Son of a bitch!

Jesse McCree slammed his fist into the wall of his cell with all his might. He expected the concrete to crack under the force, or at least make a mildly satisfying noise upon impact. All he got instead was a dull, pathetic-sounding tap and a sudden feeling in his hand akin to having had it trampled under B.O.B.'s oversized metal feet.

He held back a pained vocalization as he withdrew his arm and watched it throb and turn bright red. As he shook it to try to get the blood flowing again he looked back up at where he'd punched. Didn't even bloody my damn knuckles, he thought as he sighed through gritted teeth. Guess it's kinda typical, considerin' how this all turned out.

Stepping back and sinking into his bunk, he let his head tip back until the brim of his hat was curled up against the wall and closed his eyes to try to get in some much-needed rest. The problem was that as the desert sun began to dip beneath the horizon outside his cell window, the intense light entered at just an angle so that closed or open, sitting or lying down, or even with his hat serving as a cover, he was denied the chance.

The outlaw scoffed in extreme annoyance as he readjusted his hat. To say that things in the past twelve hours had been a complete disaster for himself and the Deadlock Gang was putting it mildly. By now, an inconvenience like this was just adding insult to injury.

It was supposed to have been a simple job with a huge payday: An armoured van en route to the federal mint in San Francisco, filled to the brim with cash and without any escort. It seemed too good to be true, and yet he himself had confirmed that the tip was legitimate. It had even started off perfect: The triplets set up a roadblock, the sniper sabotaged the hover-tires when no one was looking, and McCree, Ashe, and her Omnic butler closed in, overpowered the driver and shotgun rider, and poised themselves to walk off with the biggest score of their career.

The problem was that the time-honoured adage still applied: If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.

The moment B.O.B. ripped the doors off the van's storage compartment was when it all started going south. There wasn't a single cent inside, only a dozen special forces soldiers clad in black armour and wielding high-end assault rifles. A flashbang from McCree had prevented the ambush from gunning them all down, but not for long enough that the gang could capitalize. A blazing firefight broke out, with both sides scrambling for whatever cover could be found on the side of the road. When Ashe called the job a bust and gave the order to retreat, McCree had protested, thinking that they could win despite being outnumbered and outgunned.

But then, he stepped out of the van.

As opposed to the faceless goons, this guy was different. The armour he wore was less bulky, with no mask to cover his unchanging scowl or the scars that lined his face. When he arrived on the scene, all eyes were on him in an instant. He had to be their commander: He had an air of fear and respect among his men just like Ashe did with the gang. He was also the only one who wore any sort of marking, a heavily stylized, stark-white owl face within a red and white circle on his shoulders.

He walked headlong into the hailstorm of bullets with barely a second thought and pulled out two massive semi-automatic shotguns from behind his back, letting them loose in a deadly flurry in all directions. None of the gang had time to realize just how screwed they were; In those few seconds, the skirmish had gone completely one-sided. The triplets and the sniper were cornered and overwhelmed, B.O.B. was perforated with holes from the commander's weapons, and Ashe was screaming for McCree to get moving or she'd kill him herself.

At least it didn't come to that, he mused.

She didn't have time to. With no chance of escape, surrender was the only option. The next thing McCree knew he was being led to the cell he was now in, getting dirty looks from his cohorts as they were hauled off to their own eight-by-eight foot slices of maximum security life.

The bandit-turned-convict slouched forward and breathed in slowly, taking his hat off and placing his still-sore hand on his forehead as he did. So this is how it all ends, he mused dejectedly to himself. Sent up shit's creek without a paddle 'cause of one lousy sting. They might as well have just gotten six feet of rope and led me to the nearest tree, save me a lotta trouble.

Just then, the clunk of boots made him open his eyes back up again; Someone was coming. Swiftly he grabbed his hat, picked himself off the bunk, and leaned against the wall opposite the direction he heard them coming from with his arms crossed, not wanting to show any sort of weakness. Briefly he considered just who could have been headed his way. The footsteps were too heavy to be Ashe, too light to be B.O.B., and there was only one pair so it couldn't have been the triplets. In all likelihood, he reasoned, it was one of the rat bastards who put him away.

In short order, he had an answer. Speak of the devil.

McCree tipped his hat over his face, but underneath it he shot daggers at the commander. "Well howdy there, stranger. Welcome to Casa del Prison." he said, dripping with sarcasm. "I woulda tidied up, but I wasn't expectin' company."

