High Noon, Somewhere in the World
A cup of coffee. A burnt out cigar. A bottle of cider. A drastic sensation of an approaching existential dread, in a world completely unlike his own.
This was not what Jesse McCree had in mind, when he had boarded that Orca airship a few days ago.
A fight? A skirmish? The breakout of a covert war between the remnants of Overwatch, and the forces of Talon? Sure. Maybe. Perhaps, that was even what the outlaw-turned-vigilante had hoped for – a reason to return to all the mess that he had left behind. Something to live for.
He had not expected a rolling plain of green orchards and golden fields. He had definitely not expected a host of colorful little horses to attend to him. And he had not expected to be stuck in an entirely new world, either.
Jesse McCree would blame Lena in the end, anyways. Probably her fault, they had gotten stuck in an alternate dimension, or some time loop you’d see in those five dollar flicks at the Alamo. Stuff that Winston would more know more of – McCree was just a gunslinger, in the end. He had always left the smarts to the scientists and researchers.
If someone had told him, not two weeks ago, that a deformed and wizened old Commander Morrison would apprehend him in Nevada, hoping to locate and recruit former Overwatch agents, and that they would eventually find themselves in a land of chubby little horses, Jesse McCree would have laughed in their face and blessed their hearts.
As it was, he would simply settle for buying them a pint instead. Some warning would have been nice. Though, who could have predicted the glowing ball of energy that would blast Jack Morrison’s little retinue apart?
Now, the “cowboy” found himself slowly wasting away before a splintered old table. He was sat in a chair two sizes too small for him, and kept tidy in a home that, though it looked like a barn, didn’t exactly house the same kinds of horses he was used to in the western reaches of the United States. An empty cup of coffee sat on the table before him, its contents sizzling in his stomach, and a used cigar sat neatly in an ashtray. He held a glass of cider in his hands, slowly sipping away at it.
In all honesty, Jesse McCree was bored beyond his mind. Alone, for the time being, and completely lost. Some days before, he might have said that his life was never uneventful, but now, that was simply untrue.
Christ, the cider wasn’t even alcoholic. That wasn’t any fun.
He had been sitting there for a few minutes, when his thoughts were interrupted by a rather heavy body plopping down into the chair to his right. McCree didn’t bother to look up from his glass of cider – he knew who it was.
A deep sigh, a low groan. A blonde mop of mane sat neatly upon the rotted oak of the table, its owner frustrated and annoyed. A sight that McCree swore he didn’t think he would ever see.
“A penny for ‘em,” Jesse said, taking a sip from the cider. It tasted well enough, but the lack of alcohol was something to lament. The pony looked up, a weary sight about her.
“Huh?” Applejack grunted in return, raising a brow.
“Come on, what’re you thinking?”
Applejack was one of Jesse’s hosts – at least, for the time being. It had been a couple days before that he awakened in a soft bed, a checkered quilt upon him as four little horses looked down on his body from above. After an unfortunately hectic scene of panic and agitation, McCree had been told that, not a day before, a large being in a metal suit of armor had brought him to the farm, looking for a place to keep McCree safe.
The man – who, quite honestly, McCree figured was old Reinhardt – had, not long after, returned to wherever he had come from, looking to retrieve more of their comrades. None had returned, or visited, since, and McCree simply hoped that, if they were even still alive, they hadn’t forgotten about him.
He hadn’t exactly proven his loyalty when things had gone south, all those years back.
“What’s a penny?” The orange pony asked, slipping a hoof under her chin as she lounged forwards.
Jesse shook his head, waving a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. Human figure of speech.” Placing his cider on the table, he cleared his throat. “You seem a mite frustrated. What’s going on in that noggin’ of yours?”
Applejack groaned, looking away. “It’s nothing. Big Mac’s just being dumb again, s’all.” Peering into the empty cup of coffee, she whistled in recognition. “You like the coffee, sugarcube?”
“I’ve had worse,” Jesse answered. “I’m mostly just bored. What’s goin’ on with Big Red?”
His host looked nonplussed at her brother’s nickname, but rolled her eyes. “Ah, nothing important. My brother just wants to plow the southern fields again,” Applejack explained. “I keep telling him we need to pick all the apples first, so we don’t get ahead of ourselves, but no~” She leaned back in her seat, raising her hooves in the air. “We need to be efficient, he says. Like we don’t got enough on our hooves already.”
