Roadhog. Former Enforcer. Mercenary for hire. This man will not held responsible for any damage done to faces, if their owners happen to run their mouths off. (Sideblog to Lankyratbastard.)
She muttered the insult under her breath, teeth clenched as she walked away from Bruceâs counter, making a few steps towards the exit before she glanced up at the behemoth of a man who had been waiting. Watching. Judging.Â
Her eyes widened a little as she recognized the man. Somewhat. He was a bit of an urban legend in Junkertown- for many, many reasons. Vicky often bragged about how she knew more than anyone about The Hog, since her father had known him when they were both young rebels in the Front.Â
Her father had told her so many things about this guy- Rutledge. Rutledge. That was his name, right?Â
She grinned a little, a smarmy little grin that revealed her jagged canines and missing premolar, as she just looked up to him the way children look up to their heroes- As that was the case, really. The ALF was to disenfranchised Australian kids what Overwatch was to other kids elsewhere in the world- without the protection. Without the saved lives. But that was but a detail in the narrative.Â
âWell, if it ainât my lucky day!â
This kid stared up at him with the same sort of awed silence that he might have expected to see in children from his youth, back before the wasteland became an everyday instance of both the older and new generations.
Now, that sort of reverence was misplaced. Uncomfortable to see, even.
âIs it? Youâre lucky Bruce sold to you at all, with the shit you tried to pull.â Heâs avoiding the implication sheâs making, as if running into him could be anything other than âbadâ for other people.Â
Stepping around her, he moves up to the counter, dropping a bag full of containers down in front of the cancerous old badger on the other side. Bruceâs disposition brightens somewhat at seeing the familiar old Junker, who makes it quite clear that heâs there to have a new collection of canisters restored to good condition. Payment upon completion of task, as per usual.
After the bag had been handed off, and Roadhog dropped a handful of coins upon the counter to ensure Bruce put his job at top priority, he turns, and shoulders past the small girl, aiming to step out of the building.Â
âOh fuckâs sake, Bruce, whatâs a coin or two short? Unbelievable!âÂ
The young girlâs voice could be heard from outside the wreckyard, if anybody cared to listen to the raucous, throaty contralto of Vicky Costelloâs voice as she whined and complained over not being able to swindle the old engineer.Â
Groaning, she glared ahead and shoved a hand into the cup of her bra to retrieve the worthless coin of Junkertown currency that was missing from what she initially paid him.Â
If anybody was to enter old Bruceâs wreckyard, that would have been the scene theyâd have before them. Vicky was almost grateful no one had witnessed her piss-poor attempt at a hustle- and yet.Â
And yet, it seemed someone was there
Bruce was a hard-ass, same as many of the older Junkers that had settled into the interior of the trainwreck labeled âJunkertownâ. At the same time, he was a crafty old codger, who knew his craft, knew the worth of what he sold, and what was worth buying when people came to his junkyard.
Only those who had developed a good business relationship with him could get by if they were a coin or two short, since Bruce would know by then what they valued, and what they needed to get by in life. In Roadhogâs case, that was intact canisters that he could use to store the Hogdrogen he made.Â
In the case of this girl today, however; she was there to buy something of value, and hadnât been able to swindle the clever old engineer. Sheâd feel his eyes on her, despite the way the mask hid his gaze; criticizing, and amused.Â
Standing a foot or so behind her, he waits in silence for her to finish making her payments, so that he could step up to the counter himself.Â
This is a roleplay sideblog for Roadhog of Overwatch. Follow-backs come from @lxnkyrat. If youâre an active roleplay blog in the OW fandom, or are simply crossover friendly, would you spread this around so I can find peeps to interact with? Thank you very much in advance, and remember;
âHeard some kind of ruckus happened in the bar downtown. Word on the street is Rutledge had a fight, and pissed the wrong folks off, figured Iâd come and check on him, see if he needs anything from the city, since heâll have to give some time for the situation to cool off." Bruce stands there, appraising Junkrat with a look that seems like it would be unimpressed, if not for the fact that his expression hasnât changed since he arrived. Heâs not very expressive.
âBodyguard, you said? Rutledge? Can a little mouse like you afford his prices, kid? Because if you canât, and you swore you did---you could end up hurt. Man doesnât like to be stiffed.â Whats this? Some good old concern from one of the few true good men left in Junkertown? Seems like it.
