Hey guys, PoeticPillock here! Sorry it took long for this chapter to get here. The semester is wrapping up for me, so I should be able to get back into the groove of things during the Winter Break, hopefully. Hope you enjoy!

Responses…

Guest: To answer your question: Yes, I do have an endgame planned… And that's all I'm going to say ;)


Watchpoint: Gibraltar, Mediterranean

2076

Nathan was walking down the corridors to the mess hall, hoping to fill up on some grub. It was quiet where he was, not a lot of people out. The Waster was quite content with the silence, hoping it stays this way. So, of course – as this Universe demands whenever he enjoyed something– that silence was broken as blue flashes blinked across the hallway behind him and the tall man felt something jump on his back.

"Hiya!" Lena greeted as she locked her arms around his torso and her legs around his stomach, like a monkey.

"Oxton?!" Nathan barked, more than caught off-guard as he looked back to see spiky hair. "The fuck are you doing?!"

"Hitching a ride. Gonna nip on over to the mess hall, right?"

"Uh, yeah!"

"I'm heading there, too. Need some company?"

"Are you going to get off of me?"

"Nope!"

Nathan visibly sulked and audibly groaned as Lena didn't relieve her grasp, remembering the last time she grabbed him like this that he beat her lights out, both literally and figuratively. Also remembering how that turned out, so he was a bit more restrained this time around. He didn't like how comfortable the Brit was getting with him – probably a bit too comfortable – but that's probably the price he paid for being on a few missions with her. As he began fearing for the future of this reoccurring, he sees McCree swaggering next to them, stifling a laugh.

"I guess it was just a matter of time," the Gunslinger expressed. "See, Lena likes to do that to anyone who's taller or bigger than most. Winston's a favorite target of hers, being a gorilla and all."

"I can tell," the tall Waster replied, glaring daggers over his shoulder, only to be met with a grin. "Goddammit."

"Aww, don't be like that!" the bubbly Brit responded. "Just leg it on over to the caff so we can get ourselves some nosh to murder!"

The New Californian jerked his head slightly as he just listened to what came out of the Englishwoman's mouth. Trying to decipher her word choice and unsure if any of those were real.

"…What?" Brin asked.

"Ah, I'm just taking the piss, mate!" Oxton gleefully exclaimed. "I'm just saying we should get some lunch."

"…Right…"

Lena just laughed more as Nathan grumpily resumed making his way to the mess hall, Jesse tagging along. Fortunately, her small frame wasn't much of a challenge for him to carry over that distance, weighing less than the packs he usually hoisted. Unfortunately, this backpack could talk. A lot. Thankfully, mainly talking to the American in the hat.

"So, what have you been up to, Trace?" McCree asked.

"Eh, not much," Oxton answered, shrugging. "Hung with Winston in his lab, listened to some of Lucío's new tracks, and helped show Genji's brother around the place. Oh, and I did spend some time with Hana, going out to the beach."

"Really? Must've been nice."

"It was, then we spotted Nathan and his girlfriend."

The man she held onto like a chimp jerked and looked over his shoulder, glaring more daggers.

"Wait, girlfriend?" Jesse exclaimed, looking up at him in disbelief.

"She's not my girlfriend," Nathan stated, resuming walking.

"Who?"

"Some nightlight-tart he met back in the mission to Numbani," Lena explained, from a certainly bias position. "Now she's in Gibraltar, for whatever reason."

"She's here for work, same reason she was there," Nathan interjected. "Now, quit busting my balls about it before I purposefully trip backwards."

"Busting your what?"

Before the conversation and gossip could get zestier, the three had gotten to the mess hall and saw it was crowded. However, something was off as most of the occupants were concentrated in the middle of the large room with most of their backs to the newcomers. Something in the center grabbing everyone's attention.

"What's all the fuss about?" McCree questioned.

"I can't really see anything, even from up here," Lena said, still holding onto Nathan as she tried to crane her neck and look over the crowd. "Brin, what about you?"

The tall Waster had better luck peering over the crowd, seeing that there were individuals in the middle of it that seemed to be the source of all the attention. Then, he noticed a head with long black hair tied into a neat, orderly bun. He recognized who it belonged to.

"Oh, shit," he muttered under his breath. "Oxton, get off."

The Brit looked up at him, before nodding and doing what she was told, for once. Without wasting another moment, Nathan marched towards the crowd and made his way through to the center. Easily parting through it, he finally got to the middle and sees who all the attention was focused on – Lúcio and Satya. The former was on his feet and had his hands on the table, scowling at the latter, who just calmly sat there and addressed him as she ate from a salad bowl. They seemed to be in the middle of an argument, Lúcio currently taking the spotlight with his rambling. Nathan more than surprised to see the DJ as anything other than chilled.

"…I'm just saying, I have a hard time trying to understand why you're here," the DJ stated, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "Doesn't really make a whole lot of sense to me."

"I would possess the same question about you, Mr. dos Santos," the Architect responded. "Why this organization of professionals would recruit a street-ruffian like you is certainly cause for concern."

"I don't like tooting my own horn, but I've cared about the people of Rio more than your precious Vishkar ever did!"

"You're not nearly as much of a hero as you are a thief!"

As the crowd around them began to mumble as they listened, Nathan stepped into the inner circle and brought all eyes to his large frame.

"Okay, what's going on?" he questioned them both.

"She's Vishkar!" Lúcio exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "She's not supposed to be here!"

"And he's an anarchic hooligan, who would very much break the law in the name of this 'freedom' he proclaims," Satya bit back.

"Okay, you two don't like each other. That's clear," Nathan keenly observed. "And while I can't claim to be an expert on whatever's got both of you riled up, I'd at least suggest keeping it less public, next time. You guys are literally the center of attention, right now."

"But aren't you listening? She's from Vishkar! Y'know, evil megacorporation and all that?"

"I'm aware, and I'm not a fan, either, but complaining about it isn't going to make her fizzle out of existence. If both of you have a problem, take it up with the Gorilla. Otherwise, both of you shut the fuck up and don't bring anyone else into your shit."

"Mr. Brin has a vulgar choice of words, but I agree," the Vishkar Architect concurred, looking the Brazilian Musician straight in the eye. "There are more civilized and productive ways to discuss things, Mr. dos Santos."

"Man, whatever," he responded. "As if I'd expect you Vishkar types to change. But I see your point, Nathan. I'm sorry, bro."

Then, the Californian heard feet shuffling behind him and turned to see the crowd parting again for the even larger frames of Winston and Reinhardt, arriving a bit late to the party.

"Lúcio! Satya! Is there a problem?" the Scientist asked.

"None, Mr. Winston," the Architect was the first to respond as she got up from her chair with an empty bowl. "We've just finished our discussion, and I was about to attend to my duties. Good day."

She left, but not before exchanging a quick glance with Lúcio, less than pleasant expressions on both their faces. After she made her way through the crowd, Reinhardt walked into the middle of the circle.

