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Of Vermin and Swine

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Junkrat had a bundle of wires clenched in one hand, his fingers combing the sand for screws that were straight enough to use. The sun was finally dipping behind the piles of scrap, leaving long shadows of cool stretching across the scrapyard, and Junkrat wiped the sooty perspiration from his forehead. Most of the scavengers in the yard had left, leaving only a few scrappy stragglers, the ones daft enough to try their hand at surviving the night without shelter.

Aside from the occasional avalanche of metal and the distant yips of dingoes, it was quiet, no voices chattering in the background, no gunshots or explosions to be heard. Junkrat took the opportunity to let his guard down, not all the way, but just enough to allow himself to enjoy the relative silence.

He supposed that he’d never really known what peace felt like, having grown up in the vicious Outback in the aftermath of the Omnic crisis, but the hushed remnants of sundown on the scrapyard came pretty close. He tossed another handful of wires into his pack, and continued his slow route through the mountains of metal. He reminded himself that no matter how nice the evening seemed there was always the risk of trouble. Can’t let your guard down for one second, not there, not anywhere, not anymore.

Despite the danger of sundown in the scrapyards, it always felt safer to Junkrat than scrambling one legged over discarded and rusty parts as groups of bandits and rogues worked their way through the piles, striding with feral confidence, like prides of lions. Junkrat didn’t like playing cat and mouse, or lion and rat. No, he’d take his chances with the few that stayed out past dark. With his trusty grenades and a well-placed concussion mine, he could escape any real trouble that stirred up.

Junkrat hefted the bag of metal onto his back, wobbling a bit on his peg leg, before moving further into the scrapyard. He listened carefully, straining past his failing ears, to count muffled, metallic clangs, taking inventory of movement in the yard where he couldn’t see. One? Two? He only heard evidence of two others, fewer than he expected. He ran his tongue along his teeth as he considered whether to be wary of that.

A rusty truck sat next to a particularly large pile, half engulfed by metal, and Junkrat decided it was the ideal place to set up camp. He giggled, quietly as he could, at the idea of consistently sleeping at night. As hot as it got during the day, and how the heat set everyone on edge in Junkertown, being awake during sunlight hours was asking for trouble. One wrong move could end with a gun aimed at your face or a knife at your throat, and Junkrat knew that his aversion to eye contact and generally twitchy disposition, while almost normal in post-apocalyptic Australia, was odd enough to draw attention.

He tossed down a bear trap among the scrap on one side of the truck, threw his bag in the bed, and rounded the pile, eyes scanning for any signs of movement. He thought, for a second, that he saw someone, a massive, rounded shadow amongst the angular shadows of scrap, but he heard nothing to suggest his eyes weren’t playing tricks. He sighed, and when nothing responded, he headed around the corner.

It only took a few steps for Junkrat’s peg leg to catch on something, and he stumbled, falling hard on something that was surprisingly forgiving to land on. For a split second, Junkrat was thankful he didn’t catch himself on jagged metal or haphazardly discarded nails, but just as he thought himself lucky, whatever he landed on moved.

He yelped as he righted himself, wheeling backwards through the sand. One hand flew to his vest, loosening a grenade from its holster. He bit the pin, ready to pull it, but realized that the thing that had moved wasn’t coming after him. His eyes scanned the area, but saw no movement, just the same round shadow as before. He squinted, trying to focus, and tongued the metal of the grenade.

The shadow moved, just barely, and Junkrat waved the grenade in the air, shouting, “Show yourself or I’ll blow ya into next week!”

The shadow moved, and without making a sound, flicked a match to life. Junkrat could make out the dim image of a man, his face masked by dark leather with the snout upturned, spiked rubber pauldrons covering his shoulders, feet clad in severe, iron-toed boots. What most struck him, though, was the sheer size of the man before him. Even sitting, the man was huge, easily four times Junkrat’s weight, and nearly a foot taller than him. He wasn’t used to many people being larger than him. Few were, and he preferred to steer clear of them.

Junkrat’s fingers twitched on the pin of his grenade, and he considered what to say to the man. On one hand, he was huge, and could make the evening very difficult for Junkrat if he decided to. On the other hand, the man still hadn’t moved, except to flick the match away when it burned too close to his fingers.