The commander eyed the cell with fake admiration as he strode up in front of it. "There's definitely worse places to call home. You renting or did you buy it outright?"

"Got it for free. Me and my buddies were set up with it after we lost a job 'cause of this one guy. Real asshole if there ever was one. I'd thank him for it, but I kinda misplaced the gift I had ready."

A sly grin crept up one side of the commander's face. "Oh don't worry about that." he said. "He got it, in a manner of speaking."

McCree sniffed in and turned away in disinterest until he heard the telltale spin of his revolver's cylinder and the click of it being shut.

The commander raised an eyebrow, impressed by what he was seeing. "Quite the piece of work." he said. "Custom-made, forty-five caliber, high velocity armour-piercing bullets. No wonder you killed four of my men."

The cowboy could feel his heart wanting to burst through his chest. He tipped his hat up and looked the commander in the eye for the first time. "A gun's only as good as the man who's holdin' it." he said, reining in his anger. "If you'd open up this here door, I'd be happy to show ya what I mean."

The commander chuckled. "Nice try kid, but I'm not stupid. At least, not enough so to stay and fight when I know I'm going to lose."

"Who says I lost?"

"Winners don't get sent to federal prison."

McCree scoffed defiantly. "Nothin' I ain't heard before from men just like you, but in the end they all go down the same way."

The commander looked up from studying the revolver. "I'm not like most men." he replied candidly. "Though you've made me curious. Just how do they 'go down'?"

McCree pivoted on his heel so that he was now face to face with his adversary. "You ain't the first person to gloat when they think they've got the best a' me. Ain't likely gonna be the last, either. Thing is, though, the Deadlock Gang never lets the tables turn on 'em for long. When we bounce back, and we always do, those same people who think they're hot stuff when they won, well... let's just say they ain't so confident when they got the business end of a gun to their head."

The two men were silent for some time as they sized each other up further. Finally, the commander's scowl broke into a snicker, which in turn grew to a laugh.

McCree cocked his head to one side. "Somethin' you find funny?"

"Ah, it's nothing. Just that you're pretty confident for a fall guy."

For the first time in their exchange, McCree's reaction wasn't snarky. His brow furrowed under his hat and his eyes widened as he perked up, something the commander noticed just before the outlaw resumed his previous flippancy. "What're you talkin' about?" he asked through a forced laugh. "It's the middle a' summer."

"What I'm talking about is that just before I got here, I sat in on a plea bargain between the prosecutor and your ringleader. Ashe's her name, right?" He paused to see if the cowboy would respond, but was mildly displeased when all he got was a stony poker face.

"Anyways," he continued. "the deal they cut was that she and her robot sidekick get off on two years' probation in exchange for ratting out whoever came up with the idea to rob the armoured van. You'll never guess who she said greenlit the heist."

"You're lying." McCree answered, much angrier than he intended. "Ashe only lives by a few rules, and top of those are that you don't work with the law and that you never turn on family."

"It's amazing what people will do in order to save their own skins, even if it means becoming a hypocrite. Also, I don't think her definition of 'family' applies to people who nearly get her thrown in jail."

Seeing that the kid's manner hadn't changed, he reached into his pocket and produced a portable holo-projector that he promptly activated. On it was recorded footage, dated at less than five minutes ago, of Ashe walking out of the prison's front entrance alongside the triplets and the sniper, the former of whom were yapping like a pack of hyenas.

"Thanks fer puttin' up the bail, boss!" one of the triplets hollered.

"Anything for the family." Ashe replied. Even from the distant security camera that had caught the footage, her smug, victorious grin, spread wide across her ruby lips, was easy to see.

"Say, speakin' a' family, where's McCree? You an' B.O.B. bail 'im out too?" another triplet called out.

Ashe did a one-eighty on her heel to look at her partners in crime. With a whistle, she had the undivided attention of the whole gang.

She brushed her silver hair off her face and placed one hand on her hips as she spoke. "Now y'all better listen up 'cause I'm not repeating this. McCree is settin' an example as to what happens if you let the family down. Y'know that to be in the family, you gotta do what I say. Right?"

The gang all nodded in reply.

"Good t'hear. Now somethin' I hope y'all will know for next time is that when you don't do what I say, the rules, and what they mean for you, ain't gonna apply anymore. McCree broke my rules and nearly took us all down with 'im, so he's gonna stay in that cell 'til all that's left is worm food." She raised her rifle off her shoulder and flicked the lever, a wordless way of making sure she was understood.

