---
TL;DR: Cole gets into a drunken bar fight that culminates into him firing his gun. The problem? An innocent bystander, a woman named Maria, was blinded by the the explosion of his gun.

Stricken with guilt, Cole promises to get enough money to replace her eyes. This means he needs to do some high-risk, high-reward work or do the thing he never wanted to do again: turn to crime.

Will your character help Cole get the money? Or will he die trying?
---

As usual, Cole was half-cut and simmering in regret. A long life of regret. When he feels regretful, he drinks. So far, he was viewing life through the bottom of a shot glass. He was in one of his favorite dives in Castillo: Calaveras. Or well, it was the only one that'd tolerate his foolish ass.

To say that he was a rowdy customer in other establishments was an understatement. Here, it was easy fitting into this particular bar because most of its clientele are ex-cons or the shady sorts. Turns out that Deadlock and Blackwatch were filled with the ex-cons and shady sorts. He was right at home.

He held his sweaty face, trying to tune out some Tejano song about the heartache of love; something depressing, anyway. It felt like the hat on his head had gotten two sizes too small. His head was fiercely pounding. His hair was slicked with beer sweat and the musty air of the dive didn't make it any better.

Bartending tonight was a pretty Mexican piece by the name of Maria. She was much younger than Cole and she kept hitting on him with coy little glances every time they met eyes. Cole looked back and gave her a dark smirk. Really, the flirting just made him feel about twenty years younger: After all, Cole was an ex-con that drank and shot his way to his miserable forties.

Cole was about to say something fresh, but he noticed the reflection of another patron bending along his shot glass — a man tattooed in phosphorous ink — glaring at him from behind a drink.

Son of a bitch. It was one of the big boys from Los Muertos.

Cole might've tangled with one of their lieutenants. He pulled out his pistol, but Cole gave him the old drunken one, two... three, four... five and bottle smash over his head. He needed to get a few dozen stitches, but hey, he made out pretty well. At least, that's what Cole would say.

Another tattooed bastard approached him as Cole sat straight.

"'ey, whatcha you doin' here? Got a lot of balls to come here after what you did." The thug speaks - his breath smelled of alcohol. "You might get hurt." he added.

"By who?" Cole chuckled, liquid courage flowing through his veins.

Cole's eyes were bloodshot and carried a menacing glare. The thug was unintimiated, locking eyes with Cassidy.

"Do you think I'm really scared by a couple of glowing bitches?" Cole laughed again.

The words launched the Muertos thug into a fury, his fists flying at Cole.
His fist struck Cole squarely on the jaw and sent him slamming backwards onto the floorboards. There was a wet thud and the bartender's voice calling out his name.

The rule is: in Calaveras, nobody intervened in the fights. Cole getting tag-teamed meant he wasn't gonna win.

Cole rests a hand onto the bar counter, lifting himself onto his trembling feet. His head was swimming, his mouth tasted like iron and his teeth felt loose. A cut appeared across his chin, drawing more blood.

He stood up unsteadily, taking a swing at the Muertos enforcer. The thug easily evades it, leaning back and punching Cole across his face. This made Cole lose his footing. As he fell backwards, he slumped against the counter.

Maria rushed over to help him stand; but the other Muertos smacked Maria away. She lets out a gasping sob, landing along the floorboards next to him.

Something just snapped in Cole.

His organic hand lowered along his belt, drawing his revolver. In a single motion he pulled back the hammer and put a bullet into the Muertos thug closest to him.

Cold unerring muscle memory.

The dimly lit dive flashed with the sudden explosion of a single gunshot.

Maria was kneeling next to the revolver - having not processed that Cole drew his weapon. The gas firing from the gigantic muzzle and cylinder hits her across the eyes, blinding her. Seared.

The Latina shrieks, clutching her face. The enforcer stumbles backwards, taking a hit to the shoulder. The pain causes him to yell out.

Cole didn't think about anything for a moment after shooting the Muertos enforcer. But he soon looked to her, feeling a primal fear well deep in his chest.

Oh god.

"No, no, no... oh Jesus... please, no!"

She's bleeding from all around her eyes. He realized, dropping the handgun with trembling hands. Her upper face is covered in burns. Cole tried touching her shoulder — and then he started shaking.

The two Muertos thugs were shaken up by the gunfire, they quickly escaped.

All of the other shady patrons silently watched Cole begin to wail out for help in broken Spanish.

---

A week passed.

Cole visited Maria in the backroom of a church. Her aunt was a nun and the sisterhood took care of her. Cole had gotten her flowers, but he felt damn insensitive for getting her something that she couldn't appreciate.

Maria had lost her eye sight and her face was horribly scarred. There'd be no going back on that bullet. Maria's glossy eyes would look towards an open window, hardly able to make the vague shapes of birds and clouds.

