#peacekeeperx

[ Non-Sexual Acts of Dominance || accepting ]

[ defend ]  your muse defending mine’s reputation , dignity , or safety for them .

It wasn’t immediately clear what had transpired in the scene McCree had stumbled upon, but it was clear what exactly was transpiring just then at that current moment: two individuals, both of whom Jesse recognized, but only one of which he knew the name of, were locked in a grapple—a grapple which made no mere allusion to either participant’s deadly intentions, as could be gathered by their drawn weapons.

The character whose name McCree possessed the knowledge of was a uniquely upgraded omnic that had been going by the name of Amir these days; he was the one with that tempting ten million bounty on his steel head, the one that might—and had—bring a fellow like McCree to Indonesia. All the posters had warned of Amir being intimidatingly smart, intimidatingly tenacious, and intimidatingly dangerous—but that was no surprise, as one would have to be if they were an omnic that had survived trekking all the way from an Australian omnium, through the unforgiving badlands and their even less forgiving anti-omnic Junker residents, all the way to the north coast to flee the country. Apparently in that time Amir had gained a knack for brawling and killing humans—not that the man the omnic currently had pinned beneath him needed to be told that—and had been employing that skill to do hired work not unlike what Jesse himself did; although Amir also had a knack for being unnecessarily brutal to his organic victims, not to mention sometimes involving innocent ones. Perhaps it was a spitefulness one could possibly understand given his undoubtedly rough background, but it was also a spitefulness that no vigilante worth their weight in salt was going to overlook despite how potentially empathetic he may or may not be.

The figure Amir held the switchblade-like extension of his modified arm to was more of a mystery, but not enough of one for McCree to not recognize his face; that was the fellow hired gun he had met in King’s Row—the one that aimed an arrow directly at his face and remarked how his serape was ‘frayed.’ Oh, what a pleasant surprise—insolence and probable competition.

Still, one could suppose a person in peril is a person in peril regardless of how antagonistic they are—and if one didn’t, one could also suppose they sure were doing a commendable job of keeping that mean bastard of an omnic Amir distracted long enough to line up the perfect shot, so…

When the shots rang out, both Hanzo and his intended mark froze—Hanzo out of startlement as he swung his head to the side to see where the gunfire came from, and Amir out of the seizing his now damaged body. Just as the omnic’s sparking metal carcass began to go limp and weigh down upon Hanzo and the bow he had held horizontally to block incoming attacks, the archer spotted him—there was a man with a gun in the doorway of the warehouse. Hanzo’s expression still appeared to be caught off guard and somewhat alarmed, but his brow was quickly furrowing into what looked to be the beginnings of a glare as something glinted in his eyes - recognition. Still making no sudden movements aside from the heaving of his chest and the leery darting of his gaze between the stranger and his revolver, one might even suspect Hanzo wasn’t completely sure if he weren’t to be the one shot next.

“… Unless you intend to keep me at gunpoint,” Hanzo eventually began in a hushed tone—almost whispering, interestingly—after a long enough period to determine there was no bullet immediately expected for himself. The full-on harsh stare he had worn back at London seemed to be finally reemerging—although it admittedly looked a lot less intrepid now from a man looking back at one on the floor, his breathing uneasy from just exiting combat, and an apparently uncertain future of reentering it again, “I believe I am going to take my leave.”

Hanzo began to ever so slowly attempt to push the now-dysfunctional metal body off of himself, never taking his eyes off the other would-be bounty collector.

“While I am not… ungrateful”—the word sounded as if it were perhaps difficult to say, possibly due to sheer uncertainty of how thankful he should really be to a potential threat, or maybe even out of a mere pride-related personal hurdle—if not both—”there was reason to prefer a relatively silent weapon like a bow in this situation.”

Still not taking his eyes off the other man, Hanzo slowly tilted his chin in the direction of a second door leading into the building.

[ Thoughts (Or Possible First Impressions) from My Muse for Yours || accepting ]

“Hm, well - he might not be the only American here, but he certainly is the most… agonizingly obvious one about it, isn’t h—

“You thankin’ me?” A hearty chuckled accompanied the jingling of spurs as McCree (Again, out of foolishness or brazen confidence.) lowered his gun, approaching the wreckage of Amir and the archer.

He didn’t whisper, in fact he seemed incapable of it, in spite of the other mercenaries well-intentioned warning. “Sorry for being late to the party. I’ve always been one for a big entrance- Never been a wallflower, see?”  

