Chapter Text
A cowboy in a ghost town. It was something straight out of a cliché – a night sky like a smear of tar lit up by a silver bauble of a moon, casting long, cold shadows of derelict buildings on the wispy desert sand. Rusted door hinges creaked as a gentle breeze rolled through the street, stirring the serape of a lone figure. His footfalls barely stirred the dust beneath his boots and yet in the absence of all other noise, they sounded as loud as gunshots, spurs jangling ominously in time with his steps. A billboard, half wrenched from its mantle, read Welcome to Deadlock Gorge.
The man's name was Jesse McCree, and he was on a mission. Rumours had caught his ear, blown in on the wind, that ever since the people had cleared out of Deadlock Gorge, something different, more mysterious had taken up residence there. In the local tongue, some had called it an angel. Others had named it the Devil himself. Everybody seemed to agree – the thing had abilities. Powers beyond understanding. They say the creature could reach inside you, take grip of your very soul, and give you the one thing your true heart desired.
Jesse McCree was a wanderer. A lost and lawless vagabond. He had come close to his moments of glory, but never quite managed to snatch them from the jaws of defeat. He was talented, that much was undeniable. The bounty on his head alone could attest to just how far his notoriety spread. The man who could kill ten men with six bullets. A sharpshooter with an unrivalled gift. He might have been the most infamous outlaw between here and the border, but that sort of praise felt empty. Shallow. The one thing he truly yearned for was a purpose. A calling. He had been put on this Earth for a reason, he had been given his talents to be used, and he was determined to find out just what that reason was. If he had to enlist the help of some supernatural spooks to do it, well, so be it.
His eyes swept the landscape, looking for any signs of life or habitation. It looked as though he was the first to set foot in this place in a decade. Moth-eaten lace curtains fluttered in front of yellowed glass windows, the dust settling into every crack and chip until the jagged teeth of glass were nearly smooth. Inside every building were remnants of the past. Upturned chairs, tipped glasses and strewn books across the floor, as though the inhabitants of this town had all left in a hurry. In one house he found a refrigerator, stocked to the brim with now rotten and diseased produce, all abandoned in the occupant's haste to depart.
He found the Devil sitting at a bar. It was ironic, really. He had always tried running from his demons through the bottom of a bottle in these sorts of joints, and now he was going out of his way to find one. His back was turned to McCree but even in the dim light of a single candle on the bar, McCree could tell he was not of this world. His skin was an inky midnight blue, and the tattoo winding its way up his arm glowed faintly. McCree had no doubts that the Devil heard him the moment he entered the bar, but it took him a few moments to glance over his shoulder. His eyes were shocking white streaks in the dark, devoid of pupils and chilling McCree to the bone the moment their eyes met. Casually, he took a sip of his drink – a ghostly, misted shot glass of something vile and green.
“A visitor,” the Demon announced lightly, his voice a musical, inviting lilt. He swirled his glass between clawed fingers, and the liquid moved in unnatural waves within.
Wordlessly, McCree took a seat beside him. His one human hand shook slightly, but he covered it with the metal hand he had been given many years ago – the byproduct of a long, long story. The Devil placed his glass on the bar and slid it towards McCree. Another glass, completely identical in every way, remained in it's original position like a carbon copy. Now there were two.
The Devil side-eyed the gun holster at McCree's belt.
“Have you come to slay me?” he asked.
“No,” McCree swallowed thickly, debating on whether it was better or worse to accept the offer of a drink from a spiritual entity of unknown morality. He was certainly no angel, that much wascertain. Horns protruded from his forehead and when he spoke, McCree noticed the faint glimmer of fangs behind his lips.
“Surely you didn't come all this way for a drink,” the Devil smiled, “though the company is nice.”
McCree gulped. He was parched dry. Fumbling slightly, he picked up the glass before him and drank – intuition was telling him it was the right thing to do. He was rewarded with a wry smirk from the Devil as the liquid touched his lips – somehow both ice cold and scorching like a bonfire made liquid. He coughed, a prickle of tears springing to life on his lashes.
“I heard...” McCree chewed his tongue, placing the glass down, “I heard y' be grantin' wishes and whatnot.”
“-and whatnot,” the Devil parroted, amused, “I'm no genie, if that's what you're after.”
“But you do got... abilities?”
The Devil contemplated his words.
“I do.”
There was a pregnant pause, which McCree filled by letting more of the sickening drink trickle past his lips. After the initial shock of the sensation on his tongue, it wasn't half bad. He'd definitely tasted worse in better bars than this even if it did taste the way cheap linoleum cleaner smelled.
“What did you come to... wish... for?”
There was something in the way he said it that made McCree uneasy. It couldn't be that straight-forward. Every rumour said he'd pay a price – a terrible price – just to get a chance to beg the being for even a morsel of a chance to have his true heart's desire granted. Stroll up, have an idle chat over drinks – it wasn't supposed to be this simple.
“I... wanna be given a purpose. A reason to exist, y'know? I got all this talent and people done always tellin' me I got a gift and I should be usin' it somehow. I thought as time went on that I'd just stumble into findin' that reason for my whole bein' here but I never did. My bounty grows by the day and I ain't any closer to figurin' all this out.”
The Devil raised his brows, mulling over McCree's response the same way he mulled his glass around and around between his talons. He took a sip and placed the glass down.
“Permit me to clarify. You want me to use my gifts to give you a purpose in life?”
McCree shrugged.
“Or just tell me what the hell it's supposed to be.”
“How... noble.”
“Can you do it?”
The Devil regarded him coolly for a moment, turned to face his visitor with a curious expression. He looked McCree up and down, his blank white eyes seemingly looking past his body and taking in something deeper, something intangible.
“I can.”
Jubilant in a rare moment of victory, McCree tossed down the rest of his drink but when he slammed it back to the table it was as full as when he had begun.
“So what do I gotta do then? Kill somebody? Bring y' their pinkie finger?”
The Devil cocked his head.
“Nothing of the sort,” he said swiftly, catching McCree's eyes and holding them captive in his gaze for longer than what should have been comfortable. They were hypnotic. McCree couldn't look away.
“W-... well... what then?”
The Devil's lips curled.
“Why don't you start by telling me your name, cowboy?”
McCree blinked.
“Jesse McCree.”
The Devil extended his hand to McCree.
“Hanzo.”
McCree stared at his hand. His heart was hammering so loudly in his ribs he thought it might burst from his chest and splat against the Devil's outstretched palm. Sweating, he grasped the Devil's talons in a firm handshake and immediately, a painful burning seared to life across the back of his palm. He yelped in pain, withdrawing his hand like he had been stung. Grasping his wrist gingerly in his metal hand, he watched in horror as a mark, pitch black and throbbing, flourished to life across his skin. It took up the entire back of his hand, with a few tendrils snaking down to encircle his fingers like iron rings, twisted and ornate. Panting, McCree tried desperately to scrub the mark clean but it wasn't ink or paint – it was under his skin itself, a beautiful but terrifying mandala of carefully carved sigils and runes.
“What are you doing?” McCree shouted, the bar stool clattering to the floor as he quickly stood, tripping over his own feet.
“Granting you your wish.” The Devil – Hanzo – also stood. “Now let's begin.”