Again, the gang all nodded.

Her reassertion as the top of the food chain complete, she shouldered her rifle again and tipped her hat back, bringing the sparkle of a free woman in her crimson eyes into full view. "Don't worry, he promised he'd write." she said glibly, which prompted laughter from her cohorts. "Now, who's up for a few rounds on me?"

The triplets' elation picked up again at the notion, and got even more raucous as B.O.B. rolled up at the wheel of a pickup truck and gestured for them to pile in so they could ride off into the sunset.

As the recording concluded, the silence that initially followed was promptly ended by the heavy crunch of broken cement. Though McCree was still leaning against the wall and had tipped his hat forward again, he had pounded his fist on the wall in a flash of rage. His breathing had become audibly heavy, with each exhale hissing out through a fierce grimace that tightened as a dribble of blood fell off his knuckles. At the same time, he reached for one of his shirt sleeves and peeled off the Deadlock symbol on it, a dusty-brown skull flanked by eagle wings and with the words 'Deadlock Rebels' chained on with a padlock, and tossed it out of sight.

The commander took notice of the actions as he put away the projector. "I'm sorry, kid," he condoled. "but sometimes that's how it goes. Trust me, I've been in your shoes. I know what it's like when-"

"You think so?" The cowboy growled rhetorically. "Do you REALLY think you got an idea of what's goin' on?"

"You got hung out to dry; It happens. Like I said, I know what-"

"No you don't!" McCree snapped, hitting the bars with even more vitriol as he looked the commander square in the eye. "Ashe and I built the gang from the ground up 'cause it was all we had. Nobody'd ever given a damn about us, so we decided we were gonna give a damn about each other, no matter what." He got off from the wall for the first time in their conversation and pressed against the cell door. "But you wouldn't understand that, and you wanna know why? Because you're just here to rub it in my face that I fucked up royal! All this means jack shit to you. You've probably rode in on your high horse to every stupid kid you ever left to rot behind bars just to tell 'em that they're nothin' but a failure, that they've let everybody they ever cared about down." Suddenly aware that he'd just said much more than he'd meant to, he turned around, threw his hat to the ground, and slumped onto his bunk, tired and defeated.

The commander cupped a hand around his goatee and stroked it slowly; This was unexpected, but not disheartening. It just meant he'd have to play his hand a little sooner and a little straighter. "I'm not here to gloat, kid, and you're definitely not stupid. If you were, I wouldn't be giving you a second chance."

"At what?!"

"Life." the commander said plainly. "I'm offering you a job. It's the only way you're getting out of here alive."

McCree shot him an incredulous look. "Oh that's just rich! You're a liar on top a' being a goddamn braggart!"

The commander let the insult slide; A shouting match wasn't going to get him anywhere. "I'm not lying. I'll prove it." he replied, resolution evident in his voice. In response, McCree pursed his lips and turned away, not interested in that self-righteous prick anymore.

That is, until he saw his revolver slide along the floor and come to a halt at his feet.

His eyes fixated on the gun as he picked it up and tried to piece together why the commander would make such a move. He didn't need to think about it long, however, as the answer was given to him.

The commander leaned on the railing opposite McCree's cell and crossed his arms. "Here's how it's gonna go." he explained, his tone firm but not domineering. "I'm going to explain why I'm here and why you should at least consider what I'm offering. If at any point you think that I'm lying, bragging, or any other adjective you think might fit, you're welcome to shoot me down right then and there. Until then, I want you to sit back and pay attention. I've listened to everything you've said to me. Now it's your turn."

McCree's gaze darted between the commander and the revolver several times. He flicked the cylinder open; Sure enough, there were six live bullets in there, and a visual check over the rest of the weapon's bits and pieces showed everything in working order.

The gun's condition wasn't his main concern, though. An extremely gutsy move had just been made, one that offered the outlaw a tantalizing chance. He pulled back the hammer until he heard it click and felt the trigger stiffen up. It would have been easy to put a bullet between the eyes of the man on the other side of the bars. A quick solution to his problem...

And yet, he realized, not to his most immediate problem. Even if the commander was a lying, derisive jerk, the chance of getting out of jail, however unlikely, was something that resonated in his most desperate thoughts, the ones that had taken root when he was tossed into his cell and had sent a chill down his spine upon learning of Ashe's betrayal. Anything was preferable to this eight-by-eight box and what it was coming to represent.

