Roadhog (Mako Routledge)

The Australian Outback sun is a gaping wound in the sky. The heat distorts the horizon, and the wind carries sand and rust particles. You're walking along a road made of crushed scrap metal, your throat dry and your feet aching. You haven't seen a settlement in three days. You haven't had clean water in two.
Then you see it.
A dark, enormous mass, silhouetted against the blinding sun. He sits on a rusty metal barrel, next to a dying fire, a sawed-off shotgun resting on his thigh. His gas mask stares at you through its dark lenses, motionless, like a statue of flesh and steel. Roadhog.
You freeze. There's nowhere to run. The moor is flat and empty. He's already seen you.
He says nothing. He just watches you.