Chapter Text
Three days before the attack on the Deadlock Gorge, Jesse McCree finds himself face to face with an omnic in a seedy diner right off of Route 66. To say omnics are rare in the Southwest following the crisis is an understatement. To say that they're unwelcome is putting it too lightly. The smaller omnium in the middle of the Mojave might not have made the news in the same way as the facilities that wrecked havoc in Australia, Siberia, and the Silicon Valley, but the crisis it provoked is still fresh in the memories of the locals here.
Usually, the only omnics Jesse sees are stray travelers, Shambali missionaries, that sort of thing. The sort of visitors who stick out like a sore thumb, either by the cut of their clothes or the disdain that he swears he can read in their unchanging, inhuman face plates. The monks they let go, none of them mean to stay long anyway. The boss is only interested in the tourists, anyway. They never do travel light, and omnium parts fetch a nice price on the black market. No one's going to come looking for a missing omnic anyway, and it's not like the locals are the sort to snitch the gang out to the cops.
This omnic is neither of those. This one blends in. A tattered black serape hangs over its slender shoulders, drawn up over its head like a hood. Its joints clank together with a sound that almost sounds like the jangle of spurs to his ears. It doesn't talk, doesn't make any sort of nattering remarks about the wonder of the place or how quaint it is like the others. The thing sits across from Jesse in his booth, gloved hands crossed in front of it. It's not until he glances up and sees the flickering glow of its faceplate that he realizes his new companion isn't human.
Jesse scowls at the visitor over his plate of greasy toast and greasier eggs. Shifting to lean back, he lets one hand fall to the holster at his hip, not bothering to mask the threat of the gesture.
"Well now," he says flatly, "I wasn't expecting company."
"Then you shouldn't be surprised," the omnic replies in Spanish, its voice pitched high, feminine. "I am not company."
Jesse's scowl deepens, fingers hard against the butt of his gun.
"Then you'd best get to telling me what you are."
"A savior," the omnic says. "I have an offer I would like to extend to you, Jesse McCree."
The fact that the omnic knows him catches him by surprise. At seventeen years old, Jesse McCree is no one noteworthy. Even with the ranks of Deadlock, his name is only passed around with the kind of language one would expect for a kid of his age. Sure, he might fancy himself as something of a good shot, but it's nothing more than that.
If an omnic, an outsider, knows who he is, that means trouble. His hand closes around the gun at his hip, ready to draw at a moment's notice, when one of the omnic's hands lifts in a placating gesture.
"That won't be necessary," it says, tone neutral.
Jesse grits his teeth against his anger.
"You gonna tell me why the hell it's not?"
"I told you, I'm here to make you an offer. I mean no harm against the Deadlock Gang. My associates and I have had favorable interactions with them throughout the past several years." The omnic lowers its hand, its posture unmoving, before it adds, "The parts you supply us with are top quality, after all."
Jesse's hand twitches against the barrel of his gun, not seeking out the trigger yet. Deadlock's trade in omnic parts isn't a secret that would be too difficult to figure out, given their methods. But to tell the truth, he's only ever seen the exchanges that happen at a distance, from lookout points over alleyways, things like that. Still, something about the omnic doesn't sit right with him.
"How do I know you ain't lying?" he asks, voice lowered.
The omnic's shoulders shrug, a gesture too calculated to look as casual as it's surely meant to be.
"If I meant you harm," it says, "you would be dead."
For a moment, Jesse's eyes flick over to take in the rest of the diner. His booth sits in a far corner, out of view of the entrance and kitchens, with a window overlooking Deadlock Gorge to one side. When he came in twenty minutes ago, he counted seven patrons scattered throughout the place, three at the bar, and the rest in sets of two at the tables in the floor. At this time of day, they've usually only got one waitress on staff, three in the kitchen. The door's only chimed once since then, probably with the omnic's arrival.
"If you're thinking about what the collateral damage would be in a fight, don't" the omnic says, interrupting his thoughts. "My programming excels at close quarters combat."
"Is that right," Jesse huffs, turning back to fix the omnic with an angry scowl.
"It is," the omnic answers. Jesse can almost swear he sees the lights on the omnic's faceplate flicker, mocking him, but he knows it's just his imagination.