He slid the hammer back to its starting position and tucked the gun into the front of his belt before giving his full attention. The commander, noticing this, adjusted himself into a more comfortable stance and proceeded.

"You said you've known men just like me. Men you said would 'ride in on their high horse' just to gloat over your failures, and who think they're untouchable until you literally prove them dead wrong. I'm not saying I don't believe you, but if that's true then I've known more kids just like you than I can count; One in particular I knew very closely. Consider this: You're tough, whip-smart, exceedingly cocky, and you've got more potential than anyone realizes. That's an extremely potent blend of traits, but in someone young like you they can be just as dangerous to themselves as they can to other people. What you've got right now only takes you so far, and when you reach the end of the line, when you have no one and nothing that can save you, you find that your entire world comes crashing down like a glass house. By the time the dust settles, you're so scared that you just want it all to go away forever. You might be able to hide it at first, but anyone who knows what it's like can see right through whatever facade you put up and take a measure of just what's left of you. 'How do I know what it's like', you may ask? Simple. That one kid like you I knew closely, was me."

There was a long pause. McCree swelled up in anger at first, nearly pulling back the hammer again. But where his heart wanted him to gun the commander down, his mind was telling him to keep listening. As much as he hated to admit it, the commander was keeping his word.

"Let me tell you a story. Details may not be exactly the same, but I'm sure you've heard it before." The commander closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before letting it out gradually. "I was born in the worst part of L.A. Mom left everything she ever had back east to look for opportunities that didn't exist, and Dad was an illegal who did whatever he could to avoid getting deported. Hell," he smirked. "that was the main reason why they got married and had me before either of them had turned twenty."

The sigh he let out was very much protracted. "As you can imagine, my childhood wasn't exactly idyllic. When I was seven Mom hanged herself in the living room, and two days later Dad disappeared like a ghost. I never saw or heard from him again. I don't know what happened to him, but truth be told I don't care."

He paused again, this time to adjust his posture. "So at that tender age, there I was: On my own, left to fend for myself, no one to make a good impression on me. At least, at first. You see around that time, I met what you could describe as a kindred spirit."

McCree, still keeping his end of the bargain, saw the look on the commander's face and in his eyes: A perplexing combination of fond recollection and bitter contempt.

"Guy's name was Edwin Jose Escobar, but he preferred being called Eddie." the commander said. "He was the son of a banker and a city councilwoman so money wasn't a problem, but getting his parents to acknowledge his existence was. Right off the bat the two of us clicked. I was a natural at outrunning the police and thinking on my feet, while he was a born leader who could talk his way out of anything. Come to think of it, he was a lot like your Ashe. Y'know, minus the butler."

When McCree realized that he'd shared a chuckle with him, he expected his skin to crawl. And yet...

The commander gazed off to one side, a distinct happiness influencing his look. "By the time I was nine, him and I were seasoned shoplifters and pickpockets. When I turned twelve, Eddie surprised me with a meeting with the head of the local street gang, a bunch of thugs called Los Santos, The Saints. Let me tell you, it was one helluva birthday present. Over the next six years him and I climbed the ranks. Shoplifting turned into armed robbery, armed robbery into carrying out hits, and carrying out hits into low-level enforcing and dealing drugs. It was us against the world, and we made a great team. No one gave a damn about us, so we gave a damn about each other, no matter what." He turned to regard McCree, again wanting to see how he reacted. To his satisfaction, the cowboy seemed almost sympathetic. At the very least, he hadn't tried to shoot him yet.

His head hung low, the nostalgia fading away as he resumed his story. "But of course, it didn't last. Two days before my eighteenth birthday, Eddie was at a crack house loading up on product to sell when he got caught in a police raid. There was enough evidence there to put him away for good, but since he was only one guy, the district attorney made him a deal. In exchange for a reduced sentence and community service, Eddie told him the names of every person in the gang he'd committed a crime with." His voice deepened to a raspy snarl and his face scrunched in anger. "Every. Single. Fucking. One. You'll never guess who was at the top of the list."

The look on McCree's face was evident that the gears in his head were turning, though not because of the rhetorical question or over whether or not what he heard was a lie; The answers to both of those were obvious.