"Okay everyone, the show is over!" he exclaimed, his booming voice more than enough to get everyone's attention. "Move it! There is nothing to see here, now."

The crowd then began to disperse, until no one stood around the table except for Winston, Reinhardt, and Nathan. Lúcio had left, as well, disappearing among the crowd in his skates. Nathan saw him wave to Lena as he skated past.

"Well, I have to worry about that, now," Winston groaned, facepalming. "At least you're here, Brin. I have something to discuss with you."

"Oh?" Nathan let out.

"Yes, but let's grab something to eat, first."

After the group had gotten themselves lunch, Winston, Lena, and Jesse sat on one side of a table while Reinhardt and Nathan sat opposite of them. The Waster indulged himself on a meal the German had suggested to him, consisting of a fried sausage covered in sauce with a side of a thin, fried potato strips. The spice burned his tongue with a pleasant, meaty flavor, and the "fries" were a nice addition. The heat not bothering him in the slightest, especially compared to the likes of Radscorp-casserole. Certainly not enough to distract him from the subject of their conversation, which was a briefing.

"So, I'm being sent alone on another mission?" the Waster asked, chewing away at his food. "Where?"

"That's what I was getting to, and why I'm also a bit anxious," Winston answered, helping himself to a big salad bowl.

"How come, big guy?" Lena then questioned, looking up at her big friend.

Winston regarded her for a moment, looking more than concerned. Nathan noticed how nervous he acted even before the group sat down. Something about this mission had him worried, and he would like to know why. The table didn't have to hold their breath long.

"To put it bluntly, I may have to send you to the Australian Outback," Winston finally admitted, earnestly making eye-contact with Nathan.

Lena went wide-eyed, Reinhardt looked up from his currywurst, and Jesse accidentally inhaled a piece of food and began coughing as he banged his metal fist against his chest. Nathan just sat there, chewing on sausage.

"Umm…" he let out, making them all stare at him. "The Outback's a desert, right? Sounds like something in my league."

"Yes, it may be that, but the Outback was also the site of a nuclear reactor detonation, turning it and the surrounding areas into an irradiated wasteland," the Scientist then curtly explained.

"Oh," the Wastelander simply responded, a faint memory of the interrogation with Dr. Ziegler popping up. "It'd still be fitting, then."

"Just to be clear, this is not a confirmation that I believe any of the things you told us that day. However, since you still are adept at many things and have proven to be excellent covering great distances in harsh terrain, I felt this mission would be best suited."

"When you put it that way, it might… What's the MacGuffin this time?"

Winston produced a holopad and placed it in the middle of the table before the device projected a hologram of a monolithic structure with red metallic walls, sectional spires that went high to the sky, and dozens of rail lines that protruded from gaping maws in its hull. Appearing to be a fort of almost immeasurable scale, taller than some skyscrapers.

Winston started to explain, "This is an-"

"Omnium," Nathan finished for him, surprising the Moon-Gorilla and some of the other tablemates.

"You know?"

"I've been doing some research on the Google. Surprisingly handy tool. So, yeah, I know what this thing is, but I didn't know there was one in Australia. Must have glossed over that."

"Then, I should inform you that this isn't its current state. This is."

With a swipe of his hand, the hologram then flickered to show the same structure as a mangled carcass of metal. Looking like a flock of vultures ripped into it, steel bones jutting out into the air. The damage looking familiar to anyone versed in nuclear detonations.

"Years ago, a group of Omnics was given permission by the Australian government to settle their own home in the Outback. Unfortunately, this ended up displacing the human populations who had already occupied the land. A violent rebellion ensued, and the result was the Omnium fusion core being damaged and detonating from the inside."

"Irradiating the place to hell in the process."

"Precisely. However, even though its main source of power was destroyed, we do have reason to believe that there may still be some cells of still-usable energy, kept away from the rest of the world. Watchpoint: Gibraltar has its own reactor, and while we are not going to experience a power outage anytime soon, acquiring another source of power could help significantly bolster our capabilities."

"And I'm going to get it for you."

"Yes, you seem to be the most capable candidate for this mission. And yes… You may be sent alone for this one."

"Is that really necessary, Winston?" Reinhardt questioned his friend's judgment.

"I'm trying to cover our tracks as much as possible, even out there," Winston's face twitched uncertainly. "However, he will be sent alone to meet-up with someone who could guide him to the remains of the Omnium. Someone who knows this place well, and may help retrieve the fusion cell we would need… I think."

"You 'think'…? Who?"

"Someone who's been… Messaging me, to my surprise. I'm not too sure this person even has the right idea or why they've been trying to contact me so frequently. Still, if Nathan wants someone else to tag along, I will happily-"

"No thanks," the Courier interrupted, waving off that notion. "I'm good."

The rest of the table staring at him in near-disbelief.

"Are you sure about that, Brin?" McCree asked, narrowing his eyes uneasily at him. "I've been to the Outback before and I-"

"No thanks, vaquero," Brin said, finishing off his currywurst with one more bite. "I'd rather go in at my own pace there. No need for me to weigh others down."

"That is dangerous thinking, Ödlander," Reinhardt interjected, looking down at him with his one eye. "You will be out there by yourself, with no one else to immediately fall back on. Are you sure that is what you want?"

"I could use the alone time. Things'll be more thorough if I head out that way. It won't take long."

The other four all exchanged unsure glances with each other while Nathan looked up at the hologram of the Omnium ruins, before reaching up to touch the projection and spin it around to get a look at the rest of its ruined exterior. Then, just swiping it with one finger and watching it spin in place like a top until settling down.

"Just point me in the right direction."


Nathan was at the hangar, sitting on a crate in his Desert Ranger uniform with his pack by his feet and his rifles by his side – minus All-American. The ship behind him was prepped and ready to go, but he was told to wait for something before heading out. In his boredom, he held his Ranger Helmet in his hands, the red eyes looking back up at him. On the left side of the helmet, he felt his fingers along the four claw marks scarred into the metal. It didn't hamper structural integrity much but left another permanent reminder for him. A more prominent one, at least. His fixation upon the claw marks was disturbed as he felt a shadow cast over him and looked up to see the white coat of the blonde Doctor.

"Dr. Ziegler," Nathan said as he placed his helmet aside and stood up to greet her. "Hey!"

"Grüezi, Nathan," Angela greeted back, smiling up at him. "I heard you were going to be sent off on a mission."

"You did, huh?"

"Yes, and I also heard where you were going to be sent."

"…You did, huh?"

"Yes, and as you'd imagine, I'm more than worried about you."

Nathan shut his eyes and let out a low grumble, before opening his eyes to sincerely regard the Doctor.

"You don't have to, Doctor," he firmly stated. "I'll be fine. You do remember who you're talking to, right?"

