Hey there," He replies, fond.
Ashe's jaw clicks. It's the Omnic that Cassidy took from her, along with her hover bike. "Well if it ain't my stolen cargo. It's a shame, you would've fetched a fine sum."
"My condolences for your loss," Echo replies without missing a beat.
"Considering that you have to deal with Cole, I'd say it's really your loss." She quips, staring pointedly at the cowboy before continuing into the ship like she owns the place. She could very well, if she planned well enough—she's always wanted to steal one.
She examines the interior of the ship closely, for future reference. All the while she gets cautious glances from other Overwatch goody-goodies, and she's prepared to settle into a corner somewhere until she sees a friendly face.
"Look at who the cat dragged in." She greets, pleasantly surprised.
Hazard smiles widely, as he usually does. "Oi, what're you doing here?"
"You know how it is. Arbalest, my dear ol' daddy. Got somethin' worth investin' in, accordin' to Overwatch intel."
"Aye, you mean something worth stealing?"
"Of course." She watches the Cowboy from the corner of her eye.
"Arbalest is doing a little too well for themselves these days."
"Well enough that it's worth it for even you to work with Overwatch?" He goes right back to his new buddies, talkin' with 'em. Has he got nothin' to say to her after all these years?
"I wouldn't usually. But is'not just Overwatch. They're even workin' with that lass, among others." He ends his sentence at a whisper and points to the tall woman with blue-purple skin and unfeelin' eyes dressed in Talon armor.
The Omnic is practically hangin' offa him.
"You a little bit distracted over there?" Hazard asks, amused.
She snaps out of it and shakes her head, letting nothing show. "It is mighty strange there's so many outlaws 'ere."
"We're all criminals in the eyes of the law now, aye? Overwatch's fallen far."
"Amen."
It really don't make much sense, 'cause some of these people are also such sad sacksa shit—like that old broodin' Japanese guy with a bow 'n arrow who she can just tell is miserable bein' here, and she knows Hazard hates these people. And Talon? Really? What're they all doin' here like her?
And then, she realizes, of course.
She ain't even special, they're just strapped for fighters and Ashe happened to be convenient for the Cowboy to ask.
There's a bubbly girl with an astronaut helmet chattin' him up, lookin' at him like he done hung the moon and stars in the night sky.
She gets mad, then, though she shouldn't be surprised at all, much less angry. Time 'n time again she just does this to herself, thinkin' she's special, and thinkin' the Cowboy gives two shits that she's special. She can't think of a time where the world don't revolve around her, 'sides when she's with the Cowboy.
As if he can sense her ire—who knows, maybe he still can after all this time, and that just pisses her off even more—he turns to her from the opposite side of the ship.
And then he's walkin' over. He's walkin' over. She wishes he'd move faster, she wishes he'd leave her alone.
He's intercepted by the Japanese bow guy on the way. And golly, even the men here have a thing for Cassidy?
"What're you gettin' all moody o'er there for?" He asks sighingly, invitin' himself to sit down at the table she and Hazard had been sharin'. The Phreak crosses his arms, body language goin' cold.
"What're you on about?" She deflects.
"Well, if you don't wanna say…" Cassidy trails off and shrugs.
"Guess I'm just fed up with these patron saintsa yours," She bites out in the end. Not a lie, exactly. "Bowin' to authority don't suitcha."
"Can't deny that. But this don't hold a candle to the Blackwatch from before. My commander used to run a tight ship."
"They didn't let you get away with half the things I let you, I bet."
"No, definitely not." He snorts.
"But wasn't it your commander who killed that politician 'n' landed y'all some front page headlines? And now you're all the way back where ya started, crawlin' right back to the ones who screwed you over."
"I'd say it was mutual screwin' over." Cassidy shrugs. "It was either this or spendin' the resta my life passed out in various diners."
"Those were your only two options, huh?"
