This really is exactly the kind of nowhere you'd picture if someone said middle of nowhere, no matter where you hail from.

With a huff, Roadhog pulls on both rickety armrests, and eventually manages to sit up in his effectively king-sized beach chair, which nonetheless squeals dangerously beneath his bulk. He regards the dark-haired stranger for a long moment, then spends another (equally long, if not longer) studying the ground beneath her feet. He's in no rush.

Nor will she be. Lucky, she's missed stepping on at least three of Junkrat's party favors already, and he reckons the next closest is hiding about a meter ahead of her current position, from what he can gather. Far enough that he'll omit telling her about the minefield for now.

"Got business here?"