folsom prison blues { widow

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folsom prison blues { widow Jan 6, 2017 4:22:04 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 6, 2017 4:22:04 GMT -5

J E S S I E
M C C R E E

I ain't never expected to stare the devil in his own two eyes.

Mercy held my hand over the dinner table, whispering her little halo talks into the dirt of my skin -- "it'll be okay, Jessie." A smile, a drink, "you're going to be okay," and it didn't sound so condescending outta her mouth. Just a promise. We laughed and talked in this first time in ages and she prayed for the sake of my name, I prayed for the sake of her smile; traitors don't get it easy.

My lord did I really believe her, huh.

And I tipped my hat to the devil myself, a smile and I reckon I could climb this mountain myself. Bit my tongue and watched her seamlessly exist in a way that she knew in her fingers laid the bullet to my skull -- she'll kill me yet. We crossed shoulders. Like the reaper and the parted, only I don't know where my fate lays. Widowmaker, two of the same, two of the same genocide generations to the point of knowing who she is.

Knowing who she used to be. But she can say the same for me really; now that we're on the same turf again I reckon. Nights pass of me trying to not think of it, not think of Amelie's cold smile and the twist of muscles as she walked. Now if that's not a thing to be a'drinkin to then I ain't got a clue what is. My apartment's cramped, compared to what I've seen of the other's. Or maybe it's just the messiest, I don't have a clue. Empty beer bottles racked on the floor, stains in the carpet and bedsheets, there ain't no need to go cleaning it up right now anyways.

Not when I might not even live to see a week from now.

Reinhardt invited me to his office and I didn't hesitate. Every minute I spend along with him feels like a minute saved to my clock; he doesn't know much of what I'm fuckin' with but I reckon he doesn't need to know much. Few times now he's walked me on smoke breaks from the quarters back to my apartment, father-son style and all, but I shook my head and told him I'd be fine this time.

The spurs on my boots jangle as I walk, Reinhardt begs me not to smoke much in the building but honey I don't have the days to wait to walk outside for one half of a cigarette. Echoes through the dimly lit hallway bit my soul -- it's weird going through the same building at night for the first time. Simple games and gun building, Tracer and I laughed down these same halls but it feels a different life.

Midnight and moon light burns in my lungs, cigarette ash kissing my soul and fuck- a choke, a cough, I ain't no pretty smoker. Pacing down the hallways back and forth until the carry of another's steps become an offbeat tempo to the jangles of my boots, tapping on the tip surface of smooth waxed floor. I try not to pay mind to it, dropping ash flakes as I pace to who's coming. Trying to play it off as a custodian as I keep my eyes down until it's already upon me, fuck-

"You're shittin' me."

A cough, flicking the cigarette onto the ground and stepping on it -- I don't hesitate. I can't. Lit ashes hissing as I twist my heel into the ground, Widowmaker. Amelie Lacroix. A sister of borrowed blood and I can't swallow down anything else then "what the fuck're you doin' here." My hands tangled in the collar of her shirt and I slam her into the wall -- I can't trust her.

The cornered animal is the most dangerous one, I reckon.

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folsom prison blues { widow Mar 14, 2017 21:02:39 GMT -5

Post by Python on Mar 14, 2017 21:02:39 GMT -5

Flowers did not bloom for her. Shops of bouquets and useless trinkets lined cobblestone streets, displayed like treasures for hot-blooded patrons. Widowmaker could admit that flowers were aesthetically pleasing, but any meaning beyond that would not reach a numb conscience. In her past life, Amelie might’ve fallen in love. With whom she could not say. The dead girl was an anomaly written in dusty records of her lifespan, locked away like a diary’s secrets. Widowmaker had swallowed the key along with all of the pain that seared her conscience into an empty, sterile platter. Could Amelie love? Maybe. She didn’t care. A dead girl’s emotions meant nothing.

This did not mean the concept of love didn’t pique her interest. She was free of those wretched chains, meaning she could finally taste liberation again. It was not under the best circumstances, working for people who could not match her true purpose in the world, but she was finally capable of lurking in the shadows without obligation. What was a woman to do with such spare time? She certainly couldn’t waste away inside of her quarters. Her mind was to remain sharp.

