JUNK / RAT

⇝ Cyrex "Junkrat" Kaizen ⇜ ⇝ CHQS Mechanic * / Zone 2 ⇜ ⇝ Junker ⇜

[junkrxt]

frankiewalls​:

junkrxt​.

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“Where the fuck–” Frankie cut her own words short, choosing instead, with a quick lick, to coat her chapped lips with saliva thick from lack of water. She had a bottle with her, along with other supplies she cared not to waste. Still, the easterly wind brought upon a heat that she supposed she had been quite used to long ago. 

Sweat was making her clothes stick to her armpits. All in all, she was uncomfortable and alone.

A voice sent her spinning, only stopping when she spotted a man atop of a rover, staring at her through one of his blue goggle lenses.

“Do you have the wrong idea?” she asked. Had it been anywhere else, from anyone else, Frankie might have regarded this wrong idea as a type of threat one wasn’t keen on talking about – the type that comes with being a woman in a place like this. But… his lopsided goggles were just too bizarre, making him look less like a fierce man and more like a child playing pretend.

“That anyone wouldn’t be you, would it?” 

-

Rex doesn’t pin her as the type to be standing so clueless in his territory, but she’s definitely still there. Hallucinations cannot be manifested when there’s truly a woman in the arid heat and looking a little distressed.

You could give her a ride, y’know? 

He could – in more than one way, but he remains sitting on his rover with one fully coloured eye and another that’s tinged in a cyan. That wrench in his hand is being rolled through fingers lazily and he’s a little surprised with the strength of her tone.

“About what?” he throws back – plays the role of oblivious; he’s already implied what wrong ideas could be more than stagnant in the arid air between them. And really, he’s ultimately just thrown she’s there at all – formerly bothering his peripheries and a strange kind of lost look about her person. 

“Because that anyone is holding a wrench,” not a spanner – and he thinks he’s so clever; snarks the correction that she wants to throw at him like he might be his only out in the scenario she’s found herself in. Whilst she’s not wrong, she’s not right either; “You into wrenches or spanners?”

[junkrxt]

motionblues​:

junkrxt​:

HE SERVED AS A REMINDER OF WHERE SHE FELT she had always belonged. A strange observation, to place yourselves with the wolves and the waste, rather than the so called pristine, pearly gates of Zone three. There was no reason not to, though, as the doctors personality, every piece of her that meant something, screamed that the hiker had rolled the dice wrong. Nothing, nothing about her was perfect or polished enough for the setting she’d been damned to.

Poetic justice aside, there was a small dose of endearment here, hence why she’d insisted on taking care of this trainwreck of a man. It wasn’t penance, as some might have liked to believe, but instead it was the simple fact that she enjoyed him, no matter how many wires seemed to be loose, both figuratively and literally. Grin swept features in a well deserved triumph, turning her head into the hand that had almost collided with her features. It wouldn’t be the first or the last time they’d come to blows, truly, and she wasn’t mad about it, either. Everyone deserved a good punch, a black eye bound to a lesson, every now and again.

“I would like for you never to say foreplay to me again in any context, first and foremost.” A stomp of foot, given as if that would serve to make the point, grin only widening. It was toothier, more amusement bleeding from her like an open wound. “Bar.” A nod, before stepping back so he could hop properly off her table, moving to the sink to dispose of the gloves and wash her hands. “But we both know you should be paying, you’ve just received the best medical care privilege can buy, after all.” Eyes roll, scoff says that she hates the mere idea that healthcare and position or dollar sign walk hand in hand.

-

Despite how hard he’s glaring, there’s still not hole burned into her head. But damn, is he trying. Any moment now, Stasi will erupt in flames just because Junkrat is staring hard enough into her skull with a desire for her to feel it. But it never comes. And he’s just rolling his arm, testing it out for every ache that ripples down the length of it where the stitches hold; already figuring out the irritation that the jerk of pain will be on his work. He doesn’t comment on the handiwork, it’s good – as it always is, but Rex isn’t there to fuel egos and he doesn’t want to admit that she’s got just as good hands as he has.

It’s hilarious that of everything – she hangs on a certain jibe more than the rest:

“Does it make you un-fucking-comfortable, Stasi,” he grumbles with a slither of sarcasm – like he hadn’t just sat through her inflicting every degree of poking and prodding in order to patch her his own idiocy. The stomping is childish, mirrors his own really in all manner of the situation. But then Rex is up – on his feet and at least thankful that some things never change –

–  like their paths crossing when bar gets mentioned; an understanding that’s somehow a friendship; hateship – it’s something is never doubted in any circumstance. 