"I do, but that still doesn't set me at ease," she responded, shaking her head. "There might be things in that wasteland that you're not accustomed to. I've been there, before, when we first heard of the Omnium's explosion. I was one of the first responders of Overwatch in the relief mission, and the thing's I've seen there were…"

The usually eloquent Doctor paused, stopping in the middle of her speech as she tried to find the proper words to convey herself. The tall Waster calm demeanor shifted after seeing that, feeling a small knot form in his gut. Watching her trouble herself with him even when she didn't need to.

"Just be careful, Nathan," Angela finally said, looking up at him with sincere blue eyes. "That's what I'm trying to say."

"Of course, Dr. Ziegler, of course," Nathan responded, bobbing his head up and down. "I promise."

Her face lit up for a moment after he said that, Brin glad to see a welcoming expression from her.

"Pinky promise?"

The Waster watched as the Swiss woman suddenly brought one of her hands in front of her but only had the smallest finger stretched out into the air. He perked a brow at the gesture, glancing up at Angela to see her with a quaint smile, and looking at her pinky again. Sighing, he brought up his right hand and wrapped his pinky around hers, dwarfing it.

"Pinky promise," he said, holding onto it for a few moments before separating.

After that exchange, they heard Winston lumber up to them with one of his arms up against his chest.

"Sorry, I'm late," the Scientist apologized. "Hey, Angela! Came here to wish Nathan farewell?"

"I did," she said, noticing he had something in his hand. "What are you carrying?"

"Glad you asked. They're gifts for Nathan."

Winston held out his hand and showed what he was giving to the Waster. One of them was the magnetic holster, but the other was an AR rifle with the same forest-pattern camo as All-American. It looked different than when he left it days earlier.

"What the…?" Nathan as he grabbed that first, examining it with his eyes and hands. "What did you do?"

All-American gained a significant makeover; its owner noticing that it now had a new scope with an iridescent red line on top its body, a somewhat longer barrel with a shroud that was thinner and more skeletonized, an upper receiver with a charging handle on the left side instead of the right, a little lever connected to the bolt-catch that snaked down to the top of the trigger guard and close to the magazine release, and a new trigger that wasn't as curved as the last one. The things left unchanged were the stock, grip, camo, and decal.

"Modified it!" Winston answered, gauging Nathan's reaction. "At least, I think we did. I had Athena order a bunch of parts online for your weapon and see how we could optimize it to its highest combat-effectiveness. I'll be honest, I'm not familiar with weapons of a ballistic nature or old designs, so I had to do a lot of research beforehand. So… What do you think?"

The Californian blankly stared at him for a few moments before looking down at his weapon and began fiddling with it. Racking the bolt with the new charging handle, swiveling the muzzle to feel its weight, and peering through the new scope to see a glowing red arrow reticle with black markings for windage and elevation around it. His eyes getting narrower the longer he operated. Despite being a very generous action on Winston's part, Angela already began wincing as she peered at the Gorilla and feared for him, certain that the large man was going to start berating him for modifying his rifle without consent.

"I kinda like it," Nathan then said, genuinely catching her off guard. "It feels light as a feather, this lever to operate the bolt is convenient, and this trigger…"

His gun clicked as his trigger finger twitched, and clicked again after he racked the bolt. A satisfying little noise without fail.

"Never felt a trigger so crisp. Thanks."

"You're welcome!" Winston gleefully said, rubbing the back of his head. "Was a bit difficult trying to find the parts. And expensive. If you still want to switch your rifle back to its original configuration, I still have the kit and the parts."

"I think I'll stick to this for a while, break the new parts in," Nathan said, lowering the rifle, and addressing them both. "I guess it's time for me to head off now."

"Unfortunately," Dr. Ziegler sighed. "Good luck, Nathan! I wish you the best."

"Thanks, Doctor."

Nathan Brin gathered the rest of his pack and weapons, the rifles now slung over his back and sharing the same holster. A bit heavy, but more convenient than giving them all a sling each. The armored Waster clambered up but turned to look at Winston and Angela, the two watching him go.

"Hey, Dr. Ziegler," the New Californian called out, grabbing her attention. "How would you say 'good luck' in German?"

"Oh?" the Swiss woman let out, before thinking for a moment. "You would say 'Viel Glück'. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. Aufwiedersehen, Doctor."

"Widerluge, Brin."

With a final nod, Nathan climbed on board the small ship before its door shut closed and began lifting itself into the air. The Scientist and the Doctor stayed on the ground as the ship got high up and thrust off into the sky, going far away from the base. When it was finally out of sight, Winston sighed and nodded to Angela before walking away from the landing pad. However, the blonde stood there in the same spot for several moments, staring up at the spot in the sky where she last saw Nathan's ship disappear, clasping her hands at the front of her waist. After about a minute, her gaze dropped to the floor, her blue eyes unsurely staring at the concrete. Finally, Angela closed her eyes and let out a long, exasperated breath before turning around and making her way back to the infirmary.


The New Californian Wastelander looked out from the window to see a large expanse of desert dotted with shrubs and trees no bigger than him. At first glance, this patch of land didn't look too different from the Mojave, except for the ground being a tint more orange. However, he knew there was more than shrubs and sand out here, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. He took one more glance over his shoulder to his new sling, making sure it was snug against his body.

The ship hovered closer to the ground and the door slid open, Brin promptly jumping out and having his duster flap around in the orange sand swirling around him. His helmet's radio sparked to life with the voice of the pilot.

"Good luck down there!" the pilot wished him before the thrusters started kicking up more sand.

Just a few seconds later, the ship quickly rocketed up to the clouds. Without its shade, he felt the Outback sun hit the back of his duster. Getting accustomed to the heat he's felt somewhere else.

'That's more like it,' the wanderer thought as he stood up to take a good look around.

The Australian Outback didn't look too different on the ground, but the first thing that struck the Californian was the endless horizon. Seeming as if it went off into the ends of the Earth for an infinite stretch of miles. He expected the Outback to be a desert, complete with minuscule vegetation and uncomfortable heat, but he didn't expect it to be so flat. Not a hill or mountain to be seen obscuring the horizon. Yet, that was before he turned around and saw a large mesa far away, almost blending in with the mirage. Being the only mountainous structure in view, it appeared massive and had a top that looked shaved flat. However, he could make out protrusions coming off the mesa's top. Man-made structures.

'How long is that?' his wandering brain began scrutinizing, estimating the distance. 'Two, three hours walk at a brisk pace?'

The Courier made one glance at the map on his Pip-Boy, then reaching up and having All-American's grip thrust into his hand. Taking one step forward, he began making his way to the large mesa. To the only visible pocket of civilization in this wasteland. Not too close to any radioactive zones.

'Easy.'

There was only a sea of shrubs and dirt between him and the mesa, walking much of the trail quiet. Listening to the sounds of this desert, mainly the slight breeze whistling over his ear and his feet crunching over dirt. As loud as it was desolate, the Waster was fine with this for a while. Still a bit careful of any other sounds not of the desert. Although, half-an-hour later, the mesa in the distance only got marginally bigger.