“Big ol’ bastard, ain’t ya?” Junkrat said, tonguing his gold tooth as he watched the man for any sign of trouble. The man grunted, but didn’t say anything, merely folding his hands over his gut and settling into the pile where he sat.

Junkrat could feel frustration knitting between his brows, and he couldn’t keep his fingers from twitching again. He just couldn’t figure out the guy, huge and menacing, but silent and apparently harmless. He got the feeling that the man relied on his sheer size to intimidate people away from him before they started making trouble, but he didn’t want to trust that he’d continue sitting there, minding his own business.

“Ya gonna try to kill me if I go back to picking scrap?” Junkrat asked. Unsurprisingly, the man didn’t say anything, and Junkrat swallowed nervously as he planned his escape.

“Right, okay, I’m just gonna...” Junkrat said, his voice trailing off as he backed away. When he was out of sight, he put the grenade back on his vest, fastening it in place. He could head back to Junkertown with the little salvageable scrap he’d found, and just hope that trouble didn’t find him on the way back, or he could bed down there, and just hope that the giant man didn’t have a thing for killing people in their sleep. He weighed his options, and decided trying to scavenge with this paranoia hanging over him wouldn’t be productive. He opted to call it a night, sleep while it was dark for once, and hope for the best. Maybe the man’s impressive size would keep scavengers away from them both.

His fingers tingled with the last traces of fading adrenaline, and he felt relieved, but he was still wary, deciding to move his trap to the other side of the truck as a precaution.  The grind of sand and screws against the trap’s metal made shivers settle in Junkrat’s jaw, and he set his tongue between his teeth as he considered whether the sun had finally burned out the last of his good brain cells, and this was a completely horrible idea.

He hopped into the bed of the truck, thoughts still racing, and laid down on the metal, still half warm from the heat of the day. The night wouldn’t really be cold, but the chill of nighttime was hard to stave off once it put its bony fingers on you. Junkrat used his bag of found wires as a pillow, uncomfortable as it was, and frowned when he realized that taking off his leg would be unwise. He’d regret that in the morning when he had to haul himself back to Junkertown.

Junkrat peered over the edge of the truck bed again, looking to see if the man had moved any closer. When he saw his trap, and no massive, rounded shadow, he was satisfied enough, and flopped back down with a huff.

Sleep took him in only a few minutes, tired as he was from the endless nagging stress of the scrapyard. He didn’t dream, not that he could remember at least, and when he awoke to the first teasing beams of pink sunrise, he sighed relief at another relatively uneventful night.

Junkrat surveyed the area while he wriggled his fingers, anxious energy returning to him as he left sleep behind. His trap was still there, unsprung, and he didn’t know whether to be surprised by that or not. Metallic clangs nearby signaled the return of the daytime junkers, and he took it as a sign to head back to town. He collected his bag of scavenged loot, carefully disarmed his trap, and hefted his belongings onto his back.

He swore he could hear his bones protesting when his metal leg touched ground, and he limped as he made his way through the jagged peaks of scrap. Just before he turned to leave the scrapyard, a thought nagged him to see if the man from the night before was still around. Junkrat craned his neck to see the spot where he stumbled onto the man, literally, but only found the indentation left from where he had settled in for the night.

Junkrat furrowed his brow, curiosity and mild frustration clicking in his skull, but ultimately decided that it was best if he didn’t go looking for trouble. It usually had no issue finding him first anyway. With his loot and supplies secured safely on his back, Junkrat finally turned, and left the scrapyard, heading across the flat, windswept plain, back towards Junkertown.

Chapter Text

“Twenty percent.”

The man’s face, sinewy and speckled dark from the sun, twisted into an unsettling smile. Junkrat frowned at the offer, immediately wary of the man. If Junkrat had learned anything from doing business in Junkertown, it was that suits don’t always have creased slacks and work in pristine high rises. Some suits dump the sand out of their boots before they walk into a deal they’ve rigged.

The man offering was a suit, Junkrat knew that much. He reeked of dishonesty, the faintest traces of aftershave and whiskey whirling through the heat as the man placed his hands on the desk between them. The man’s hands were clean, and in plain sight, and Junkrat had a sneaking suspicion that too many junkers had let their defenses down at that before. It’s easy to forget the bodyguards behind you when you’re relieved that you know the man in front of you isn’t holding a gun.