"Talon's my third choice. Deadlock's, uh…"
He takes a moment too long to think about it. and Ashe snaps: "Pardon me, like Deadlock was so fuckin' awful. At least we're not on our last leg, needin' to hire no-good outlaws to do our jobs for us."
He shoots her a dirty look. "They're fixin' to right their wrongs now."
"Addin' another wrong to your wrong don't make a right. Ain't you learned this in first grade?
"I can sure hope we get somewhere."
Hope. She'd achieved everythin' she'd been hopin' for; it's easy, when you hope on an egocentric scale. On the other hand, Cassidy and all his little Overwatch friends hope on a world-wide one. And that's where they're fucked.
"I thought you were different, Cassidy. Certainly not like them."
"I'm perfectly saintly, mind you." He smiles, the image of innocence.
She snorts, undignified. "Right."
And then, quietly, like its nothin' more than a fact about life, he adds: "Guess y'ain't know me very well."
Westerns. Sunsets. Motorbikes.
She can't say nothin' to that.
After a bit'a silence, he continues, "Y'know, y'ain't as bad as ya make yourself out to be. You could do a lotta good here."
"Don't you start Cassidy. You know I don't believe in that bull crap."
"I'm jus' tellin' it like it is." He shrugs, like he don't really care if she does join him or not. And that just makes her even madder. He could fight for her, just a bit.
She lets her anger subside, before sayin' evenly, "I ain't like you."
"No?" He sounds doubtful.
"I don't got anythin' to run from."
He just hums and stands up, walkin' away again and again and again.
"I didn't know Cole Cassidy was your ex," Hazard comments, nearly scarin' her. She sees everyone glancin' at her and the Cowboy, lookin' back 'n' forth between' them like they're two tickin' bombs that needa be defused.
She swivels on him, havin' forgotten he was even there. "Don't you start."
He raises his hand in mock surrender, leavin' Ashe to stew and stew and stew, simmerin' and boilin' over like she's been for the last two decades.
The worst truth ain't the one of sudden surprises, but the hidden one that you choose not to face until it's way too late; the one that's made up of red-orange hues and scene ends, bikes that can fly you far away and overdramatic quick draws.
She always called him Cowboy for a reason.
They always got that flightiness in 'em, never quite able to stay in one place, holin' up in different ranches, always lookin' for work in new places, wanderin' off on their horses or hitchin' rides and stowin' away. Maybe you'll bump into 'em, years down the road, and you'll have a laugh with 'em 'bout old times, 'cause they're always makin' memories what with the free spirits God gave em.
But the cowboys who can't settle down somewhere are always runnin' from somethin'. From reality, from death, from their past, from themselves.
She probably never knew Cassidy as much as she thought she did, 'cause he was one flighty cowboy alright, she just didn't see it until it was too late and she got spurned.
The Cowboy, that snake, was always goin' to end up leavin' her behind, one way or another probably, because at the heart of it he's a cowboy—all freedom and righteousness, his own sense of justice and legs made for ridin' away on horses into settin' suns.
That's why she's always hated Westerns, if she's bein' honest. The action's overdone, duels are stupid and never happen in reality, the characters can't hit a shot to save their lives, and the cowboy and cowgirl main characters were always so fuckin' virtuous, in their own warped but commendable way, when it came down to it.
And she ain't no cowgirl herself. She never will be.
She's been livin' on the highest shelf since the moment she was born, never worked in the fields a day in her life, never rode on horseback for anythin' other than fun or sport.
She'll always be self-centered, wantin' what she wants and stoppin' at nothin' to get it, believin' she can if she puts her mind to it. She's no good. She'd smuggle ammo, weapons, and explosives to Omnics and humans alike durin' the war, just to make a quick buck. She didn't care who used 'em, didn't care who they were used on; carin' for other people 'sides the ones in your corner is jus' wastin' time, 'cause the resta the world don't give a shit 'bout you.