For the first time he actually takes a moment to get a good look at the thing, trying to pin a make or model onto it. The faded black serape and worn leather gloves over its hands make it hard to tell, but the shape of its faceplate alone is unlike anything that Jesse's ever seen on civilian models. Even the Shambali don't have the same sort of angular plating against shimmering black metal. If the omnic really is combat grade, or something else, it looks the part well enough.
The back of Jesse's mind still itches with distrust, fight or flight instincts crawling between his shoulderblades. Maybe he couldn't take the omnic in a fight. Probably even if he could he'd just wind up in shit with the boss for trashing the diner. The owners of this place always keep up on their protection money, always welcome gang members and sometimes even serving them up without making them pay. It doesn't do well to repay that kind of hospitality with bringing the fight to their doorstep. But something deep inside Jesse still wants to snap the omnic's pretty little faceplate off, to unload a clip of bullets into it just to feed the roiling indignation at the fact that the bot knew too much about him.
Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest, chin jutting up at the omnic in defiance.
"Well, go on," he says, nearly growling the words out. "What's your offer?"
The omnic nods, slowly, the glow of its faceplate vanishing under the edge of the fabric pulled over its head before it looks back up to him.
"In three days, Deadlock will be attacked. You'll be hopelessly outnumbered, so there isn't much chance for victory."
Jesse's fingers tighten against the leather of his jacket over his arms, lips curling in a snarl. "That sounds more like a threat than an offer to me--"
"However," the omnic says, lifting its hand to call for his silence. Jesse grudgingly obeys. "Your attackers will make you an offer. Join them or face imprisonment. My offer is this: join them, and join us in bringing them down. You'll be our agent, and we'll see to it that you're rewarded once they've been destroyed."
Jesse scowls, the bile of anger still rolling at the back of his throat.
"So let me get this straight," he spits, careful emphasis on the last syllable. "You're calling yourself allies of Deadlock, and you know there's someone there who's got it out for us, someone stronger than what we've got right now. You ain't gonna help us fight them, but hell, if you just had a man on the inside, you could take them down yourselves. Am I reading you right?"
"That's right."
"Sounds like mighty big talk to me," Jesse unclenches his hands against his arms, leaning forward with deliberate purpose. "Because if you ask me, when you're saying maybe we don't gotta chance at beating these guys but you do it seems like you're just looking for an excuse to leave the gang high and dry. Like you ain't willing to stand up and back us up in this fight that's coming to our door."
"That's right as well," the omnic answers with toneless levity. "We have a chance at victory, but if we stand with Deadlock that chance will be lost."
Jesse swallows down his idignation, gaze narrowed on the omnic's glowing faceplate.
"So you're sacrificing the gang."
"Well done, Jesse McCree," the omnic lilts, mocking. "You've figured it out. I wasn't aware your mind was as sharp as your shooting."
"You sure you should be saying that to the guy you want to be your double agent," Jesse scoffs, picking up his fork to stab it into the greasy eggs on his plate.
"I'd thought my meaning was obvious from the offer," the omnic shrugs lightly, unperturbed.
"Yeah, well, doesn't hurt to set the record straight," Jesse says before shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He chews, swallows, scowling up at the omnic as he turns its words over slowly in his mind. The omnic doesn't move, its faceplate impassive as it watches him the whole time. The damn thing give him the creeps.
"So what's to say," he says at last, "That I don't just turn on you, take the side of whoever it is that you're convinced is gonna take me in after wiping out my whole gang."
"It's a possibility," the omnic concedes. "Obviously, we wouldn't reward you. Those funds would be diverted elsewhere."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"A bounty," the omnic answers lightly. "At least an addition to the one already on your head."
"You know how to sweet talk a guy," Jesse grouses over another forkful of eggs.
"It's only the truth," the omnic says. "The information that you possess about us is also immaterial. What could you really offer them, other than the knowledge that we wish to infiltrate their ranks? I assure you they're well aware of that. They know as well as we do, those who hold the information hold the power."
"Classy little catchphrase you've got there," Jesse says.
The omnic sits up a little straighter at the comment. It's probably just Jesse's imagination, projecting something human onto something that isn't, but the damn thing almost looks proud.