So she would learn; learn the people, learn their drives, learn the world in this fresh perspective. She had new eyes that would drink more than what Amelie could ever endure.

She enjoyed the practicality of this new mind, how she could see the moon in all of its old glory and think of it not as a goddess, but as light. It illuminated a silver path in the shadow of a couple, their hands intertwined. She silently followed their tracks into a bar. There was a distinct smell that brought an uncomfortable rise in her chest. She couldn’t quite place what the sensation was, but she quickly suppressed it.

An assassin could not weaken her mind with alcohol. She owned freedom with an iron grip, but her taste for inhibition had expired. She sat idly on a bar stool, waiting, watching.

”Hey little lady, can I buy you a drink?”

”No.”

Amelie would say yes.

She yawned, quickly losing interest in the environment. For a crowded bar, it was tame. No fights, no shouts, no commotion she could look upon with mild amusement. Freedom had its perks and its bores; with nothing to pursue and nothing to gain, she walked out. She glanced at the couple on her way out, chatting in a corner with beers in their hands.

Widowmaker couldn’t partake in such trivial customs.

Down the cobblestone streets she walked, passing by the shops and their flowers once more. Her interest was fleeting – why had she come down this path, only to sit in a stool and watch fools be fools until she grew bored?

She needed a spark of life, something interesting and new.

No, she needed a mission. A spider never felt more alive than when it had a target to maim. But she could settle for something less – a pair of familiar hands wrapped up in her collar. She let him slam her into the wall without consequence. There was a gentle sting in her spine, like a cold raindrop.

”What the fuck're you doin' here,” said Jessie Mccree.

Her lips coiled into a smile. ”Walking.” It was a wonder how both of them ended up here, fates entangled if she could believe in such things. Either way, it was entertainment.

”What are you doing here, Mccree?”

[ firestorm ]

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folsom prison blues { widow Mar 26, 2017 0:05:24 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Mar 26, 2017 0:05:24 GMT -5

J E S S I E
M C C R E E

Cowboys ain't got no time for fate, guess it's been a while since I fought. Not since I shot Huck, since I dropped Reaper like I had a choice and the good god sent this fucker back to me- great. Might as well ferment my own piss with this luck, my hands balled inta the threads of her shirt and I reckon I thought I was slicker than this.

I reckon I'm supposed to be, huh.

Old renegade vigilante and all, I stare Amelie in the eyes; if she wasn't so fucked I'd go round assumin she's stupid. Ain't nothing good come outta dead lock, not me, not her, Alejandra's trapped in solitary for years - shit. I don't know whether I'm supposed to be afraid uh her, whether she's placing me in the early grave or if space cowboys like me gotta tip toe round open graves.

"What the fuck're you doin' here,"

"Walking."

I'm trippin on my western tongue, tryin my best to condemn her a fate worse than myself for the same crimes -- only supposed to be good people here. Ones like Oxton and, and uhh, Mercy; I bite my tongue, the grip of her shirt loosening. Furrowing my brows, ain't no good in her, nor me, and maybe it's nothin more than hypocritical hate but these fuckers wanna kill me.

Hell'll burn before I go down like Huck.

"What are you doing here, Mccree?”

"What," pushin her to the wall a second time, "Reaper got tired of breakin' bones?" And maybe I'm the fool, thinkin I was good for a second being around Lena and Genji and Milford, what good can Amelie do. Dropping my hands from her shirt, clenchin those ole cowboy fists -- one swing, come on darlin'.

And hell, maybe it wasn't always like this; say I was still young an' all, bandana wrapped round my neck playin cops and robbers with Alejandra. Widow ain't never had that, never had red sand and burnin' suns, if she died ain't no one weepin' and I don't know which is sadder, for her or for Amelie but I can't go on livin haunted by Gabriel and his fuckin' mountain assassins.

"You keep him on the fuck away from here-" a burnin' in my throat, Reyes's ass hauntin around while Sombra rots, shit, punchin the wall beside her ear, close enough for eyebrows to kiss, "or I swear I'll shoot the both of ya." Blood pulses in my fist, whisper talks atween us like I'm back in that damn prison and I half-miss it.

Half-missing, half-dead; white-eyed white liners, reckon my bark's always been bigger than my bite.