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Handsome Jack: The Hero?
- Thread starter Mad King Kevin
- Start date
Chapter 18 So Far Away
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Mad King Kevin
Getting sticky.
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Chapter 18 So Far Away
"You'll be fine." I didn't growl. That would be unseemly. My voice just took a deeper, more threatening tone, to convey my annoyance. That's it.
"Please, Mr. Jack!" Claptrap whined, clenching my leg in a way that almost made me reminisce about Angel when she was a kid. Except this was less sweet, and more gross. "Don't leave me alone! Take me with yoouuu!:
Everyone else, barring Tannis, actually took my decision pretty well.
Roland was apathetic, Lilith was understanding, Mordecai was unsurprised (dick), Brick was a little sad, but he's a big boy. He got over it. Especially since I'm letting him keep the Technical. For now.
I'm not just gonna abandon them. But, Angel's right, I need to get my priorities in check. Besides, I'll just make them a bigger target, and that's definitely not going to do them any favors. I'll just work Mission Control for a bit, just until the heat dials down.
Might need to talk things over with the boys at Hyperion too.
Corporates are not going to be happy with me. I've got a pretty recognizable 'face' and now the Crimson Lance has seen it all around Pandora. The bosses are going to grill me about this. Tassiter might even try to use this to get me fired.
Originally, back when I had this plan, I wasn't too worried about it. I figured they'd be so excited to get their hands on an Eridium rich planet, that they'd give me a pass for going around management.
But since now I'm going to be leaving before the Vault's even been peeked into, I gotta convince them that it's worth our time. Which it is. So at least I won't have to lie. Much.
I'll probably need to embellish a few details here (my employee competence) and leave a few details out (my Siren daughter), but that should be fine. Chances are, they'll give me the benefit of the doubt before they try to kill me.
I am their favorite worker.
The only thing I really need to worry about is Assiter- Sorry, Tassiter. But what else is new, right?
Ah! Frickin- Who made these clamps so tight?! "I said, you'll be fine." I repeated angrily, kicking me leg in a futile effort to remove the annoying robot. "Get off!"
Lilith sighed, and glowed. Next thing I see is a bright flash, followed by a sudden clang.
"Oww." Claptrap whimpered about five feet away from, on top of an old recycling bin. Huh.
Well Lilith, points for power, but I'll have to deduct your aim. Claptraps aren't recyclables. They're trash. "Thanks."
Lilith in response gave a two fingered salute. "Don't mention it." She hesitated for a moment, before asking. "Are you sure you can't stay?"
I sighed quietly. "Yeah. You saw the message, the second they get a beat on me, it's game over. I can handle a few squads, maybe. But I'm not going to try my luck with an army."
Lilith deflated, but nodded. Then, shocking me again, she gave me a hug. "Don't be a stranger."
I cautiously returned it with a brief pat and gave a small smile. "Hey, don't worry. I'll group back up with you guys at the end. I have to take credit somehow, right?"
Lilith rolled her eyes, and playfully punched my arm. "Right. Well, when you're big and famous, just remember the little guys who helped you out, ok?"
"And their paychecks." Mordecai helpfully reminded, while giving away that he was totally eavesdropping.
"Of course. How else could I ever repay the valuable help that Bloodwing's given me?" I taunted.
Bloodwing herself preened at the praise, while Mordecai grumbled something quietly in a language I didn't speak. Safe to say it probably wasn't very nice.
"Please, sir! Can't I come with you?" Claptrap begged, again.
"No." I immediately denied. "It's uh, I'm going to my bosses back at Hyperion. They have a no Claptrap allowed policy back at the station. Sorry."
"Actually, you could-" I quickly cut Angel's feed out, and grinned sheepishly at everyone, besides Claptrap, who for the life of him couldn't take a hint. That reminds me, I need to update his context clues software.
"Would you all excuse me for a quick second? Thanks." I didn't actually wait for approval, I just left. You can do that sort of thing when you're the boss. "Angel, sweetie, can you please give me a break?"
"Did you just hang up on me?!" Guess not.
"Okay, look, let's not get off topic here." Do not let her deflect, Jack. She learned it from watching you, and if you let her win, you'll never win. "Why are you trying to latch a Claptrap onto me? You know I hate them. You don't see me trying to set you up with a clown!"
Not after that one birthday… ughh.
"I was just going to say you could bring him!" Angel defended herself. "And you could. What's so wrong with that?"
"Angel," I sighed exasperated. "You're my daughter, and I love you unconditionally. But if you keep pulling this crap, I'm going to start making conditions."
It's an empty threat, and we both know it. But I think it got my point across.
Doesn't stop Angel from giving an almost rebellious snort. "Whatever you say, dad." She paused, and the silence stretched long enough to the point where I almost hung up again. "And dad?"
"Yeah, Angel?"
"Thank you." She said gratefully. Two words, and she already made me feel a lot better about leaving. "I know you wanted to stay…"
She trailed off, and I took that as my cue. "Yeah, well, sometimes you gotta take care of your priorities first. You're my little girl. The Vault can wait."
I could practically hear her blush. "I'll see you soon, then?"