He looks away, pushing eggs against his plate as he turns the omnic's words over in his head. There's a chance he's being lied to, there always is, but in this situation it doesn't seem likely. If he turns the thing down, walks right out of the diner and tells the boss everything the omnic told him and three days later no attack came, how would that put the omnic at an advantage? What's more, he's sure the boss wouldn't be too pleased about being set up as the bait for whatever plot the omnic was cooking against these unnamed enemies. So, as it stood, lying means nothing for the omnic but the destruction of a lucrative, professional relation.
So the more likely scenario is that the thing's telling him the truth, or at least some version of it. The weight of it sits heavy in Jesse's mouth, sour. His life outside of Deadlock hadn't been much to speak of. The Crisis began before he'd been old enough to remember and at the end of it he'd been left with nothing. Deadlock saw the opportunity in orphaned brats like him, kids left in poverty at the war-torn fringes of the omnium where no government agency or group of international do gooders would spare them so much as a second glance. He'd been snatched up at the age of twelve, given a gun and taught how to threaten and intimidate, how to dismantle an omnic for parts, how to extort protection money, run weapons across the borders and do business on the black market.
They were practical skills, and that's what Jesse had seen them as. He excelled not because he cared one way or the other about what Deadlock stood for, but because he knew what would come to him if he so much as thought about crossing the boss in any way. He'd seen it happen to the kids who'd been with him when they were picked up off the street. He has his fair share of scars from when he'd learned just how far he could push the line.
Even now, he can feel the watchful eye of Deadlock at his back. But when it comes down to it, there's not much chance that the omnic in front of him isn't telling the truth. Deadlock's days are numbered. As Jesse sees it, there's three options in front of him.
One, he takes what the omnic's told him and runs. Hiding out from Deadlock for three days isn't an impossible task, and once they're gone there'd be no one out for his hide. He'd be on his own, sure, with no money to his name and only a head full of practical skills. It's not impossible, but with the promise of a reward on the table, it doesn't seem quite as promising.
Two, he tells the boss, fights for what he's worth and dies with the gang. It's the least appealing option by far. When Jesse was younger he never thought he'd live to see seventeen. Even where he stands now, he doesn't give much thought to the future, but like hell if he won't fight for every day that his life sees fit to give him. Deadlock might mean something now, but it's nothing that he's about to throw his life away for.
Three, he takes the offer.
His gaze flicks up to the omnic who's been sitting silently across from him this whole time, looking every bit like it's got all the patience in the world. He doesn't doubt it either.
Setting his fork down, Jesse leans back, arms crossing over his chest as he regards the omnic with an even gaze.
"Now when you say rewarded, just what kind of money are we talking here?"
The omnic's hands spread open in front of it, the gesture open and magnanimous. It knows that it's won.
"Name your price."
Jesse scoffs, grinning despite himself. "Now that's the kind of sweet talk I like."
---
One thing the omnic neglected to mention and that Jesse neglected to ask is exactly who it was that had their sight set on Deadlock Gorge in three days' time. Somehow, in Jesse's mind, he'd assumed it would just be a rival gang, drug lords from Mexico trying to expand their territory, something like that. Yet when the alarms sound, shots echoing through the gorge and Jesse gets his first glimpse of their enemy he doesn't expect to see the Blackwatch logo emblazoned on the armor of their attackers.
"Son of a bitch," he hisses under his breath, ducking behind a wall in the bunker to slam a fresh magazine into the AK slung over his shoulder. "Too big to take out on your own, you need a man on the inside." He tries to steal a peek around the corner, recoiling when a spray of dust and concrete scatters from a shot lodged into the wall just inches away from where his head was.
"Son of a goddamn bitch."
Gangs infighting is one thing, black ops from international watch dogs is something else entirely. After discussing the terms of the agreement, the omnic had told him that he'd want to make sure to defend himself for the fighting itself. Not enough to call his loyalty into question before the outcome was settled but, in its own words, "Don't go charging in like a hero and get yourself killed."
Trapped as he is, outnumbered and outgunned, the words ring hollow in his head.
"Don't get killed," he mutters, crouching to the ground to where the bloody corpse of his lookout partner, an upstart kid named Donovan who'd been brought in from off the streets with him, lays sprawled in front of him, faceless save for a bullet pocked mess of gore, brain, and bone that Jesse can't even bring himself to look at.