Junkrat’s fingers tapped idly on his thigh as he slouched in his seat, and studied the man, whose smile had not faltered. His artificial patience seemed endless, and Junkrat would ordinarily be happy to test it, but he remembered that he had a deal to negotiate. Bunkers didn’t blow themselves up, especially not ones with stacks of guns and gold in them, and both Junkrat and the man with the sinewy face knew this.

“Forty percent,” Junkrat countered, “Sixty-forty is the usual split for a job like this.”

“Twenty percent,” the man repeated. His smile still hadn’t faded, but there was a sinister lack of brightness in his eyes.

Junkrat resisted the urge to shudder at the brief eye contact, refusing to let any sign of discomfort out, and stopped his hands from moving up to trace the straps of his vest. He made a decision to pick the black out from under his fingernails instead, and said, “Thirty five, plus supplies.”

The man curled his fingers under his palms, but didn’t take them off the desk. Junkrat knew the man was trying to intimidate him into a low offer, subtle warning signs that any smart junker would heed, but he ignored them and smirked at his sooty cuticles.

“Twenty five, and you get your own damn supplies,” the man said, his voice slightly stained with barely contained frustration.

“Twenty five percent is a shit offer, especially if ya stingy bludgers expect me to shell out big bikkies for good supplies,” Junkrat replied.

The man’s smile finally twitched a fraction smaller, and the two bodyguards in the back of the room shuffled in response. Junkrat smirked and swung his legs onto the man’s desk, crossing them, and reclined as far back in his chair as the creaky legs would allow.

“Hey, if ya want bodgy bombs, I’ll take thirty percent. That’s completely your call, mate.”

“You claimed to be the best in Junkertown at making explosives. If you can’t do it for twenty five percent, then maybe you’re not as hot as you thought,” the man said, no doubt hoping he'd bruise Junkrat's ego.

“Oh I’m the best alright, but if you expect me to hobble my ass across the bush and blast my way into some dusty hole in the ground for a quarter, you’ve lost it,” Junkrat said, and even though the man looked like he was about to snap, he repeated, “Thirty percent, or ya can find yourself a new explosives guy.”

“Twenty percent, or you don’t leave this room in one piece,” the man snarled, his eyes suddenly gaining a flicker of fire within them. Junkrat could hear one of the bodyguards adjust their gun, and the faint click of the door behind him locking.

For an instant, Junkrat’s thoughts seemed to stop, and the incredible surge of adrenaline uncoiling in his veins felt like he was going to combust. Two bodyguards with guns looming behind him, one man in front of him that looked like he wouldn’t hesitate to use those freshly scrubbed hands to strangle someone, and a room full of salvaged boards and sheets of tin held together by rusty nails.

“I haven’t been in one piece for a while now,” Junkrat said as he uncrossed his legs and slid the metal of his peg leg across the surface of the desk towards the man, leaving an ugly scratch in the veneer. “I don’t think that was a very well thought out threat, if you ask me.”

The man’s jaw clenched, wiry muscles setting lines over his sharp bones, and his knuckles whitened with slowly simmering rage. Junkrat’s flippant attitude was wearing on the man, and it showed.

Junkrat slid his legs from the desk and set them gently on the floor, standing slowly to inch above the sinewy man and his bodyguards. He still slouched, his posture suggesting ease, and he turned towards the window.

As he peered between the boards nailed across the broken glass, Junkrat couldn’t help but giggle. Maybe it was the heat, but the whole ordeal was just so funny to him. All this work, all the time they put into trying to play hardball, the way that they held steadfast to an offer they all knew was awful, and the fact that they didn’t think to take his explosives vest. It was all just too damn funny.

The two bodyguards shifted nervously, and the man, his voice unbalanced, asked, “What’s all that about?”

 “Didn’t really think that through, did ya? Didn’t even think to take my bombs when you called me in here. I just can’t believe how badly you blew it,” Junkrat said, pausing to laugh at his own joke, “And if I’m not allowed to leave in one piece, then neither are you!”

Without a moment of hesitation, Junkrat flicked a grenade off of the strap of his vest and sent it flying towards the door where the bodyguards stood. The explosion, small as it was, sent the two guards diving for cover, and shook the ramshackle paneling apart in a few places. The man grasped under the desk, reaching for whatever weapon he had stashed, but another grenade rolled across the floorboards towards him, and he leapt away too.