He couldn't bring himself to say hello, he just clutched his hat to his chest and stared at the beautiful Latina that he ruined. He couldn't even step past the threshold of the door. He silently left the room, leaving behind a few crumpled bills into the Church's collection's box. Cole recites a jumbled prayer and sulks out.

Cole couldn't bring himself to even show his face around Calvaeras. Guilt ate him from the inside out. She'd spend the rest of her life like this.

No, that wasn't true.

Artificial eyes. Cole needed to get them for her.

The only problem: their price was exorbitant. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars each from Vishkar.

He enters his dingy motel room to look at how much money he accumulated thus far.

With trembling fingers, he took a few coins from his wallet. A few small bills, a few large ones.

One thousand dollars from between his motel mattress.

This ain't gonna cut it.

Two thousand in the vault.

This was all the money he saved for the last six months.

It wasn't enough. He held his face. His breathing began to hitch, letting out a trembling sob - his resolve crumbling away.

He grabbed a nearby lamp shade and smashed it against the floor. He reached into his mini-fridge, throwing away cheap booze that he hoarded. Cole took an expensive bottle of whiskey, pouring it down the sink. No more.

He was a wreck. Everybody saw it. It just took Cole too damn long. He shot a man out of drunken rage. In that moment of stupidity, he blinded a woman. There was no getting away from this.

Cole was going to get that money. Or die trying.

---
tl;dr: Oasis made its own version of Reaper - a bigger, faster, stronger clone. For it's relative inexperience, the bastard just regenerates too fast for his own good, causing him to be nigh unstoppable. Can your character help Cole survive?
---

Buckshot tore through the night. Pellets made its mark over his upper back, but were thankfully flattened against his kevlar vest. But the sheer energy from the shotgun blast causes him to stumble forward and fall down onto the motel parking lot pavement.

He wheezes as he's winded from both the fall and pellet impact. He rasps out. There was a second shot fired into the darkness, but it hit the pavement; causing asphalt to shoot into the air. Stone fragments fly into his cheek, followed by blood that coats his face in seconds.

Cole was floored, but manages to use his prosthetic hand to raise himself up off of the ground before collapsing again. He flings himself behind the front of a nearby SUV.

His other arm is badly broken, and has become swollen. He took painkillers in an attempt to manage the pain, but even after taking them all day, they're not enough to dull the searing agony from his left shoulder.

This fight was about to draw to it's close.

Reaper was too much for him.

Instead of being clad in black, Reaper wore a white ensemble. Pristine alabaster. He was completely silent - there was no bitching or moaning, the typical sh*t you'd hear from Reaper. All that came from him was a low growl.
The ivory killer drops his sawn off shotgun for another one that simply materializes in his hands.

Cole watches this and quickly limps past the aim of Reaper's shotgun.
Without hesitation again, Reaper pulls the trigger - the shotgun blast causing the SUV's windows and windshield to shatter in one blow. The glass shards spray into the street, which causes the SUV alarm to blare. A few shards nicks the back of Cole's thigh.

Reaper emerges from around the SUV, lining up the front bead of his shotgun with Cole's back. Cassidy knew how Reaper fought - he was sadistic but efficient, preferring to blast away knees and faces when faced with body armor. He was being different.

Another blast tears across the air, catching Cole squarely across his lower back. The sudden impact makes the cowboy fall onto his side like a sack of bricks, rolling onto his side and leaving a trail of blood behind him as he slid along the ground.

Cole tried to get up on one knee, but with his broken arm it only made things worse. He was forced to crawl forward, feeling every bit of the pain in his shoulder from having fallen.

Again, Cole's vest managed to prevent the impact - but his insides were tenderized like hamburger.

Reaper walks over toward him, shotgun still trained at him, until the large man stops in front of the downed cowboy.

"You... you lost your... touch." Cole wheezes. Blood began to well from his lips and trickle into his low beard.

"Never... play with your food." He reminds Reaper of his own supposed words.

"Sh*tty last words." Reaper answers, straightening the shotgun.

"You don't remember...?" Cole asked.

Cole slowly uses his prosthetic hand in an effort to lift himself. Cole raises his forehead against the muzzle of Reaper's gun.

"Sit the f*** down, you dramatic bitch. Don't you tell me what I'm supposed to remember." The ivory assassin responds. It was true. He never recalled telling Cole anything like that.

"You're not him. Who are you?"

---
tl;dr: Cole is forced to retrieve schematics of the Biotic Rifle for Vishkar. The potential dangers of the weapon could potentially wipe out entire countries and ethnic groups - can your character and Cole prevent this crisis?
---

"How did it ever get this way?" He hisses.

Clenched in a gloved hand was the wooden grip of his revolver, he kept it low - navigating the archives hallway. Down here under its deep cover of darkness, there were no prying eyes or suspicious questions as to what he might be up to; only an echoing emptiness.