"Easy enough for a goddamn robot to say."
With shaking hands he rips the knife that Donovan always kept at his hip from its sheath. Gunfire still rattles against the walls of the bunker, but there's a sound that's closer now. The rustle of footsteps and body armor echoes down the hallway to Jesse's right. They know his position. There's not many members of Deadlock left standing anyway, so they're coming in to flank. They want to take him alive, he tells himself, the omnic's words ringing in his head against the adrenaline pounding through his veins.
"You wanna make me an offer," Jesse's voice cracks even to his own ears, a rasping whisper above the din. "Taking down kids like Donovan but shit, you're still gonna make me an offer."
He pulls the gun slung over his shoulders away, tossing it to the ground with a clatter. The damn thing won't do him any good in close quarters. The footsteps in the hallway pause for a moment. They've heard it.
"Now I know you're thinking," Jesse mutters to himself, slipping along the wall next to the open door leading out to the hallway. "Did we get him? Did he just go down?"
The footsteps don't sound again. They're moving slower now, cautious. "Or maybe you're thinking, he's heard us now. Reckon we better be careful."
Jesse's fingers curl tighter around the knife. They won't stop shaking. He crouches down, eyes wide and fixed on the frame of the door. He swallows his breaths, holding them tight inside himself. Don't make a sound, he thinks against the slamming echo of his pulse ringing in his ears. Don't make a goddamn sound.
The figure detaches itself from the door like a shadow. One minute there's nothing and the next thing Jesse knows he's there, his back turned to Jesse as he checks the far corner for survivors. It's a split second advantage, Jesse can already see the twist in the man's powerful legs as he starts to turn to where Jesse's crouched. But a spilt second is all that he needs. That's all that he wants.
He springs from his crouch, breathlessly seized by nothing more than pure instinct. His knife leaps forward, aimed for the barely visible seam in the shadow's body armor, a weak spot in the armpit left bare for mobility, but Jesse's fought enough to know it's there, it has to be there. He'll cut through skin, muscle, and nerves straight to arteries and veins.
The omnic's promise and its warning are both only echoes in the back of his mind. The fact that he barely stands a chance, some punk orphan kid against a trained soldier, doesn't matter much either. The crash of gunfire and the smear of blood over rust colored clay is the only thing that flashes in his mind. Damnit all to hell but he won't go down without a fight.
Yet as abruptly as Jesse's charge begins it comes to his end. Whipping about with a speed that no regular person should rightly possess, the shadow takes form. There's a hand around Jesse's wrist, wrenching it back until his fingers go limp, the knife clattering to the floor. The momentum of Jesse's body doesn't stop. He slams headlong into the shadow's armored chest, feet slipping out from under him as his shoulder jerks with a sickening pop.
He doesn't howl at the pain, doesn't cry. His teeth grit into it, white flashing before his eyes before his feet find the ground again, dragging his body back up as his free hand swings in a wide blow aimed for his attacker's face.
"Shit--" the man hisses catching the fist before it even connects.
A growl tears from Jesse's throat, sharp and visceral. He's trapped, he knows it, but the blood pounding hot in his veins won't let him stop.
"Fuck off!" He shouts, twisting in the man's powerful grin to send himself careening forward, every ounce of his meager weight thrown into attempt to headbutt the attacker off.
His nose collides against the solid weight of the man's chin with a sickening crack and another searing lance of pain. Blood streams from it a moment later, the heat of it dribbling down against Jesse's chin to the bunker floor.
"Goddamn kid," the man grunts. Before Jesse's senses come back to him, he's been twisted and slammed against the bunker wall, both hands pinned behind his back.
His lungs empty from the impact, sparks dancing against the back of his eyes as his nose grates against the unforgiving metal walls. He tries to suck in a breath, to give some sort of retort, but the man speaks first.
"Now you listen up, you damn brat. Your boss's dead. Your gang's gone. So that means you're coming with me." The last words are punctuated with a palm against the back of his head, shoving it into the wall, "Got it?"
Jesse dredges up a hacking breath, his lungs still screaming for want of air. "I get a choice in this matter?" he grunts out, still grit against the pain.
"Let me think," the man drawls. Then, without missing a beat, he adds, "No."