[center][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dK2tDK9grQ][img]http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjEwNi5DNTRDMkEuU21WemMyVWdUV05EY21WbC4wAAAAAA,,/rm-serifancy.regular.png[/img][/url]

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[b]𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:[/b] 𝚂𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝙵𝚎, 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝙼𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚌𝚘
[b]𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷:[/b] 𝙻𝚘𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝙲𝚘𝚠𝚖𝚎𝚗
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Sixty. Million. Dollars.

He wanted to vomit. He wanted to tear the bounty down. Back in the old west, in the films Jesse watched, they made these posters out of paper, nailed to the side of a saloon. It would've felt so satisfying to take his anger out on a flimsy piece of paper. Everything these days faded out of digital and into holographic, even in rural states like this one.

Not many frequented New Mexico, aside from a few areas that festered with Deadlock like giant, bleeding chasms. They hung a few miles out of larger cities in the West, near Santa Fe, Tuscan, Phoenix, Albuquerque. Jesse avoided most of those cities like a plague, but Santa Fe had once gave Jesse a home. With his streak of luck, upon rolling in he'd discovered the Gang abandoned one of their bases. It sat close to an Overwatch Outpost that still stood pre-fall, and they didn't bother coming back when they'd fled the first time.

For Jesse, that meant a few days in a dingy Motel Six barely scraping by on a bounty he'd stolen. A few thousand bucks for a deadbeat snitch. Unfortunately, since his ten year long bounty only ever increased in price, Jesse had to subside for months on fake names and small bounties. The smaller the better; people didn't bother checking who turned who in when the stipend barely covered a weeks worth of groceries. He played that to his strengths, riding through half of North America on the production line rails.

Only recently had he heard Winston's call to arms, passing Overwatch's defunct base in Grand Mesa. The message, likely courtesy of Athena, played on repeat on all of the functioning consoles in the base. It made for an awful night's sleep, until Jesse finally packed what he could of the rations and reserves, then left.

To this day, all he dreamed about was Winston's recall. It made no sense. What would he go back to? Ana died, something Jesse still felt numb about. He still wanted to blame Jack again and again, but Jesse already enacted his vendetta; he hadn't told Jack of Gabriel's plans. None of it was justified and he might as well have been spitting on Jack's grave for surviving this long. But, like any wanderer, guilt kept him alive, kept him going, kept his mind on a goal to repent even if he knew it would never be for Jack. He was selfish that way.

Survival. He had to take care to remember what Ana taught him: stay low, make friends where you can, keep alert. Most importantly, she told him to never stop running. And he didn't. Funny, that. The moment Ana died and Gabriel betrayed them all, Jesse never stopped running. For an entire decade, all Jesse McCree ever knew were dirt roads, rat holes, and a starving hunger. All he knew was the pounding of his boots against pavement and his eyes on the horizon. He just hoped Ana would have been proud of him.

[color=e0e0e0]"You alright, sir?"[/color] a voice caught McCree's thoughts, a net reeling in a bucket of fish.

He turned toward the voice, slid his lips into a wicked smile, and tipped his hat. [color=#D78869]"Jus' fine,"[/color] he said, dipping his tone into a smooth bass, [color=#D78869]"I just needed some direction. I gotta pal lookin' for me and I ain't been round these parts in so long."[/color] Jesse tipped over, letting his torso lean against the cold metal of the bar. The man behind swallowed hard, red tinting his cheeks. [color=#D78869]"What say you, uh, point me in the direction of Perrito's bar, cariño?"[/color]

A good few minutes longer than Jesse expected and he had what he needed. The ad flashing his name on the wall next to the bar fizzled slightly, though failed to go out entirely. He wiped his mouth and stomped out of the establishment with hardly any eyes on him. Unfortunate for the bar owner, but Jesse supposed it was their fault for placing a bar where no bikers or gangs frequented. He could feel the pounding music from a nearby club that likely soaked up what would have been this guy's customers. The younger generations never could appreciate the smell of stale piss and the broken jukebox that only ever played [i]Achy Breaky Heart[/i]. Jesse couldn't blame them.

It took Jesse a few hours to traverse the city in the safest way possible, walking through the most crowded bits for as long as he could allow. Everything eventually bled into grimy streets and back alleys, until he finally found his destination:

Perrito's. A giant, red neon sign jutted out from a dilapidated establishment. It flickered with a heavy buzz of a busted out light fixture. The place looked as worn out as he'd imagined when he'd gotten the call from the owner telling him he could throw him a bone. Safe passage from Santa Fe all the way to Carson City, from there he could find a way to get to Washington on his own accord.