While Junkrat had them scrambling to escape, he lobbed another bomb at the door, blowing a few more boards loose. One more hit would blast a hole in the wall, and he could make his escape. He chucked another bomb towards the three men, laughing when the bang interrupted the sound of a gun cocking as the man holding it dodged away again.

The final blast sprayed rusty nails and splintering wood around the room, and as soon as the fire of the explosion stopped, Junkrat flung another grenade at the men, laughing as he said, “Pleasure doing business with ya!” He hopped through the hole in the wall, and scrambled down the stairs towards the front door.

Even though the sun was high overhead, the breeze cooled the perspiration on Junkrat’s skin, and he was glad to have gotten out of the sweltering heat of the building. He thought the ventilation he added was a nice touch, but he didn’t take the time to admire his handiwork. He hobbled, fast as he could, across the sandy walkway that constituted a road, and figured out his escape plan.

A grunt to Junkrat’s side caught his attention, and when he turned, he recognized the source of the sound, a man with a massive, rounded gut, standing and watching the smoke rise from the top level of the building. Junkrat remembered the man from the scrapyards just a few weeks before, something he didn’t expect considering the transient nature of Junkertown, so he considered himself happy to see a familiar face, or rather, porcine snout.

In the daylight, the man seemed even bigger than before, the sun reflecting off the spikes on his iron tipped boots and glinting off the license plate he used as a belt buckle. Just above that, tattoos covered the man’s impressive gut, and latched to his hip was a very large hook attached to a chain. Scuffed and silvery knuckle dusters nestled between the man’s giant fingers, and although the ventilated mask did well to distract onlookers, Junkrat couldn’t help but notice the graying tuft of hair poking out from between the mask’s straps.

“G’day! Didn’t think I’d see you again!” Junkrat said, hefting the bag off his vest to fish out a concussion mine. He planted it on the ground, and quickly worked out a trajectory, aiming to land on top of another building as to stay out of sight when the men inside decided to come after him.

When Junkrat was ready, he looked up, only to watch the man turn his gaze from Junkrat and his mine to the smoking building.

“Oh, that, yeah! Bunch of suits pretending to be regular people like us. I wouldn’t go over there, by the way. I pissed them off pretty good!”

The man nodded his response, but didn’t move. Junkrat picked up his pack again, slinging it back onto his shoulders with a groan. He staggered a little on his peg leg, nearly losing his balance in the crumbling road. As he steadied himself, he heard the door to the building crack open, and just as he turned to see, the man had deftly removed the hook from its home on his hip and sent it flying across the road. It collided with the bodyguard, who was apparently dumb enough to come after Junkrat, and he crumpled from the pain.

Junkrat gaped at the sight, the bodyguard stopped dead in his tracks by a well-aimed hook to the stomach. He didn’t even know it was possible to aim something that well. Junkrat certainly wouldn’t have, always thankful that bombs don’t need to be accurate to be effective.

“Thanks mate! I owe ya one,” Junkrat said. He gave what he hoped looked like a genuinely appreciative smile, and stepped onto his concussion mine. He wiggled his fingers around the detonator, a lazy wave goodbye, and jammed his thumb hard onto the button. He soared skyward, and as he landed on top of the building, he looked down to see the man give a half wave in return before walking down the road past the still smoking building.

Junkrat smirked, and headed towards the roof access door, ready to get the hell out of Junkertown and away from those damn suits.

Chapter Text

Junkertown sat in the desert, an isolated metropolis made of patchwork tin and sand smoothed wood. Buildings nestled together, flush against each other where alleys were given roofs and walls and turned into yet more rickety structures. Most of them acted as cheap hideaways where junkers and bandits alike could get out of the sun, tend their wounds, catch a few dusty hours of sleep, or count their cash. Aside from the inn in the center of town, a few places that acted as trading hubs, and a bar on the far end, Junkertown had nothing else to offer, except for brief respite from the heat.

Come sundown, the people of Junkertown seemed to ooze out of the shoddy woodwork, loitering in the streets to talk and trade, and many could be found absently ambling towards the lone bar, eager to liquor up. It wasn’t a respectable establishment by any means, but it was a place to forget the monotony of keeping out of trouble, or if you’d had enough of that, a place to make some.