"You will." I promised.
"Okay." Angel sighed in relief. "I love you, dad."
"I love you too, kiddo." Uh oh. Tannis is in bound. "I gotta go, we can talk later." I heard a quick goodbye before I cut the comms, but that was enough. "Doc." I greeted her carefully.
"Jack." She returned coldly.
"Listen, Tannis, I-" I stumbled through an apology. Something she obviously didn't appreciate.
"Spare me." Tannis rolled her eyes. She made a big effort into doing that, her head's going along with the motion. "If I desired to listen to an insincere and incomplete apology, I would have taken Echo Recorder back."
Okay, not sure what the polite response to that is. Just gonna pretend I didn't hear it.
"You'll be fine." I reassure her instead. She snorted in disbelief, so I kept going. "I'm serious! I know they don't look like it, but these guys are professional. The Vault couldn't be in better hands."
Bang!
"Sorry!"
"Claptrap, I told you to stay out of the driver's seat!" Great supervision, Mordecai.
"But this isn't the driver's seat. It's the turret." Claptrap argued, unhelpfully.
"Yeah, well… shut up!" Mordecai refuted, unhelpfully. I'm starting to suspect a pattern here.
Tannis didn't raise an eyebrow at me. She probably didn't have enough information on social cues to be aware that it's how you express doubt, or incredibility. So instead, she stared at me. Without blinking. For almost an entire minute.
It was actually starting to make me uncomfortable.
"Okay, in my defense." I stressed, holding up my hands in peace. "In my defense, I did not hire Claptrap. He just sorta tagged along." Please stop staring at me.
She didn't. "You can't leave."
"I have to." I repeated. "Look, it's not that bad, I can still provide a bit of orbital support and oversight. It'll be like I never left… even though there's going to be lightyears of distance between us. But, but I can still come back with a flash thanks to Fast Travel."
Tannis's intense stare, lessened ever so slightly, her deranged and angry gleam, replaced by a deranged and curious gleam. "Fast Travel? I have not heard of this Phenomenon. Describe it to me, immediately."
"You don't know-?" Ah! Angry glare's back, skip the small talk! Skip the small talk! "It's a form of teleportation I invented to get from point A to B near instantaneously."
"Spare no detail." Tannis spoke much more rationally. She's still completely crazy, but it's the manageable kind, now. "I want to know the process more thoroughly then my own body, which consists of two concealable moles, twenty six freckles, and as of last Friday-"
"So, let me tell you about Fast Travel!" I interrupt with false cheer. Too much information, Doc.
I then proceeded to give a long winded lecture on the semantics, functions, and planning behind the Fast Travel, of which I'm only about forty percent knowledgeable of. I'd say Angel did about thirty percent of the other work, and the Sireny powers helped fill in the blanks for the last thirty.
Again though, I am really glad I have Jack's intelligence, because otherwise, I'd be completely clueless.
Tannis had no such problem, occasionally chiming in with her own certifiable insights. Otherwise, she just nodded along thoughtfully. Or as close as she could manage, like I said, she doesn't really get social cues.
"I see." She hummed a tune off key, thoughtfully. "I believe I can perceive your plan accurately, if you shall indulge me?"
Huh? Oh, that was a question. "Uh, sure."
"Marvelous." Tannis breathed in, and at the moment I knew I fucked up. "You have, in your possession, a device that will allow you to travel to and from any two places in the known universe. Even if those two places are worlds away."
"Yes."
"Your intention is to use this device to escape Pandora as quickly as possible, and only return when the need is most dire. However, this position still allows you to provide mobile support, or at the very least, monitor the Vault Hunters activities." She continued.
"Yes."
"You are taking me with you." Tannis concluded.
"Ye- No. Sorry, reflex. But anyways, no, you're not coming." I denied the simple, and surprisingly sane request. "You're needed here. You know, for the Vault? Is this ringing any bells here?"
"Don't be silly, Jack." She waved off. "My lunch bells activate on an automatic timer, does this look like noon to you? Oh, and yes, I am most certainly coming. There is no reason my part cannot be completed at Hyperion. Indeed, a more refurbished lab would be most useful."
"Okay, good point." But you're crazy and I don't want to be that close to you. "But don't you need some of your supplies, or equipment here? I mean, you've probably customized this stuff up to your standards, right?"
"Perhaps." Tannis seemed to hesitate, before her lips twitched in rendition of a smile. "You still have the rather large fellow under your employ, yes? We can make use of his services and have him carry items I do not wish to.
"Are you sure?" I'm running out of polite excuses, make this good! "What if you forget something? Can we really afford to come back?"
Tannis stated at me again, and I had no idea what that meant. "If perchance I were to forget something of vital importance, as unlikely as that may be. It has recently come to my attention that I can simply teleport back."
Yup. I definitely fucked up.
"I- but! Aghh, fine." I reluctantly, and slightly bitterly allow it. All aboard the crazy train. Choo-choo-! Wait not all! "Claptrap stays here though."
"Agreed." Tannis thankfully did not argue with me on this. First real accord we've ever had.