Holstering All-American, he reached down to his Pip-Boy and pressed a button, twisted a knob, and spun a dial to tune into the radio. See if there was anything to pick up out here. The choices were as barren as the land; only two stations to listen to, one of them only producing static. However, the other station he could tune to and listen in on. With a click, the voice of a female radio announcer echoed from the speaker, her accent reminding him of a Great Khan back home. She spoke as virulent as a Great Khan, too.

"…round all the clankers up, sending them to their Iris!" the radio announcer proud fully declared over the radio, her newest viewer getting a taste of the local culture. "And when their shiny hulls became the mortar of our city walls, we supplanted our right to live on our land. The irrits out by the coasts can throw all the judgment and condemnation they please, we ain't like those bloody poms!"

"Were some of those words?" Nathan let out, furrowing his brow as he listened.

"But what good is anything they say? Out here, it's our land, our chaos, our score! And what do we all say, my fellow Junkers?"

"No job too big!" the audience in the background erupted. "No score too small!"

As the radio began to erupt in applause and cheers, the Waster's hand went down and switched it off, already tired of the show.

"If I wanted to listen to maniacs ramble on the radio, I could have stayed at home," the Courier let out, grumbling as he shook his head.

He knew before setting foot on this continent that it wouldn't be the heat or the fauna he would have to worry about, but the people. What more could he say? It was always the people he had to look out for. The problem probably worsened by the place becoming an irradiated waste. Yet, he shoved that thought away for the meantime, focusing back on the mission.

As another half-hour passed, it looked like he had gotten closer to the large mesa than when he began, but the boredom began to seep back in. Not wanting to listen to a mad woman's propaganda again, he reached into his pack to pull out a holotape and insert it into his Pip-Boy. With an energetic press of a button, the speaker burst to life again with the strumming of Western guitars.

"I'm goooooiiin' under, getting oooooover you," the vocals started out, in an enthused yet gloomy tone.

"I'm goooooiiin' under, drowning iiiiiiiiin these blues," Brin began to sing along, not faltering his pace.

The song went on for the duration of his jog, Nathan not missing a single verse until it ended, and the tape went on to the next song in the playlist. Some songs helping to regulate his breathing.


A two-and-a-half-hour jog later, Nathan had finally reached the base of the flat mountain monument, and then after another forty-five-minute walk scaling the damn thing, he finally reached the pocket of civilization that could eke an existence out here.

Nathan first walked through a little village that was outside of the city walls. It almost seemed like something from back home; Ramshackle buildings made of repurposed sheet metal and wood, random piles of trash scattered along the ground waiting to be pilfered, and run-down cars dotting the way. It seemed quiet, devoid of anyone, and the Waster went further along the trail. Finally, he came into view of the main entrance to this city.

The front entrance was a towering, corroded mess of a gate, with a pale-green paint job that was either peeling or overtaken by rust. There were guard towers situated on top of the wall, and two large chains that dug into the ground with equally large gears that flanked the gate on both sides. Right above the door was the creatively named sign of the home for these "Junkers", with even more large gears situated above. The Courier, having been spoiled by more attractive cities, thought it looked like shit.

Since the gate was closed, the large Waster walked up to it and gave it three strong pounds of his fist. He stepped back and waited for a response. A hinged window on one of the towers creaked open as someone coughed.

"Who is it?" a man questioned, unseen from the ground.

"Just a traveler on the road, who would like to go into your fine city," Nathan bluntly answered, dripping with sarcasm.

"Eh? You a yank? What are you doing here, outsider?"

"Business."

"Queen's got no business with your kind. No one here does. Beat it!"

The window slammed closed, leaving Nathan standing there in the sun and looking up at the tower. He shook his head looking down at the dirt, before walking up to the gate and knocking on it for a second time. Waiting a little longer until that window opened, again.

"Are you still there?" the guard yelled.

"Yeah, and I still have business in this place," the Californian remarked.

"Am I supposed to care?"

"I don't know. You like pushing away opportunities literally on your doorstep?"

"Opportunities? The hell you on about?"

"What I'm saying is; What kind of person would walk to the middle of nowhere, far away from actual civilization, to this rusted shit cattle prod of a shantytown, if the price of their business wasn't that great for the effort?"

"…You selling us something?"

"I might if you let me in."

The guard became silent after the visitor gave his answer, Nathan taking this opportunity to go further.

"Don't know how much this place gets in terms of tourism," he said, turning his back to the gate and looking at the empty expanse of the Outback. "But I'm sure some imports would do it some good. Me being one of the couriers."

"Eh, I see your point, seppo," the guard begrudgingly admitted, saying that last word rather scornfully. "If all you're after is business I'll let you in. I couldn't be fucked, either way. But you better not cause any trouble inside! Lastly, the Queen doesn't allow anyone to carry without her say so, so you're going to have to leave your guns behind."

"You have a locker, then?"

As soon as he asked that, a large metal crate burst from one of the towers and nearly crushed Nathan as it plummeted to the ground in front of him. Looking at the container, he saw ropes tied to its sides that led up to the window it was thrown out of. Going up to it, Nathan lifted the lid to see a pile of weapons filling the container, almost to the brim. A lot of them looked handmade as if they were a weekend project in someone's garage. Pistols made of more wood than metal, relics that seemed to be older than their users, and literal pipes for rifles. He was sure farmers and ranchers back home were better equipped than these Junkers.

"Really?"

"If you don't like it, you can hit the road!"

The New Californian rolled his eyes and groaned, before unfastening the strap of his holster and depositing all his long guns into the box. He then reaches to his waist, unfastening the holster for his sidearm and placing it alongside his rifles. Finally, he reaches to the back of his pants and grabs the leather of his knife but stops as he looks up at the guard tower and around him to see if anyone was looking. Letting go of the sheath, he slowly retrieves his handgun, minus the holster, and shuts the container closed with a thud before getting lifted back into the tower.

"You'll get 'em back when you leave," the tower guard said, Nathan not entirely convinced.

Then, the gears and chains on either side of him began to move and the large, yellow blast door slid up to reveal another set of doors. The gears above the sign began moving as well as the other sets of doors opened, the earth trembling slightly with every reveal until the last blast door slid into the ground and opened up to him.

"Welcome to Junkertown, mate!" the guard exclaimed, before hacking a cough.

"I feel honored…" the Courier mumbled, before finally setting foot within this city in the Outback Wasteland.

Immediately, Nathan was greeted by a dirty, grimy street where more decrepit metal structures were built along, clearly with little regard for anything beyond spacing. Looking up, he could see many of the building were boxes stacked on top of each other, precariously placed with questionable foundations. Disorganized webs of wires and cables hung over the streets, more of an electrical hazard than a utility. Vendors and storefronts he passed were literal holes in the walls. And a musty stench hung in the air, rotten. He didn't expect to find Vault City inside but didn't expect most cities in New California to look better than this. His hometown of Arroyo already leagues above. If it looked like a shithole on the outside, the inside was the rectum of that shithole. He wouldn't put it any other way. The detonation must've happened more recent than he thought if this place was still scrounging a living at best. However, it would be the denizens around this place that were truly a remarkable sight on their own; One comparison Brin could, unfortunately, make with some people back home.

