He hadn’t meant for this.
McCree should have known better, he taught him better, dammit. But that hadn’t stopped him pulling Morrison out of harm’s way and taking the sniper shot to the chest himself.
He watched as the kid dropped lifelessly to the floor.
He shouldn’t have cared. McCree was just another traitor, another person he had failed. But the deep crimson blossoming across his shirt was an all too familiar sight to the older man, and it screamed of death.
He was vaguely aware of Akande demanding he move to the extraction point, but his body remained frozen in place, eyes fixated on the weak rise and fall of his ex-protégé's chest.
Through the haze he heard Morrison shout before a second shot rang out. Widowmaker had the entire strike team pinned.
He realised grimly that he was the only person who could get within 5 feet of McCree.
He almost walked away. Talon had found what they came for and were evacuating. In two minutes, this would be nothing more than another shit-stain in the Overwatch history books.
The only problem was that Jesse didn’t have two minutes.
It was a split-second decision, but one that convoluted and twisted his purpose in the world in ways that not even he could have predicted. Cursing internally, he surged forward towards the fallen agent, a single thought running though his mind.
He should have left the damn kid back at 66.