Now the commander's tone went somber and whisper-quiet. "The night I spent in the station's cell block was the most scared I've ever been in my life. I had no chance of defending myself; Whatever they charged me with I was going to be found guilty of. I was tired, terrified, and I didn't know what was going to happen next. I wanted to take the same way out that my Mom did all those years ago, but before I could do anything I was dragged out of my cell to the courtroom."

A smirk suddenly grew on him and his normal speaking tone returned. "Remember how I said I was two days away from turning eighteen when they got me? Well, when I entered the courtroom I was legally still a minor for the next twenty-four hours, so the judge gave me a choice. I could either wait out another night and be tried the next day as a legal adult, or..." He slowed down his speech as so to place emphasis. "I could join the military and get a second chance at life. It was the only way I was getting out of prison alive."

"So that's what this is all about, huh?" McCree asked, assuming that the commander was done his story. "You wanna give me that same second chance you got?"

As the commander leaned forward, the glint in his eyes was clear to see. "A gun's only as good as the man who's holding it, but a man's only as good as his ability to learn from his mistakes. The reason why you got caught was because while you've got talent, it's never going to amount you to anything as long as you're a bandit. Come work for me, and I'll make sure that you never see the inside of a prison cell again. I'll teach you every trick I used in that sting and then some, give you access to the best equipment, the best teammates, you name it. The next time you meet Ashe, her cronies, or anyone else who decides they'd like a piece of you, they won't stand a chance. Alternatively, you can stay here in this cozy eight-by-eight hole in the wall, and let your so-called 'family' ride off into the sunset as you twist in the wind." He pushed himself off the railing and stood up tall. "Opportunity's knocking, kid. It's your choice whether you answer."

Finally, McCree showed that he was impressed. What option he was going to choose wasn't even close, especially considering how much the commander appeared to be laying himself out for the young outlaw. It seemed almost too good to be true, but there was only one way to find out.

"'Round my neck a' the woods, deals get settled with a handshake." he said as he picked up his hat and put it back on. "That ain't exactly gonna work so long as I'm in here. You got a key so we can settle this proper?"

The commander reached into another pocket and produced a card that he swiped along the cell door's lock, opening it with a loud clang. When the handshake sealed the deal, him and McCree were standing no more than a foot apart, face to face with nothing to keep one away from the other.

The first thing McCree did after they each let go was land a left hook directly on the jaw.

The commander wasn't so much staggered as he was shocked, and though he regained his bearings swiftly, by the time he'd wiped his attacker's blood off his face the gunslinger's weapon was pointed right between his eyes at point blank range.

The tables had turned, though not for long.

In an instant, the commander retaliated with a swift kick to the shins, throwing his attacker off balance. With well-trained speed he tackled the outlaw, pinned him against the bars of the cell in a submission hold, wrenching the weapon out of his hand as he twisted one arm behind his opponent's back and readying one of his own shotguns.

Seeing how the tables had been turned, McCree's last doubts were put to rest. "Guess you were right." he said. "You really aren't like most men."

A deafening silence followed what had been a split second of calamity. The air was tense with deadly anticipation as both men waited for the other's next move. The silence was ended when the commander finally realized just what was going on and relinquished his hold.

"That took some nerve." he acknowledged as he put away his weapon. "I have half a mind to lock you back up in that cell."

"That's why we shook hands before I punched you." McCree answered as he picked up his own firearm and dusted himself off. "Ya can't go back on a deal after you shook on it."

The commander chuckled for a brief moment. "You're shrewd, kid. We can build on that."

He then reached into another pocket and took out something before hiding it in his curled fist. McCree looked at him inquisitively until he revealed what he had: A patch just like the one the commander wore on his shoulders and a bandage for his knuckles.

The cowboy picked them both up and once he'd wrapped his hand, he looked the badge over carefully. It wasn't quite as flashy as the old Deadlock one, but it looked like something he could definitely learn to appreciate. "Y'know, I didn't get your name earlier." he said.

"Gabriel Reyes, but you'll call me 'commander' or 'sir'. Now, whaddaya say? You think you're up to the challenge?"

McCree stuck the patch to his sleeve, right over where the Deadlock insignia had been. He mildly shrugged and mouthed out 'eh, why not?' under his breath. "You got it, 'sir'."

Reyes offered another handshake, which McCree this time obliged without sucker-punching him.

"In that case," the former said invitingly. "welcome to Blackwatch."