Chapter Text
He’d set out for Bavarian cream, and while this situation might’ve been dessert for someone, it wasn’t for him. A chewed-up body on the cobbles, already cooling, sticky fluids down its sides. McCree bent and placed two fingers to its waist. Retracting them -- blood, of course. Nothing more helpful. Dang. “Dang.”
Welcome to Munich.
“Dang is a word.” Reinhardt folded his arms and shifted his shoulders until they clicked. “Pray we have more for Jeremias.”
“Thought this’d be too urban for the bigger beasties,” McCree said, wiping the blood on his chaps. Quiet night in an old suburb, on a dim alley with a sharp corner either end. Scream had been recent, no footsteps to follow it, and this place echoed as bad as an empty church. They weren’t going to find a witness.
“ Ja , hence us coming.” Next he cracked his neck. “Or were you expecting a vacation? Sweets at the circus?”
McCree huffed, sweeping his sarape into place again. “Somethin’ like that.”
“When we’re done,” Reinhardt said, at last reaching for his phone and pressing for the ambulance, “I will take you somewhere good.”
“Decent nightlife here?” The others were in Seoul handling a major omnic incident. This wasn’t worth more than a few hours. Overwatch didn’t have the resources to dabble in pest control. The favours they did for old friends...
“Decent?” Reinhardt’s phone chirped, and a woman’s voice lurched into a greeting script. “The best.”
XXX
The Inn von der Isar had a cosy reception, and its owner half-filled it. Jeremias Bachmeier, former Crusader, had lost little mass in the years since the first crisis. Swapping his legs for cybernetic replacements took much of the work from exercise, to be fair, but his arms and torso retained impressive bulk nonetheless. A vast set of weights in the adjoining gym explained this in part, his stern face the rest. “Another?”
McCree and Reinhardt nodded in unison.
“Please. Tell me it gave you a lead.”
McCree stepped back the necessary meter to reach the armchair for waiting guests, and lowered himself in. Crossing his legs, left foot on right knee, he tried to match Jeremias’ expression. “Without Angela here to --”
Jeremias shook his head and turned to the key rack, placing a recent check-out on its hook.
Reinhardt gave McCree a warning look, then took a step closer to the counter. He set his hands on the wood with care, the surfaces meeting silently. A few more seconds for his brother-in-arms. “It hurts me too, but we cannot blame ourselves. This is work for wiser people, more dextrous people. You know this -- you called.”
“Was he all you could spare?”
“There are a hundred omnics stampeding Seoul. Jack took the rest.”
Rotating to the counter again, Jeremias sighed. “When our full roster was sent to Stuttgart while Hirsch remained in Dresden, she asked me for supplies I could not send. I never even replied to the message.”
“Those are hard words to compose,” Reinhardt said. “We are here.”
“Nine people, and they call it a rottweiler.” Jeremias made a mock spitting noise, clapping his hands to the space beside Reinhardt’s. “The force is worthless now.”
“Naw,” McCree said from his seat.
The Crusaders stared him down.
He shrugged. Draping an arm along the side of the chair, he tapped his metal hand into the canvas. Each beat sounded like the skin of a tambourine. “Jes sayin’ we can’t cordon the area without authority, an’ we can’t autopsy without privacy. We’re short on partners for this jig.”
“Your problem is access, generally speaking?” There was a shine in Jeremias’ eyes that had been missing to this point. “If you have the body and a lab, you can investigate?”
“I can call Frau Doctor Ziegler and follow her instructions,” Reinhardt said, matching with a smile.
Jeremias clapped and took to his monitor, closing his booking references and opening an address book. Another gesture brought him to a smaller list of names: Reinhardt Wilhelm, Sascha Hirsch, so on. “I know a coroner. She will help.”
“How soon?” Reinhardt asked.
McCree took his flesh fingers to his face, examining the brown-ish dust left on them. What would he do in the morgue, if the offer held?
“Within an hour or so, I imagine,” Jeremias said. Selecting her name and opening a blank page, he began to type. “Thank you, Reinhardt.”
“My pleasure.”
Bounty hunting -- hunting. That was on McCree’s resume. Omnics, often enough. Men with strange skin, or more arms than they needed. Entire gangs. If this was an animal, there’d be less thought involved than any of the above. If this was -- it had better not be -- a man, it’d be routine. Only trouble was in a third option. Slim chances. “I’ll take another look at the scene.”
“Oh?” Reinhardt’s eyebrows went up. “You seemed so skeptical.”
