#firerat

Charrat, the Bomb Pokémon.

She doesn’t look all that impresses as she dropping down a fuel cell and a belt of rockets at the Junker’s feet. She couldn’t believe she had agreed to this, but a mission was a mission, and unfortunately, they needed Fawkes’ expertise.

She tells herself that it’s only a professional curiosity, but really, anyone would be concerned at the way his spine curves, especially when he’s not carrying around the tire on his back as he usually does. Something about it being a decoy for a live bomb---it doesn’t make it look any less lighter than it appears to be. 

         And concern, of course; there’s that as well. It’s her job as the newly reformed Overwatch’s sole medical practitioner to tend to the well-being of its agents, new and old recruits alike. Junkrat---or rather, Jamison---is no exception to the rule, even if sometimes thinks of himself as a separate, loosely affiliated entity.

The gentle tickle of fingertips on your back makes the muscles surrounding your spine shudder and spasm uncomfortably. You cock your head to the side, though you can’t see him at all due to your mask’s tunnel vision and the fact that you’re a little too muscled to twist your head that far back anyway.

“S t o p    f e e l i n ‘   m e    u p .”

   “ ---- look, I know ya ain’t from ‘round here bucko, but you could at least shower once in a while as a common courtesy ”