When Junkrat first begins to stir, it would appear that Roadhog is asleep. Heâs on his back, arms resting on his gut, and head rolled to the side. The snores would indicate true sleep as well---though snores can be easily faked.
The sound masks the others movements and the creaky stairs as the younger Junker creeps out to the porch. Funnily enough, there did appear to be someone. They were standing outside, crouched down at wire height, and squinting at it. However, they didnât appear to be armed, or hostile, muttering something about âdifficult deliveriesâ, debating on whether to come back later.
Its a short man, with a full, heavy beard, and only one functional eye.
Its Bruce, from the wreckage yard, and when he looks up to see Junkrat, his brows jump with surprise. âWell. Thatâs a surprise. Whats an infamous young scamp like you doing on Rutledgeâs porch, eh? And why the traps?â
The bottle of pills seems to jolt Junkrat back to earth. Heâs glancing suspiciously between Roadhog and the container, and theres a nervous sound from the others direction, orange gaze settling on him for a long moment.
âPainkillers.â
A one word explanation. Whether the lankier Junker takes his word for it, or touches the pills after that, is no longer Roadhogs concern. His empathy had been dull for years, and he wasnât going to let himself be too nice right off the bat, with a man he still considered to be a flight risk despite their deal.
Slowly, he lies down, and rests his hands upon his stomach. If he sleeps, it wonât be for long, and the slightest sound may well wake him up.Â
With his position against the wall, and how foggy the lens of his mask were to a person looking in, who knew where the man was looking at any given time, or how alert he was. Roadhogs breathing stays even, his hands resting atop his large, tattooed stomach, entire body holding some rather relaxed posture.
But of course, he was keeping his eye on Junkrat.
The younger man seemed to be surprised by the sheer amount of room in the building, a fact that didnât much surprise the older male, when thinking about how small and cramped Junkertown was. Theres a reason that when Roadhog had been offered a residence within the towns walls, that he had declined, after all. He never liked ducking through doors, or squeezing through narrow passages, and only the main tunnels were big enough for easy travel.
He observes as Junkrat makes himself comfortable, as much as he could, in the little cubby beneath the stairs. It surprises him, however, that the Junker seemed to feel âsafeâ enough for the meantime, that heâd risk taking off one of his false limbs, even with the deal that they currently had. But then again...pain could be a factor in the equation, and from what heâs heard from survivors of missing limbs, the phantom pain and soreness from Prosthetics was great.
Roadhog doesnât have much in the way of painkillers. Just a mostly-empty bottle of some old expired Advil that heâd traded some scrap for in the past. But if they were going to work together, it might not be a bad idea to try and earn points with the kid. After all, they had a deal---and good treatment might be a way to ensure that he followed through on their fifty-fifty share of the treasure.
So he tosses the bottle, letting it bounce over to the cubby, and bump against the mans functional leg. The label is faded, but clearly says what it is.
âWe ainât doing anything when they get here. Iâm going to deal with them, and theyâre going to fuck off. I donât trust you enough to fight alongside your bomb throwing ass just yet, so youâre going to stay out of sight while I deal with it.â
Thereâs a note of finality, a no arguments tone in his words, that states that Roadhog does mean what he says. When the queens goons show up, he doesnât want to be guarding his back, as well as his front.Â
âTheyâll likely show up in the morning, when thereâs good lighting.â That said, he turns, and ducks through the door. Down the stairs he goes, and over to his bed, sinking down upon it with a sigh, back against the wall. Its good to get off his feet, and he kicks off his boots, letting them sit next to his bed for the time being. The bag of Canisters is slid beneath the bed, and then, he relaxes.
When Junkrat comes inside, heâll gesture to the small room beneath the stairs that the other can use for the night, until they get something better sorted.
The wait was dull, but easy to endure, when he had a beer in hand, and he was in the shade, due to the Sun hanging low on the left hand side of the sky. The lawn chair that he was seated on sagged heavily beneath his weight, but hadnât quite given up the ghost, to leave him sitting on a pile of garbage.