“Bein’ unfair, never mind me.” Creaking his back and locking his knees, McCree stood. Worth checking the room, taking a jacket and the address of a good bar? Ah, student neighbourhood -- Haidhausen on the signs -- drink’d be easy to come by even if this thing’d swallowed half the local atmosphere. Wasn’t cold enough to smother his elbow-connection in fabric. Go from here. “We’ll wrap this up, get to a brewery, follow ‘em to Korea.” He shuffled forward a foot and knocked Reinhardt on the shoulder.
“Be safe.” Reinhardt knocked back, the impact dislodging McCree’s hat.
Catching it at chest-level, he grinned. “Am I ever?”
XXX
Clouds swept across the sky, tinting it grey to match the buildings. Cover wasn’t consistent -- in the distance, there were missing jigsaw pieces of blue and black -- but this street, this block, this district was well underneath. Blocked the moon, that waning white blob. It’d hide on its own soon enough. Waste of light.
McCree flicked a flame into his cigar and puffed as he walked. Smoking might help his dilemma. The scene of the attack would have clues; cloth scraps or scratches. There would also be police. Did Germany have a warrant on him, or was he popular enough to avoid arrest? Morrison had been spotted here during a scuffle near Stuttgart, he’d gone free. After the Omnic Crisis, Reyes could steal Weihnacht and no-one would blink. McCree… McCree.
He’d circle the block another time and think about it.
Good as it was to see the team again, the current mix of high obligation work with low resources made these trips trying. You need a UN pardon to operate . Negotiation with the UN is impossible under the Petras Act . A stack of paradoxes dodged by the better members. The people with reputations listed somewhere other than a Wanted poster. Blackwatch hadn’t been the smartest job for a former criminal, an isolationist pit where a man could fall and never be given a rope out again. Small wonder the leader had become a monster -- what else was there to do in that dark?
He stopped and puffed the last red ring, then crushed the cigar under his sole. Case, beer, Asia.
The alley.
Ash was caught in his left spur. Progressing along the streets he tilted sideways, clomping the heel into the ground and shaking the remains loose. He jingled louder than usual. Europe being Europe -- anyone wanted to arrest him, following that cartoon American step would be an easy starter. Silhouette a nice second, hat and sarape. Tobacco a third, the reek of ongoing addiction.
Still odd being overseas. From a brick-lined lane around a corner into another brick-lined lane, Haidhausen a twisting system of copy-paste cobbles. Miracle if he could find the scene twice. Six years in the Wild West killed a man’s sense for urban navigation.
New Mexico had its own complexities; railways and peaks and canyons. When you lost your target it was under a train-car or into a dripping cavern of stalactites. When your victim was eaten there was an easy set of predators to blame. Cougar, mayhaps. Bear. Coyotes. Course, it was rare. Cliffs and ravines killed the average backwoods getaway faster. Add his work in Arizona and Utah and you still came short on animal suspects.
Tricky hunt for a tricky town. This seemed to be the closest arterial street. On past a flower shop, doors sandwiching in heaped bouquets. Cafes, bakeries, charcuteries. Glossy storefronts shut at sundown, from what he could read of their signs. An art kid area. Still confident there’d be drink in reach -- because, art kids -- but this section was for dates and family on orientation day. Like when Reyes took McCree on his first European mission, then for congratulatory croissants after. They’d seen a pub tucked in an adjoining alley and McCree had asked for a pint. The drinking age was 18. Reyes couldn’t put Los Angeles out of mind, ordered extra sugar in McCree’s coffee as a non-verbal alternative to scolding.
Playing that Overwatch was the same made the differences harder to stomach. McCree paused in the center of the street and looked for a cut in the sky. Even chain-smokers needed space to breathe. Where was that blue blanket, connecting from Munich to Santa Fe?
The gap in his footsteps let a new sound through -- another set, heavier feet on the midnight streets. Someone was following. An officer? The feet were loping, a good second between each. The stride was too long for an average beat cop. Rubbery paces from sneakers or padded paws. Couldn’t be an omnic, which was a useful start. Distant, but quick; sound bouncing the maze to McCree’s position.
There was a lowered doorway nearby, a recess in the pavement with walls and fences collaborating to make a worthwhile hiding spot. Worth a try. Descending the steps gentle as could be, McCree paused at the bottom and touched the grip of his six-shooter.
The footsteps continued. West, North, North, West, North. Breathing kicked in to match, an exhausted, sloppy pant. North. North. At this distance the slam of each pace was accompanied by a lighter tick, shoelaces or claws.
Draw the pistol. Hold it vertical. Forefinger on the side, could be a civilian. Press the sarape to your nose, inhale, exhale, avoid detection. Curse the fact you wear red.