Many of them had clothing that was either stained, torn rags or a mishmash of whatever they could find to cover themselves. A lot of their outfits reminiscent of what hopped-up raiders would choose for evening wear – random covering of metal that might pass for armor, decorated with spikes, chains, bones, or anything regardless of practicality. In summary, he couldn't think of anyone back home dressing like these mongrels unless they were some prostitute outside of a New Reno casino or some downtrodden bum rambling about talking rats. Yet, for once, Nathan might be able to fit in with the crowd through appearance alone instead of blatantly standing out, but some of the stares he received quickly dashed that notion. Wasn't sure if he was recognized as an outsider in this bumfuck town, or the fact that he was completely covered head-to-toe in actual armor caught their eyes, but the whispers were clearly about him. This time in English, or whatever this Australian dialect was supposed to be.

"Oi, who's that swaggie?"

"Fuckin' big bloke, ain't he? Brick shithouse is what he is."

"That coat makes 'im look like a bloody bushranger."

"Gronk."

'Those aren't words,' the New Californian thought to himself, more confused than mad at the names he was being called. 'I thought Oxton sounded funny…'

He kept walking through more of the dingy scrapheap of a city, ignoring the whispers of the Junkers going forward. That didn't mean he wasn't wary of them, as his eyes shifted from pedestrian to pedestrian. From a man with pink spikes for hair to bums sleeping on cardboard coverings. He was supposed to find his contact, however, and might have to start asking the locals whether they knew who he was looking for. Wasn't dying to meet with them in the slightest. Passing by one or two citizens expelling their bodily contents onto the street in plain sight.

Turning another street corner, he was about to make his way past some other vagrants until a scantily-clad woman with hair as orange as the Outback sauntered up to him. Nathan's eyes went to her chest, not because she was sporting something impressive, but because she was using a pair of small traffic cones as a makeshift bra. This place certainly dripped with taste, but girls in Freeside had better fashion sense.

"Hey there, big fella," she greeted, putting on some faux attraction in her eyes. "You look like fun. Wanna have a root with me? Won't cost much."

"No thanks, miss, I'm good," Brin heartily declined, at least learning a new slang word for her work.

"Aww, are you sure? I might give you a discount for that voice."

"…Pardon?"

"Your accent, honey! I haven't heard one like yours around here for a long time. I wouldn't mind if you whispered something into my ear, buttery smooth. Now, you still going to walk away or need I more convincing?"

Nathan almost scoffed under his helmet, well-versed in hustling to know a discount for his accent seemed a bit much. However, he thought about something as she looked at the woman who's been in this city longer than he has. Probably been out on the streets more than most, given her occupation. She probably knew a thing or two. Not a bad start.

"Maybe you can provide me something else in exchange for this voice," he spoke with a slightly heavier inflection in his speech. "A couple answers for a couple questions I have, please? Won't take up too much of your time. How does that sound?"

"Do I look like a brochure to you?" she asked, disappointed that was all the customer wanted.

The outsider then produced a single gold coin from his pocket, holding it up and making the sun bounce off it. The girl's eyes lit up as she saw it before he flipped it to her.

"One coin, one question," he simply said.

"Alright, I guess," she said, stuffing it into one of her cones. "You're more polite than most bruisers around here."

"Splendid. First question: do you know where I can find a 'Jamison Fawkes'?"

"'Jamison… Fawkes'…? Nah, sorry sweetie, never heard of him."

If only things were that easy for him.

"That's a shame," he stated, producing another coin and flipping it to her. "Second question: know of a place I can head to for a drink? Maybe one where the people like to chat?"

"Hmm…There is a pub not too far from here. Might find something there."

She pointed to the far side of the street, Nathan looking where she might be directing him. Spotting out the possible point of interest, seeing some activity just outside the door.

"I see," the Californian expressed gratitude, giving her another coin before turning away. "Thank ya' kindly, ma'am. I'll be out of your hair, now."

"Wait!" the working girl said, making him stop and turn to address her. "If you're gonna go in there and start mouthing off, least I can do is warn you. They might not take kindly to you asking about certain things, especially you being an outsider. Things can get rough around here."

"I'm well aware. You take care now."

With that, he turned and resumed walking off to the pub, eventually making it to the entrance. The prostitute watching the outsider go, with a frown.

As soon as the Wastelander stepped in, he felt like he was sent back home, sadly. A scratched-up hardwood floor, dim lights hanging from a dingy ceiling, rows of booths occupied with fellow Wastelanders in tacky clothing, and barstools with peeling leather. Funny that the saloon was the most hospitable looking place, relatively speaking. He was starting to get homesick again as the smell of mold and stale wood got through his mask. As a bonus, large speakers on the ceiling played music but with the tune of country instruments and a nasally, middle-aged voice singing about the lack of alcohol in a bar.

'Music I can stand? 'Bout damn time…' he felt, almost experiencing bliss as he walked over to the bar.

Taking the seat closest to the door and on the corner of the counter, he pushed the coat of his duster out of the way as the stool squeaked under his weight. A moment later, the bartender – balding man in a dirty dress shirt – went over to him, a bored expression on his withered features.

"What do you want?" the bartender asked, dry of emotion.

"Anything that can knock me off my ass, please," Brin answered, taking off his helmet and putting it on the counter.

"Sure."

While the bartender went away to retrieve the patron's drink, Nathan reached to his waist and pulled out his Vault 13 Canteen, taking a swig from it as he listened to the music. So far, this Wastelander's impression of the city in the Outback was what he'd expect; wanting to dull his senses. Remembering long travels of America's remains, visiting shantytown settlements that were an eyesore. Almost questioning how people got to this point, where some sheets of rickety metal and duct-tape could constitute a home. Except this place was somehow worse off than most of New California. As if the rest of the country and the world had forgotten about this desert – or wanted nothing to do with it at all. Nathan certainly couldn't blame them. The only thing missing was a person with rotting skin.

The bartender came back with a cloudy glass and a bottle of what he presumed to be moonshine. Pouring a hearty volume into the glass before sliding it over to him. Nathan reached into his pockets and produced a few coins, dropping them in the bartender's hand.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah," Nathan said, before throwing his head back and gulping down the mystery liquor, feeling it go down like kerosene. "Wondering if you could answer a few questions? I ain't from around here."

"Figured as much," the bartender responded, slowly perking up one eyebrow. "What's a yank doing in the Outback?"

"Answer some of my questions and you might find out."

"Hmph, alright, but don't take all day. I got customers to serve."