She'll always put herself and her gang first, no matter what. She don't believe in things like a better world, she just believes in bein' happy and bein' corn-fed, makin' sure she got money and power enough to take care of the Deadlock Rebels for life while makin' a name for herself bigger than her parents had ever been. She's a jaded, vengeful, prideful piece of shit who don't let nothin' go, and gives no second chances. She's a selfish, prissy princess who's killed everyone who's ever told her no. She's beautiful and cruel, a rose with thorns.
She ain't cowgirl material.
The difference between her and Cassidy is that while they'll both be burnin' in hell for the rest of their sorry afterlives, he'll be on the outer fringes with all the rest of the cowboys 'n cowgirls, his Overwatch goody-goodies, and Elizabeth will be sittin' in a spot far, far closer to Satan.
"You could do a lotta good here," Cassidy's voice echoes in her mind, settlin' together with every other thing he's ever praised her for and she's never forgotten.
"You're a good person," He'd assured her once, long ago as well.
"You're fulla shit," She'd told him then, and she'd say the same if he ever mentioned it again. He was always able to call her bluffs, and she could do the exact same to him.
"I'll kill you dead, Cole Cassidy."
"Will you really?" He laughs.
She takes aim then, pointin' her sights right at his head.
"You wanna quick draw?"
"I ain't playin' with you," She snaps.
"I ain't either," He says, suddenly serious, steppin' forward 'til her gun is at his forehead. "Shoot."
She stares at him down the end of her rifle, head rushin', heart beatin', ears thrummin'. This here is everythin' she's ever wanted.
She's gonna put a bullet right through his head. No chances of missin'. The traitor'll finally be taken care of, the only failure of the Deadlock Gang will be fixed. One bullet to end it all. All moments spent hatin' his guts, wonderin' 'bout him, wishin' he were dead, hopin' his sorry ass just never existed.
Right?
Fuck.
Her finger is clammy on the trigger. The metal is moist underneath her palms.
The smoke from his cigar billows between them, slowly floatin' up and disappearin' into the sky. Coffee and hay.
His dark brown eyes are starin' into her soul from under the rim of his hat, and she feels so so small. "Shoot, Ashe," he repeats.
A tumbleweed blows by in the corner of her eye.
There's a bead of sweat slowly tracin' its way down his temple.
Fuckin' bastard.
She pulls her gun away, shoving it harshly back into its sling.
Cole Cassidy has always been able to call her bluff.
"That makes four missed chances, Doll."
"I can still shoot you if you want me to."
"I'm a gamblin' man, but even I wouldn't try to cheat death twice in the same day."
"Awful stupid of you to be gamblin' knowin' the odds ain't in your favor."
"Sure, Darlin'."
Cole Cassidy has always been able to call her bluff.
The fact of the matter is that everyone loves Cole Cassidy.
Just about every cowgirl they ran into out in the South when they were younger laid their eyes on him and lost their damn minds.
In Overwatch, it's clear that the very AI Ashe failed to steal has got a little puppy crush on him, same goes for that Martian girl who idolizes cowboys for some reason.
It's fuckin' infuriatin' is what it is, how absolutely hackneyed Ashe must seem—an overused trope, another actor to play some female love interest who'll get killed off or vanish with no explanation in a film or two, only to be replaced by another gal.
Love ain't real. It was killed in 2041—a knife to the heart when she was four years old and her mama didn't put her school project on the fridge.
When Ashe was 20 she considered burnin' down the hostin' booth of the 2058 Texas Hoverbike Racing Cup up in Dallas.
Irrationally, she studied the layout of the grounds, looked ahead at all the vendors comin' to see who she could pin the blame on, and set aside matches 'n gas.
Cass had found her pile of stuff, asked her what they were fixin' to burn, and when she told him nothin' she did mean it. She wasn't actually gonna burn down a fair for no reason at all—she ain't a monster. But she set the stuff aside all the same, 'n stared at it sometimes, just mad.
