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
"Awwh," he coos out, reaching out and--with just enough arm length to pull it off--boops Roadhog on his exposed, broad nose. Normally this would've been directed at the snout of his mask, but he'll make do. "I thought ya said ya didn't want ta be me pack mule any longer."
...It always has been a little give or take with what Junkrat manages to remember.
no subject
"Never was a mule."
Very lightly he squishes Junkrat's cheeks between a thumb and a forefinger, leans forward just a bit, and makes an especially piggish snort.
Roadhog.
no subject
"Pack-swine," he corrects himself. "Although pigs were never bred for bein' beasts of burden...on the other hand, y've never found me any truffles." Junkrat's shoulders heave in a shrug, still trying to give him a cheeky smirk. "Would not complain if ya did though."
no subject
"You'll need a sow for that."
Pig fact for a pig fact.
no subject
He looks down at Roadhog through cocky, slit eyes with a smirk to match.
"Didn't think it'd make a difference t'ya."
no subject
"Suppose not."
Coupled with a jerk of his chin, Roadhog flicks his eyes upward. "Stars're up there, you feel like lookin' at 'em at some point," he reminds Rat what he'd dragged them out here for--not to imply that he cared one way or another if he wanted to keep wasting his time staring at him instead.
no subject
Ah, the stars. "Oh, yeah," he comments quietly, craning his neck to look upward at the fake, beautiful sky for a few seconds, then--speaking plenty without a single word--simply crosses his arms and rests his head on Roadhog's stomach again. It leaves only the flame-licked ends of his hair pointed towards the stars, and he glances over Mako's face for a few seconds before closing his eyes.
Why would he want to look at the same old stars when he finally has his friend back?
no subject
Roadhog yawns again, the silence between them otherwise drawing out, but in a moment the larger Junker lays a calloused hand over Junkrat's back like a scratchy old blanket.
His immediate, physical response is separated from his eventual verbal one by a vast delay spanning incalculable minutes.
"That mean we can go?"
no subject
"Yeah," he says, roused from his half-sleep. "M'ready fer bed."
With a sudden grogginess he picks himself up off of Roadhog and wobbles towards the ladder. Sure, there might be a porthole under the hammock that leads directly to his bed, but that's exclusively for use when there's no risk of infesting his bed with dirt, i.e. used it to get up there in the first place. Junkrat may have no problem getting dirty or living in a place that looks like a wreck, but that doesn't mean he likes living in filth.
More opportunities to get injured by accident. More opportunities for things to get lost or forgotten.
Once he gets inside, he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his clothes and prosthetics, goes through his usual nighttime cleaning routine with a bit of tired sluggishness, then reaches for the television remote, giving it a tap to turn the television on and turning to Roadhog.
"An entire universe's telly ta watch," he proposes. "Whaddya wanna put on?"
no subject
It doesn't matter that his elbows knock into the metal walls, still brushing parts of him even as he lies there collapsed on his back; it's a bed, and for that there will be no more complaints. He rolls onto his side, jamming an arm underneath a pillow and supporting his neck with both. His mask--which he'd brought in dangling, leashed to his fingers by a single strap--he places behind him on the mattress where it'll air out over night. Roadhog was guaranteed not to roll over and crush it, able to sleep for hours and hours in the same position.
"Don't care," he mutters honestly, knowing he'd be out sooner than it would matter. Even the novelty of countless channels belonging to hundreds of cultures and species simply could not outdo how glad he was that this long, long day was finally ending.
Though his usual suggestion doesn't come far behind:
"Nat Geo."
Or whatever suitable equivalent.
Hushed narration laced with wind, water, and wildlife ambience.
no subject
He'd made this place intentionally small, to make the vacancy left behind by Roadhog's absenteeism seem nonexistent. This place was meant to be too small for him to get around comfortably, if he had been here, which made it easy for Junkrat to trick himself into thinking that his friend really was there, just out of sight.
But he showed up anyway, crammed himself in here like a salmon trying to get into a can of sardines, and never once made a complaint or even so much as a sigh of frustration. This bed was big enough to fit both Fareeha and Junkrat comfortably with room to spare, and now there's barely enough room for himself.
There's a simple solution to this problem.
"Gonna be busy t'morrow," he thinks to himself out loud, turning his attention back to the television and navigating to a selection of channels he'd picked out as his favorites. He lands on a station very much in the same of Nat Geo, talking about the fish-like lifeforms that live on a planet with nitrogen-saturated water.
He places the remote down in its usual spot, and he crawls in to take up the remaining space on the bed.
"G'night, Roadie."
no subject
Better than a five star suite in some ways, as Rat could only rig so many fail-safes in those joints, and none of them quite like the cumulative warhead outside. Greedy as he is, Roadhog knows better than to take the present sense of ease for granted. Greedy as he is, Roadhog knows capitalizing on it while it lasts is a much better plan.
However, there is, in reality, one and only one act of protest from the big guy, and that would be the duvet that at some point wound up shoved off to the side, bunched up against the wall. Too hot for him in this climate. The second body weaseling in, fighting his stomach for real estate, supplies enough heat that all he really needs is the off-white sheet loosely draped over his waist.
"Night, Rat," Roadhog murmurs into the pillow, listless.