And from his position he had a good vantage point. Before long, just a half hour before sundown, he hears the Intercoms from a distance, the Queens screeching recognizable from even this far away. Thereâs explosions, too, distant yelps of pain telling him that his new business associate was on the way.
So he stands up, slips the hook off his belt, and waits.
Junkrat slinks around the bottom of one of the houses a few minutes later, looking weary and blood-coated. Luckily, he didnât seem to be missing any further limbs, so Roadhog thinks its safe to assume that the younger man knew how to fight in close quarters using bombs, without hurting himself.Â
âHey.â
Voice raised, he calls out to the other man, finger gesturing towards the ground around his home. Its cleverly disguised, for the most part, but for a man who was paranoid, or good with traps in general, Junkrat might be able to catch the light reflecting of a wire, or off the teeth of a partially covered Bear trap.
âDonât panic. Iâm bringing you over.â
Thatâs all the warning Junkrat gets, before he throws the hook. Heâs had over ten years to practice his aim, to hone his skill with the throw. It sails over Junkrats shoulder, and catches on the chain securing the tire in place. One mighty pull later, in which the Rat likely flailed and screeched anyways, and Roadhogâs reaching out with his arm, to grab him around the waist, and drag him to safe ground. The hook is safely retracted, and hung on his belt once more.
âThe ground is trapped around the perimeter. Donât need you losing another limb, or wrapping yourself up in a net like a present for them to collect.â
Heâs still walking, even when the other man pauses occasionally to think, or speaks up about part of his former statement, doubt ringing in the words. So Junkrat wasnât a complete idiot; he knew not to take things at face value, and to look for any hidden things in the margins, even if he wasnât clever enough not to keep his mouth shut. Sundown. That was a few hours away yet, and heâd have enough time to prepare, and get some traps set up outside; just in case.
A bag or two, eh? He can have the cubby under the stairs, for now.
It was a simple opening, with enough space for a small bed or couch. For now, Junkrat would have to do with a pile of blankets, since thats what Roadhog would set up for him once heâd gotten to his barn, parting ways with the younger Junker at the gate. He ignores the yell from the gate guard, who was telling him that the Queen had heard of the incident at the bar, and heâd best expect a visit later on from one of the current enforcers, who would pass on a message.
And in this case, it could be a verbal message, or an attempt to kill him.
Which brings him back to the matter of pre-emptive safety. The next two hours are spent setting up Bear traps near all the exits, and some tripwire traps that will haul anyone up if they take a wrong step. And then, he sits on the upstairs balcony, to await Junkrats arrival. When the man shows, heâll use his non-lethal hook, an attachment he often leaves at home, with a blunt end, to drag him up to his perch, so nothing gets triggered by a clumsy misstep.
Heâs starting to wonder if the kid is the wishy-washy, insincere deal making type, with how he flip flops around, trying to negotiate a lower offer with him. And he wonât indulge it. He made his statement, and he wonât work with Junkrat for anything less than fifty percent of the so-called treasure heâd been offered.
And by this point, Roadhog is wondering how valuable the treasure could even be. Junkrat was famed for having a big mouth, for telling stories, that hardly anyone could verify with no tangible proof. But greed made itself known, and people were willing to kill to get their hands on the treasure, imaginary or no.
âFine! Fifty percent, and thatâs my final offer!â
Gee. Its like they could have skipped this entire conversation, and moved on with everything else five minutes ago.
âWeâre going to my place.âÂ
Roadhogâs place. The infamous barn at the outskirts of town, in better condition than most of the other local buildings, with two ground floor exits, and one on the porch; not that anyone was stupid enough to try and break in, even when he wasnât home. The off chance of finding valuables was outweighed by the cons of Roadhog finding any would-be thief, and hunting them down to reclaim them.
âIf you have any shit you want to keep, get it, and meet me there. You havenât shown up by sundown, and Iâll assume you bailed on the deal. Youâll be locked out, and dealing with the Queens goons on your own from then on.â
The man heâd saved indirectly was now babbling on, praising Roadhog, and saying that he seemed to be a fine, upstanding sort of man. It almost makes him snort, even as he tips his head back, and downs the entirety of his mug. His intention hadnât been to help the lanky Junker---merely to beat a lesson into the other four about how he was a man to be feared, to be respected---but that didnât mean he was going to turn his nose up at a possible reward.
