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Sombra knows the motorcycle doesn’t belong to him. The leather key fob embossed with A.S.H.E. was one of her first clues. Connecting the bike to the infamous leader of Deadlock is simple. Sombra doesn’t ask, or dive any deeper after that. McCree has his own past. From the lingering memento, he must not want to erase it entirely like she did with hers.
It rumbles like a beast awakening when he first starts it. Without hesitation, she hops on behind him. It molds to his form as if it was created for him specifically. Slipping her hands around his waist, she holds on loosely. The air rushing over her skin fills her chest with freedom.
“There’s someone I need to find and talk to,” he had said.
“Are you going to be a lone wolf or do I get to come?” she replied.
She can’t be seen. McCree wants her invisible for whoever he plans on seeing. This is his personal mission. She’s here to get a glimpse of Jesse McCree before she came to know him, and to make sure he doesn’t get too deep into something he can’t get out of.
The picture is still stuck at the bottom of the speedometer. Another giveaway of who the bike belongs to. Ghost white hair, and pale skin that mimic a vampire’s appearance decorates the woman in the photo. She’s young, and so is McCree. The little scruff on his chin testifies to that. Cards are spread out in the woman’s hand. Focus on her next strategy causes her eyebrows to arch. An almost growl with teeth bared takes over McCree’s face. A cocky manner holds up his gun as a cigarette burns between his lips.
The people in the picture are comfortable, close. He’ll explain it soon.
Red dirt and canyons swelling to the sky takes over her view before she registers the difference. It’s beautiful, and demanding. The sun falls against her hair, burning it. The wind keeps off most of the sweltering heat.
Leaning into a turn, they rumble into a humble main street. A poster welcomes them to Deadlock Gorge. It’s lifeless. Not a soul shambles underneath the noon daylight, not that Sombra could blame them. Yet, the inactivity sets off her guard. Her eyes sweep the red rock that could hold multiple sniper nests. The seemingly deserted buildings could contain glinting weapons and deadly arms.
Her invisibility already hides her along McCree’s backside. Not even he can see her now. Passing through a gate arched into the red rock, McCree slows down. The motorcycle eases into a space beside a few more bikes. A two story bar shades them, calling itself The High Side. It slips memories of Castillo and drinks into the back of her mind.
“We’ll be talking for a while—if we get to talking,” McCree mutters as he turns the key in the ignition. The engine dies, leaving a glaring silence. “So keep yourself out of the way but comfortable.”
Touching the ground, Sombra shifts on the floor boards that threaten to creak and bend. Just as unceremoniously, McCree gets to his feet. The leather fob and key rest in his left prosthetic hand. It almost lies heavily in his palm before he clenches a fist around it. The brim of his hat lowers, hiding his eyes for a moment. Eyeing the old building, curiosity almost tugs her forwards just to see what could stir such emotions within him.
The first knuckle on her pointer finger brushes against the back of his hand. He doesn’t react, but her presence is still known. Squaring his shoulders, he steps through the short, wooden swinging doors that shutter at the motion. Sombra stays on his shadow.
McCree stops just three paces from the entrance. Silently padding around him, Sombra takes in the room. It’s as simple as the rest of the old town, just a square design with a back door. A wall separates part of the space with dingy tables and three legged chairs. Dusty sunlight filters onto the worn floorboards and walls. One round table in the center holds an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a half empty shot glass, and a woman leaning back in a chair.
Sombra takes up a non-existence space beside the wall. A front row seat to the showdown that is the stare between McCree, and the Deadlock leader.
“I found Ashe looking for trouble when we were both stupid and young,” he said.
“You were close,” Sombra guessed well enough.
“We started up Deadlock together. She was looking for other people like us to bring all together.”
Ashe’s top lip almost curls into a snarl, but stays with a pointed judgement upon it. A large, black hat rests in front of her on the tabletop, as if her only companion. A rifle is propped up against the wall. That and a coach gun on her belt is well within her reach.
Slowly, Sombra slips her hand over the hilt of her machine pistol. It rests underneath her coat, but she doesn’t free it yet. There is no doubt McCree will have his peacekeeper free in seconds should the need arise.