Despite the nonchalance of his drawl the stranger’s eyes scanned the dark warehouse strategically, the rafters, behind shipping containers, the walkways, eventually he landed on the doorway that Hanzo had referenced and smirked.  It was easy to underestimate McCree with his outlandish visage, yet once again they were crossing paths, on the hunt for a high priority target. Jesse was worth more than face value, and had played it to his advantage his entire life.

He came to a stop before Hanzo, extending his cybernetic arm to the fallen man, an olive branch in a otherwise tumultuous ‘partnership’. As if Hanzo needed any reminder of their circumstances Peacekeeper dangled from McCree’s free hand, an unspoken threat. “The name’s McCree, by the by…How bout we do the people of Medan a great justice and clean out these ’accomplices’? I been in town a few days, word is Amir’s thugs took control of this warehouse weeks ago, lots of good people been out of work. Lots of good people didn’t make it home.” Sure, the massive bounty on the Omnic’s head had brought Jesse here, but the horror stories from the locals had incensed him, as evident by the vigor in his tone. The people he met in Medan could just as easily be his neighbors in Santa Fe. They deserved safety, no matter the body count.

From behind the door Jesse could hear the clamor of a small group approaching. His dark eyes shone with an adrenaline fueled spark; somethings would never change, the cowboy loved a good shootout. “Regardless, don’t sound like we have much time. What’s it gonna be? I bet you my last bullet some of these fools got decent bounties on their heads.” McCree cantered his head towards the lifeless Omnic body, still short-circuiting next to them. “Can’t promise they’ll all go down that easy but I’ll watch your back if you’ve got mine.”

Whatever explicit displeasure at seeing this individual again Hanzo might’ve been holding back just moments ago seemed to be steadily creeping out the more he listened to him speak.

“I can assure you I am equally as surprised,” he responded to the bounty hunter’s apparent skepticism with a derisive sneer, dropping his hushed tone to almost growl the words upon realizing that in the company of this character a low profile would be a pointless endeavor. “Hm. I should have known a man that walks into hostile territory with spurs clinking on his heels was below such things as subtlety.”

Despite the exasperation in his voice and the distrust in his gaze that remained unwaveringly on the pistol-wielding stranger, Hanzo did at least seem somewhat reassured—as much as someone as leery of others as he was could be—that he wasn’t encountering an immediate adversary, as evidenced by him finally fully pushing the omnic’s body off himself and to the side. He was in the process of getting back onto his feet when the fellow mercenary began to approach him, causing Hanzo to pause and eye him as if again assessing the likelihood of violence to erupt. When it did not and instead a literal helping hand was offered forth, Hanzo couldn’t help but stare at the metal limb with a look of distaste, a look of not having the least bit of intention to accept its offer—but the prosthetic’s owner’s—’McCree,’ apparently—words seemed to catch the archer’s attention firmly enough for him to redirect his glare towards McCree’s face. The look with which Hanzo examined the other man’s expression was incredibly critical, yes, but seemingly not overtly disapproving. By the way Hanzo’s eyes flitted to each facial muscle that moved as he was addressed, one might have even guessed it wasn’t the message of the words he was analyzing as much as... perhaps the intentions and level of honesty put behind them? It wasn’t immediately clear—Hanzo Shimada wasn’t an easy man to read, that was for certain.

But all that would have to wait—Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, the approaching clamor clearly taking precedence in his mind. His gaze hesitantly darted back down to the hand in front of him before returning to settle firmly back on the McCree’s own gaze. Hanzo stared him down in a manner eerily similar to the way he had during their armed standoff back in London—although a sudden grip on McCree’s inorganic forearm seemed to indicate things could maybe end more diplomatically this time around. It was almost jarring the way Hanzo got to his feet; he did not wait for McCree to grab ahold of his own forearm as well and help him up, instead opting to use him more like a handrail one would use to pull themselves upward, all the while maintaining that domineering eye contact as if to make clear this gesture was the unspoken establishment of a truce rather than an acceptance of aid.

“Your indiscretion has given me little choice,” Hanzo retorted as he established a combat-ready stance, grasping his bow tightly and retrieving an arrow from his quiver. “I have two options, and that is I can either assist you or let you succumb to the fate your bravado has earned you as a distraction for my own exit; I have more self-respect than return your favor in such a shameful way as the latter—despite your foolishness—which leaves me with a one, sole option.”

Hanzo repositioned himself as to be along the wall of the closed door, to his other side some shipping containers that would likely allow for future cover.