Junkrat had gotten himself into too many scuffles there, and tried to avoid it when he was in Junkertown, but the call of the safe underneath the bar was a siren song, and he found himself salivating at the thought of robbing it empty. With a little planning, he could crack the safe, take what he could, and maybe snag a bottle or two of booze if he had the time.

The promise of a bag full of cash made Junkrat’s fingers wiggle excitedly, and he set to work planning. He set his tongue between his teeth as he rummaged through his bag, fishing out a thicket of wires and enough explosives to blow the place apart. He smiled at the thought of watching it burn hot and angry as bottles of hard liquor shattered and fueled the flames, but as much as the idea entertained him, he wanted to keep it simple. Besides, he couldn’t waste supplies without having the money to buy more.

Junkrat had the barest of plans fresh in his mind, and he set off immediately, focusing on keeping the enthusiasm out of his walk as to not draw too much attention. There was an air of anonymity in Junkertown, but there was always the chance that someone would recognize him as the guy consistently blowing up the Outback.

The bar was emptier than usual, the regular cacophony dimmed down to a dull roar. The occasional yell or laugh reverberated out of the building’s poorly paneled walls, but for the most part, the scene was quiet. Junkrat tongued at his gold tooth as he considered where to set off the explosion that would serve as his distraction. There wasn’t exactly an ideal place to set his charge, not one that wouldn’t rattle nearby buildings anyway, and he frowned at how badly he wanted to not care. In a perfect world, Junkrat would be content to level Junkertown into just another pile of scrap in the desert, but it wasn’t a perfect world anymore, and he knew he didn’t need to test his luck.

After a few futile moments of contemplation, he sighed, and lazily tossed a bomb up over the bar’s roof, allowing fate to take the explosion where it needed to go. Junkrat knew it was reckless, but he figured that if you had to think too hard about an idea, it wasn’t a very good one to begin with.

As soon as he heard the explosion, Junkrat felt his blood turn to gunpowder as adrenaline kicked in. When he heard the crack of the back door slamming against tin and boards, he slipped inside, keeping a watchful eye on the bartender as she rushed out the door, precautionary shotgun in hand.

He had to work fast, lest that bartender came back vicious and ready to fire. There were a couple people left in the bar, slumped over their tables with liquor dribbling out of their mouths, but Junkrat paid them no mind, heading straight behind the counter without hesitation.

He crouched behind the weathered wood of the bar, and surveyed the safe. It had definitely seen better days, but hadn’t they all, and he gave it a sympathetic pat before peeking closely at the box. He hadn’t expected anything too well protected, but as his fingers tested the handle and found the door loose already, Junkrat’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. It was practically begging to be opened, and he felt more than willing to oblige.

He stuffed the contents of the safe into his bag, satisfied upon finding a small bundle of bills stashed alongside the plentiful coins. Junkrat prematurely applauded himself for a job well done. He’d only been behind the bar for a half a minute tops, but everything had gone so smoothly. He strained to hear past the grumbling drunkards, hoping that the rowdy bar patrons, now excited by the explosion, weren’t already making their way back. He figured he had time to spare, so he rifled through the liquor cabinet, collecting whatever sounded good enough to drink straight.

Junkrat couldn’t help shaking the bag gently to hear the sound of coins clanging against glass bottles, and as much as he didn’t want to stop, he twitched at the thought of rousing the few men left at their tables.

When he heard voices outside growing closer, he jerked back to high alert, his heart hammering out a tune on his ribcage. He hoisted the bag up onto his back and turned to leave, though his attention was still anchored behind him as he searched for anything else he could take. Satisfied that he’d picked the place clean of notable loot, Junkrat snapped his gaze forward, and found himself face to face with a familiar round gut, emblazoned with an overstretched tattoo of a pig.

“Bloody hell, mate, ya just about scared the shit outta me!” Junkrat said, his voice a loud whisper as he maintained his attempt to be sneaky. He swayed slightly as he tried to find a way to squeeze past the man, but the man shifted his weight to block Junkrat’s view.

“C’mon, big guy, I’ve gotta get outta here ‘fore they come back!” Footsteps clicking on the wooden walk behind the bar seemed to echo in Junkrat’s skull, and he could feel his blood fluttering in his throat as his nerves caught up to him.

