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
Then, in true Roadhog fashion--meaning he doesn't bother to explain himself beforehand--he suddenly stands back up and tromps away, over to Rat's camper, up the three steps, and through the narrow entrance, one shoulder and one leg at a time with the frame pushing at his middle.
A couple of minutes later, when he re-emerges in the very same manner, there are two six-packs dangling from his finger-tips. Twelve cans of foreign branding that can't be anything but beer, given the context.
Cracking one out of the plastic rings, he sets it over beside the grill, wordlessly, on Junkrat's prep area now that he's gone and made some room. The rest he drops off next to his chair, all except for a single can that ends up in front of Fareeha's face as Roadhog looms over her, offering her the butt end of the drink.
no subject
"He's still gotta get used to this place," he elaborates, pulling in his tongue and looking at Fareeha without any damper on his mood. "Just got here two days ago. I took the job as soon as they offered it 'cause I almost always do, but Roadie's gotta make sure he can trust them. Although I reckon it'll come down to boredom rather than trust--not like he can do a whole lot of his typical hobbies on this ship."
In the time he's been talking, Roadhog comes out with two sets of tinnies and places one on his workspace.
"Ah, cheers mate."
He picks it up with his prosthetic hand, simultaneously holding it and pulling back the tab to crack it open. He takes a swig of it--despite being beer, it's chilled to perfection to be satisfyingly refreshing in this heat.
no subject
Fareeha, certainly, is out of her element as she watches Roadhog up and disappear into the camper. Not a talkative type, and hard to read. Definitely going to be a challenge, but one she's going to have to take carefully given his friendship with Junkrat; she can't afford to piss him off.
Also she probably wouldn't survive pissing him off.
She looks at the beer in her face, then up at Roadhog as she accepts it and pops it open.
"Thanks."
no subject
Pretty much just to see if she -- or they -- would.
It'd stop them from trying to drag him into any small talk for another minute or two, at least.
no subject
She really must be making a good impression on him so far, even if she hasn't figured out how to talk to him. Or at him, as is the case sometimes. Junkrat barks out laughter and practically hops out from behind the grill, hobbling up to Fareeha and switching the can to his full arm so he can hold it out toward her, elbow out, in invitation to skull it with arms intertwined.
no subject
Then Junkrat's laughing and coming over and offering to do it together. Sure, why not? It's not like this will be hard.
She stands, links her arm with his, and gives him a od before expertly throwing her beer back.
no subject
As everyone shuffles to get into position, Roadhog replaces Junkrat behind the grill, minding their midday snack in the interim, as well as helping himself to some of the leftover sauce stuck to the mixing bowl. And while the other two are busy aggressively courting one another, Roadhog hikes his mask up to the bridge of his nose and leaves it that way, exposing the lower third of his face— no big spectacle made of it and nothing horrific lurking below.
Popping a sauce-covered finger between thick, naturally down-turned lips, he watches the proceedings between samplings of concentrated spice and swigs of beer, waiting to see who finished in first place.
Even if it wasn't meant to be a contest, there was always a winner.
no subject
Because Fareeha is still working on hers.
Junkrat glances at his own can but keeps his arm in place as to avoid yanking her drink from her mouth, and he has a bit of a consolatory, sheepish smile on his face--that has trails of beer running down the sides of his mouth.
"Well...s'pose I had a head start alre--"
He gets interrupted by his own belch--quickly laughing it off. "Beg pardon!"