But he wasnât going to settle on ten percent, or even twenty five.
No. For the trouble he was going to be in with the Queen for butting in, he was likely going to be exiled, along with Junkrat himself, for resisting an interrogation. He sets the now-empty mug down, and turns his head, so he can see the other man properly. A moment of silence follows, before he makes his own offer.
âFifty.â
If this kid wants to work with me, heâll have to learn I donât settle for less.
âFifty percent of whatever your treasure is, or youâre on your own.â
Roadhog is standing up now, gathering up his sack filled with canisters, and preparing to head for the exit. âAnd make your choice quickly.â It wonât be long before the queen hears of the incident, if she hasnât already, and heâs not sticking around to get swarmed by whatever vengeful mob she sends.
The bargaining continued. He could hear the high pitched, grating voice behind him, increasing the percentage of how much he was willing to split. It almost made him laugh.
Better than ten percent, kid, but. Still not worth my time.
The man wielding the knife seems to have gotten the gist that Roadhog had no intentions of jumping in to save Junkrat. But he also took it as the fact that the former Enforcer wasnât willing to tussel with those in good with the queen. That fact there, might have been why the man was stupid enough to keep talking.
âJust sit there like a good piggy-â, Roadhogs grip on the mug tenses, â-and thereâll be no need to make you squeal.â No. That was his catchprase.Â
Heâd ignored a lot of disrespect in his day, but nothing quite aggravated the giant Junker more than having âpiggyâ slung at him in a casual or condescending manner. The Mug shatters in his grip, and perfectly good vodka goes pouring over the countertop, to drip down the old wood.Â
âQueen donât mind if we damage you,â crowed the man with a skull on his head, knife being raised so he could continue threatening Junkrat. âHell, she pre---â
Crunch.
The man went flying, knife and skull sent askimbo after the force behind the collision of Roadhogs fist against his cheek, and heâs got no doubt that he might have broken the fuckers jaw. A feeling of satisfaction sets in, even as the others jerk with surprise, and then begin to shout with offense. The hulking one comes at him, and he goes the same way as the first, with Roadhogs fingers gripping tight to the front of his shirt, before he twists, and throws him bodily out the barâs window, to land atop the first man heâd sent flying.
The next two try to double team him, and quite a few chairs and tables get smashed and knocked over as he grabs one by a wrist, and throws him across the bar. Idiot number four looks about the mess, chuckles nervously, and then hops out the broken window, disappearing into the crowd outside.
That taken care of, he returns to the bar, reaches for a mug, and gets himself a new drink of Vodka, digging into his wallet for tokens. He sets down fifty---enough to cover his drink, and get some repairs done in here. After all, it wasnât the bartenders fault that he ended up with troublemakers to serve today. He can just see the top of the mans head, from where heâs ducked down at the end of the counter, sitting in silence.Â
Poor Bloke. Must not have a stomach for violence like the rest of us.
A shake of his head, then he picks up his drink and takes a big gulp, leaving Junkrat standing in the middle of the wreckage, remarkably unharmed.
Jamison Fawkes, AKA Junkrat, was not a very smart man⊠Not on the surface, at least. He had enough smarts to keep himself alive, despite less-than-optimal living situations and Radiation poisoning. After blowing off limbs, after dealing with all sorts of troubles that came his way⊠Maybe it was simpler to say that he was a little bit slow to come to realizations, be it his natural means of thought or the medication he took on the regular.
Regardless- he was taking a little bit longer than he wouldâve liked to understand exactly why there were a bunch of blokes standing about him in the bar. Four guys, one junker, and while Junkrat was fairly tall on his own, at least two of them were Hulking in proportions. While he was cornered, his brain worked through what brought him into this sort of situationâŠ
Could it have been him running his mouth off again? More often than heâd liked, he found himself spouting out quite a bit of things. Prideful ambitions, or thinking aloud to try and get something to stick in that noggin of his. Couldâve been that.
Maybe it couldâve been âcause of all the trouble he was already in with the Queen? He had a habit of blowing part of Junkertown up on occasion, and he was foul when it came to paying his dues. In fact, he might be owed for the past few months or soâŠ
Perhaps thatâs why these blokes were the Queenâs henchmen, able to wander about with the lack of nervousness they had pullinâ this kinda stunt in a public space like this. A quick glance around also summed up that, well, the bar was kinda empty anyways. Anyoneâs guess was as good as his about all that.