Jesse simply nodded, unsure of what to say. After a few moments of silence, Applejack turned and looked him in the eye.
“You said you were bored?” she asked, her ears pricking forwards towards McCree. “Why don’t you find something to do? Maybe help us on the farm?”
Jesse shook his head, looking more than a bit frustrated himself. “Believe me, I’d like to,” he said, picking up his glass of cider again. “But I think I’d be more a hindrance than anything.”
He was being honest, really – he hated sitting around, having nothing to do, and he felt some sense of duty to his hosts, who had gladly taken him in for the time being. Applejack looked confused, however, her head tilting to the side.
“Whaddya mean?” she questioned, her blonde mane tossing about. “I’m sure you could help somewhere.”
“I can’t help but disagree, miss,” McCree said, sighing. “I’ve seen the way ya’ll work. Hitting down all those little apples with a buck of your legs. I’d just slow you down.”
He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “If only I had my gun,” he whispered, visions of its chrome beauty sifting through his mind. “Could probably shoot ‘em all down – good practice, too.”
Jesse heard Applejack shift to his right, a small cough slipping through her lips. “Uh, you said a gun?”
His eyes snapped open, and Jesse launched forwards in his chair. “I did, miss. You got a fancy as to where it might be?”
Applejack was quiet for a few seconds, her eyes betraying the gears of thought turning inside her head. Finally, an ear cocked forwards, the other standing straight up.
“Is your ‘gun’ made of polished wood and metal?” Applejack prompted, and McCree nodded. “Cylinder looking thing sticking out in the middle, and a hole in the front? Little spokes on the handle?”
Worry and concern flowed through Jesse McCree’s mind – guns were dangerous things, to be sure, and he only hoped that no one had played with his Peacekeeper. Certainly not Apple Bloom, the precious little thing. “Yeah, that’s right. You folks didn’t mess with it or nothing, did you?”
Applejack shook her head. “Naw, we didn’t.” Jesse sighed in relief. “That big stallion – or man, rather – he brought it with you. Said it was dangerous.” Her expression scrunched up – it was visible she was questioning what the gun truly was. “What was it, you said that man’s name was again?”
“Reinhardt,” Jesse answered, taking yet another sip of cider. “So yeah, that’d be my gun. Can I have it back?”
The mare nodded, rising from her seat. “Sure, sugarcube. What’s yours is yours, after all.”
They had found themselves in the middle of the orchard a half hour later. It was still morning, and the sun had not yet reached its precipice in the sky. Nevertheless, Jesse McCree felt some sensation of fulfillment, some feeling of relief, when his calloused hand wrapped around that familiar old varnish. It was a remarkable comfort against the atmosphere of dread and muted fear that had enveloped him since he had realized he was far from the sands of Deadlock Gorge.
Applejack was beside him, lightly kicking at the ground. “I’ve gotta say, I’m a mite curious,” she said, looking up at him. “What makes you want to help us? Why stay with my family and I?”
“You want me gone?” McCree chuckled, raising a brow. “Don’t like my moochin’ off you and your kin?”
The mare’s head shook rapidly, her eyes widening as her ears flattened upon her head. “No, no, s’not that,” Applejack said, backpedaling. “Just, that old man, Reinhardt - he said you were a drifter, told us to make sure you didn’t wander off or nothing.”
“What makes you think I’d wander off?” Jesse asked. He took a moment to adjust his hat under the bright sunlight. Applejack shrugged, evidently having no answer. “Think I’d go off, try and find my friends?”
She nodded. “Yeah, sure - put in your horseshoes, I reckon I’d do exactly that,” Applejack explained, shuffling her hooves.
Jesse McCree sighed, closing his eyes. “In all honesty, Applejack? I’d love to. I’d love to go off and find my friends - Lord knows I haven’t seen ‘em in years.” Placing his hands on his hips, Jesse shrugged. “But you and your kin - ya’ll have kind to me. Took me in, gave me drink and food - though, I don’t understand why you’d think I eat hay.”
Applejack chortled, smirking. “Yeah, well - we Apples, we try to be good hosts. Does us no good ifen we treat somepony badly.”