“Jesse McCree,” she speaks with a southern confidence. Sombra almost rolls her eye at the drawl, as if the getup isn’t enough for her. “You’re walking right in here as if you have the right to. Now I’d just say you’re that stupid, but I ain’t waiting to find out any other reason.”
“Ashe—”
McCree lifts his hand. Ashe reaches for her rifle. Sombra crosses the space in seconds. The chair is pushed back and knocked over. Just as the Deadlock leader levels her rifle, the barrel of a machine pistol points at the back of her white hair. Her invisibility dissolves with a quiet static that immediately stalls Ashe.
“Let’s not do anything rash,” her voice warns in a low tone.
“Sombra,” McCree growls, frustrated but still upholding his steady stance.
Red eyes flicker back to the gun pointed at her skull. Her posture stays still with the gun trained on McCree’s heart. Black eyeliner narrows around red as her attention returns to the man in front of her.
“B.O.B.!” she shouts.
McCree curses at Ashe as Sombra tenses. Her head whips around the bar but only finds the themselves. Her lips part to demand who Bob is when the back doors fling open furiously. A large, brutish omnic with a comically small derby black hat straightens at Sombra’s backside. Green lights acting as eyes dilate as he extends his right arm, of which weapons arise out of.
“Bob?” Sombra asks, before smirking. She raises her left hand, conjuring purple pixel screens but doesn’t initiate just yet.
“Ashe, B.O.B., settle down,” McCree orders. “I just came to talk to you. Sombra, lower your gun.”
Her finger lays tense on the trigger. Ashe likewise keeps her hands steady. The barrel of her rifle is still set on McCree. She’s trigger happy. Sombra won’t let that get too far. Frustration bites the end of her tongue at McCree’s lax stance at the unstable woman.
“After she lowers her weapon,” Sombra speaks.
“Ain’t gonna happen, techno,” she nearly spits, angry. “If you don’t stop pointing your gun at me, B.O.B. will make you.”
Tension hardens Sombra’s brow with the challenge.
“Your robot will shoot you along with me,” she says, superior. “So, go ahead and put the gun down.”
Ashe’s fingers tightened around her rifle. Black nail polish turn pale fingertips white with pressure. McCree narrows his gaze, holding her sharply within it as Sombra tenses. For a heartbeat, she presses slightly down on her own trigger. Sombra doesn’t know how impulsive and angry the Deadlock leader is with McCree.
A frustrated noise leaves her throat as Ashe grabs her rifle by the middle and lowers the stock to the floor. The omnic retracts it’s weapons, but steps forward into the room. Sombra keeps an eye on it’s derby hat as she rips out the coach gun from Ashe’s belt holster. Calmly stepping forward, McCree wraps one hand around the rifle. A heated glare rises, but Ashe lets him take it gingerly after a hot second. Taking a seat, he leans the rifle against the wall beside him. Sombra props her gun in the air, almost against her shoulder as she steps around to McCree’s side.
“What do you want?” a flat, annoyed question leaves her blood red lips.
The same question digs into the back of Sombra’s mind. This isn’t all just to return a motorcycle. McCree isn’t impractical, but he is loyal to a point. What kind of bones is he digging up?
A nagging idea burrows deeper into her brain. Selfish isn’t one of McCree’s defining features, or even regrets, but this feels off. Personal. Yet, he wanted her to come. What conclusions Sombra keeps coming to only leads to dead end roads.
McCree sighs, before lifting his chin.
“Been a while,” he starts slowly, “I wanted to see what you’ve been up to, Ashe.”
“Cut the bull,” she snaps. “You didn’t just come here to show off your computer girlfriend.”
The bite in her tone pleasantly surprises Sombra, as if her presence alone is bothering Ashe. Maybe McCree does like to gloat a little of what’s his. But this couldn’t be a simple run into an angry ex with a new chick on his arm.
No. This is personal to him.
“Honest,” he says. “I want to see how you’ve been doing.”