He knew he was running out of time, and he knew he needed to think fast, so Junkrat did the only thing he could short of blowing the place to hell, blurting, “Tell ya what, get me outta here quietly, and I’ll give ya half of what I’ve got in the bag.”

Sixty-forty was the usual split. Junkrat knew this, along with most of the people in Junkertown, and that was the only hope he had as he searched the man’s mask for any indication of agreeance, as if the stitching would curve upwards into a smile.

After an excruciatingly long second, the man grunted, and grabbed Junkrat on the arm, tugging him from behind the counter in one swift motion. Relief flooded Junkrat’s veins, dousing the sizzling gunpowder inside him, and it almost made him lightheaded. He focused on keeping his good foot under him so he wouldn’t stumble on his metal one and allowed himself to get hauled out of the bar.

The man’s hand, large enough to close around Junkrat’s arm completely, gripped hard, though not as hard as he no doubt could have. He knew he’d bruise from it, but he didn’t struggle at the ache. He just kept his focus on keeping his loot safely in his hand and his feet on the ground, only just aware of where the man was dragging him.

With the bar falling behind him in his periphery, relief washed over Junkrat, and he laughed instinctively. There was nothing quite as sweet as a job well done, and while things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan, he had made it out unscathed, hard earned cash in tow. The last thing was to get far enough away so he could pay the man for his trouble, find some shack to hole up in, and get blind drunk in celebration. Finding more supplies could wait. Junkrat was nothing if not a man with priorities.

The faint glow of the bar behind them reflected off something chrome, and his attention snapped to the source, a dusty chopper with the same iron spikes that the man wore. Junkrat suddenly became aware of what was happening, that his escape plan was going to include an impromptu motorcycle ride through the desert, and sparks shot through his spine as he considered what might happen next. Maybe the man would drop him someplace new and he would be lost in the Outback without any supplies. Maybe the man would take his share of the loot and leave him stranded in Junkertown.

Maybe the man would take him someplace to kill him.

“Hey, mate, I ain’t taking no casual evening ride with someone I just met,” Junkrat said, a poorly concealed tremble in his voice.

The man lifted Junkrat and set him squarely on his feet, finally letting his hand fall from the arm he’d clamped onto. He didn’t say anything, but the way that he looked at Junkrat came across as a blank stare, and it said more than enough.

“Fine, I didn’t just meet ya, but I don’t even know your name.”

The man didn’t move, and didn’t respond.

Junkrat sighed and shook his head. He crammed his tongue against the back of his teeth, the beginnings of frustration weighing heavy in his fingers. When he collected himself, he stuck out his hand for a handshake, and said, “The name’s Junkrat.”

Another long second passed while the man surveyed Junkrat, whose arm was still hanging in the air expectantly. Junkrat’s fingers twitched nervously, but he kept his mouth shut while the man thought. Finally, the man extended his hand in return, and said, “Roadhog.”

That lone word felt like a triumph to Junkrat, the silence shattered between them. He smirked, unsurprised at the gruffness of Roadhog’s voice, quieted by dusty leather. He couldn’t help but gawk at just how small his hand seemed compared to Roadhog’s, his spindly fingers dwarfed by a gloved hand.

“Where we going?” Junkrat asked.

“Away,” Roadhog replied, and upon noticing Junkrat tense at the shortness of his answer, he added, “Warehouse up north.” The answer seemed to be adequate, and Junkrat looked past Roadhog at the motorcycle.

“I’ll fall off, ya know,” Junkrat said, shaking his peg leg a little for emphasis.

“Better not let go then.” With that, Roadhog turned and mounted his ride, wringing his hands around the handlebars. Junkrat took note that despite Roadhog’s size, the motorcycle didn’t groan under his weight. He suspected that the machine had been coaxed to integrity through years of improvements, and it made him trust both the motorcycle and the giant man perched upon it.

At that, Junkrat hopped on the back, wedging his bag of loot on the seat between them, and cinched his arms around Roadhog’s middle. His fingers didn’t quite reach, despite his long arms, so he hoped the road would be smooth.

“Really oughta get a side car, mate,” Junkrat said.

Roadhog said nothing, merely grunting at the suggestion. In one flick of his meaty wrist, the engine roared to life, and they lurched forward into the desert. With the sun dipping low to their left, they rode, and as the desert turned from vibrant orange to dusty violet, Junkrat held on tight.