Mako Rutledge (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
snoutback) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
legionworld2017-05-19 02:37 am
snoutback) wrote in legionworld2017-05-19 02:37 am
Entry tags:
[OPEN]
Who| Roadhog, Junkrat, and YOU.
What| Reunions, playing watchdog, sparring.
Where| Mess Hall, Junkrat's Habitat, and the Sim Room.
When| Catch-all for May.
Warnings/Notes| swearing, sexual references/innuendo
Closed to Junkrat
Forty-eight hours after waking up, Roadhog's head is still spinning. Suddenly aliens were real, and the revelation's caught him with his pants around his ankles, companionless, unarmed, and struggling to form a solid plan on his own. Been some time since he's been visited by this kind of unease. Not a touch since the day Oz disappeared behind him, a granular speck on a great blue sea. And what's miserable is that he just knows it's because Junkrat isn't here to talk a mile a minute about how they were gonna survey the ship's security fixtures, squeeze around 'em to plant explosives in four, five, or a dozen different places, and then stage their fiery escape into the final frontier at the helm of a shiny new starcruiser—all casual, like it's gonna be the easiest thing in the world.
Presumably somewhere there were civilian accommodations on this hunk of junk, but Roadhog's been far too busy trying to make sense of his surroundings — and by extension his entire predicament — to sleep or to find something to eat, half-hoping he'll just happen across his partner so they can get straight back to business. At this point, his hunger pangs were developing a mind of their own, subconsciously influencing the route he takes. It's as he pops his head into a too bright - too busy mess hall that, at last, just as Hog was teetering on the brink of being tired enough to give up chase for a while, or possibly even entirely...
There's the little shit.
Were he not used to singling Junkrat out of worse, a single wild blonde head throwing up smoke signals would still have blended in seamlessly amidst the visual chaos of dozens of spandex-clad bodies. Roadhog makes a definitive beeline for his fellow Junker, ignoring the fact that the Jamison he knew wouldn't be sitting calmly at a table with so many new stimuli around him.
He has every intention of shuffling him off and away from this terrible clamor, but for now he plants his hand on the table beside Rat, leaning partway around him so that his eyes can bore into the jut of one high cheekbone. "Bout time--"
May 19th and beyond, Habitation Area, OTA
The days that follow are quieter than he expects, as Junkrat's busy schedule pulls him to and fro. Usually it's him telling Rat to stay put at the safehouse when errands need running. To be the one left like this is a foreign concept, just like how the people who come 'round asking for the bossman aren't waving around money or guns. Or how some of them haven't even heard of Rat at all, and are simply tourists, wandering all these little bits and pieces of worlds that aren't theirs without aim.
If you've got words for Rat at any point after the eighteenth, you might instead come across a plush hulk of a man with an uncannily similar taste in fashion. Either lazing about, stretched out in a sagging beach chair like he owns the place, or toiling away inside a large, dilapidated building that wasn't there when you visited before. While he's obviously noticed you coming from quite a long ways off, his foreboding silence suggests he won't be saying g'day unless you give him a very good reason.
Roadhog can tell the sightseers from Rat's actual acquaintances by how little caution they demonstrate as they walk the red earth, laden with buried mines. For them, he at the very least growls a half-hearted "Stop." Or if it's too late and his ears pick up a faint click: "Don't move."
Late May, Sim Room, OTA
Come time and many discussions with Junkrat, Roadhog's own schedule becomes a back and forth. Never could he have predicted a gig of theirs would involve classes. You been taking yours? If your mind isn't too burnt out on the new and unusual, you might notice a fresh face, or technically mask. Even without any visible expression or audibly spoken word, the big brute does not even once seem interested in anything the instructor has to say. At least, that is, until class moves into the sim room, where his leather snout points up in silent but overt wonder, as billions of data points begin to construct the realest fake world technology can offer.
It might be a typical city street, chock with pedestrians. It might be a lush alien jungle full of natural threats, or it might be a featureless desert that could've passed for Oz were it not for the looming gas giant taking up half the horizon. The possibilities are endless.
The only thing that isn't up for debate is that it's time to practice trading blows with another metahuman and your assigned partner is this humongous newcomer.
(Final prompt can be a cooperative training exercise rather than a 1 v 1 if you'd prefer!)
What| Reunions, playing watchdog, sparring.
Where| Mess Hall, Junkrat's Habitat, and the Sim Room.
When| Catch-all for May.
