Junkrat

He mostly moves you around at night; this is how it starts, and at first you aren’t worried at all. Through the pervasive smell of burlap, beneath the rag stuffed into your mouth (reeking of gasoline) you’d swear the air tasted different.

Roadhog’s hand, heavy at your back, (covering it really), you don’t dare risk anything but stumbling blindly forward, trusting him to guide you wherever it is they’ve decided to keep you for the next job. Junkrat is tittering, hissing it into his metal palm to avoid stirring the heavy night air; he almost succeeds, almost covers the familiar rustle of canvas.

The bike…

The sharp crack of pain and subsequent burn of residual engine heat confirms it for you. The uneven taps and squeaks of Junkrat’s prosthetics rattle away, along with the muttering.

The hand trails down to your waist, the other joins it, enveloping you in an all consuming heat; with blunt and massive fingertips easily bridging the distance between the bottom of your ribcage and armpits.

“Come on.” Road hog offers, lifting you with no effort at all. The warm, solid, and none too gentle press of him reminds you not to kick.

I couldn’t reach the ground anyway.

The world shifts violently on its’ axis; reaching to stabilize yourself only reminds you of your zip tied wrists, but soon you’re stable again, tucked against his bicep. Padded Kevlar rasps against your forehead while you suck in breath after breath, and through the fabric and muggy heat, the whimpers sound like humming. Roadhog straightens your socks first, and trails the fingers of one hand along your calf and shin slow and gentle; he is looking for something. It tickles, shocking when you consider the massive rings set on those knuckles. Touching along bruises,the dry skin of your knees and pressing gently, it feels like Roadhog is testing you like a piece of fruit. Wrinkling your nose as you feel his callouses scrape over the hair, you think;

Two weeks you’ve had me. If you cared about things like that, leave me a razor next time!

Not that they would ever do that. Half the time you were lucky to have running water at a safe house.

Hair or no, Roadhog didn’t seem deterred but eventually was satisfied. He tapped your knee, once on each side, only hard enough to test your reflexes, enough that your face is red with fury and shame. Gooseflesh rises on your arms while he chuckles; the sound is like gravel shaken up in a bag while his shoulders shudder and shake like a living mountain range and block out any moonlight.

It’s darker than damn near anything… Is it the new moon?

You try to tally hours that feel like lifetimes within seconds, and it isn’t like you were ever good at this anyway. ‘Chronically late’ and ’never in the right place at the right time’ , if that ain’t the damn truth… Has to be closer to 5 weeks; there’s no other way. They’re going in circles, and each place is nastier and more god forsaken than the last.

“Oi! Hog, she’s fine. Come one then, load her up.” Junkrat’s screeching attempt at a whisper seems to have broken the spell. Or spoiled something. The tension settles back into the forearm supporting your weight and Roadhog yanks up your thick makeshift socks, rolling them above your knee with efficiency. Only a few steps until you’re deposited into the side car; sitting on a padded running board while Junkrat sits in the low seat with his legs bunched up around you like a basket. Leaning back knocks you into his bony sternum. You try to straighten your own spine and roll your shoulders awkwardly, as slowly and smoothly as allowed by your numbed body.

Roadhog settles onto the bike and it groans like a wooden ship before roaring into motion almost instantly with the packed dirt streets aiding the lolling speed. The stagnant wind, that was the closest thing you’d felt to hope in days, was clearing your foggy mind, but it couldn’t stop the thought,

I could cry under here and no one would notice.

A bump and rougher going have Junkrat’s arm pulled around you and into him while he hisses against the burlap, “Quit knocking me… Sit down, all nice and easy, yeah?” it wasn’t as though you had much of a choice; gaining speed made it feel like someone was standing on you sooner or later, and three weeks later you were too tired to do anything other than relax.

The honest to god wind hits your face (sort of) so cold and good it almost feels drinkable. Junkrat must agree from the big gulp of it he takes, ribs shifting against your back like snakes. A song somebody taught you a long time ago says;

I’ll keep on crawling till the day I die.

He says, “ It’s a lovely day, a lovely, lovely day…” you don’t hear his peg leg tapping the floor but you feel it, the peculiar double beat of recoil that you can only assume comes from the springs and shocks weaving their way to his knee, eventually thigh. Giggling into your covered hair, maybe to save his own sharp face from the wind; Junkrat mouths words that feel like amylnitrate, and glycerin.

“Gotta mix the stuff slow, gotcha? Potassium chlorate and the gas. Getting the wax into the vaseline too; Five parts to it’ll do. That’s first thing though, before you dissolve in the gas…” The road bucks you awake and Junkrat is still chattering away, his hands roaming over your shoulders; with only occasional pinches from his prosthetic before they ran back over his own knobby knees.

“Should’ve led with that part… Bloody, fucking pins and needles! Worse than ants.” He barks and shifts behind you, nearly crushing his canteen in the process. The warning, sloshing, and heavy thud into sheet metal; it’s a valuable sound. For a second your heart skips along with Junkrat’s, synchronized fortunes thrown in with one another. But you were still high and the gravity of clean water faded.

Try sitting on the floor asshole.

Smiling at the bitter thought with rag stuck to your teeth becomes a blessing; your stomach lurches when Roadhog turns the bike left onto a well worn path.

The acceleration barely slows, but real rubber wheels do a number for hugging the road.

And of course he corners this boat like a dream. Your head lolls back, forgetting to spin unhappily for a moment; while you feel the very curvature of the earth itself, the bike rides so low and steady.

Stench of chemicals aside, this trips’ been a dream compared to the last several. The rainstorm that had us moving through abandoned sewers to avoid burns, multiple run ins with small time ‘shit-heel wannabe cocksuckers’ , Roadhog’s term, and even a night I spent in a literal coffin before things had cooled down.

