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[nostalgiabomb]

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[nostalgiabomb]

[ Peter turns, sees the light brightening the other side of the crater, hears the rumble of car engines (plural, he notes warily) moving toward them, and his mind races. People often accuse him of recklessness, of not looking before he leaps, but Peter prefers to call them calculated risks.

He does the math, and he doesn't like his odds.

He ducks into the pod long enough to pull out the case holding the disks he'd pilfered. ]

Not friends of yours?

[twelveoclock]

I'd bet it's the Deadlocks, so no, we ain't exactly pals.

[ Ex-pals, more like. The gang has been under new management since McCree left, and he feels like they're even worse than before.

The vehicles are getting closer, three sets of high beams shining over the edge of the crater. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Grabbing the case means holstering his gun at long last, and the lack of a weapon sets his teeth on edge. Now that he's made the decision to follow McCree's lead, though, he doesn't dally – once he has the case, he hurries over to the other man. ]

We'd better go, then. I hate watching people argue.

[twelveoclock]

I'm parked up here. [ He motions with his flashlight for Peter to go first, and he follows close behind.

Meanwhile, there's shouting from the top of the crater as the three vehicles come to a stop. ]

If you got it in you to run, maybe do that.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Running sounds awful right now, but when needs must— ]

Are all cowboys this bossy?

[ It's the only complaint he offers before he sets off, mentally patting himself on the back for only limping a little. ]

[twelveoclock]

Only when we don't wanna get shot.

[ Peacekeeper doesn't have the range to make it to the other side of the crater, so if the Deadlocks are packing more of a punch, then they're both screwed.

Speaking of the Deadlocks, one of their vehicles is a flatbed truck with a searchlight mounted on it. The light pours into the crater, lingering on the pod at the bottom. It's a good thing it does, because they're nearly at the edge of the crater when the light finally drifts their way. McCree's a hairsbreadth away from just shoving Peter out of the crater to avoid getting spotted, but he doesn't quite make a move in time. The light pours over the both of them, and McCree swears. ]

Go. Jeep's just behind that rock over on the left.

[ Hey McCree! someone shouts. Where do you think you're goin'? ]

Can it Delgado! I ain't got time to play with you boys right now.

[ Aw. That's no way to say hi to an old friend. I even brought you a present! What folows is what sounds like an awful lot of guns being cocked. McCree isn' going to stand around and find out, he turns tail ad runs for all he's worth toward the Jeep, where hopefully Peter's already waiting. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Probably a good thing no shoving was involved – it probably would've startled Peter enough into stumbling and falling face-first into the packed sand.

When the light falls on them, nearly blinding Peter with how bright it is, he wastes no time in following McCree's direction. He's in no mood or condition to fight, not at full force, and he pushes himself toward the Jeep; when he finds it, he slides into the passenger seat and does McCree the kindness of getting the vehicle started. And also? The kindness of not driving off without him.

Look at this guy. What a gentleman. ]

[twelveoclock]

[ McCree will be sure to thank him for it later. As it is, he skirts around the rock, just ahead of a spray of bullets. He hops into the Jeep, jamming it into drive and flooring it.

By the time they make it back to the main road, there's a single pair of headlights gaining on them fast, so McCree does what any sensible person would do. He cuts the headlights and veers off the road, seeking shelter behind a dilapidated billboard apparently forgotten by time. Once they're there, he cuts the engine, too, and waits.

Their pursuers have slowed to a crawl by the time they get close, four flashlight beams shining out from the old pickup, searching for their quarry. At McCree's guess there's probably five of them, one for each flashlight plus the driver.

Quietly, he says, ] How good a shot are you?

[nostalgiabomb]

Pretty damn good.

[ Grimly, quietly, as he tracks the movement of the men nearby. It seems current events have done little to dampen his confidence, at least.

Still, he wishes he had his bag of toys. His little electromagnet would make quick work of the truck and the men's weapons, turn them into sitting ducks. ]

We shooting our way outta this?