The corridor was hardly illuminated, except for where the bulbs burned bright over closed doors leading off into other departments and sections within Overwatch's main building. Across from the hallway was a security room to observe for any suspicious activities in the archives section. To one side sat a small office that doubled as an accommodation block for those needing overnight respite from the grueling workload.

Cole didn't see anybody situated in the security room. Sometimes, there'd be stretches where this room would be unattended. The thing that did most of the work here was the CCTV camera situated above the security room. However, Cole's presence didn't set anything off -- he was still a part of Overwatch. It recognized his lumbering gait, broad shoulders and sullen, bearded mug.

His heavy footfalls were slow and plodding, the soft echo of each step lost to any listening ears beyond himself.

He was an armed man, treading deep into territory of international law. As soon as he stepped in here, he wanted to leave. It wasn't just fear keeping him away from these archives - it was respect. These were memories of men and women who had gone before him, and their bravery had helped build the foundation of Overwatch.

He'll just head into the archives, step into the security room and delete the footage of himself ever being there.

Cole reaches the end of the hallway, giving a small glance to the camera. If somebody were to view this footage right now, they can see the anxiety and apprehension on his face. He dials into the door's keypad, and with a slight turn from the handle, he opens up the archive room.

He is greeted by an endless array of shelves filled with hundreds upon thousands of yellowed pages; the smell of old paper wafting around him.

The moment Cole enters, he doesn't know what he expected to find here, but it certainly wasn't encouraging in the slightest. He had only been here twice, the first time was to misplace evidence about a internal shooting between Blackwatch agents.

The second time... well, that was now.

It was like time stood still in here. He couldn't help but feel the years flood back to his mind. He thought he'd kill to relive his years as a rookie, but now the idea made his stomach turn. There was no sense of warmth or homely comfort within the archive. Rather, this place was cold and dead, a sterile feeling which made Cole cringe. It was probably hindsight talking.

What the f*** was he doing? Misplacing evidence for Reyes. That could've been career ending. F*** that. Life ending. He still did it though. Gabe could've been banging his sister and Cole'd still do whatever he asked.

He tried to come up with an excuse for himself, but Blackwatch was a blur - it was hard even remembering a time where he wasn't half-cut during those days. Nothing made sense to him. He just did it.

He supposes that not much changed in that regard. Following orders.

He was here for a reason. Cole was forced to retrieve old schematics for a pharmaceutical company attached to Vishkar. These bastards were ruthless. The sh*t that they threatened him with. They had all the authority and power of a government agency, and they would have thrown Cole underneath a prison if it suited them. At first, he didn't believe them - but they kicked down the door to his apartment in the Philippines, and held him captive against his will. They threatened to leak the known address of every Overwatch agent to every contract killer they could contact.

He looked to each shelf as he passed through. He needed to find schematics for the biotic rifle that Overwatch's R&D drew up - it was the missing link that could help weaponize medicine.

Cole scoured the archives, looking under every last book. This was a daunting task. Not just because there were so many books here, but also due to the fact that they had all been moved from their original positions on the shelves during previous investigations.

He would've sat down and read all the files, but he didn't have time - he only had less than hour until the meeting with Taneem, the Vishkar correspondent.

Finally, Cole finds what he needs. He glances down at a folder with a technical drawing of the biotic rifle on it.

He opens the folder, taking a brief glance at the words and drawings before flipping over to a sheet with some notes written on it. They talked about how each biotic dart worked - there was some sort of piston that'd load a payload of nanites that could be programmed to do whatever based on a IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) system tuned to a preferred genetic makeup. They called it predictive medicine.

A good deal of the pages talked about how the medicine could change potentially when it comes to age groups, gender and ethnic groups. If a nation wanted to use this weapon on their own men - it'd heal them, but if it were turned against an enemy of a foreign land... it'd kill them. It wasn't like a bullet. It was worse. If anything, far more devastating.

The payload could've been something that causes some sort of neurological disease. Cancer decades down the line. Or a plague. A plague that could only be fixed through an antidote with the correct ROM module manufactured by an allied pharmaceutical company. This tech was supposed to be a last ditch against enemy rogue states with something like a dirty bomb.

The realization of such tech spreading to Vishkar's hands gave Cole goosebumps, and he wished that he hadn't found this document. He wanted to burn it - have such forbidden tech never be achievable again.

Why was Overwatch insane enough to sit on this tech? It couldn't have been Torbjorn... no, no, no. Cole refused to even think that.

So, what was it going to be Cole? Are you going to roll over and hand over the files to Vishkar or are you going to take a stand?

