d i s a r m [ dars

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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 ]

Last Edit: Nov 14, 2016 0:34:23 GMT -5 by Deleted

umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]
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d i s a r m [ dars Dec 5, 2016 0:05:18 GMT -5

Post by umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] on Dec 5, 2016 0:05:18 GMT -5

Clothes.

I've been locked up for so long, wearing rags for clothing. There are plenty of things that I should have missed more: good food, decent company, freedom, but I have missed clothes, and from the moment I started getting a paycheck again, that is what I did: bought clothes. Clothes I don't need, clothes I won't ever wear, clothes that don't even fit me. I'm lucky my apartment has four closets, I guess.

I am wearing a gown that was far too expensive and is far too flashy for the restaurant, but I don't care. I've had it for a couple weeks, it makes my ass look nice, and I haven't gotten to wear it yet, so.

I wondered for so long what it was like on the outside: how much had changed. When I was locked up, the days blurred together and time just-- it wasn't the best experience, okay? But now that I'm out, all I think of is the Detention Center. More particularly, I think of how everyone is doing. There was a young girl named Nadia who had only been in for a few months-- killed her abusive father to prevent him from killing her. The justice system doesn't always work, and she is living proof of it.

I couldn't help feeling protective of her. Lunches turned into study sessions where I would make her read, or sew bananas I chopped in half together so that when she gets out, at least she'll have a skill set and she'll be able to get a job.

I haven't heard from her since I was released, and since I am not permitted to go back to the Detention Center unless instructed, well...

Don't get me wrong: freedom is fucking amazing, if you want to call this freedom. Mostly I just train and go home. I adopted a cat to keep me company, though he might be the spawn of Satan, and I shop to distract myself from-- what? Life? The fact that I have to live again for the first time in years?

I'm pathetic, I know.

I ran into him by chance, since the officials are keeping us all separated until the group is completely formed. Jessie McCrae. He is a walking, talking, extremely handsome mystery. I must have had a thousand conversations with the boy, but he always managed to avoid the hard stuff. He was evasive enough to not answer any questions that told me anything meaningful about him, and while he is probably my closest friend, I would feel a hell-of-a-lot closer to him if I could actually know him.

Overwatch: a chance for those of us stupid enough to get caught to catch everyone else. A chance for us to turn over a new leaf and be "good" again, because breaking the law means a person isn't good, don't you know? (Bullshit. Most of the kids I met in the Detention Center were decent people who had a bad day. Example A: Me. Example B: Nadia.) Jessie is in Overwatch, and so am I.

Because I know how to stitch up a wound and shove meds down an unwilling toddler's throat, I have apparently redeemable qualities.

"A person doesn't acquire your skill set by chance, Mercy. It shows dedication. And that means you have it in you to work toward something. It is our job to help you work for the light instead of the dark." He is right-- I didn't get my skills by chance. I got them because I have overbearing parents who constantly bitched at me to help them with patients.

I'm not better than anyone. And I don't know what they see in me, but I know it isn't there. It is just a matter of time until they figure it out and I'm back on the inside, listening to everyone's problems and trying my best to make them feel better because it is the only thing I know how to do.

I was buying a scarf made of silk in the Center and I saw him walking by. I didn't even know he was a part of this. I don't know anyone involved in this, since I was the first released, but I'm happy McCree was among the redeemed. He has potential yet, even if he refuses to admit it to himself.

"I've missed you, Kid." I had called. He knew it was me before he even turned around, which made me feel good.

"I bet." he had replied.

And now here I am, walking into a restaurant, right on time. I bet he smells nice.

"I'm supposed to be meeting a friend," I tell the waitress, "Tall, dark, handsome? Looks like he's seen some shit?" "Erm, a Mr. McCree?" she asks, looking down at a list that probably says he is the only one waiting on someone.

"Right this way."

Chandeliers and pretty wallpaper are quite the step up from cement walls and no windows. And the food isn't served on trays, which is even better.

"You look positively ravishing, Jessie." I say in a mocking tone.

^{I AM A GARDEN OF BLACK AND RED AGONIES}

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d i s a r m [ dars Jan 4, 2017 16:47:12 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 4, 2017 16:47:12 GMT -5

These streets feel famished.

That's just part of the paranoia, I reckon, crossing my arms and burying my neck into my shoulders as good as I can; it feels uncomfortably empty in here. A weird sinking feeling you see, there's families in here. Happy actual families, a woman and her child, an elderly couple, they smile and eat and laugh and I sit here rotting like I shoulda all along.

It's never felt lonelier.

And I'm sitting here questioning if this was what Reinhardt thought of me for. Placed alone, shaky legs and hot hands; questioning why he even thought to pick a boy like me anyways. I ain't exactly been a candy man and he knows of it, I sit high jacking trains of thoughts like that renegade cowboy I'll always be -- why me.

Should I have the room to question these things either? The shirt on my back fits, restaurant air gets drunk off the salt in my skin and I'm getting my first post-felony meal, I don't have to use a shitty plastic fork anymore. Sins bare my back and dig into salt lick scratches but I'm here, under every will and question I'd done something right enough to sit me at this table; the least I can do is be grateful. Gabriel always told me that was my hubris and-

("Sir, are you ready to order?"

"I'm waiting for a friend, sorry-")

I guess he's always been right.

A kiss, a whisper; it's hard to think in here. Mercy takin' her sweet little time, but I can't blame her for my survivor's guilt. Gabriel stares me in my eyes, I picture him sitting across from me at this very table every time I look up. Picture him with arms crossed as mine are, no axe nearby, a gun under his coat; you're a murderer. A package deal, father and son.

And he'd stay silent. He never had to say much but Alejandra and I never listened much either, Ameli- Widowmaker was different. She had to be and I can't look her in the eyes for she never had a choice but to. Right hand man with her finger on the trigger, she'd kill me when she got the chance, I reckon. Her name was on the list, well after mine but Reinhardt holds no limits in this delinquent adoption thing huh? She'll be out here like the rest of us killer kids and I'll tip my hat -- she'll ignore it. Widow would tell Gabriel I'm out with a knife in her boot and she'd be at this table before he would be.

"You look positively ravishing, Jessie."

I stammer. Like gunshots, a pretty voice ticks at my conscience like a bar fight and Jessie; my heart beat like a stutter, it catches in my throat and goes dyin' back down again.

"Aww shucks," be still my heavy heart and I smile, Mercy. "I haven't even showered yet, darlin'," through an overbearing smile and cigarette breath, if that ain't a damn lie. Scrubbed at my skin like it was a grease stain for the past few days -- it's a good hobby at least. Different from my days with Gabriel, the outskirts weren't the cleanest place. I lean back as Mercy takes her seat. My arm resting crooked on the chair's back -- "I'm happy you're here," she sits in Gabriel's seat. A softer set of eyes, and I can't help thinking that this is why Reinhardt choose me.

"Kid."

[ firestorm ]