roadfromtheashes

[roadfromtheashes]

hystericalbrat‌:

“Old cunt.” 

She muttered the insult under her breath, teeth clenched as she walked away from Bruce’s counter, making a few steps towards the exit before she glanced up at the behemoth of a man who had been waiting. Watching. Judging. 

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. 

Her father had told her so many things about this guy- Rutledge. Rutledge. That was his name, right? 

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. 

“Well, if it ain’t my lucky day!”

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.

“Is it? You’re lucky Bruce sold to you at all, with the shit you tried to pull.” He’s avoiding the implication she’s making, as if running into him could be anything other than ‘bad’ for other people. 

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. Bruce’s disposition brightens somewhat at seeing the familiar old Junker, who makes it quite clear that he’s 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. 

[roadfromtheashes]

hystericalbrat‌:

“Oh fuck’s sake, Bruce, what’s a coin or two short? Unbelievable!” 

The young girl’s voice could be heard from outside the wreckyard, if anybody cared to listen to the raucous, throaty contralto of Vicky Costello’s voice as she whined and complained over not being able to swindle the old engineer. 

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. 

If anybody was to enter old Bruce’s wreckyard, that would have been the scene they’d have before them. Vicky was almost grateful no one had witnessed her piss-poor attempt at a hustle- and yet. 

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 ‘Junkertown’. 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 Roadhog’s case, that was intact canisters that he could use to store the Hogdrogen he made. 

In the case of this girl today, however; she was there to buy something of value, and hadn’t been able to swindle the clever old engineer. She’d feel his eyes on her, despite the way the mask hid his gaze; criticizing, and amused. 

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. 

[roadfromtheashes]

This is a roleplay sideblog for Roadhog of Overwatch.  Follow-backs come from @lxnkyrat. If you’re 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;

Save a horse, ride a ‘Hog.

[roadfromtheashes]

It sure is nice to sit here, drink beer, and pretend shit ain’t weird.

[roadfromtheashes]

atiredratto:

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“Heard 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 I’d come and check on him, see if he needs anything from the city, since he’ll 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 hasn’t changed since he arrived. He’s not very expressive.

“Bodyguard, you said? Rutledge? Can a little mouse like you afford his prices, kid? Because if you can’t, and you swore you did---you could end up hurt. Man doesn’t like to be stiffed.” Whats this? Some good old concern from one of the few true good men left in Junkertown? Seems like it.

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[roadfromtheashes]

atiredratto:

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When Junkrat first begins to stir, it would appear that Roadhog is asleep. He’s 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 didn’t appear to be armed, or hostile, muttering something about ‘difficult deliveries’, 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. “Well. That’s a surprise. Whats an infamous young scamp like you doing on Rutledge’s porch, eh? And why the traps?”

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[roadfromtheashes]

atiredratto:

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The bottle of pills seems to jolt Junkrat back to earth. He’s 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.

“Painkillers.”

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 wasn’t 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 won’t be for long, and the slightest sound may well wake him up. 

It was going to be a long night for them both.

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[roadfromtheashes]

atiredratto:

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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 didn’t 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 ‘safe’ enough for the meantime, that he’d 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 he’s heard from survivors of missing limbs, the phantom pain and soreness from Prosthetics was great.

Roadhog doesn’t have much in the way of painkillers. Just a mostly-empty bottle of some old expired Advil that he’d 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.

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[roadfromtheashes]

atiredratto:

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“We ain’t doing anything when they get here. I’m going to deal with them, and they’re going to fuck off. I don’t trust you enough to fight alongside your bomb throwing ass just yet, so you’re going to stay out of sight while I deal with it.”

There’s 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 doesn’t want to be guarding his back, as well as his front. 

“They’ll likely show up in the morning, when there’s good lighting.” 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, he’ll gesture to the small room beneath the stairs that the other can use for the night, until they get something better sorted.

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[roadfromtheashes]

atiredratto:

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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 hadn’t 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. There’s 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 didn’t 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. 

“Hey.”

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.

“Don’t panic. I’m bringing you over.”

That’s all the warning Junkrat gets, before he throws the hook. He’s 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 Roadhog’s 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.

“The ground is trapped around the perimeter. Don’t need you losing another limb, or wrapping yourself up in a net like a present for them to collect.”