Fifteen feet, ten feet, five, four, three, two, one foot…
McCree watched the shadow run by, obscured by the difference in depths. Bipedal, gangly -- impossible to see above the waist and too fast to appreciate any of it. Seemed human, didn’t hound him. No problem.
Standing in the recess was a stupid plan and as the street returned to silence he returned to the proper level.
Get to the alley.
Fifth of a mile’s journey. McCree was already underdressed for German Autumn; the chill that settled after the encounter brought the remainder of his flesh into goosebumps. There’d been no trouble, he’d continued on his merry way. The figure had been running a precise zig-zag to his location. A jogger looking for a friend on a gloomy night?
His spurs continued: jingle, jangle, jingle.
Then there was the silhouette with its disjointed lower limbs. Hard to review that flicker of memory. Disjointed lower limbs -- knee hooking back ninety degrees -- a thin shin -- then an ankle -- slipping into a tall foot.
Like the braces Lucio clipped around his legs to improve his skating. There’d been an explanation about altering the weight on his feet to increase his speed, though the explanation had been given over hard liquor and the finer details had been washed into the gutters of McCree’s mind.
Keep focus on the silhouette, the explanation, the ice on his spine.
If balance is shifted onto your toes, you tend to move quickly -- and quietly.
Woosh.
A shadow pounced from the nearest rooftop onto McCree, hitting its upper limbs into his face and its lower limbs into his waist faster than he could draw. Sharp points clashed with his cheek -- bestial claws at the end of human fingers. Knees knifed into his floating ribs -- while its digitigrade legs spread behind, curved feet lodging in the gaps between stones.
Its torso was suspended some inches above McCree’s -- fumbling for his weapon, he collected it by the barrel, twisted it around to situate the grip properly, and lined a shot.
Gnawing toward him with a jagged mouth -- muzzle, really -- the shadow scraped more cheek free. Its teeth came to points that grazed like glass. He’d be a Picasso of lines and rearranged features within another move.
But the gun fired.
Stomach spattered open and dripping -- not quite blood, grey specks through, the concoction half-congealed even fresh from a vein -- the shadow yelped.
With his available instant, McCree pumped his arms upward and knocked the shadow off of him, rolling it into the gutter. Swinging onto his feet, he checked a second shot wasn’t needed, and broke toward the alley in a sprint.
Police would arrest him but his team would get him free. That maw got him, wouldn’t matter if he slid off the teeth or not. The streets circled into each other and doubled back on themselves. He hung a right by the tips of his fingers, skidding on his worn soles. If and when the shadow stood, a muddied trail would be a blessing.
His spurs sang their tune. His sarape caught the wind whipping past. He heaved burnt breaths.
There were voices pinging between these blocks of buildings. Deep men and women talking in firm words. The pop of a camera. A box loaded into a car and the engine turned on.
“Hey!” McCree yelled. Almost there. Forty seconds run. “Hey!!”
Clatter from the rooftops. A glance at the skyline revealed the shadow, ruddied from belly to hip, bending and rocking its weight backward to power its leap.
McCree drew fast as a Hollywood hero -- and shot over the shadow’s shoulder as it landed on him again. He was pinned to the ground as he’d been before, though the shadow had him more secure. Happy with the weight on his waist it bent its arms to strike.
The first hit took his pistol clear from his hand, across and into a wall.
The second was a punch, plain and simple, from an unintended fist -- the shadow lacerating its own palm as it clenched nails into flesh. More of the red-grey mix trailed after the blow, tracing McCree’s throat.
The gun, or the fluid? He cast a glance to his pistol -- too far. He dabbed at his neck. Escape. How? Create a gap. Okay. Rolling his hips he tipped the creature’s legs aside. His own free, he kicked into its waist and tilted it forward. Waist up, head down -- body flopping onto McCree as it lost hold. Lashing for purchase it dug its claws in the meat of his biceps and its toes in the front of his shins.
McCree howled.
There was a third point to connect with.
Hinging its jaws wide, the shadow butted down and sank them around his shoulder. Lower teeth caught on his collarbone, prying it out of place. Upper pierced the skin of his back, the outermost glancing off the muscle receptors for his prosthetic.
McCree screamed.
A cacophany of bullets came in response. “ Steigen ihm! ” Flashlights, shouts, boots. Perhaps five sets of each.
The teeth unclamped. The shadow reared into the beams. It yelped as a bullet cleared through its thigh.
“ Halt! ”
Rocking onto its toes it scurried for an exit, lithe as ever despite its wounds. A keening call returned to the gathered crowd, a cry for its own reinforcements.
‘Reinforcements’. Ha. Redder than ever on the ground, McCree blinked at his rescuers. Curved hats, black vests, shirt and tie. Polizei . Police. He never thought he’d be happy to see them.