When scrapped for parts, a human can easily become worth quarter of a million dollars a pop if the organs are still on ice. There's a market internationally. To bypass wait lists, people are perfectly fine paying twenty to fifty grand for just a new organ. And those same people don't give a sh*t where their organs come from. There's always a desire for a pound of flesh.

What's thought to be urban legend had just happened to Jesse McCree. After a night of binge drinking, McCree was kidnapped and put in a motel room. Jesse had his kidneys stolen and is left with a list of demands from an elusive pair called the 'man-scrappers'; survivors of the ominic crisis who exact their revenge against humans for "scrapping them for parts".

Jesse more or less fits the perfect target for organ theft. He's a lone drunk that's not exactly on the radar for anybody.

With only four hours to live (without his kidneys), he's going to need help with this one.

Expect grit.

His arm also got jacked too.

youtu.be/2IfrOOW8VDI

"Jesse more or less had an idea of where his revolver was, its laser was still emanating off to the side. A goombah was nice to take it from McCree and set the hefty thing onto a nearby chair. It was a f*** ugly piece of metal. A sh*tty prop that belonged in some video game or a SyFy movie.

The thing broke all the rules of gun design but somehow, it performed well. It had a terrible sight picture, blocked up by some laser along the rear sights. The thing snagged like a hairy muff and a tight zipper. It used some experimental rail system along the bottom, making the damn thing look like some serrated knife; which in turn only made it incompatible with other mounting systems.

The idea was that it was a revolver that shot rifle rounds. The frame was huge. Then they took it up a notch and made the revolver fire pulse rifle rounds; so the frame needed to be further reinforced to the point where it looked like an innocent Colt replica revolver got caught in some H.R Giger-esque shell...

Make no mistake, it took a long, long time for Jesse to warm up to the overly-kitted, poorly balanced, tacti-cool piece of sh*t. But it was a part of him; like an ugly wife or a retarded pet animal. "

ＴＨＥ ＰＥＡＣＥＫＥＥＰＥＲ

Designer: Colt, Smith & Wesson Conglomerate
Designed: 2056
Produced: 2058 - present
Weight: 3.3 LBS / 4.26 LBS
Length: 7.75 inches (2.25" Barrel Config) / 13 inches (7.5" Barrel Config) / 15 inches (9.5" Barrel Config)
Magazine: Six round cylinder/five round cylinder
Action: Double action/Single action


Introduced in 2058, the Peacekeeper revolver was introduced chambered in .45 Long Colt, .44 Magnum and .454 Casull. The grip panel is made from a militarized, rugged material that can be swapped for customization. The frame of the gun is a proprietary one created to withstand the muzzle velocity of a pulse round. It could be said that the gun heavily resembles Smith and Wesson X-Frame revolvers from yesteryear. However, much of it has been modified to suitably fire pulse rounds.

Instead of using a conventional barrel, the Peacekeeper contains a rifled tube within a barrel shroud. Tension is used to keep the barrel makes a cheaper, albeit more accurate revolver. Both the tube and shroud are treated in a process that diffuses the properties of the metal, that causes it be wear-resistant and smooth. In addition to this, the same barrel is then uniformly coated in chrome to avoid any discrepancies in accuracy since the dimensions of the barrel is modified.

The revolver is match-accurate.

The weight of the revolver and the ability to add compensators to the barrel helps greatly with the shooters perceived recoil (seen within the Blackwatch McCree skin. As Jesse's skill with the revolver increased, the compensator was removed). The spur was modified to the pistol to help with balance, at the cost of looking ridiculous.

--

ＪＥＳＳＥ＇Ｓ ＲＯＬＥ

Specialist teams have their dedicated pistoleer in urban environments. Sometimes, these pistoleers will handle doors, operate shields and throw grenades. McCree is no exception. Breach, throw a grenade into the room and clear. However, Jesse isn't a SWAT team jarhead with some overly kitted semi-auto; he diverges heavily by filling in an intermediate role between a pistoleer and a rifleman with a semi-automatic rifle.

Thanks to advancements in pulse technology, rounds that are approximately the size of a .45 Long Colt can now match 7.62x rifle round. However, the semi-automatic pistols that are needed to fire these rounds would be too complex and over-engineered as the amount of muzzle energy would render the available semi-automatic pistol designs unreliable.

Another thing that made the whole idea of a pistol that had the power of a rifle unattractive to many in the 2060s was the fact that this was limited to revolvers. Revolvers were seen as obsolete to those in military service and law enforcement.

The only market where this saw any sort of attention was with civilian hunters due to the low profile that a revolver provides compared to a rifle; thanks to the energy efficiency of a pulse-round, recoil was lighter on the shooter as well; and despite being only shot from a six inch barrel, the pulse-assisted rounds were also noted to be extremely accurate.

It takes an incredibly skilled operator to be able to fully utilize the power and accuracy made available by large-bore pulse-assisted revolvers. McCree has those skills.