She knew she probably couldn't win, and she wasn't a graceful loser. But she'd been dreamin' 'bout enterin' for a couple years was all. Dreamin' bout bein' on TV for Cass to see. And she'd built it up in her mind a bit, so when she actually tried to apply and found out you need sponsors and a coach, and all this other stuff related to marketin', she got royally pissed off.
Wasn't it enough to be good? Not for the Texas Hoverbike Racing Cup, apparently. Fuckin' socialites.
With nowhere else to redirect her anger to, no revenge plots possible or rational, she simply ignored all news 'bout the Cup, though she'd watched every previous year's, and when Cass put it on the TV she just walked out quietly.
She told nobody 'bout it, lettin' her obsession die quietly, crashin' her hoverbike and actin' like she hadn't meant it. The only reason she'd ever gotten back into 'em was 'cause the gang bought her a new one for her birthday. If not, she'd probably never have bought one for herself again.
But she never did watch any racin' shows again, for that matter.
Another harsh truth, this one made up of roses pruned at the stem before they even got the chance to live: Elizabeth has always wanted most what she knows she can't have, and what she knows she can't have she's always tried to fight, and if she can't fight, there's nothin' to do but flee at the cost of her pride.
The list has got a lotta little things on it—toys she wanted but couldn't get, clothin' she wasn't allowed to wear out the house, the 2057 Texas Hoverbike Racing Cup, some loot stolen away for good by other gangs—but the main part of it, the most important part, is short. It's love.
Disgustingly sentimental, but unfortunately true.
Love is the one thing you can't force, in the end. Carin' bout someone else don't mean you're guaranteed to be cared about back. Trust is a two way street, she can't force a damn thing.
She's wanted her mama and papa to love her so badly she fought against 'em; she rebelled to get their attention, and when it didn't work, she built her own Gang to be more than they'd ever amount to, stealin' their own parts right underneath their noses.
The gang is different to some degree as well, because they respect her and she ain't even have to try. They even fear her a bit. Love was easy between them.
On the other hand, she wants Cole Cassidy to love her so badly that all she can do is run away from him. She can't fight him, evidently, she sure as hell tried to be better than him, put up an attempt to kill him too, but it was all just to cover up the fact that she's just hidin' from 'im.
She'd tried so hard to convince herself she would fight. Tried and tried and tried over countless sleepless nights.
But in the end, she's still just that little girl, cryin' under the covers when her mama and papa didn't come home for her birthday, never quite gettin' over it the next year, but never askin' for them to come back again 'cause she was afraid the answer was gonna be a no right to her face, instead of a quiet let down.
She's still that little girl, runnin' away from home at eight years old and gettin' found by Bob cryin' and lost in the rose hedges out back.
She's still that little girl, tryna make friends with her classmates and gettin' gossiped about instead.
She's still that little girl of fifteen, learnin' that money can buy you happiness sometimes, but it sure can't buy you love, after gettin' broken up with by her first boyfriend—goin' steady two months—who she thought she'd marry, after she'd gone and bought him an expensive ring and everythin' when he asked.
She's still that little girl of eighteen, gettin' officially disowned and pretendin' like it ain't hurt in fronta everyone but Bob and Cass.
She's still that little girl who got left for sunsets and Overwatch years later by the cowboy she was in love with.
Even now there's still a little girl inside her at forty-two, hurt, runnin' from everythin' she can't fight. And especially runnin' from Cassidy.
The worst part about it is that he don't even give chase, he just keeps on drivin' away; just like mama, just like papa, he don't love her back none. If he loved her any, he wouldn't be able to keep leavin' her behind so easily. Time and time again, he could've come runnin' back. She wouldn't've accepted him back, but he never even tried to write or nothin' either. After he got kidnapped, after Overwatch ended, before Overwatch reformed as a shell of it's old self, after their reunion, even now—he still won't come back, won't even try.
That backstabbin', son-of-a-bitch cowboy ain't ever gonna settle, 'specially not for Elizabeth.