The list went on longer than you cared to relive; thankfully the sensation of a newly risen sun warming your limbs snapped you back into the present. The noise of the engine was decreasing albeit slowly, coasting along a new and dusty furrow of land; you scooted back as far as the seat behind you would allow, attempting to avoid the burn and itch of sand already sticking to your exposed arms and sweaty thighs.

“Oof, being friendly now, you little bugger. Too late for any fooling on the open road, Hog drove through the night and he’s looking at maybe twenty kilometers…” Junkrat rests his forearms on your shoulders and tucks your head under his chin, positively cooing at the flush contact between you despite what he just said.

Sharp chinned bastard. Friendly nothing, I don’t need sand in my parts until one of you decides I can walk around and piss. Where the hell are we?

The air is drier than anywhere they’ve taken you before and breathing through burlap and a heavy cotton rag is becoming more and more impossible by the minute. Blinking and shaking your head as much as you can an attempt to hold it together pays off, and the bike slows to an amicable roll; rocks and earth crushing underneath the weight of it.

It’s quiet here, more silent than it’s ever been and when the bike stops that steady purr; is when the first trickle of alarm makes itself known down your spine. The combined weight of every air particle above you is crushing into you suddenly, nearly silent noises of alarm lost in the sound of Junkrat stretching beside you and the hiss of shocks as Roadhog dismounts.

One, two, three, four…

Counting the steps it takes until he’s hefted you off the floor and into his arms. Roadhog runs an absentminded finger up and down over your belly, and goddamit, in your own chloroform filled mind it was a good idea to giggle.

“Ruddy fucking locks. Rains rusted it all to shit…” Junkrat from what you can hear, is taking his boot to the lock(s?) now and the image of a grown man(and criminal, and thief, and murderer) standing barefoot on his own porch talking to a lock makes you laugh, thankfully muffled.

Roadhog hears it, tucking you closer to the mask still and huffing proudly. Poking at your middle more forcefully until he gets a real squawk of laughter, coinciding perfectly with the sound of a heavy lock thudding against the dirt, and Junkrat’s triumphant hoots and yells.

The ‘spree’ and ‘whap’ of a poorly aligned old door lets you know its just you and Roadhog now. He’s still holding you close, smelling like sweat and the sharp, fake candy smell of whatever’s in the yellow and grey cans they both gulp from periodically.

‘Hogdrogen’ that’s what it said on the side of it. Fucking for real? The world takes us strange places; and this is the drugs talking. Those drugs in fact, the cans.

“Too small for the mask” is what Roadhog told Junkrat,

“‘Course they are. ‘Course… Ha. But not too small for a hit of the gas, eh? Come on, you drongo give it to ‘em. I insist; I’m no good at gunning it.” He’d cackled at that before turning to pack.

Suffocating slowly (feeling like it at least) and you still taste him in your mouth. How Roadhog pried open your mouth with two fingers. He’d punctured a can in the other hand; sucking it into the mask with a barely audible groan, not even bothering to crush it afterwards just letting it fall. The can rolls across the wooden floor and out of sight.

You still hear it spinning when he pushes that mask up and crushes his mouth to yours. His mouth is gentle, but the fingers pinching your chin were anything but and they braced you open like a well. Smoke filled up your mouth and nose, you wept considering you were unable to even gasp.

Your body had filled frighteningly quick. Why didn’t anyone ever tell you how small lungs were?

“Good job…” Roadhog mouthed, or said through the last of the gas, your ears were ringing from lack of oxygen making it impossible to tell. With drool pouring down your chin and sticky tear tracks joining them, nothing mattered but breathing in real air.

Lost in memory, you jolt as the bag is pulled from your head. Fresh air has you inhaling it down as quick as you can blink away darkness from your wildly dilated pupils. Next Roadhog pulls on the corner of the rag filling your mouth, casting it away fluttering to the wind.

Staring up at the black mask gives you no guesses as to what he wants, or what he is doing keeping you out here; somewhere inside the wooden shack in your peripheral Junkrat is moving things (possibly breaking them) hurriedly and noisily as he seemed to do everything else.

“Thanks…” You offer, hoping for progress or at least less intense staring into your bleary eyed face. Roadhog pushes a fingertip to the tip of your nose, barely a touch at all. It is intended to be affectionate.

After all, pain is nothing either of them shies away from. Inflicting or taking; there are some finger shaped bruises, and deeper ones, still on your flank and ass. A ‘reward’ of sorts for a great left hook, blue and purple on Junkrat’s jaw for a week.

“You’re gonna be here for a while. No fucking around.” Roadhog says, lowering you to straighten your numb legs and holding your shoulder steady. You take one bumbling step forward, but each subsequent one becomes easier; his hand never leaving your shoulder on the path to the small front porch.

The shack itself appears to be built into and blasted out from the rock walls rising around three of its sides. A natural fissure; or an old riverbed. Practically an oasis, there is a water barrel sitting under one of the windows.

Your heart is thudding wildly even in the shade and shelter the eaves provide. Roadhog opens the door, ushering you through and into the living room where Junkrat has already set up shop on the large couch; with his peg leg laid out beside him.

“Come on then love, sit down and get comfy…” He pats the space beside him, Junkrat’s eyes shine in the sun slanting through the windows (and a few weak spots in the wall).

Easier said than done when your couch is made out of tires and blankets…

You kept that to yourself, but sat down anyway. Not really looking at him. Not looking at anything really. Dust motes float in the far corner of the room, alongside a vandalized and barely recognizable picture of an old prime minister that you no longer remember the name of.

Roadhog’s heavy footsteps go past you both and into the back half of the house. The buzz in the air here makes your heart skip and gallop.

You are very afraid, for the first time in a long time.