Warnings/Notes| swearing, sexual references/innuendo
Closed to Junkrat
Forty-eight hours after waking up, Roadhog's head is still spinning. Suddenly aliens were real, and the revelation's caught him with his pants around his ankles, companionless, unarmed, and struggling to form a solid plan on his own. Been some time since he's been visited by this kind of unease. Not a touch since the day Oz disappeared behind him, a granular speck on a great blue sea. And what's miserable is that he just knows it's because Junkrat isn't here to talk a mile a minute about how they were gonna survey the ship's security fixtures, squeeze around 'em to plant explosives in four, five, or a dozen different places, and then stage their fiery escape into the final frontier at the helm of a shiny new starcruiser—all casual, like it's gonna be the easiest thing in the world.
Presumably somewhere there were civilian accommodations on this hunk of junk, but Roadhog's been far too busy trying to make sense of his surroundings — and by extension his entire predicament — to sleep or to find something to eat, half-hoping he'll just happen across his partner so they can get straight back to business. At this point, his hunger pangs were developing a mind of their own, subconsciously influencing the route he takes. It's as he pops his head into a too bright - too busy mess hall that, at last, just as Hog was teetering on the brink of being tired enough to give up chase for a while, or possibly even entirely...
There's the little shit.
Were he not used to singling Junkrat out of worse, a single wild blonde head throwing up smoke signals would still have blended in seamlessly amidst the visual chaos of dozens of spandex-clad bodies. Roadhog makes a definitive beeline for his fellow Junker, ignoring the fact that the Jamison he knew wouldn't be sitting calmly at a table with so many new stimuli around him.
He has every intention of shuffling him off and away from this terrible clamor, but for now he plants his hand on the table beside Rat, leaning partway around him so that his eyes can bore into the jut of one high cheekbone. "Bout time--"
May 19th and beyond, Habitation Area, OTA
The days that follow are quieter than he expects, as Junkrat's busy schedule pulls him to and fro. Usually it's him telling Rat to stay put at the safehouse when errands need running. To be the one left like this is a foreign concept, just like how the people who come 'round asking for the bossman aren't waving around money or guns. Or how some of them haven't even heard of Rat at all, and are simply tourists, wandering all these little bits and pieces of worlds that aren't theirs without aim.
If you've got words for Rat at any point after the eighteenth, you might instead come across a plush hulk of a man with an uncannily similar taste in fashion. Either lazing about, stretched out in a sagging beach chair like he owns the place, or toiling away inside a large, dilapidated building that wasn't there when you visited before. While he's obviously noticed you coming from quite a long ways off, his foreboding silence suggests he won't be saying g'day unless you give him a very good reason.
Roadhog can tell the sightseers from Rat's actual acquaintances by how little caution they demonstrate as they walk the red earth, laden with buried mines. For them, he at the very least growls a half-hearted "Stop." Or if it's too late and his ears pick up a faint click: "Don't move."
Late May, Sim Room, OTA
Come time and many discussions with Junkrat, Roadhog's own schedule becomes a back and forth. Never could he have predicted a gig of theirs would involve classes. You been taking yours? If your mind isn't too burnt out on the new and unusual, you might notice a fresh face, or technically mask. Even without any visible expression or audibly spoken word, the big brute does not even once seem interested in anything the instructor has to say. At least, that is, until class moves into the sim room, where his leather snout points up in silent but overt wonder, as billions of data points begin to construct the realest fake world technology can offer.
It might be a typical city street, chock with pedestrians. It might be a lush alien jungle full of natural threats, or it might be a featureless desert that could've passed for Oz were it not for the looming gas giant taking up half the horizon. The possibilities are endless.
The only thing that isn't up for debate is that it's time to practice trading blows with another metahuman and your assigned partner is this humongous newcomer.
(Final prompt can be a cooperative training exercise rather than a 1 v 1 if you'd prefer!)
no subject
Junkers, though? They duck for cover.
The moment Marjara goes for her pack, Roadhog raises his right arm, bringing his bracer over his vitals. His boots plant flat in the dirt, ready to roll all forty of his stones behind Junkrat's old, gutted Mayhem humvee if it turns out he's in for an old-fashioned Junker greeting.
It doesn't come to that, however, and since his ass has already gone from comfortable to hanging halfway out of his seat, he finishes standing up to go and take a closer gander at what she's brought. Roadhog halves the distance and stops. In her hand is simultaneously exactly the kind of thing Junkrat would be bribed by, and the one thing he shouldn't need a lick of anyone's help to procure. It also looks like something Rat would've been churning out at the tender age of four.
Which means it's Roadhog's turn to cock an unseen brow.
