The southern drawl is said through a mouthful of blood, a broken nose gushing across his lips as he smirks, goading his opponent into a trap. Been awhile since he's fought bare-knuckle, but has to admit it's quite the exciting rush. His opponent rushes in, and he dodges, sidestepping and managing to elbow them in the back to topple them over.
"Come on, 'm practically fallin' asleep here-!" It's nothing like the fights he's used to. Deadlock, Blackwatch, and Talon- all of them were far more skilled than anyone here, and it gives him an easy win- even if he'd let the opponent get a few licks in. With another few motions, he slams his metal fist into the side of his opponent's skull, knocking them down for the count.
He wipes the blood off his face with the back of his ungloved right hand, grinning out at the crowd. "Come on, that the best y'all got?" He looks around the crowd, tries to find someone to fight him. "I'll make a bet- first person who can knock me down gets all my winnings for the night!"
Hopefully someone will face him that's a challenge- maybe one of the strangers, like himself.
D - Scarecrows ||
Mercenary work tended to be a bit... different than this. Thievery, assassination, kidnapping- he's had to do it all, for the greater good. There wasn't a job McCree took that wasn't just, and he'd like to remind himself of that every time he had to face what he's done, not just as a mercenary but as a member of Blackwatch. Good of the many outweigh the few, kill one life to spare a million and all.
Which is why he finds it so strangely refreshing when most of the "hero for hire" ads on the town bulletin are something like trying to calm down some sentient scarecrows that have taken up arms against farmers trying to harvest their crops. Odd. But the likelyhood of anyone getting hurt or him having to do anything illegal are low.
His spurs jingle as he heads to the fields, his peacekeeper pistol holstered and the cigar in his mouth unlit. Should be easy enough, right? Just gotta talk to them, calm them down. Except the moment he enters the field, he feels eyes on him, sees the gleam of a pitchfork in the tall corn stalks.
Well. Could be a little less creepy.
"Alrighty, there, easy now. I ain't here to hurt you." He holds his hands up in surrender, trying to minimize his threatening demeanor. "Just want to talk."
Apparently, however, they didn't. One scarecrow jabs its pitchfork towards him, and another rushes him from behind, causing him to tumble. A yelp, a yell, and he sees someone else in the distance. "Hey-!" He shouts, tossing a straw-stuffed nightmare off of him.
"Mind givin' me a hand?!"
F - Questionable Liquid ||
This was probably not his best idea.
Already bad enough hospitals gave him the creeps, even ones that were bright and clean and shiny, filled with friendly looking staff. But this? This was a goddamn nightmare waiting to happen. The medical center seemed to be abandoned, and he'd already run into some of the roving skeletons of the previous researchers. They were easy enough to dispose of, but that wasn't exactly why he was here. No, he was looking for shards.
"Place gives me the creeps..." He mutters to himself as his footsteps echo down another abandoned hallway, his hand on his peacemaker. Ever ready, ever vigilant. He needs to just collect a few shards from that strange, dark pink liquid that seems to be collected in random buckets and beakers.
He finds one in what looks like an abandoned surgical suite, and he grimaces as he sticks his fingers into the liquid to retrieve it. It's sticky to the touch, he thinks, considering how it clings to the metallics of his prosthetic arm. Carefully, he holds up the shard to look at it in the dim light-
And is struck by a sensation that almost sends him to his knees, like the breath has been knocked out of him by grief and anguish. Memories flash before his eyes, churning in his brain as he grips at the operating table, accidentally knocks it over in his hurry to get out of there.
This had been a bad idea. And it was about to get worse, as he stumbles through the operating doors and straight into another person.
Jesse McCree || Overwatch
"That the best you got?"
The southern drawl is said through a mouthful of blood, a broken nose gushing across his lips as he smirks, goading his opponent into a trap. Been awhile since he's fought bare-knuckle, but has to admit it's quite the exciting rush. His opponent rushes in, and he dodges, sidestepping and managing to elbow them in the back to topple them over.
"Come on, 'm practically fallin' asleep here-!" It's nothing like the fights he's used to. Deadlock, Blackwatch, and Talon- all of them were far more skilled than anyone here, and it gives him an easy win- even if he'd let the opponent get a few licks in. With another few motions, he slams his metal fist into the side of his opponent's skull, knocking them down for the count.
He wipes the blood off his face with the back of his ungloved right hand, grinning out at the crowd.
"Come on, that the best y'all got?" He looks around the crowd, tries to find someone to fight him. "I'll make a bet- first person who can knock me down gets all my winnings for the night!"
Hopefully someone will face him that's a challenge- maybe one of the strangers, like himself.
D - Scarecrows ||
Mercenary work tended to be a bit... different than this. Thievery, assassination, kidnapping- he's had to do it all, for the greater good. There wasn't a job McCree took that wasn't just, and he'd like to remind himself of that every time he had to face what he's done, not just as a mercenary but as a member of Blackwatch. Good of the many outweigh the few, kill one life to spare a million and all.
Which is why he finds it so strangely refreshing when most of the "hero for hire" ads on the town bulletin are something like trying to calm down some sentient scarecrows that have taken up arms against farmers trying to harvest their crops. Odd. But the likelyhood of anyone getting hurt or him having to do anything illegal are low.
His spurs jingle as he heads to the fields, his peacekeeper pistol holstered and the cigar in his mouth unlit. Should be easy enough, right? Just gotta talk to them, calm them down. Except the moment he enters the field, he feels eyes on him, sees the gleam of a pitchfork in the tall corn stalks.
Well. Could be a little less creepy.
"Alrighty, there, easy now. I ain't here to hurt you." He holds his hands up in surrender, trying to minimize his threatening demeanor. "Just want to talk."
Apparently, however, they didn't. One scarecrow jabs its pitchfork towards him, and another rushes him from behind, causing him to tumble. A yelp, a yell, and he sees someone else in the distance.
"Hey-!" He shouts, tossing a straw-stuffed nightmare off of him.
"Mind givin' me a hand?!"
F - Questionable Liquid ||
This was probably not his best idea.
Already bad enough hospitals gave him the creeps, even ones that were bright and clean and shiny, filled with friendly looking staff. But this? This was a goddamn nightmare waiting to happen. The medical center seemed to be abandoned, and he'd already run into some of the roving skeletons of the previous researchers. They were easy enough to dispose of, but that wasn't exactly why he was here. No, he was looking for shards.
"Place gives me the creeps..." He mutters to himself as his footsteps echo down another abandoned hallway, his hand on his peacemaker. Ever ready, ever vigilant. He needs to just collect a few shards from that strange, dark pink liquid that seems to be collected in random buckets and beakers.
He finds one in what looks like an abandoned surgical suite, and he grimaces as he sticks his fingers into the liquid to retrieve it. It's sticky to the touch, he thinks, considering how it clings to the metallics of his prosthetic arm. Carefully, he holds up the shard to look at it in the dim light-
And is struck by a sensation that almost sends him to his knees, like the breath has been knocked out of him by grief and anguish. Memories flash before his eyes, churning in his brain as he grips at the operating table, accidentally knocks it over in his hurry to get out of there.
This had been a bad idea. And it was about to get worse, as he stumbles through the operating doors and straight into another person.