As the outsider was about to start, he heard a ruckus from behind and looked over his shoulder to booth seats on the other side of the room. A few questionably clothed Junkers were enjoying themselves a bit too loudly with a round of beers. They had a few lady-friends with them, but Nathan noticed that most of the other patrons kept their distance from them and were largely quiet. He also noticed that some of them seemed armed with an assortment of makeshift weapons. Only ones in this pub carrying something, besides him.

"Well, for starters, who runs things in this town?" the visitor asked, turning back on his stool.

"That would be the Queen," the bartender answered, sounding not enthused about who he mentioned. "She runs things around here, alright, sending thugs to collect the taxes people 'owe' to her. Among other things."

"Ah, one of those. At least my visit here won't be entirely boring."

The bartender perked one eyebrow as his patron took another gulp of his drink, emptying the glass, again. Silently impressed the outsider still seemed conscious after that.

"Anything I should be mindful of lest I want to incur her wrath?"

"Same as anywhere else, really," the bartender responded, pouring more into his glass. "Don't cause trouble, and don't fuck with the Queen. Troublemakers usually get booted to the bush and barred from re-entry. Heard of worse, though."

"Typical. Might be a problem, as I am looking for somebody from around here – a Junker. Might be one of those troublemakers."

"Who?"

"A 'Jamison Fawkes'. Heard of him?"

"Hmm… Sorry, mate. Name's not ringing any bells."

The wandered breathed a deflated sigh, thinking he would have to go around asking the whole city to find this one contact. Wouldn't be hard, having done similar things before in many towns, just time-consuming. Before Nathan could ask anymore leads, one of the noisy Junkers from the booth stumbled up to the bar, getting uncomfortably close to the Californian. Not really wearing a shirt, just some straps that held up his dirty trousers. Nathan smelling him before he saw him, wanting to put on his helmet.

"'Ey, Dusty," he greeted the bartender, taking a swig from a bottle and barely being intelligible. "Dis bruisahs not gevin ya' any trouble, ain't he?"

"He's not, just asking questions," the barkeep replied. "Maybe you could help him out?"

"Oi reckon oi can…" the Junker said, turning and leaning against the counter to face Nathan. "How ken oi help?"

The more coherent man pulled out his flask to pour a little of the contents into his glass, trying to give it a bit more punch if he was going to speak to this lightweight. Mask some of his stench, too.

"I'm just looking for someone," Nathan explained, drinking up and feeling the extra bite. "Do you know a 'Jamison Fawkes'?"

"A who?" the Junker asked, swaying in his stool. "Nah, nauh clue who the fak thaut is. Sounds loike a posh cunt, though."

"Right."

"Reckon 'e got a nicknaem?"

"Pardon?"

"S'he got a nickname? Nobody uses their own fackin' name out 'ere, anywahy."

Nathan stared at him for a couple of moments before recalling what he studied on the holopads as he prepped for this mission. Feeling there was a sliver of information he was missing, which wouldn't be a first. He brought a hand to his Pip-Boy and searched through the notes from his research. A few rolls of the wheel showed some notes he made about the contact he still needed to find.

"It appears he does," the tall Waster said.

"What?" the Junker asked.

"'Junkrat'. Sound familiar, now?"

The Junker choked on his beer and looked up at the Waster as if he had spat in his drink. Furrowing his brow at that reaction, Nathan had noticed that the entire bar had also fallen silent and everyone sitting around them staring at him. Even the bartender looks at him with a staggered appearance. Only the music playing through the silence and clearly not lightening the mood.

"I guess it does," he said, calmly looking around.

"What you want with him, eh?" the Junker next to him asked, suddenly more coherent and threatening now. "What's an outsider got to do with that sleazy bastard?!"

"Business, if you can call it that. I'm just asking where you guys might've last seen him."

"You're working with him, aren't you?! With that backstabbin' rat?"

"I didn't say that-"

"Shut it! Queen doesn't like him that much, and neither do we!"

The Junker then pulled out a knife from his belt and pointed the tip at Nathan. Narrowing his eyes at the blade and its owner. Peering to the side to see some of his friends getting riled up.

However, in the farthest corner of the bar and unbeknownst to the outsider, a portly old man with an orange cap covered in motor oil watched from afar. Taking a sip from his mug with a cigar not too far.

"You're an outsider, so I could've gone easy on you. More than willing to help a total stranger, but now?" the knife-wielding Junker began to grin like a mad idiot. "I think we got to put you in your place. Remind where you are!"

"I only asked a fuckin' question," Brin responded, annoyed but not surprised the conversation devolved very quickly with this dolt.

"No matter! Still deciding whether I should take you to the Queen or teach you a lesson right here. Show you how we really do things in the Outback, mate!"

"Oi!" the bartender then interjected, catching their attention before pointing to something above him. "Do I have to keep reminding you illiterate-cunts!"

He was pointing to a sign nailed to the wall that said "No Stabbin', Shootin', Glassin', Shittin', Rootin', or Tossin' on the Premises Under no Circumstances!", the last verb in the warning looking like a more recent addition. Nathan was curious to what that meant.

"Queen'll cover the costs, Dusty!" the Junker reassured, before looking back at Nathan with a toothy grin. "Anything else you want to say, yank?"

He didn't hear the outsider say anything as something suddenly shot up at him and tugged at his arm, fast enough for him to miss it. He blinked, before peering down and looking in surprise as the outsider had his left hand wrapped around his blade and held it in his closed palm. The Junker then looked on in horror as he tried to pull the knife back and his hand barely budged, not even able to cut up his hand. Everyone else holding their breath for what they witnessed.

The outsider could've pulled out his gun or his knife, but he didn't feel like it was worth the effort.

"Yeah…" the bearded man in black armor said, with a very irritated gaze in his eyes. "Stop calling me a fucking yank!"

He punctuated his response by knocking away the Junker's hand from his knife while simultaneously grabbing his wrist in a stranglehold. The Junker was effortlessly lifted into the air from his stool and dragged around on the floor until the larger man firmly planted the hand he held firmly against the counter. Spinning the knife around and with one strong drop of his arm, he impaled it into the back of the Junker's hand and quaked the entire counter, making the man scream and flail as he tried to wrestle his hand from the bar top to no avail.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" the bartender yelled.

Nathan heard the shuffling of feet and chairs, spinning around to see two of his friends charging at him. The first thug got up close, trying to throw a punch with big fists, but the Waster ducked and pounded him square in his left cheek, knocking his lights out and collapsing to the floor like that. The second one, armed with a pipe, swung it at him in one hand but was stopped as his wrist got caught before having his legs swept under him. Then, with another hand grabbing him from the back of the head, had his face slammed into the edge of the counter, sending blood and teeth flying. Dazed and guzzling blood and snot, he looked up at the tall, bearded outsider before a metal helmet slammed into the side of his head sent him to his comrade on the floor.