"Pretty sure we're full up on fireworks."
no subject
"Your friend seemed to think differently. We'd already discussed terms. My magic for his technology. I understand if he didn't relay that information to you, but my inquiry is genuine."
Still, she's respecting the boundaries here, staying precisely where she is and not a step closer. She's just not going to let herself be chased away that readily.
no subject
A one-armed sheila knocking at their door, plus one partially built prosthetic sitting on Junkrat's work table equals basic math. And it wasn't his job to question what Rat did with his own free time.
"Boss'll be back around soon." Roadhog lumbers a few more steps forward, stops, and drags his boot through the dirt, drawing half a circle around the mine between them, before turning to walk in the direction of the ugly metal structure beyond the two dead, mutilated vehicles.
"Careful," he mutters, still on the move.
In the center of the mark he left behind, there's the faint hint of something - an unnaturally round contour in the soil.
"Or you might step on some magic."
no subject
A moment's concentration on the ring on her finger, and suddenly her feet aren't touching the ground, high enough that not even her dangling toes brush the vividly-colored dust. And she lets herself drift forward after Roadhog, though keeping an eye out for any wires or strings that might also indicate some form of defense.
It's hard to tell if paranoia or boredom was more responsible for the state of this place.
no subject
There aren't any other surprises along the route he takes, barring maybe the loud groan of the steel door as he rolls it open and beckons for her to go on through.
"Chair there's safe," Roadhog says, looking pointedly at the ratty recliner posted near the entrance. Yet another set piece that's been recreated to look and feel a little lived-in, down to the broken mechanism that caused the leg rest to immediately pop out whenever someone sat in it.
As for the rest of the place?
"Don't touch anything."
no subject
A moment of staring and blinking and she's over it, however, trying to resettle herself in something like a dignified manner. She's more interested in looking than touching, anyway.
This must be where he makes all his little contraptions...oh. She could think of a few people off the top of her head who would love a look around this little shop.
threadjack incoming
At Marjara's expense, Roadhog looses a bark of callous laughter, shortly before everything in their vicinity goes dark as he lets the door slam shut behind them. Their clients only ever received his best hospitality.
That is to say that nothing terrible happens in the seconds that follow. His heavy footfalls simply reverberate off and away, in no particular hurry to make any of this less uncomfortable. Pitch dark or not, he knew where he was going. Soon as he reaches the long line of switches that corresponded to the large construction lamps festooned throughout the garage, a select two of them buzz to life.
One's back overhead of Marjara, hanging from the several metres high ceiling, while the other illuminates all the necessary components of a small kitchenette amidst the islets of junk, toward which Roadhog strolls and wordlessly begins prepping a pot of tea.
THREADJACK ARRIVES
"Holy dooley. I know I've went off on these things before but I really cannot express how much these classes are a fat lot of pissin' in the wind," he starts, shrugging off his jacket as he limps towards his workbench. "Reckon I'll learn how ta sleep standin' up faster than anythin' else at this rate. Everything's all--"
He hangs up his jacket on a hook and gesticulates wildly.
"Don't go over there Junkrat. No, Junkrat, we need you to focus. The simulation isn't able to do that, Junkrat. Chroist, it's like, who gave the deso the power ta make the rules?"
Reaching behind himself, he pulls off the yellow skin-tight crop top and throws it over the back of his chair.
"Oi, you makin' a cuppa, mate? Pour us a spot, will ya?"
Junkrat places a hand on the corner of his bench to lean forward and kick up his full leg to reach back and unbuckle his boot, taking it by the heel and pulling it off, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. He goes for the belt buckle around his hips next.
"I know these classes are mandatory but I'm tellin' ya, I'm one snooze cruise from chuckin' a permanent sickie and if I'm gonna cark it on some other planet I'll just chalk it up ta occupational hazard. It'll be way better than bein' bored enough ta wrap me laughin' gear around a firecracker and lightin' up--"
He turns around so that he doesn't whack his head against his workbench, and it's only when he gets his waistband around his knee and knee analogue does he realize that Marjara is sitting there, witnessing his rant. Said rant comes to a screeching halt as he stares at her like a dingo in headlights, and it takes a couple of seconds for his brain to catch up with what he's seeing.
"Oh!"
Junkrat stands back up, pulling his pants back up with him and closing his belt around his hips once again. A bright grin is on his face now, as if he hadn't been ropeable just a split second ago.
"Roadie! Why didn't ya tell me we had a guest?"
The answer to that question is because you didn't allow for a word in edge-wise. He limps back over to the chair, throwing an arm over the back of it.
"G'day mate! I take it yer here ta check out the prototypes I made?"