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
She stays low and as far ahead of his hook as possible but she doesn't have much time to play with and she needs to get out of his range. Her best bet will be to time her own hook shot with the clanging of his and get up on the containers and on his shoulders.
Of course, he might see the container cut and crumple under the energy of her bayard but that's a chance she'll have to take.
no subject
Odd that he hasn't felt it snag on anything yet.
Round and round his chain swings, not one link whistling off-key. Even had it somehow cut through her like butter, he'd recognize a cry of pain no matter how chaotic the world around him became.
So she isn't here; got away, or she's some kinda' acrobat.
As he mulls it over, the final flight of Roadhog's hook falls in a long line down the metal lane. And without reeling it in, he goes still in the dark, like a fisherman waiting for a bite. He and Junkrat had a certain philosophy when it came to dealing with security personnel.
The light searching the area draws nearer by the second, and oh he loves it when they fall for this -- when the patrolman steps around the corner and into the crook of his weapon, it jumps to life, dragging Roadhog's victim kicking and screaming all the way to concussions-ville.
Can't get caught if there's no one left to catch you.
Left conscious, in this case.
no subject
But now the pig is occupied by the pig (heh!) and Pidge has the advantage. She has to drop her invisibility to let it recharge but if she's fast enough she can get on top of him before he even knows what hit him. And then she can-
Um...
Take off his mask? Maybe?
She'll have to figure it out once she gets up there. She bolts across the shipping crates and leaps, aiming to get a hold somewhere on his bulk and scramble up to the back of his neck.
no subject
At first, Roadhog is quiet.
Then he laughs like he's just gotten a glimpse of a future where this ends very, very badly for her. Phlegmatic, delighted rasping that serves as a warning before his double-wide shoulders buck seismically under her feet, heaving and shaking, and not in an uncalculated manner. The arm that isn't hampered by an elaborate, spiked pauldron lunges behind his neck, trying to her snatch her off while the centrifugal forces have her preoccupied—if they don't just send her flying, that is.
Between the holstered shotgun and the top of his harness, there's plenty of handholds back there, and she'll need to cling to something fast.