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[roadfromtheashes]

atiredratto:

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He’s 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 wasn’t 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 wasn’t clever enough not to keep his mouth shut. Sundown. That was a few hours away yet, and he’d 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 he’d 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 he’d 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, he’ll 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.

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[roadfromtheashes]

atiredratto:

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He’s 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 won’t indulge it. He made his statement, and he won’t work with Junkrat for anything less than fifty percent of the so-called treasure he’d 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.

“Fine! Fifty percent, and that’s my final offer!”

Gee. Its like they could have skipped this entire conversation, and moved on with everything else five minutes ago.

“We’re going to my place.” 

Roadhog’s 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 wasn’t 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.

“If you have any shit you want to keep, get it, and meet me there. You haven’t shown up by sundown, and I’ll assume you bailed on the deal. You’ll be locked out, and dealing with the Queens goons on your own from then on.”

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[roadfromtheashes]

atiredratto:

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The man he’d 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 hadn’t 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 didn’t mean he was going to turn his nose up at a possible reward.

But he wasn’t 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.

“Fifty.”

If this kid wants to work with me, he’ll have to learn I don’t settle for less.

“Fifty percent of whatever your treasure is, or you’re on your own.”

Roadhog is standing up now, gathering up his sack filled with canisters, and preparing to head for the exit. “And make your choice quickly.” It won’t be long before the queen hears of the incident, if she hasn’t already, and he’s not sticking around to get swarmed by whatever vengeful mob she sends.

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[roadfromtheashes]

anevatiredratto:

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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 wasn’t 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.

“Just sit there like a good piggy-”, Roadhogs grip on the mug tenses, “-and there’ll be no need to make you squeal.” No. That was his catchprase. 

He’d ignored a lot of disrespect in his day, but nothing quite aggravated the giant Junker more than having ‘piggy’ 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. 

“Queen don’t mind if we damage you,” crowed the man with a skull on his head, knife being raised so he could continue threatening Junkrat. “Hell, she pre---”

Crunch.

The man went flying, knife and skull sent askimbo after the force behind the collision of Roadhogs fist against his cheek, and he’s 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 bar’s window, to land atop the first man he’d 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 wasn’t the bartenders fault that he ended up with troublemakers to serve today. He can just see the top of the mans head, from where he’s ducked down at the end of the counter, sitting in silence. 

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.

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[roadfromtheashes]

roadfromtheashes:

atiredratto:

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 would’ve 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 situation…

Could it have been him running his mouth off again? More often than he’d 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. Could’ve been that.

Maybe it could’ve been ‘cause 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 so…

Perhaps that’s why these blokes were the Queen’s henchmen, able to wander about with the lack of nervousness they had pullin’ this kinda stunt in a public space like this. A quick glance around also summed up that, well, the bar was kinda empty anyways. Anyone’s guess was as good as his about all that. But, really, this whole situation summed up to being blocked in at the Wolf Wood’s Pub, with a couple'a blokes asking him about a treasure. Of which he had no real intention to share, whatsoever.

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There were many kinds of men, and women, residing within Junkertown, and around its outskirts. Most of them were cutthroats, thieves and murders, 

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 ‘Junkertowns’ 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 didn’t work for cheap, either. And though he detested working for a suit, he’d 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 wouldn’t be happening tonight.

Noise had drawn him outside, and he’d 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 wasn’t feeling it. So he gave them a good scare, and sent them running, hoping that they’d 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 he’d gathered up some empty Hogdrogen Canisters, and a large, hefty bag of scrap material he’d 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 Bruce’s Wreckyard, to get his canisters refilled in exchange for the scrap he’d 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. 

...

The Bar itself is a familiar place. There’s 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 didn’t want to piss him off. 

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 I’d help anyone for that cheap, against the queen’s 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.

“I know you. Queen don’t like you.”

Feeling’s 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 they’re not particularly comfortable with his silence, the fact that he doesn’t seem intimidated by one of the Queens henchmen sidling up next to him. But that doesn’t stop them from carrying on.

“Don’t think she’s forgotten about what you did.” Oh, he knows she hasn’t. He can hear her cross tone over the intercoms sometime, when she hears he’s approaching the gate. She must have been asleep today. “But lucky for you, I’m willing to forget I saw you...for old times sake.” 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.

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[roadfromtheashes]

Haven’t gotten a valentines gift in over twenty years.

@crikeycricket

[roadfromtheashes]

{Ooc art post: Very pleased with how I drew Mako today. He sleeps comfy.}