Jesse looked up one last time, staring at the low hanging T that had seemingly lodged itself into the O. The beginning P-E-R and the S had fizzed out long ago, leaving '-rito' as the only flickering, red letters. Except it looked more like -rip, than -rito. A part of him wanted desperately to believe in omens, enough so that Jesse felt a chill crawl down his spine. [color=#D78869]"Rip, indeed,"[/color] he said, wincing as he yanked the cigar from his mouth and flicked it against the black pavement.

Passing that threshold sealed his fate. The minute Jesse's boots clacked against the rotted hardwood of the bar, just about seven guns trained their sights on his head. He raised both hands, looking up from his tilted head. [color=#D78869]"Well, Ah'll be damned,"[/color] Jesse drew, taking in the silence of his warm welcome. He broke it almost immediately, [color=#D78869]"Y'aint gonna gimme a head start, are ya, cabrón?"[/color]

[color=e0e0e0]"Not how this works, my friend."[/color]

[color=#D78869]"Figured as much,"[/color] Jesse said. He shrugged and put his hands back down, slow as not to startle anyone. [color=#D78869]"Bet it's too much to ask if you actually have that ticket to Nevada?"[/color]

[color=e0e0e0]"Just a bit,"[/color] Perrito, the owner didn't spare any more words, though he tutted as soon as Jesse took a step forward, [color=e0e0e0]"Ay, hey, hey. You got seven bloodthirsty mercs lookin' to get rich. I wouldn't be so [i]casual[/i], if I were you."[/color]

Jesse let out a burst of laughter, not daring to stop his meander to the nearest bar stool. He side-eyed the patron sat there, her grimace enough of a warning for Jesse. Though, Jesse didn't take any heed much anyways. He slid his hand past her, snatching the bottle of whiskey she was downing and ignoring her cry. [color=#D78869]"'M worth more alive, cabrón. You know it, they know it, I know it. They ain't gettin' paid a dime with a bullet in my head,"[/color] he explained, throwing his arm out at one of the hired mercs. He finger gunned away, mocking the man with little, exasperated gunshot noises.

[color=#D78869]"Ya see,"[/color] Jesse turned his head toward Perrito, a full row of white teeth bared in his most charming grin, [color=#D78869]"there's only a few ways this'll turn out, but I'll spare ya the details and give you the most likely story."[/color] Jesse took a great swig of the Jack Daniels before standing up again, throwing his body around as if already three sheets to the wind. [color=#D78869]"You're gonna try 'n cuff me. Knock me out. Tie me up. Throw me in a piss ridden cellar. But first, all seven of your men are gonna surround me, just like they're doin' now, 'n the first thing I'm gonna do is down this entire bottle of whiskey. While I'm doin' that, I'm gonna unlatch all my flash bangs and in the most heinous, stupidest, and idiotic of moves, I'ma toss 'em up and fall to the floor. Yeah? Ya still followin' 'cause if I lost you, then you might wanna check yer pockets."[/color]

Not every cowboy fell for it, but the one who did, the one closest to McCree made sure to lean right into his grasp. Jesse threw the whiskey across the bar counter, smacking Perrito in the face while he threw the distracted merc into the circle of already firing guns. Without a second to hesitate, McCree unholstered Peacekeeper and with six flicks of his wrist, downed each and every one of Perrito's men before they could so much as cock a look his way.

Pulling himself from the counter, Perrito stared across the bar to a smirking son of a bitch Jesse McCree, clutching his bleeding nose and eye. McCree tipped his hat, bending over to rummage in each of the pockets. [color=#D78869]"Sorry 'bout the mess, Pero,"[/color] he apologized, stuffing a thick wad of cash into his pockets, [color=#D78869]"but I've been on the run for ten long years. Ain't no two-bit... ah shit."[/color] The moment McCree took a glance up, he noticed exactly how many individuals actually did pay his shenanigan any mind. Too many to count.

[color=e0e0e0]"Fifty-fifty of [i]thirty-million bucks[/i] for that man's head on a pike - fuck the alive payment!,"[/color] Perrito screamed over the cacophony of gunfire riddling holes in his bar. He yelled a hoarse scream after McCree, boots having already taken him skidding down the alleyway, [color=e0e0e0]"Dead man walking! Ten years and this is how you die, Jesse McCree!"[/color]

With the sun peaking over the horizon, it was a dead man's race to the all-American tram way that split Santa Fe in two on its way to Los Angeles. A whole saloon of angry mercenaries and bounty hunters with a whiff of his scent would tear Santa Fe down for even a few thousand bucks of cash. What they'd do for millions, Jesse wasn't about to find out.

Godspeed, cowboy.