It’s Junkrat’s turn to scoff at her continued remark. “Ain’t it your job or something, you’re paying and I’m picking the drink – it’s how this works,” his good hand is gesturing between the two of them as if indicating more than just verbally that whatever kind of acquaintances they are, Kaizen is not without his wits. A grin when he straightens, jabs: “Let’s not fix something that ain’t broke, doc,”

[junkrxt]

motionblues​:

@junkrxt​

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT REPEAT CUSTOMERS THAT FELT OFF, especially when she knew damned well that this particular injury didn’t come from something that could be billed to company time. However, she took the medical oath a little more serious than perhaps she should have, or maybe used it as an excuse to turn a blind eye here and there. Regardless, it didn’t matter. The final stitch was finished, and gloved hand promptly smacked the wound. She was….a gem, naturally. Head nodded, looking down at his expression for a moment before musing. “Oh, shit, does that hurt still? Maybe avoid the business end of the knife next time, or don’t be a bitch baby.” 

-

Any tighter and the ivories in Rex’s mouth would crack under the weight of his own locked jaw. It’s a quick learned thing that Stasi is not as much as kind a doctor as she is skilled – an appreciative quality that Kaizen’s trying to remember about her opposed to the harsh vision of wrapping jagged scrap metal around her head for every painful (not that he’d admit it) stab of the needle; in some instances, it’s a pleasantry that reminds him how alive he is; a living being that’s existence is to thrive in the wasteland. In others, it’s a stark aide-mémoire to how he cannot repair and tinker everything. He breaks flesh and bone, fixes metal and wires and does not do very well with using rusted springs as a quick fix for an open wound  – apparently.

He’s lost count of how many times Stasi has told him about some infection potential – he tunes out of the medicals and sits happy in the tech talk elsewhere. But despite the back and forth of do not use a suspension coil as a staple and still fucking here aren’t I? alongside and who’ve you got to thank for that? In such a practiced way that really – he should be more grateful that she’s stopped (or never did, he can’t remember.) ask about his mishaps when diving into junkyard scraps and finding that not everything is as soft as tarp and some things are sharp. Junkrat isn’t known for patience, so sitting still has already earned Stasi a hole in the side of the head where he’s stared at it with something more volatile than annoyed vigour.

He jerks when she hits the wound and his instincts reach to smack her – but halts before any contact is made, ends up grumbling some curses under his breath that’s something along the lines of: little shit cunt, fuck, of course it hurts. Kaizen’s looking over at the gash sealed over with knitted stitching on his left upper arm, rolls his shoulders with an irritable wince to the slight hindrance it’ll be for the next few weeks – no doubt. “Yeah, yeah, Stasi, the black thumb’s got another fucking story scar, maybe it’s just fucking foreplay, don’t expect ya to be into it,” it really, really was not such a thing – but the doc doesn’t not need to know the compromising details of the scrap. “Revhead, checking out,” uninjured arm flicks up with some melodramatics that are a futile attempt to cover the irritability and bitterness he feels about the injury he’s not wearing like a flag for all to look at. Slowly shifts off the table and elbows her upper arm with a kind of nod to her comment: “… so then needlebitch, bar, stat, since your declined the stuff’ for the goddamn wound – ” 

A beat.

“ – yeah, you’re paying too,”

[junkrxt]

frankiewalls​:

Location: UTP [Establish One In Your Reply] Status: Open With: @chqsstarters​

As always, it was recommended to travel in pairs. Or, well, scratch that, it was recommended in Zone 1. As for Zone 2 and 3, traveling was apparently a risk that Frankie was expected to take on herself. Travel at your own risk.

As far as Frankie could discern, that also meant traveling in pairs was recommended – the only difference being how much Convergence was willing to prepare her for it. Which meant that Frankie always picked a travel partner for any outing, no matter what.

“Where the hell are you?” she muttered under her breath. It was dangerous to look lost, of course. But, if asked, she could always say that she had merely made plans with a friend.

