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“A non-stop train is passing through the station, please stay behind the yellow line.”
The AI sounds nothing like Athena. The hover train roars past his eyes, from right to left. Unpausing, unhesitating, as promised. “Goodbye,” he tries. The sound of it coming is higher than the sound of it leaving. Doppler. One of the things Reyes taught him that he probably need not know. The smoke rises languidly from the tip of the cigar, and he flicks it with his metal thumb. The grey ash scatters, like snow drifting to the ground. The hollow in his chest throbs, and he takes a swig of melancholy, clutches his chest as it churns down his throat. The hollow is still there. He wonders what’s missing.
Your loyalty, Deadlock shouts. Your loyalty, Gabriel whispers. My loyalty, McCree echoes.
He didn’t know where he would go. He didn’t even leave a note. There’s no gang leader pulling him out of a garbage pile. There’s no black ops commander unlocking his cuffs and knocking him unconscious. He stares at his hands, one metal, one flesh. The still air stifles him, suddenly hard to breathe. His heart beats loud in his chest, his pulse thrumming at his temple. Three months on the run. He is alone.
The despair came and went like a tide, the waves building, advancing and retreating, rhythmic. A storm brewing, growing, a snowball rolling down, a tsunami gaining force, until a last straw is dropped and the dam breaks. And now that he surfed out to the sea, there’s no going back to shore. Regret is for the weak, Reyes always said. McCree agrees.
That actually hurts. He takes another swig. His throat is already parched, but his draught cannot be quenched by water. He washes it down with a drag of his cigar. The tastes mix, sour, mellow, deadly. Like the blood of his enemies. The sting of his farewell.
He left a part of himself in Deadlock. He left a part of himself in Blackwatch. He gave a part of himself to Reyes. He looks down at his chest, and wonders if he has any more to give.
Another train roars behind him, from left to right. “Goodbye,” he tries again.
There is motion on his left. He leans his head back to rest on the bench, tips his hat a bit, and catches the scene in his peripheral vision. Far end of the platform, near the vending machine. A thug, a lady; dirty black jeans, pastel blue dress. There is a cold glint as the edge of a knife reflects the light. His hand falls on his right hip, resting instinctively on his gun, and he pauses.
And pauses.
The woman struggles, the knife dangerously close to her throat. Peacekeeper lies still. The man leaves.
What is courage? Courage to stay and fight, to pour his life over what he found too painful to love? Courage to defy, say no when things go wrong, and rise up to challenge? Courage to leave, listen to his heart, to stay true to himself?
But McCree doesn’t even know himself anymore.
His phone starts ringing, his- phone. Not communicator. He has a phone now. Nobody has his phone number. He pulls it out, cuts off the call, and takes the phone apart. Case, battery, card. He crushes it with his metal palm, the remains clattering to the ground. Time to go.
The train arrives, slowing, slowing, until it hums to a stop. A hiss, a slide, an eerie silence. The door hangs open, waiting. He stuffs out his cigar, leaving a burn on the wooden bench. He takes a final gulp, finishing the bottle, and rises to his feet. He doesn’t know where this train is headed, he didn’t bother with the signs. He steps forward, swaying, unsteady.
He hopes it leads him to hell.