FUTUROLOGY NETWORK.

[ The video shows a table in some corner of Oska's kitchen. There's a man at this table, long legs propped up on top of it, reclining against his chair. He's wearing boots with spurs, leather chaps, and a red serape that hangs off of his left shoulder. Body armor covers his chest; the panels inlaid on either side glow faintly blue. He's holding a revolver of significant size with one gloved hand, and with the other, he's carefully polishing oil off of that revolver's barrel. That other hand is bionic, and also covered in faintly glowing panels. The prosthetic runs up the visible length of his arm and disappears into the shroud of the serape.

He grins into the feed from beneath the wide brim of his hat. In his late thirties and handsomely rugged, he's swarthy, with thick, brown hair and dark eyes. His voice is a deep, southern drawl--affable, but with a suggestion of something sharper just beneath. A cigarillo, lit and gently smoking, dangles from the corner of his mouth. ]

Well, now. I'm findin' this place right peaceful. I got to say it's nice to walk around without worryin' over a bounty on my head, so I ain't too sore at these ALASTAIR fellas for pluckin' me out my own place like a ripe peach.

[ He jerks one metal thumb at the table. A few gleaming revolver shells are scattered across the wooden surface, nicely framing a half-finished tumbler of bourbon. ]

Bourbon ain't too bad, neither.

[ He sits up and leans forward, setting the gun down next to the glass; as he does so, there's a glimpse of his belt--strung with more revolver bullets and cinched with a gold buckle. The letters 'B A M F' are clearly engraved on this buckle. ]

'Sides, it's a job like any other. I done escorts before. Granted, they usually been human. Sometimes omnic. Never whatever the hell these things are tryin' to be. But if it's got to get done, it's gonna get done, right? Right.

[ He puffs on the cigarillo, exhaling a long plume of white smoke. ]

Oh, yeah. I had a look see at this here device, flicked through the archive a bit. Noticed some talk about learnin' this or that. I ain't handy with a sword, but if you need a man to show you how to shoot, I'm your huckleberry. I know my way around a fist-fight, too, if it comes to that. Ask and ye shall receive.

[ His smile widens, warms. This is still a hell of an unfamiliar situation, but he's damned and determined to make the best of it. ]

Name's McCree, by the way. Pleased t'meet you.

[ He tips his hat, and that's all, folks. ]