-

It’s not usually a habit Junkrat makes – you know, eying lone females, but somehow from where he’s laying atop Hyena, he can see the woman’s movement in the corner of his eye. On his – self appointed – turf; right next to on the cusp of collapse multi-storey he takes residence in, home on the roof and a little bit of a desolate spot all on its own. Did she fucking walk here? Even Kaizen’s not fond of the idea in the arid heat – but he would, to out race Tess Tickle if they weren’t in the rover. But regardless, he is looking; her in his peripheries like an itch he can’t stop scratching.

And he’s even slid down his goggles as though he might be hallucinating her presence only to see her standing in the same spot she was only seconds earlier, now in a nice blue tint. She doesn’t see him – not that he much expects her too, his rusted attire matches hard the flaking metal of Hyena most days and his sun lounging isn’t much to disrupt.

Moments earlier he’d been manifesting ideations about new builds – a construction upgrade for the travelling, but now, it’s stolen away by the still standing there woman gazing into some distance like she’s waiting for something –

– better not be Raiders.

Eventually, a good ten minutes later, he shifts one eye free of the googles, views the ‘scape in two coloured vision and the creak of his vehicle is probably a loud enough indicator to his presence. But he can’t stop the comment leaving his lips, called over: “Oi, you keep standing there alone, some fucker’s,” (heh.) “gonna get the wrong idea – unless you know, that’s what ya want,” spins on the car, legs dangling over the edge to rest of the glassless window edge. “Then, uh, carry on,” hand lifts, wrapping on hands dark enough to see the waver of near dismissal to the idea through the slight mar of heat that fuzzes up vision.

Or the lopsided goggles you’re wearing, Rex, might be that.

Junkrat slides out a wrench from his cargo pocket, left of his leg and uses it to jerk the goggles back up to his hairline, one eyes squinting as he continues to look at the out of place individual. Very fucking odd. In the middle of buckfuck nowhere – well, to anyone else that isn’t Junkrat it is at least. Swings the wrench between fingers when he rests his arms on his knees: “Kind of dangerous, just saying, anyone could throw a spanner in your path,”

[junkrxt]

ayacastel​:

      location: zone 2, markets.       status: open, @chqsstarters​

      the basket hung from her arm like an ornament, the abundance of flowers fighting to break out of the confines of the hand-woven (and very old) wicker. this was how she operated during the daylight hours —knife somewhere on her person but otherwise armed only with a smile and sweet eyes. people were prone to speaking when they felt comfortable, and though zone 2 was anything but, aya could at least say the residents learned how to cope with daily life. this was just how it was. fingers drummed thoughtlessly against the handle of her boon and only when she caught the flicker of eye contact —or perhaps she was just being opportunistic, she offered one of her sweetest smiles. “ flower? first one’s free. ”

-

Boots on dusty ground thump with a little backend scrush where Junkrat’s not the most light-footed of individuals – nor does he pick up his feet nearly as much as he should. Lazy is the mechanic as he scouts eyes across wares, ducks beneath arms with the only slight agility he possesses given how heavyfooted the man is. The wry grin stays, sand covered clothes the same as he always wears and Tess Tickle’s travel cage is strapped to his back like a rucksack with the rodent herself inside spinning the wheel and making a noticeably hideous grating sound. Junkrat’s living blissfully unaware of such a disturbance as he eyeballs trinkets that has his working braincells fantasising about new machinery; technology so impossibly found in the wasteland that its scraps are like gold dust; a mechanic’s dream when a couple pieces deemed worthless are actually rather the opposite.

There’s brown-stained fabrics wrapped around his hands, acting as fingerless gloves if anything; a kind of pirate like mannerism that has Kaizen slipping through cracks in the bustling marketgoers – an unsavoury expression tossed in his direction (probably the smell, in all honesty.) possibly because of how he looks like he’s wearing everything he’s ever acquired like it’s a fashion accessory. That extends to the goggles – all three pairs, the ones on his head and the two like necklaces around his neck. Different specs, he’d say; different shades of visor; practicality.

Probably, (more likely) a little bit of insanity as he’s doubled up his toolbelts; one waist bound and another sashed across his chest. Beneath is the once-white vest; a gaudy match to the oversized cargos that tuck into the black boots at the mechanic’s ankles.

Prime browsing attire if there ever is any. “Yo Tess,” he murmurs, quietly as he turns his head towards the backpack cage – as though to himself, but in fact, to the rat. “What’s to bet we’re gonna tap platinum, odds on –”

Interrupted.

Flower? First one’s free.

