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[nostalgiabomb]

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[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.

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[ 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?

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[ 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'.

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[ 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.

[twelveoclock]

[ McCree actually looks at him then. He'd been teetering back and forth between thinking this guy was an alien or not, but the reference pretty much cements it.

He returns his gaze back to the road soon enough. ]

My job was t'keep whatever, or whoever, landed in that crater outa the Deadlocks' hands. I done that. Ain't nothin' sayin' we can't get ya back where ya came from.

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[ He huffs out a slightly derisive laugh. ]

If you say so. Just— at least let me get a nap in before someone starts cutting me open. All I ask.

[twelveoclock]

I can appreciate a man'a simple tastes.

[ The town that appears on the horizon isn't much of a town. It's more like a small smattering of rundown buildings, including a gas station, a diner, and a small motel. ]

Gotta call for a pickup, so we're not goin' anywhere 'til tomorrow anyway.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ It's a cute little Podunk town, at least, but Peter keeps his comments to himself, aside from a lackluster, ] Yay.

[ He keeps a wary eye out, hand loosely holding the grip of his blaster. ]

You never told me who you're working for. [ Because stuff like "my job" and "waiting for pickup" has an official air to it. ]

[twelveoclock]

You never told me what you were doin' out in space, so I guess that makes us even.

[ Also, Overwatch isn't an official entity anymore. He can't just up and say that's who he's with.

He pulls into the parking lot of the motel and hops out of the Jeep, moving around to the back to fish out a red bag with a white cross on it. He waits for Peter to exit the Jeep before heading to the door to his room. He heads in first, flipping the light on, just in case Peter expects a trap.

There is none. Just a small, moderately clean little motel room. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Well, okay, despite the situation, the reply makes him huff out a begrudging little laugh; it seems to say, Alright. Got me there, but Peter still doesn't seem inclined to answer the question.

Once they park and head to the room, Peter stays a pace or two behind, blaster still unholstered, and he's a little surprised when McCree steps into a seemingly normal, only-slightly-dingy little room. He hesitates in the doorway. ]

... I usually get at least a drink or two before I spend the night with someone, just so you know.

[twelveoclock]

[ He plops the bag down on the dresser next to the TV, and motions with his mechanical arm towards the mini fridge on the other side of the room ]

Beer in the fridge if you want.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Another huffed out laugh, as he kicks the door shut behind him. He forgoes the drink, though, deciding instead that he'd much rather take a seat – which he does, carefully sitting on the bed. ]

I'm a little offended you're treating like such a cheap date.

[twelveoclock]

It's nice beer.

[ But if Peter doesn't want any, well. More for him.

He takes off his hat and his serape, leaving them on a chair, then turns to rummage around in the first aid bag. ]

You been favorin' that arm all night. [ he doesn't say which one, but it's pretty obvious which one he means ] What's yer assessment of the damage?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ u really wanna talk about arms bruh

Peter tracks the other man's movement around the room (and a flicker of distrust crosses his face as McCree starts digging into his bag). At his question, he shrugs. ]

Broken, I think. [ It's not like he's been hiding the injury, after all; might as well come out with it. ] It's fine if I don't move it around much.

[twelveoclock]

[ He fishes out some painkillers, and the basic stuff for Peter's cuts and scrapes. ] Got a sling in here if ya want it. Either way, you'll have to wait until tomorrow to see a doc.