But, really, this whole situation summed up to being blocked in at the Wolf Woodâs Pub, with a couple'a blokes asking him about a treasure. Of which he had no real intention to share, whatsoever.
Keep reading
There were many kinds of men, and women, residing within Junkertown, and around its outskirts. Most of them were cutthroats, thieves and murders,Â
And Mako Rutledge, more infamously known as Roadhog, was one of these people. Over the years, he had stolen and killed to survive, and then later, in order to make a living, eventually rising in Status to become one of the newly Established âJunkertownsâ best enforcers: A job he held for twenty odd years.
Until five years ago, anyways. At that point, he quit, and began looking for contract work to keep him busy. Roadhog didnât work for cheap, either. And though he detested working for a suit, heâd do the job if it paid well enough. For the old Junker wanted to live as comfortably as he could manage in the Radioactive, ruined wasteland that Australia had become, to enjoy as much quiet as possible. Something that wouldnât be happening tonight.
Noise had drawn him outside, and heâd found three punks who thought they could get away with stealing from the former Enforcer. His Scrap gun and hook would have been more than enough to kill them, but---he wasnât feeling it. So he gave them a good scare, and sent them running, hoping that theyâd spread news about the incident, and get a message across to any other thieves.
The One Man Apocalypse was not a man to be fucked with.
Once heâd gathered up some empty Hogdrogen Canisters, and a large, hefty bag of scrap material heâd taken from the would-be thieves, Roadhog dragged the doors shut, locked up the barn, and made his way to Junkertown. After ignoring a nervous greeting from a guard, he headed through the gate.
His first stop is at Bruceâs Wreckyard, to get his canisters refilled in exchange for the scrap heâd foraged, since no one in Junkertown did favors for free. Due to a long standing good relationship, however, the engineer cheerfully threw in an extra Canister, a gesture Roadhog would not forget anytime soon. Some words are shared, and then he heads off to the local bar, glaring as he passes a few loudmouthed cretins, who were clearly drunk off their rockers.Â
...
The Bar itself is a familiar place. Thereâs a stool on the far right side that has been bent out of shape by having him seated on it so many times over the years. The Bartender moves closer, and he orders his usual: Vodka. Most folks here got the shitty excuse for beer they liked to pass off, but his reputation preceded him, and even this hole in the wall didnât want to piss him off.Â
A bottle of vodka is procured, a mug is poured, and Roadhog takes it. He would have been content to sit there for hours, nursing his drink in silence.
But, as it turns out: the Queens Goons were in the bar, terrorizing some lanky little fucker, who looked to be over six foot tall, with two prosthetic limbs, and a badly receding hairline. The goons are threatening him, a knife is being pulled out, and he turns his barely inclined head forward again, sipping at his drink as he listens to the talk behind him. He swears he hears bargaining.
An offer being made to him.
Like Iâd help anyone for that cheap, against the queenâs shit stirrers.
....Ten percent of what, however? What could a brat like that even have, that could incur so much interest? That, Roadhog was almost curious about. Especially after hearing the name: Junkrat. There were a lot of rumors floating around about the demolitionist, who made his own gear from scrap metal.
âI know you. Queen donât like you.â
Feelingâs mutual there, on account of her being a cunt.
The tall one with a skull on his head is talking to him, and he says nothing in response. He can tell that theyâre not particularly comfortable with his silence, the fact that he doesnât seem intimidated by one of the Queens henchmen sidling up next to him. But that doesnât stop them from carrying on.
âDonât think sheâs forgotten about what you did.â Oh, he knows she hasnât. He can hear her cross tone over the intercoms sometime, when she hears heâs approaching the gate. She must have been asleep today. âBut lucky for you, Iâm willing to forget I saw you...for old times sake.â Actually---looking at the man running his mouth, he thinks he does recognize him; one of the fellows he used to eat with at the Take away place, when he was still an enforcer.
A grunt is given, before he turns his head away, dismissing the mans for the time being, while keeping his ears on the situation behind him.