“What,” automated, head snaps back, yellowing teeth disappearing behind a dropping smile and the diagonal scar across Rex’s left eyes creases when his brows furrow a notch. What the fuck am I gonna do with a flower, free or not? But, the junker knows: free is free. It stops him, skids the scrapper’s feet to a halt so he pivots to look at the woman offering … floristry? (the hell if he knows.) “And do what with it, eat it?”

Oh, Tess Tickle might like it. It’s a prompt; so, without asking, Junkrat’s able fingers have plucked one single flower from her basket and near enough sent it directly over his back, head of the petals squeeze through the top of the cage and his scarred fingers release it; drops it for the rat to enjoy – if indeed, she would. Better use than he would have for it at least; not even a valid construction material. 

Grin returns, fast, new prospect on the mind’s agenda: “Unless you’re the flower that’s free, in which case, I’ll swap back because y’know, uses for that,”

Hey Tess Tickle, new odds – what do we think about getting punched? Continues to talk anyways, boot kicks up some sand on the ground as he bounces on his feet with some new energy for the interaction, notes how desolate the ground is; sparks a new interest (if anyone could keep up with the ever changing topics in Junkrat’s head, they deserve a medal): “Where ya getting those kind of useless materials anyways?”

[junkrxt]

motionblues​:

@junkrxt​

THERE WAS A PRICE FOR EVERYTHING, including his loyalty. That was something he never bothered to hide, and wasn’t about to start now. So, that explained why the file was very easily slid into the bag he’d carried before shrugging shoulders. “What? I like to keep mementos and they are all out of snow globes at the gift shop again.”  As if this was an entirely valid excuse for his tendency to have stickier fingers than both. “Come on, baby, I thought this was romantic, you’re the only one I really like to break the law with.”  A face is made, as if that small shift in expression is supposed to make or break the case in his favor. A hand reaches out, playing into his own dramatics to whisper fingers over the top of his hand. “Don’t be like this, you know the kids hate when mommy and daddy fight.” 

-

Before that document’s even touched the inside of Ra’s bag, Junkrat’s lip ticks up in the corner to form a half smirk; anticipating what’s to come. He’s busy tossing a spanner in the air aimlessly, up, spin, down, catch – repeat. Keeps the man’s hands from doing something that isn’t knocking the same metal wrench of a thing into the leftside LED’s that he’s convinced just flickered with a little cry out for attention. Sometimes, whacking it, does work. It also, very much, shatters things as much as the former happens. “Yeah, they were out of rubber bands too,” Junkrat offers – half attentive to the jibe given when he catches that spanner again and slides it back into its holster. (the tool belt he’s wearing as a sash like swivelling it around his torso is actually a practical method.) Though, doubles up as a grenadier if he selects the right compartment to test out newly built toys.

The other side of Kaizen’s lip then lifts; there’s a grin now, amused. The mechanic’s finger points at Ra, hops forward like a suddenly excitable child on a springboard. “Just don’t let Tess Tickle see this time, she’s gonna gnaw at you again in disapproval,” he rolls his shoulders back and glances down to one of the rips in the shredded tool belt as though suddenly reminded of his rat companion being present – he’d forgotten the backpack cage this time, apparently, for good reason. On cue, the little head of Tess pops out of the compartment, sniffs, crawls around to assess the room before Kaizen’s looking back at Ra. “You’re gonna upset the lady again,”

Hands reach up to adjust the goggles resting across his hairline as though fidgeting is just the killtime between everything else. The repair he’s there for is done. A little craving that comes in the form of a trapped soda shakes inside his stomach, urges him to wrap finger’s around Hyena’s wheel and roar through the wasteland.

There’s another moment before Junkrat offers further input, a little glint of something else overtakes the dark of his hues: “I could throw a fucking ‘driver at your face and we can really fight, baby,” but despite the malicious verbal assault (and mockery), a degree of joking manages to coil through and carry a kind of implication that: I probably won’t, but if you don’t get your damn ass up, I might. Then, he steps aside, looks at where Ra’s at, entirely ignorant to his previous comment: “Wait, check the drawer for rubber bands first,”

[junkrxt]

𝕛𝕦𝕟𝕜𝕣𝕒𝕥 / TAG DROP

[junkrxt]