Sombra’s gaze falls to his hand as it takes his hat. Resting it on the table, he looks up to her. Their eyes meet with an unvocalized exchange. This is where the talking becomes long. Reaching out, he grabs a three legged chair and drags it into the space beside him. Sombra slowly settles down on the cigarette smoke scented wood. Her nails still wrap around two guns, one which belongs to her.
Ashe’s red lips begin to form a sneer as her eyes narrow. Just like falling sand, a decision comes to mind. She leans back once again, as if slightly inconvenienced.
“B.O.B.,” she shouts, “Go upstairs and get the bourbon.”
The omnic’s green lights blink once before turning around. Through the back door, he steps out before turning left to the stairs that wrap around the building.
Quiet falls over them like dust settling. Ashe’s red gaze slowly slides from McCree onto Sombra. Resting her weapon on the table, while keeping the coach gun on her lap, she meets her head on. A slight huff of air moves out of Ashe’s nose slightly as Sombra peers back at her.
“How long have you known McCree?” she finally asks, as if doing a chore.
“A while,” she answers with a purposely ominous line.
“Hoh,” she almost coos in a sarcastic breath, “You haven’t shot him yet, so not long enough.”
A smile threatens the corners of Sombra’s lips. Turning her head slightly, she gives McCree a slight eyebrow raise directed at Ashe. He’s nonchalantly calm, but chuckles at the Deadlock leader’s words. She really should have met her before.
McCree parts his lips, “Ashe, I—”
“How long have you two been together?” she asks. Her southern voice rings out in a cold and simple tone.
Sombra glares at him. He moves his palms in a small, helpless gesture, as if asking what she wants him to do about it. The fact is already on the table.
“Half a year,” he answers, much to Sombra’s hard expression.
Ashe’s gaze drops in the slightest. A bitter taste takes over the drink as she takes the half empty shot glass and finishes it. Returning to their faces, she flickers between them. Hostility or anger doesn’t rise in her face towards Sombra. Instead, the tough skin of the Deadlock leader stays in place, even on her cheekbones.
For a moment, Sombra wonders if she’s bitter about that fact, or just bitter over McCree.
“Guess you did make yourself a new family,” she says lowly.
Her phrasing strikes a cord in Sombra’s core. Not just a new lover, or a raging ex, but family. Quietly, Sombra recoils all the information she has on Ashe. McCree is still who she knows. This woman is just a piece of his past, not a part of his future.
Unless…
“Ashe, that’s what I want to talk about,” he leans over the table slightly, intense. “Overwatch needs all the help it can get. It’s got plenty of dangerous business for you and B.O.B. to get mixed up in, and good pay.”
An impenitent snort comes from the Deadlock leader. Sombra blinks once at this. It does nothing to phase McCree, as if the sound is a permanent part of Ashe’s person.
“You really have gone and lost your mind.”
“Ashe.”
“Those wound up political people telling me what to do ain’t nothing I want to be a part of,” she states sharply.
Sombra shifts as McCree straightens. He’s tense, but his knee ends up bumping against hers, nearly tilting the coach gun off of her lap. It should have made her frown, but Sombra is still focused on the current exchange between the former friends.
“We’re doing our own thing at the moment,” he reassures. “You can—”
“McCree,” Ashe nearly hollers as she slams her fist onto the table. It shakes the hats and rattles the empty glass bottle.
He stills, but his attention never leaves her. Red eyes hold him down. The light in his brown gaze shifts. Disappointed, but not surprised. Sombra loosens the tension she had on the trigger of her gun. Slowly, he turns away slightly. He looks to her, almost like finding a crystal clear lake in the middle of the desert.
The sight of her alone can’t erase the six feet deep unhappiness stowed away in his rib cage, at this, at Ashe.
B.O.B. walks back in. In his large, metallic grasp is a deep amber liquid in a glass bottle. An old year stamped on the bottle would usually make her excited. McCree even more so. Without order, the omnic takes off the lid, and elegantly pours a shot with the poise of a five star restaurant waiter.
The alcohol sits for a moment. Finally dropping her gaze, Ashe looks away, angry. She tilts her chin back just to drown the entire shot.
She holds the glass around the rim by her fingertips for a moment.
“I already got a family, McCree. So do you.”