“That’s a good thing, Applejack, lemme tell you,” McCree said. “But, let me be honest, I haven’t had anyone treat me as kindly as your kin have, in a long, long time. I feel I need to pay it back, somehow.”
Applejack made to speak, words of reassurance and ‘no payment needed’ on the tip of her tongue, but McCree stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Besides - the old man told you to keep me where I am, and I aim to honor that agreement.”
The mare nodded, satisfied with his answers. The two stood in silence for a few moments, unsure of how to proceed, but a question seeped into Applejack’s mind, concern welling within her.
“So, when you said you could help now, what did you mean?” An uncertain expression was stretched across her features, unease kept within her green eyes.
“I meant what I said, Applejack,” Jesse responded simply. His eyes were narrowed, his gaze wandering all over the trees of the orchard. The red apples were patterned across the leaves and branches, bright fruits of a most sumptuous color.
“So then, what’re you gonna do, sugarcube?” Applejack asked again, her eyes moving to McCree’s hip. “It ain’t got nothing to do with that gun of yours, does it?”
Jesse McCree looked down at his companion, a mischievous smirk upon his lips as they let loose a series of low chuckles. “Hold up now. I thought you wanted to see how it worked?”
She rolled her eyes, looking a tad bit vexed. “Sure, but you said it was dangerous,” Applejack explained, frowning. “I don’t want you hurtin’ none of my apples!”
McCree chuckled again, his hand slowly moving to his hip. “Don’t worry, Jackie,” he said, much to the mare’s indignation. “It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Applejack made to respond, taking a few steps back, but she stopped. Jesse McCree had adopted a look of intense concentration, his eyes narrowed and his figure tensed as one hand hovered over the gun at his hip. The other hand was splayed out in front of him, his fingers waving like little tendrils.
“Applejack?” he prompted, taking a moment to look at his companion. “You want to see how I can help ‘round this farm?” She nodded, wanting to speak, yet having no words to say. Smirking, McCree looked back at the apple trees, planting a foot firmly into the ground.
“It’s high noon,” Jesse McCree muttered, his baritone voice low and gravelly. Applejack felt a sudden onrush of fear and horror, flowing all throughout her equine body like an inexplicable flood.
She couldn’t help but ask, however, one question. “But sugarcube, it’s only ten in the morning—”
Clack clack clack clack clack clack!
And then, just as suddenly as the wave of fear, Applejack’s ears were deafened by a series of bursting sounds, one after another in a brief, yet continuous, stream. The mare whinnied, raising onto her hind legs as fear rushed through her yet again.
“Woah, nelly!”
Before them, six red fruits fell upon the earth, bouncing upon the cool grass. They were clean, unblemished, yet the stems were completely blown apart, the thin sticks nowhere to be seen. Applejack’s eyes widened, her heart racing as she took deep, collective breaths, but to her side, McCree was as calm as ever, quietly replacing the brass shells in his gun with fresh, new cartridges.
Jesse McCree looked down upon his companion, chuckling as he took in her shocked and awed form. He tilted his head to the side, spinning the revolver and placing it into his holster.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s always high noon, somewhere in the world."
From tearing down a colossal mech one week, to being stranded in a land of technicolor horses the next…
Torbjorn, as reputable of an engineer he was, could not deny that his life spared no expense on excitement and eccentricity. His days in Overwatch had set, in stone, the peculiarity with which his life worked, yet now, his current situation—their current situation—spoke volumes, placing the final nail in the coffin.
It only figured that Torbjorn’s life would take such a metaphysical turn, once he had become reacquainted with Jack Morrison—at least, what remained of the old soldier. The grizzled veteran was a lodestone of the extraordinary. Deep within, Torbjorn Lindholm regretted taking Morrison’s offered hand that fateful day in Boklovo—he thought it better that such distant memories as ‘Overwatch’ remained as such.
“Ooh, what’s this? What’s that? Scoots, take a look at this biggun!”
Now, however, he had to make do with their situation. Such bizarre circumstances all but demanded pragmatic solutions, and Torbjorn had been tasked with repairing the vessels upon which the Remnants had arrived.
The Remnants. A fitting name, for the rag-tag group of sentimentalists and wishful idealists many of them had become.
“That’s fragile! Put that thing down!”