NAME: CYREX “JUNKRAT” KAIZEN GOES BY: JUNKRAT, REX, JUNKER. FACECLAIM: BERK ATAN AGE: 29 PRONOUNS: HE/HIM ZONE OF ORIGIN: ZONE 2 STATUS: MECHANIC @ CHQS & CHAOS JUNKER ON THE DL

TRAITS

+ PRECOCIOUS + SHARP WITTED + SLICK 

- CHAOTIC - DISORDERLY – TUMULTUOUS

HEADCANONS: 

Calloused fingers pick at the wrapping on Rex’s left hand, wet where an unhealed injury lies underneath. A honeyed crimson seeps through the brown-stained brace and the Junker’s stabbing his right thumb into the palm of his hand – stems the flow (so he imagines.) and eases the pain vibrating through his hand as it shakes under irritated tendons. There’s an abundance of cusses slipping from Kaizen’s lips that remind him that it’s his clumsy manner of battling through an uncharted junkpile; sharp is broken metal; like glass at its edges when a hand catches the tip ever so cleanly. He’s surrounded by chaos (that’s how everyone else would see it, at least.) when in fact, it’s an organised catastrophe of scrap and mechanical-potential. He’s sprawled on the roof of a broken vehicle, indented under the weight of the man and his gizmos as he looks at the rising sun above; streams of light reflecting off his steampunk-esque glasses that are strapped to his forehead and shield the rays that have every likelihood to burn his sockets – one of the more horrific of instances for a man who prides on reparations to sustain life.

Black boots thump on the concrete rooftop – Cyrex convinced that his hole-up of a headquarters (the one he doesn’t act like a screwed-on being for.) is on the collapse, every day, something new crops up that he’s tinkering together. Never is anything broken for too long, tarps overhead that form a blockade from overheating, a gentle whir in the background of a refrigerator-like device that he’s storing scraps in. Junkrat is the perfect calibre of a name – though, the tailed creatures that scutter along the floor between overgrown ivy would probably argue against the moniker. Not that Rex sees them as junk, but they’ve got a nice crunch – kind of like bone, some would say. He finds use for that too; perfect sounding alarm for little junk boobytraps that put him on the other end of a Raider’s alert.

Kaizen’s got a favourite rat, she’s called Tess, surname, Tickle.

Distinguished is his attire; braces, ripped, torn and an eyesore of a mechanic in the walls of CHQS. Though unquestionably talented when challenged in the art of techno talk and rather a soloist if it were chalked down to a performance. An old, carcinogenic aroma is distinct enough that it is only outweighed by burnt oil and rubber of the rover’s Rex is known to fasten together; call him a motorhead; will race you to any milestone; all territories and let unforgiving crashes be their end. It’s not obvious with how he behaves that the tinkerer is any gifted in the maintenance department; but he’ll outdo any upgrade with a toothpick and package tape and make it work if that’s the only things available.

BIOGRAPHY

There’s never a need for anything to be fixed if the world remains perfect. Those phrases that cover the ‘if it’s not broken don’t fix it’ never really apply to Amhaven – in Rex’s history, never has.

Never short is the demand for skilled hands; quick fingers that have developed based on a world gone mad.

Goggles on, sparks alight like fireworks spraying directly from the ends of Junkrat’s fingers; he’s constructing. Machinery in brutalised hands and a lazy kind of roll of his head side to side like he’s impatient to finishing this particular project. Always the mechanic, likes to think he’s often the best of them. Anyone else is a lesser – comes to be why he’s always remained fairly isolated, rooted himself in places nobody else dares risk; a building (like most of them in the concrete jungle) on the brink of collapse; perfect headquarters for privacy, to build a retreat from stolen tarps and sticks. Old timber that’s got such rot through it that even woodworm doesn’t want to touch it. Metal, bone and the world at the scrapper’s fingertips; his haven.

Kaizen remembers his early years – sort of, a collection of memories compiled of gathering trinkets and gizmos that he wrestled with concaved vehicles for. Once wore a truck’s steering wheel like it was a new age war accessory – popped out the centre, acted like he was some kind of Havoc (also, a stolen shredded zone one relic of a comic book that he lost in two days to his own fire friendly hands.) Though, it stuck, as did the vision of his first taste in the Junker, Raider clash – he’d never seen a nose pop like a grape til then either, splat; a sound that really buries deep into the core of anyone. Crunch of ivory beneath Ransacker’s boots that had once belonged to his guardians; mentors; parents and fast does Rex learn some things simply cannot be fixed with even the fastest, adroit fingers.