“Any bounty to gain from their deaths will simply be a pleasant gratuity,” he replied as he raised his bow in preparation, looking as if he planned to hide in the blind spot of anyone who will have only just entered the room, as to catch them off guard. As the sound of individuals at the door became apparent, Hanzo saw fit to flash McCree one last, markedly resolute scowl.

“They will die regardless.” 

The door swung outwards with a loud clang. No one had even entered the room yet, but Hanzo didn’t need them to—apparently it had never been his intention to wait for such after all. He couldn’t see them, but he had only needed to follow the silhouettes of their shadows on the floor to know where to send send an arrow flying. It seemed that ‘somewhere’ was into the surface of the opened door, which upon impact the arrowhead scattering into multiple, blue light-trailed fragments that ricocheted and were sent zipping into temple of the gunman—a human surprisingly, although were other omnics among the group—foremost in the doorway, as well as grazing the faces of a few others behind him.

I’D SAY HE’S COURAGEOUS in that he most definitely is not deterred by danger or pain and never has been. I don’t think he would consider himself such because ‘courageous’ tends to carry implications of like, glory and heroism, and Gabriel is much more likely to say he’s the type that just does what needs to be done. He and (my) Jack have that in common- but the difference is that for Gabriel it doesn’t just stop at physical danger/pain. He’s emotionally courageous as well in that - usually - even if something is painful or difficult to talk about, bring up, or work through, he’ll do it because it has to be done. 

The two were hidden in the shadows, out of sight from the targets they’d been observing. Genji, normally a glowing beacon in the dark, had powered down the lights in his form; now he was all but sightless and soundless, a ghost when he moved. They huffed with amusement, head swivelling towards McCree.

No amount of time, no number of drinks, nor innumerable good deeds, could make Jesse McCree forget the Uprising in Kings Row. Years later he could still picture the events clearly, the chatter of gunfire, the screaming civilians, Th- Jesse stopped his monotonous pace, heaving a sigh. He didn’t have time to dredge up old demons, he was here on business. Low profile business, but business nonetheless. 

As he came to from his late night trip down memory lane he realized he was no longer alone. 

Dammit McCree.

Best case? Someone hired to assassinate him. 

Worst case? Someone looking to snag the reward for his current hit before he could. 

Seamlessly McCree whipped around, drawing Peacekeeper, armed and ready.

But not as ready as the stranger with an arrow aimed directly between his eyes. 

Jesse felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, but his aim never faltered, usual cocky grin cemented in place. 

“Well howdy!- guess someone round these parts had to square up for the title of best dressed.” 

He remained remarkably glib for a man facing uncertain death. He was either incredibly skilled, or fatally confident. “Now why don’t we talk all this out?” 

Despite his playful tone the gun never moved.

The glare that greeted the gunslinger as he turned around was as sharp and oppressive as the arrow he found pointed at his face, the bow-wielding stranger’s eyes looking as if they were trying to bore holes into the other’s head.

“Hm,” Hanzo hummed as he continued to stare the other individual down, although a flicker of amusement appeared in the form of a fleeting, subtle smirk. “Are you inferring you are the competition?”

Hanzo’s brow furrowed as his voice suddenly lowered into an icy scornfulness, the grasp on the grip of his bow visibly tightening.

“Because I would call those bold words from a man who does not bother to repair the holes in his own frayed clothing.”

Tilting his chin up ever so slightly, Hanzo eyed the weapon that was aimed at his own head for a moment, appearing to briefly studying the details of the revolver as he did so. After several seconds his gaze leisurely transitioned back onto the individual before him, appearing overall rather unflinching despite the current situation he found himself in - although perhaps that was just always how a hired gun had to conduct themselves regardless in such confrontations, as McCree himself was all too likely familiar with.

“But I digress,” he finally continued, the projectile Hanzo held and its accompanying glower still just as unyieldingly in their implied threat as ever. “Lower your weapon and step aside and there will be no need to ‘talk this out.’ Ideally—“

He finally lower his head to be level again, narrowing his eyes as he spoke.

“Who said you needed to apologize for “beating him up”?”

What was she? The young man’s mother? She wasn’t here to argue about morality with hot-headed dogs that took their issues out on each other like pre-school children, In fact, it was rather amusing— so long as she wasn’t the one cleaning up the mess. The scene, however, had  been enough of a distraction that she had to stop her work to at least see what had been going on. One could only ignore such noise for so long.