#junkcree

mccree: WOULD YOU QUIT THAT

junkrat: *laughing maniacally* ITS CALLED PLATONIC BDSM

junkrat: STOP TELLIN PEOPLE IM DEAD, CUNT

Egypt was a veritable battleground over the past few days. Terrorist activity was quick to be intercepted by the supranational strike-team. It was almost like a comic book, or a cartoon. The counter-attack was bloody, but usually done in such a flagrant way. They presented themselves as getting things done quickly, being the best of the best, having operatives for every single situation out there. Most of them weren’t veterans like Jesse, who’d remained cool under pressure, ever since the Deadlock days.

The terrorists were numerous, mostly human around these parts. It was really hard to tell, any more. The factions for omnics, against omnics, pro-human, anti-human; they were brutally violent, and often careless as to what they did, who they could’ve harmed or how much damage they would do that wasn’t even in the name of their goal, and in fact endemic to it.

Today, he worked with Jamison Fawkes. The group wasn’t large enough to warrant anything bigger. The synchronizing strengths and weaknesses worked, too. For every man that Jesse dropped with a smoking .44, a couple would be blown up by indiscriminate fire, chased away by howling laughter that somehow managed to crescendo over the sounds of plasma cracking, firing across the field.

They seemed endless, though, and there was only so much ammunition dropped down inside of a white supply crate. Jingling bombs sat with bandoliers of speed-loaders. Over the course of an hour, nobody made any ground, and terrorists were put to rout. The cowboy crouched to reload, check the condition of his gun, the hammer...

His head perked when he heard a loud ‘ting!’, signaling the lack of rounds for his teammate’s makeshift weapon.

“That one, get him!”

If he was paired with anybody else, Jamison would’ve been dead. A group of four, the final squad amidst the sea of corpses charged forth, acquiring their target. Just as quickly as they rose their weapons up, stocks against their shoulders, the gunslinger demonstrated his famous deadeye. The barrel of his peacekeeper smoked after the rapid shots. The closest combatant, brandishing a shotgun, dropped just in front of Jamison.

“You okay, kid?!” He called out, jogging over to his position across the way to answer his own question, verify that they didn’t lose an important operative.

“Shoot, that was a close one, but I think we pulled out.”