The Wonderful Misadventures of Junkrat and Roadhog
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The feeling started when they reached the edge of civilization.
Junkrat wasn't familiar with the twisting sensation in his stomach, the constriction of his chest, and the tingling of his fingers when he held onto the belt of the man driving the motor bike. He knew it wasn't fear, or anxiety, as he often did experience. It wasn't the thrill and delight he feels when he blows something or someone up.
This kind of feeling was... Nice. Warm. Nauseating. All at the same time. It grew more sure as the bike accelerated and he held on tighter, the barren landscape blurring passed them, the dust and wind blowing through his singed hair, the roar of the engine ringing in his ears. He tried to brush it off. He tried to forget about it.
Business, it's only business, he reminded himself. Nothing more. Never will be.
Oh, how he tried.
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Junkrat wanted to remember.
Roadhog couldn't bring himself to forget.
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At the edge of New Zealand stood a little house by the sea.
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