Death’s permanent – no fixing that.

Scrambles away from the wreckage, a slick coating of red that decorates skin and clings like oil to every crevasse. It stains, both physically and mentally and if souls were ever an interest to someone like Junkrat, it probably has a mark there too. If only as a fuel to the man’s vigilance to the way of being a junker; more than just shiny things and scrap metal to be forged and utilised to self-serving purposes, an adaptable lifestyle that Kaizen blossomed into and now – in adulthood, understands rivalry with R&R and all its complications.

Though, the chaos is also welcomed when Cyrex has his gadgets in place like mines on a field. He often watches with botched binoculars in one hand from the rooftop of an abadoned multi-storey, legs swung over the edge with something to snack on in his other hand. It’s like cinema, the way incoming Raiders intend to… raid – so Rex assumes, and there’s just explosions followed by traps that provide all levels of lethality. A kind of wry smile as he throws offchunks of meat into his mouth and chews with amusement as stolen trucks attempt to barrage in and end upturned in a ditch; flames dancing along the dry grass in some mad max-esque carnage.

Friday night entertainment at its finest.

Deserved after a hard working week as recruited mechanic at CHQS – ha.

But yes, he does do that too, snags a spot in the mechanic ranks and enjoys the minimal joyride of liberating labrats whilst he’s maintaining the safety of those traveling between. How he got there – questionable. What isn’t, is how adept he is at doing it. Therefore, the carbuncle that he is in homemade tarp cargos and some form of fabric adoring his torso; a kind of armouring of metal and scrap that seems haphazard in its placement (though entirely logical if Junkrat were to think on it) are certainly, even in Amhaven, not the best of business attire, but it works. The scrapper always remains glad that his only requirement in the building is maintenance; tinkering upgrades that have every kind of ability to be less lackluster, more dangerously eccentric.

Tess Tickle as his right hand lady; lucky charm; never does his tinkering fail.

Until well, sometimes, it does.

And he has to go back and repair it.

Cue the sounds of thunder when he approaches in his jacked rover with enough modifications that would kill half the zone if the vehicle were to explode. Don’t touch it, he’ll probably show you how many uses a screwdriver actually has.

CONNECTIONS

RAMESES "RA" EL AYOUBI | Other half; the Mother to the Rat Pack Collective where Junkrat’s the father. (In Rex’s opinion.) Chaos fuelled duo that has probably been responsible for at least sixty percent of both missing objects and rats that eventually end up in The Collective; living in the shared homebase (the one that’s not on Rex’s rooftop because... Ra says he needs... walls.) within a formerly desolate Chuck ‘E’ Cheese sign. Kaizen’s built a runway for the RPC out of it, a few acquired and repaired neon bulbs very reflective of Z1 in the odd letterings. Yes, Ra and Junkrat (more Junkrat... probably) are this delinquent-like at most times. And yes, they really did argue about walls; their first domestic one could say.  

FURTHER DEPTH

Named his rover/machine of a car, Hyena because, sometimes feral; sometimes doesn’t listen; often acts out and well; makes a lot of noise. 

Will greet you with a wrench in the shoulder, or a spanner to the stomach. Ultimately depends what he has in his hands when you look at him odd. 

Odd does indeed mean just be in his general vicinity. 

On a good day, he might grin and look more like he might either kiss you (not that you’d want to) or ask you to race him and Tess Tickle to the meeting room. Yes, the one he definitely should not be in. 

Almost always covered in grease, oil, lubricant, some other unidentified roadside substance and excess foodstuffs if not all at the same time. 

Don’t mention the smell. He can’t fix that, it’s natural. 

Probably replaces most civility with unpleasantries in regards to verbal communication, otherwise, he’s probably throwing peanuts at someone when waiting for something to boot up and he can work on it.

Generally goes by Junkrat due to many obvious traits, also does carry Tess Tickle around in a lil self-made backpack-like cage with a totally safe exercise wheel to keep her entertained during transport if she wants to go out on days. 

Yes, he talks to the rats, there’s a whole liberated Rat Pack Collective. Where did they all come from? Don’t worry about it. Ask Ra. 

Wears everything out of Mad Max, scraps of brown and dirtied attire that makes him look like a wilderness explorer; totally on brand, absolutely his style, the red stains... don’t recommend asking about those either. 

TBA

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