Yet, as it was, the MV-261 Orcas the Remnants had flown on were damaged, some beyond repair. For the past day, Torbjorn had been doing his best to fix the airships, scavenging parts and pieces of the less salvageable ones to patch holes in the others. After all, two working aircraft were much better than none.
Well, in all honesty, the brilliant engineer, recently renown for toppling a “destroyer of worlds,” would have been finished…
If it hadn’t been for a trio of bubbly little girls and a courier who hadn’t yet arrived. Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo. Three little horrors for the Swedish man.
In truth, they weren’t actually little girls, but Torbjorn did not remember the term for a literal female horse child, nor did he care. His hand—and prosthetic claw—were full with them, and he’d be damned if they weren’t delaying him by a considerable amount of time.
“What’s this?” one of the she-devils asked, bouncing around from part to part like a sugar-crazed child. Torbjorn wouldn’t have been surprised if that were actually the case, yet his eyes widened when the horn upon the little foal’s head began to glow with an ethereal light.
“Don’t touch that!” he shouted, running over. He grabbed an object out of Sweetie Belle’s magical grasp, a sense of urgency about him. “Please, children, let me work in peace.”
The little white foal was joined by her companions, their expressions those of disappointment, yet also undeterred. They had taken rather quickly to the dwarfish engineer, finding his creations—and stature—entertaining, yet Torbjorn wished it hadn’t been.
After all, the entirety of the town of ponies had taken to the Remnants well. It had been a few days ago, when Reinhardt had led the retinue of “heroes,” old and young, to the town he had found. It had truly been an odd sight, finding the cool and relaxed Jesse McCree mingling with the farmponies he had been entrusted to, but the town was peaceful, quaint—the perfect place to rest, and gather their bearings in this new world they had found themselves in.
While Jack Morrison and Ana Amari, the de facto “leaders” of the little entourage, had moved onto a city called ‘Canterlot,’ the rest of their supposed recruits remained in Ponyville. Rest and relaxation, of a most peculiar sort, but Torbjorn preferred not to unwind, lest his creative muse wisp away.
Returning his attention to the object, Torbjorn looked over the small sphere that had taken Sweetie Belle’s interest. He realized that it was not a dangerous, nor central, part of the repairs. It was one of Winston’s creations—a small, personal shield. Winston had managed to fix the little “issue” plaguing the devices, and had created a number of smaller prototypes, passed around to the Remnants.
Torbjorn looked up, gazing over the three little foals’ voracious expressions. He knew that, in all honesty, it was best that they not interfere but… what was the harm, really? The shields were harmless, durable—what was the worst that could happen?
“You know what?” the Swede began, rolling his eyes. “Take it, if you want. Just don’t break it, and give it back once you’re done.” He tossed the sphere towards the ponies, eager to get back to work. Hopefully, it would distract them for a time, and he wouldn’t have to spend any more precious minutes catering to the children.
The ponies’ eyes lit up, and Scootaloo caught the shield generator. “What is it? What does it do?” she asked, inspecting the ball. “Seems really fancy.”
Torbjorn turned away, returning to the Orca he had been attending to. “It’s a shield generator, lass.” He began to hammer away at the airship’s hull. “Protects you and your loved ones.”
Apple Bloom took the sphere from her friend, looking close at it. “Shields? Like, one of ‘em metal ones, or the bubbly things that Twilight’s brother can make?”
Torbjorn wasn’t sure who ‘Twilight’ and her brother were, but he figured that, given what magic he had been shown so far in ‘Equestria,’ a bubble sounded about right. “I think you’d be right in that assumption. Big bubble, doesn’t let the bad things through.”
The girls were quiet for several moments, and Torbjorn relished the relative peace that he had sought after as he worked. The Orca he had been repairing had retained some amount of hull damage, and he had decided to focus on one particular breach first. It was nearly done, yet still required more work to be stable.
He just hoped that the courier would arrive soon. He needed more parts from the other Orcas, and the sooner he finished, the better.
“So why are you so short?” Sweetie Belle’s innocent little voice registered from behind him, and Torbjorn groaned, turning around. “All the other humans were much taller than you.”
