"The hacker," Roadhog mutters back distractedly. It isn't a question, because he recalls those meetings well. Drink after drink hitting his stomach, a crick in his neck as he hunched to fit at the table, and the scent of thick cigar smoke that crept inside his mask, making him suck down hogdrogen just to feel sure that his lungs were still working. That memory is crisp, and it's been years since.

After Luna Park, that's where the hole is. What he'd previously thought added up to a few hours or maybe a day of unconsciousness. Now, that little black spot is starting to seem bigger and bigger; it's nearly due to be reclassified as a chasm by the time Junkrat poses the question Roadhog was forced to ask himself the moment he identified himself on the screen. He just shakes his head.

No.

The doors ding again and the lift's automated voice wishes them something trite while Roadhog squeezes out of it. He takes only the necessary steps to clear the threshold, then stands stock still just outside, waiting for Junkrat to tell him where to go. Some things Roadhog wouldn't mind having punched out of his head for good, but after hanging around a human sieve for all these years, he'd learned how to treasure his more immediate memory.