FOR INDEFETABAGEL.
The heat of December approached with all the subtlety of an unpinned hand grenade. The anticipation was short-lived, for summer exploded across the central continent, spurring residents to seek whatever cool comforts they could get their sweaty clutches on. Even for those long-since acclimatised, the soaring temperatures were a yearly trial that were coveted by none.
Slowly did Roadhog shamble about his farmhouse. Perspiration lined his forehead, his armpits, his thighs—hell, just about everywhere. It would’ve been a miracle if any spot on his body were without moisture. His breathing, too, was laboured; the humidity was downright suffocating here, and it made his asthmatic predilections tenfold worse.
He downed another canister of hogdrogen. Gulped it down probably a bit faster than he should’ve—and suffered for it. A coughing spell shook him, rattled his weakened lungs. Thick, meaty fingers loudly crunched the canister within his grip, crumbling it with all the ease of a wad of paper, and cast it aside. After the coughing spell ebbed—though not without sporadic vestiges squeezing violently at his chest—he heard another, different cacophonous clatter to his side, just out of sight.
It could only be one.
❝ What, ❞ he wheezed out, pain scuttling up his throat, threatening to curb his voice entirely, ❝ are you doing? ❞