Before he could answer, Apple Bloom prodded her friend. “Sweetie Belle! Don’t be so mean,” she admonished Sweetie Belle, shaking her head. “Maybe he’s like Snips! And we know how much Miss Cheerilee tells us not to ask him about that.”
Torbjorn chuckled, although he was rather annoyed within. “It’s alright, lass,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t mind. I have dwarfism—makes me shorter.”
“Dwarfism?” Sweetie tilted her head, her ears pricking forwards. “Isn’t that what Snips has? So he is like Snips!”
The foals began to speak amongst themselves, debating the intrinsic nature of human dwarfism as opposed to that of ponies, but Torbjorn ignored them, rubbing a calloused hand across his face. He returned to his work, but not a moment passed before another question reached his ears.
“So, Mister Torbjorn, why do you have an accent, then?” It was Scootaloo this time, an eager smile stretching across her lips. “I’ve never heard a pony speak like that before.”
Torbjorn resisted the urge to groan, or even shout, in frustration, hiding his annoyance and pretending not to hear the pony’s words. He continued to hammer away at the metal plates of the Orca, nail by old nail. Behind him, the girls continued to argue and debate, their words carrying them farther and farther from the engineer’s workplace.
It had been about a half hour later when the hull had been, for the most part, shored up. It was still not secured, the metal plating unstable and unsound. A simple kick of a football, perhaps by the old Swedish legend Ibrahimovic, could have knocked a hole in the side of the airship again, but that step was further down the list of repairs.
The three little ponies had disappeared, gone off to some den Torbjorn knew nothing about, and would frankly prefer to not know of at all. His work had been, quite thankfully, quiet and peaceful since their departure, and his ears were no longer ringing with the sounds of their arguing and ogling.
Yet, Torbjorn was still a tad bit frustrated—he could not begin the next stage of repairs without the parts taken from the other Orcas, and the courier had not yet arrived. He assumed, simply, that radios and such did not exist in Equestria, and so, he would have no estimate on the parts’ arrivals.
Perhaps some rest was in order—Torbjorn had been working for the past few hours, and sweat had begun to bead upon his flesh like snow upon a Swedish road. He stepped back, taking a seat on a particular box of artifacts, and readied his miniature forge, seeking to take a swig of the near-molten mystery liquid.
A far-off shout, however, interrupted him, and Torbjorn looked into the sky. He shielded his eyes with his hand, the sun bright and zealous, but he could make out a small figure far in the clouds, approaching at a rapid velocity. The shouting, screaming really, became louder by the second, the silhouetted figure growing larger and larger, before Torbjorn realized what was happening.
“Incoming!” the voice cried out, her wings flapping uselessly in the air. With a struggled heave, Torbjorn dove out of the way, covering his head and closing his eyes. A moment later, his ears rang with the sound of screeching metal and a heavy impact. He grunted in pain, feeling a light piece of steel bounce off his armored back, yet he did not move.
Seconds passed before Torbjorn felt he was safe, and he opened his eyes. The air was full of a rust-colored dust, slowly settling down into the earth again, and with a pained grunt, Torbjorn rose to his feet. Turning around, he was greeted by a most ghastly sight.
Torbjorn’s jaw fell open, his body slouching as he took in the sight before him. The hull of the Orca had collapsed, a large breach rendered into the metal plating. A small, grey body sat haphazardly in the hole, its blonde head wavering from side to side.
He rushed over to the Orca, looking over the mess. A mare was inside, her coat grey and her mane blonde. A set of saddlebags were wrapped around her back, and near wreckage, a large bag lay ripped apart, its contents spilling out. Torbjorn quickly looked over the pony, concerned for her health.
“Wha… what happened?” the pony slurred out, her golden eyes swirling, rather cartoonishly, in circles. “Is the package delivered?”
Torbjorn let out a sigh of relief, glad that the mare was, for the most part, alright, but frustration welled up inside him. He balled his fist, clenching the claws of his prosthetic forge together. He could not resist the shout within him, the cries of aggravation rising through his lungs.
“I worked hard on that!”
Author's Note
Here's to my new story! Hope ya'll enjoyed. I'm hoping this idea goes down well.
As stated in the description, this story is a series of short little tales, following the Overwatch casts' adventures in Equestria.
The next chapter will put the spotlight on Winston. Expect it soon!
Thanks, guys.
