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Bag of Nails

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He didn’t open his eyes when he realized he was awake. Jesse’s body had that numb feeling you only get when you get hurt real bad and miraculously end up in a hospital instead of in some ditch during the freezing desert night. Medical drugs are always like that he supposed. Though, he didn’t yet have enough experience to know if the drugs always made certain parts of him feeling so damn heavy and strange. Namely, the current heaviness he was feeling specifically in his left arm and oddly enough, his face?
He could wiggle the fingers underneath the hospital sheets on his right arm well enough so why was it that he couldn’t feel his left? And why was his face feeling itchy and weird, something he couldn’t put a name to just yet. Oh god was he hurt so bad that the damn doctors had chopped some of his body off? Jesse quickly stopped that train of thinking when he heart the faint beeping of his heart monitor jump up in pace with his mental panicking. The gunslinger waited a few moments, calming himself and sharply listening for just even a lick of sound that would indicate he wasn’t alone. Nothing. He opened his eyes.
Glaring whitewashed walls and decor stung in his vision, prompting him to blink a few times to get used to the sudden brilliance. It revealed a single bedroom, with the door closed, no window, and not even a large vent. It was sufficient to say he didn’t feel good not knowing what happened, why he felt so bad, and that there was supposedly only one way out. Jesse looked down and was immediately startled, was...was that a beard? Holy mother Mary, it was. Bringing his right arm up to his face made the sheets fall down a little, showing extensive bandaging across his bare chest. Seeing his evidently hurt body and feeling the roughness of face made his heart rate spike up with worry. If you were to ask Jesse McCree if he was scared, he would’ve adamantly denied being so. But he was alone, and so he didn’t deny it. Damn right he's scared. Plus confused. But really the confusion was just feeding the fear.
He hastily decided he wasn’t quite ready to see what was going on with his left arm, teasingly hidden under the bedsheets. Resting his right arm back down on top of said bedsheets, the gunslinger stiffly turned his head, looking at the night table that was just out of arm’s reach. There, proudly sitting was his iconic hat resting on something red in addition to what looked to be a communication device. Jesse gave himself a short mental beating before taking a deep breath. Well, as deep as a breath as a regular smoker could make. Figuring out what the devil had happened to his left arm was clearly his priority, seeing as he reckoned he wouldn’t be moving without more information. Something was wrong with his body, this wasn’t his.
He inched his arm out from under the covers, with more slightly more effort than what he’d like to admit. He felt sick. Glinting under the soft glow of the room’s lights was a cybernetic arm, just above the bend of his elbow. It wasn’t right, and not in a “it’s not fair” kinda way but a “this is completely wrong” kinda way. Jesse let the arm flop back to the bed, flinching at the sharp clink it made. The metal looked well used, worn in a caring kind of way. This wasn’t his body. He was just some guy that had just turned to a proper adult age, fooling his way around in his small but personal gang. He wasn’t this obviously rugged and rickety older man, with a full beard and prosthetic arm. His breathing grew ragged and his face hot, his throat constricting like someone had both hands wrapped around it, pressing down. Jesse wanted to go home. There was no home. The door opened.

“Oh! Well look who decided to wake up.”