"Sorry, mate," Nathan huffed towards Dusty as he reached into his pocket, and slapped several coins onto the counter. Then, he turned towards the Junker he nailed into the bar to get him out without causing more unnecessary damage. "I'm not done with you."

Without warning, a chair crashed against his back and made him wince before he looked over his shoulder and glared daggers at a scrawny Junker in a gas mask, who began trembling under the much larger man's gaze as he held the legs of a broken wooden chair.

"Really?" Nathan could only question as he tugged hard on the stuck Junker's arm and ripped his hand free from his knife, making him scream more as his hand's flesh got split down the middle. Patrons around the pub becoming nauseous.

The masked Junker dropped the legs and ran away to the entrance, panting heavily under his mask. Nathan put his helmet on and dragged the cut-up Junker by the hair to the exit.

Now outside the establishment, the Courier held up and slammed the Junker against a wall, bringing him face-to-face with the red eyes of his mask. The bulky case of the Pip-Boy pressing against his throat. Almost about to make him piss himself.

"So, do you know where I can find Junkrat?" the Courier asked, the filter of his helmet giving his voice an intimidating tenor.

"I-I-I-I don't know!" the Junker answered, gurgling from the pressure on his throat. "Please, don't kill me!"

"Nothing you can tell me?"

"I swear to me parents' grave, I don't know! Junkrat got kicked out of Junkertown some time ago for pissing off the Queen, but that's all I know. No one's seen them for ages! We don't know where they are!"

"You tellin' the truth, or should I send you to your folks?"

"Jesus Christ, I swear, you fuckin' psycho!"

The Waster tilted his head, holding the Junker in his hand and boring a hole into him with the persistent gaze of his mask. Hovering centimeters from his face. After a few more whimpers from the bloodied man, Nathan let him go and fall to the floor on his ass.

"Go," Brin commanded, throwing his thumb to the side. "And if you're Queen hears about this… My earlier point still stands."

The shaken man ran, Nathan's gaze following him as he hurried down the street without once looking back. However, he squinted as the Junker was running oddly, and the back of his trousers was a shade darker. He looked down to see his boots in a puddle that wasn't there a minute earlier.

He shook his head before turning and walking off into the street, figuring out where to go next. Probably wouldn't be able to stay long, now, for asking the wrong questions.

"Hey!" he heard a voice from behind, belonging to a local but sounding older. "Hold up!"

The New Californian turned around to see a fat, old man with a white beard running up to him, stopping a few feet away to catch his breath. He had an orange trucker hat covered in oil, orange gloves stained in a similar fashion, and a belt of tools around the waist of his trousers that couldn't fit the entirety of his gut. He wore a vest, but was shirtless underneath it, kind of defeating the purpose.

"Can I help you?" Nathan asked the older Junker.

"No, you already put up a good show taking care of those bastards back there," the man laughed, standing to look up at the mask. "Prove 'em right for thinking they're untouchable. No, I'm here to talk to you about Junkrat."

Looks like the Waster's trip would be short.

"You know him?"

"Nope, but I do know someone who works with him. A scary-looking, masked bloke like you, except bigger. They haven't been here for ages because, like that guy who shat himself said, they ticked off the Queen big time and got exiled. So, I don't know where they are right now, but I do know a good place to start. And you look like someone who's good at finding things."

"Clearly. Where's this place?"

"It's a homestead, just a couple of clicks from here on the outskirts of town. You won't miss it. You got a map on that thing on your wrist?"

Nathan brought up his Pip-Boy, clicking it to the World Map on his screen and showed it to the old man, who looked at it in subtle intrigue but focused back on task.

"Should be right there," he said, tapping a corner on the screen.

"Thanks," Nathan said, marking the location before looking down at him. "You were surprisingly forthcoming with that."

"Ah, it's not even that much of a secret around here, mate. You would've found out, one way or the other."

"Still, how do you know I'm ain't some bounty hunter sent to tag your friends?"

"Only one of them's my friend, and I don't know what it is about you… But I feel like those two'll be in good company with you around. God knows they need it. Can hold your fists better than most locals around here. Politer, too. Wish we had more outsiders like you come to our shit paddock to spruce things up, then maybe I'd regain my faith in the outside world."

"Right."

"Hmph… Well, take care, mate. Try not to get arse-tetanus on your way out."

The grease-monkey left, waddling away down the street. Nathan stared at him for several moments before turning away and making his way down the street, too. Trying to find the exit so he can get his guns back and find this "homestead" in the Outback. If only that old man knew he had much more in common with the outsider than he thinks.


An hour had passed since Brin left the "safety" of Junkertown's walls, venturing back into the Outback. His radio on with the sun still up, and taking occasional sips from his canteen. Walking along the remains of an old road that's seen better days. Even on the outskirts of the city, there was sparse life to be seen for kilometers around him. Passing by the occasional rundown shack or rusted car hull, adding to the obvious desolation. From his own experience, it took the hardiest, and craziest, of people to purposefully sequester themselves this far from any sort of civilization; from humble farming village, lavish cities, to whatever Junkertown was. More so when it becomes irradiated to hell.

'Even here, people find a reason to squabble,' the New Californian mused to himself as he looked around, almost feeling like he was walking along Interstate-15. He read up about the war that took place in this dusty berm, how a lot of people wanted to fight to keep their homes. Hateful of the machines who "invaded". Morbidly ironic that they would destroy it in the process, but who was he to pass on judgment? The Long-15 laid with good intentions of the dead and dying.

Getting distracted by more of the scenery, he looked ahead to the road and saw something coming over the horizon, noticing how the sun glinted off it. Looking more carefully to see it was moving towards him. It kicked up a visible cloud of dust and sand in its trail. Hearing the engine well-before it got close to him. However, it didn't just speed by on the road and pay him no mind, but the car visibly slowed to a crawl as it got two-hundred meters within his proximity. The Waster kept walking but steadied his eyes on the car instead of the horizon.

It didn't take long for the car to get close, but it less resembled a car and more like the skeletonized corpse of one. Its cage was open to the sky, and it had spikes and metal-sheets plastered over its body. Garish paint jobs and decals over the parts covered in metal, with crudely drawn subjects. The occupants all had something covering their faces, presumably to deal with the wind. They all still looked filthy, and eyeballed the man in black armor as he walked passed their car. The Waster just stared at them in return, maintaining his brisk pace. Only his radio and their engine making noise. Then, after passing by their rear bumper, he turned his head back to the horizon. Hearing the rev of their engine go off behind him a couple of moments later, the noise becoming more distant until it was gone.

Glancing down at his Pip-Boy, it showed the homestead shouldn't be too far by now. He looked up to scan the horizons, squinting if needed. Swiveling his head until his eyes stopped on something in the distance, left of the road, and in the middle of a small canyon formed by some of the rocks. Nathan took another glance at his map before turning on his heel and walking towards the small blip.

Even next to a road, it took Nathan almost a quarter-hour to reach it on foot, clearly obvious that whoever owned this homestead didn't expect visitors often. Probably didn't want any either.

