d i s a r m [ dars
Nov 7, 2016 21:50:43 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Nov 7, 2016 21:50:43 GMT -5
I ain't ever been one for public appearances. Mask around my throat, peacekeeper tidy in my own hands -- that's the whole thing about us bandit boys: we ain't no pretty folk. We hold our noses in bandannas and hide what our mama's gave us, low profile. Fifteen years a renegade, covered in gunpowder and fire marks and three years a prisoner, nothing more nothing less.
What the bullshit is business casual.
In the dirts we had work clothes and work clothes, marriages we brought out jeans and funerals we wore white shirts. My hand shakes, buttoning up white skedaddlece -- somethin ain't right. Maybe it's me and maybe it isn't, I shouldn't be out. Overwatch clinging to my skin like nicotine I can't shower off, a deadlock boy shouldn't be anywhere near peacekeepers; even if we ain't all bad. Huck was a murderin, just like the rest of us, and he got buried in khakis and a dyed red shirt.
But that ain't what justice is, ain't it now.
I slouch in the apartment, taking slow drags off the cigarette's burner.
Goddamn it.
It's high noon, brown and orange kissin the good earth - "you 'on't wanna be late, McCree." Smoke drawling from between my lips, I never smoked cause I liked it, reminds me too much of gunfire. Just a bad habit I couldn't ever kill, not even locked up in the damn d.c., Mercy swindlin' cigars with nice hips and white smiles - ain't none of those men spotted me anything nice, but I guess that's just differences now.
Click, I just can't keep my mind off o' it. The sound of the door closing behind me like the cocking of a revolver, cigarette smoke, firearm smoke. Hell, can't even look at the color red the same. Fumbling, I kill the smoke and button the rest of my shirt on the way. I swear, those three years ain't turned me into nothin but a walking pistol. I pulled my ass out of that fire, saved myself in a place where murderers like me don't get a second chance.
I just can't convince myself that I deserved it any.
And I can't go an' blame nobody but myself for the company I kept myself in - my hand shakes on the walk, stuffed in jean pockets. I ain't supposed to make it, and I can't blame myself for living either. One look in the eyes from Gabriel Reyes now and he'd shoot me on the spot if he weren't a lick smarter than I credit him for.
Shit.
I gotta stop blamin' here.
("It ain't even bad, y'know,"
"Depends who you're asking.")
For a place for ne'er do wells to rot, it really ain't all bad. A kid and his mother walk past me, the smell of smoke taggin my skin like a ghost - they grimace. What type a man am I? With the question I said I wanted out the detention center, told my cellmate I chosen the easier path 'cause I ain't stupid, and he said it was cause I'm a soft soul. That in my skin I craved to do something good, and I don't know anymore. A murderer, a gunslinger, a thief, a fugitive.
I reckon a man like that can't be saved.
Red hot -- tanned skin and battle marks, hairy and smoke. I fill a room.
They stare at me like I had the gun in my hand, like Huck died feet in front of me, still.
I ain't a fan.
A dying line, I ain't ever been a drinker but I may just try it. My lungs breathe awkward, never been one for fans. Change rattles in my pocket as I shake my hand -- I barely got enough for the night. Besides, I'm only the new sheriff in town, Overwatch's new lapdog. "Table for one-?" Maybe I shoulda just stayed my ass in lock up.
"Two, 'sir."
"Gotcha, right this way," I bite my cheek, I can't look him in the eyes as I sit.
Here's to hopin' Mercy ain't takin her sweet time.[ firestorm ]