Kicking one ankle over the other, Roadhog stretches back like he's just switched the TV on to a match, and for good reason. Trying to follow Junkrat's hands was a sport in and of itself, as he mixed this and chopped that and hacked at sugarcane, whittling out his dozen skewers at the kind of speeds that probably belonged on some kind of televised competition.

Roadhog would be engrossed by it, usually, though today his focus is split between the show and keeping a close watch on the woman in his periphery. The chances that she'd try anything funny right now were fatter than him, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to do what instinct always told him to.

And yet Fareeha still defies his expectations, doing what most didn't risk when they had the option of speaking to Junkrat instead. The chair beneath Roadhog squeaks as he gives a monumental shrug, leather pig-nose pulling toward her slightly. "Not in it."

Her question answered--sufficiently in his opinion--Roadhog plugs his ears in tandem with Junkrat. By the time the latter unclinches his eyes and looks back in their direction, a column of dust and smoke billowing up behind him, Hog is already waiting with his thumb hoisted in the air.

Nice one, boss.