[twelveoclock]

Yup.

[ He'd rather not spend his night outrunning these assholes, and it's not like he can be on any worse terms with the gang as it is.

He reaches back under his serape, unhooking a small, metallic cylinder with glowing blue accents from his belt. He hefts it in his robotic hand. ]

You might wanna close your eyes.

[ It's no electromagnet, but a flashbang in the dark will probably do the trick. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Peter has a lot of questions about a lot of things, like who the hell are those dudes, and who the hell is this dude, and why does he have a metal glove, and who seriously still wears a poncho these days, and just what the hell is happening?

But he swallows them down, clicking his blaster from its holster and covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow. ]

Waiting on your mark.

[twelveoclock]

[ McCree lobs the flashbang towards the truck with practiced ease, taking some satisfaction in the clatter that sounds when it lands in the bed of the truck. The sharpshooter shields his own eyes, and one of the man manages to exclaim "What the fu--" before the flashbang goes off.

Over the startled cries of the men in the truck, McCree shouts, ] Now!

[ It's high noon muthafuckas-- McCree brings his pistol up and puts a hole through the passenger and the driver, made easier since the passenger dropped his flashlight somewhere in the cab, illuminating them both. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ At McCree's signal, Peter stands and brings his gun arm up, bracing his wrist on the top of the Jeep's windshield. Another fallen flashlight in the bed of the truck lights up another couple of men, and Peter takes only a half-second to aim. Two blasts of concussive fire fly from his blaster, slamming into the chests of another couple of men. They fall with quiet gurgles, the truck rocking with the impact of their bodies. ]

[twelveoclock]

[ The last guy stumbles when the truck rocks, crouching to blindly grope for a weapon. He comes up with a flashlight, and that's the end of that. McCree fires one last shot and the man's head snaps back before he collapses in the bed of the truck. ]

You weren't kiddin'. Now, let's get outa here.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He falls back into his seat and decides to keep his gun in his lap. There had been more than one truck, after all. ]

Were they those— [ what the hell did he call them. ] —Deadbolts, or whatever?

[twelveoclock]

Deadlocks. And yeah, they were. Real nasty gang around these parts.

[ He starts the Jeep back up again, pulling back onto the road. It doesn't seem like anyone else is following them, for the moment. ]

You mind tellin' me how you ended up in a cashed space pod in the middle'a the desert?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He leans back in his seat, eyes slipping shut, and he uses his right hand to brace his left arm, trying to minimize its movement as they drive.

Dryly, ] I crashed there.

[ duh. ]

Where are you taking me?

[twelveoclock]

Back to town. Gonna get you patched up and get outa here.

[ A beat, ] Also don't think I failed t'notice that you didn't answer my question.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He gives a curt little nod, as if to say, Noted, though he's not sure if the other guy sees it, considering he should be focused on the road. He follows it up with a short, ] Figured you wouldn't.

[ Does that mean Peter will answer now? Nah. Apparently he feels the conversation has moved on, because he asks, ] Where am I?

[twelveoclock]

New Mexico, USA, if that means anything t'you. If not, I figure I oughta let Winston do the explainin'.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ It does, in fact, mean something to him, but only inasmuch as it made him briefly wonder what it was about New Mexico that attracted all the aliens.

He doesn't voice the thought aloud, though, instead asking, ] And Winston is...?

[twelveoclock]

Pal a' mine. Scientist. Real smart. He'll get ya sorted, and work on contactin' your friends too.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ A pause, then a grimace, then, ]

I'm gonna be really pissed if you're just takin' me somewhere to get dissected.

[twelveoclock]

Winston ain't the type. For that matter, neither am I.

I'm sure you trust me about as far as you can throw me, and that's fair, but thanks for at least comin' along this far.

[nostalgiabomb]

Well, considering the options I had to pick between were the Rogues gang or Butch Cassidy...

[ He trails off before clicking his tongue. ]

Kinda got caught between a rock and a hard place on this one.