As he got within a hundred meters of it, he found the homestead looking a couple of centuries too old, even out here. Made of ancient wood, rusting sheet metal, and windows and walls struck with dust. In front of the home was a tall post with a crowned clock on top and an arrow speckled with lightbulbs pointing to junk at its base. On the right side of the building were more scrap and junk, and the other side with a silo that was equally rundown, most likely barren of anything.

Getting close to the front porch, Nathan saw something was tied to one of the supports beams by a rope. It was a four-legged hooved creature, with white wiry fur and two horns from the top of its skull. It was bigger than a dog but smaller than a Brahmin calf. The animal nibbled on a patch of grass and barely reacted to Nathan as he walked up to it. Looking down at it and being reminded of Bighorners. The Tribal noted its plump belly and no visible ribs. It was also cleaner than most people out here. Someone was taking care of their livestock, and not doing too bad of a job.

He gave the animal a little pat on the head, before stepping foot onto the porch and going up to the front door. Except there wasn't a door, however, the hinges swinging loose. Nathan just knocked on the side of the wood.

"Hello?" he called out, his filtered voice echoing through the rundown estate.

He tapped on the wood again, garnering no response before stepping inside. The interior didn't look any better than outside, the walls covered in dust or rust and trash was strewn about the floor. He only found one large room inside the homestead that made it more like a warehouse with all the space. Workbenches and tools set up against the walls, furnished barn hangars above him, and a platform in the middle of the floor that seemed to be missing something. Someone clearly lived in here, but there wasn't any sign of them other than some pieces of stained and ripped furniture. Finding no one in the large, open space, the Waster sighed and walked back to the door to gain his bearings and plan the next course of action.

It had gotten considerably darker with the sun setting behind the mountains, but still bright enough for Nathan to stop in his tracks and look up to see five men fifty meters from the porch.

"Play the guitar-"

Brin clicked his Pip-Boy quiet, as he stared at the five armed-Junkers. Recognizing them from the car that passed by earlier. Seeing it parked not too far behind them.

"Excuse me?" the Junker in the middle asked with narrowed eyes, holding some makeshift rifle over his shoulder. "You the yank?"

Nathan didn't say anything as his eyes shuffled between all five of them.

"We've heard you cause some trouble back in Junkertown. Now, the Queen doesn't like troublemakers, so we reckon-"

The leader couldn't finish his sentence as four rapid-fire rifle shots went off and blood from his friends spurted out onto the sand and his face, dropping his own weapon in shock as he watched them all simultaneously fall to the ground. All the bravado was gone in an instant as he darted his eyes up at the tall black armor walking up to him, holding his green carbine in the air with the barrel freshly smoking before holstering it. The Junker held up his hands and trembled in his spot as the outsider got closer. Planting a firm grip on the man's right shoulder and bringing up the muzzle of his sidearm against his left temple. His eyes peering to both sides as he was at his mercy, or lack thereof.

"If you want to shoot… Shoot," the Courier growled, sounding annoyed. "Don't talk. This isn't a fucking movie."

The man stared at him, wide-eyed and petrified. Sweat gleaming on his dirty forehead.

"So, your Queen sent you, huh?" the Courier questioned, digging the cold metal of the SIG into his head. "Then maybe you wouldn't mind telling me-"

The Waster couldn't finish his sentence as the sound of rattling chain went off behind his hostage and felt him jolt in his grip, looking down to see a very large hook wrapped around the Junker's midsection.

The Junker screamed as the hook jerked back and dragged him twenty meters through the air. His short journey ending as his head was caught in a large hand that then snapped his neck with the flick of a thumb. The Courier stands there as he watches the corpse fall and immediately locks eyes with a very large and very fat man with a stitched-up gas mask. He was shirtless, with a vest draped over his shoulders and an armored, spiked pauldron over the right shoulder with tubing leading down an armored gauntlet over his right wrist. A glove over his hand with spikes over the knuckles and rings over meaty fingers. His left hand held the large hook, its chain connected to a wench on his waist of a pair of ill-fitting blue-camo pants with a belt-buckle license plate reading "ROADR8GE". His most prominent feature was his stomach, large and bulbous, but with a tattoo of an engine with flames and the picture of a farm animal with his belly button being its nose. "Wild Hog Power" inscribed in ribbons around the engine.

Brin just stared at the larger, more rotund man, his grip getting firm around his sidearm.

"Nooooowww, what do we have here?" a lanky, also shirtless man as tall as the Waster exclaimed as he moseyed in front of the fat man and looked at the corpses and Nathan. "Guests! Roadie, we're not expecting guests, are we?"

The man with the mask just silently regarded him.

"Well, I know these drongos are the Queen's, but who's him?"

The fat one stood silent, just staring at him. Yet, somehow, the lanky one's eyes widened and looked back at Nathan, then back at his colleague, then back at Nathan, and kept swishing his head back and forth between the two.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, you're not saying…? That's him, is it? Then that means… They received my letters? After all this time?!"

The lanky one turned around to reveal a soot-stained face with blond hair that was on fire at the tips. He had a vest of what appeared to be grenades over his wiry shoulders, and a large spiked tire slung over his back. His right arm was entirely mechanical from his elbow to his hand and had a peg for the adjacent leg. He wore a torn and patched up pair of green-camo shorts, an eccentric smiley face grafted to the right leg. None of that bothered Brin as much as the look on the Junker's face, and how he had a grin wide enough to split a normal person's face. Didn't even look dubious, just unreasonably happy.

"Oh, joy!"

The lanky Junker maintained his grin for several long moments before jumping and thumping his feet into the air as if he won the lottery. Pumping his fists up and down. His friend and Nathan just staring at him twirl around. Finally, he stopped and stood straight up to face their visitor, clearing his throat.

"Salutations and felicitations, stranger!" he exclaimed towards Nathan, who didn't ease his grip on his gun. "I am Jamison 'Junkrat' Fawkes, explosive extraordinaire and criminal mastermind! And this is my assistant, 'Roadhog'! Don't be rude, Roadie, say 'hi'!"

"…"

"Splendid. And we are at your service, mate!"

Junkrat then bowed very deeply, one arm around his waist and the other high into the air, but the weight of his equipment made him tip over and fall flat on his face. Roadhog only looked at him as he speedily recovered and got up, almost too fast and as if he was hopped up on Jet, or some other narcotic fumes. He patted some dirt off himself before looking up and smiling madly at their "guest", who only stared at them uncertainly for several moments, his helmet hiding his grimace. A low groan emanated from his helmet. Now knowing who he was working with – Wastrels.

"Fuck me…"


Roadhog's homestead is, for some reason, displayed in two very different locations in the game and the comic, Wasted Lands. So, for lore's sake, I decided to base the location in my story on the comic version. Just an FYI.

Also, my research on Australia for this chapter was… Interesting, to say the least.

Thanks for reading!