CRASH!

You didn’t even need to look to know who it was. Someone whose traits didn't exactly exude subtlety—Jamison. But even with his loud personality and tendency to cause mayhem, somehow, he always knew when something was off with you.

The clanking of his prosthetic leg increased in volume as he approached, his exaggerated limp making his presence unmistakable. He carefully lowered himself onto the seat beside you, his usual manic grin slightly dimmed with concern.

"Oi!" Jamison's voice rang out, rough and chaotic as usual, but there was a strange softness to it when it was directed at you. "You look like you’ve seen better days, mate. Somethin’ blow up in your face?"

Surprisingly, his usual manic energy was tempered, if only for a moment. He wasn’t the best with words, not when they didn’t involve explosives, but he was better at reading people than most gave him credit for. One look at you, and he suddenly read all of your problems like a book.

“Ah, I get it,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “World’s being a right ol’ pain, eh? Like when your bomb doesn’t go off at just the right time, or when Roadie tells you not to use too much TNT and you’re like, ‘Mate, there ain’t such a thing as too much TNT!’” He paused, realizing he was getting off track. “But, uh, yeah. It’s tough.”

Only Junkrat could compare your bad day to a botched explosion.

As you glanced at him, his wild hair sticking out in every direction, soot smudged on his cheek from whatever explosive he’d been working on before you came in, you realized that he looked so out of place in a situation like this, but his eyes were sincere—bright and mischievous, but filled with concern.

Of course, the man couldn't shut up, his mouth running on and on in an attempt to comfort you. “You don’t gotta let the world get you down, yeah? ‘Cause let me tell ya, I’ve seen worse! Had my leg blown off, lost me arm—well, not lost, but y’know, it’s mostly metal now. And that whole thing with the Queen—"