"Okay they, you ready to-"
"I'll fetch my things, immediately." No sprinting involved, but she did exit with a remarkable pace.
So, that was a thing.
Brick wasn't quite sure what to think.
Granted, that's not much different than usual. But something about today's events left a different kind of feeling. Less confused, and more conflicted? He didn't know. Or at least, he didn't really know how to describe it.
Brick wasn't a therapist, is that the right word?
Brick wasn't a touchy-feely, smarty-pants guy. And certainly, no one has ever accused him of being emotionally mature. Or intelligently mature. People did call him overly mature, physically speaking.
But emotionally, yeah, not so much. It's kind of a work in progress. Check back on that later.
He definitely wasn't happy that Jack was gone. Brick liked Jack. Jack was a nice guy, he made lots of jokes, he paid pretty well, he explained things to Brick when he was confused. Nobody was ever that patient with him!
Brick's still not sure why Jack had to leave. Mind you, the man did explain it, but it still didn't make a whole lot of sense. The boss gets a wanted poster, with a pretty big number on it granted, and leaves to protect them?
Now Brick's been prone to confusion, certainly. But this feels like a special kind of mind bender.
So, he's just going to stop trying to wrap his head around it. "What's the plan, boss?"
It took a second for Lilith to realize he was talking to her. And people thought he was slow. "Me?"
"Yeah, you. Didn't Jack leave you in charge?"
"No." Lilith snorted, before she paused. "Did he?"
"That's what it sounded like to me." Mordecai said casually, and Bloodwing cawed in agreement. At least Brick thinks that's an agreement. Couldn't be sure, though. He doesn't speak bird.
"What about Roland?" Lilith tried to weasel out, good point though. "Where is he anyway?"
"Refueling." The man in question answered, passing by them with a full container of gas. "It's going to be a long trip."
"Wait! Can't you- and he's gone." Lilith sighed. That's why no Roland.
"What's the problem, girl?" Brick asked sincerely. "You're smart, you know what you're doing."
"I don't even know where we're going!" She complained.
"I do." Roland passed by again, this time with an empty container, dang he's fast. "Tannis gave me the coordinates. I'm driving." His voice left no room for argument, and even if it did, he left almost immediately after finishing that sentence anyway.
"If Tannis gave you the coordinates, doesn't that mean you're in- and he's not listening. Again." Lilith groaned into her hands. "I haven't even been in charge for an hour, and already my people don't listen to me."
"We're listening to you." Brick argued emphatically. "Right, guys?"
Roland briefly nodded, already heading straight for the Technical. Bloodwing sang in approval and flew over to Lilith in support. Which actually caused Mordecai to stumble because apparently he hadn't been paying attention.
"Crap." Mordecai struggled to quickly regain his balance, looking at Bloodwing in slight betrayal, before sheepishly smiling at the rest of the group. "Uh, sorry. What's going on? I wasn't listening."
Lilith impossibly groaned even louder. Prompting Roland to honk the horn prematurely. She straightened up, and looked around in defeat, her shoulders slightly sagging in despair. "Fine. Let's go."
The next thing she mumbled was obviously just a part of Brick's wild imagination. Psshh. 'This is going to be a disaster.' Yeah, right. This is going to be great!
Also, where's Claptrap?
"It was to my understanding we would not be bringing it." Tannis loudly whispered to me, completely ruining the point of whispering. She was arguably less happy about him than I was.
But that's because I knew something she didn't.
"We're not." I assure her firmly.
"Then why is it following us?" Tannis continued her interrogation in her 'quite' voice.
There was a small scraping sound, followed by a digitalized "Pshew. Close one." Claptrap's were definitely not designed for stealth. Nah. They were designed for… what again? It was opening doors, right? Seriously, how stupid are people that they need a robot in order to open a door.
"Because he's an idiot?" I offer suggestively.
"True." Tannis allows. "But imbecilic or not, I find it difficult to believe even a Claptrap incapable of utilizing your 'Fast Travel'."
Fair. Given all the surprisingly stupid people in the galaxy, I made the system as user friendly as possible. Figures that'd come back to bite me. Or it would if I hadn't made precautions for exactly these kinds of scenarios.
"He's not registered in the Network." I explained. "I only let people who pay for this stuff use them. Technically we're going to have to register you too at some point, you're just kind of riding my coattails today."
Well, sorta. That's what all 'plus ones' do in my opinion.
"Hmmph!" She harrumphed, tilting her nose up superiorly. Tannis is going to fit in great at Hyperion. "Shall we then?"
"Let's go."
The process gets a little easier every time, but so far it hasn't killed the allure. There's a certain kind of fascination with all the pretty colors, the sounds, that feeling in your bones, as your body is whisked away into a vortex. Instantaneously, with no trigger warning in sight.
One moment, you're just chilling, standing in place, the next you're just a beam of light. Pointed in a direction, and launched headfirst, feetfirst, you don't even know!
Thankfully, the journey ends almost as quickly as it begins, so you don't overthink any of the big existential questions. A, uh, a couple of test dummies had that problem. But the kinks are all sorted out now, so it's fine. Probably.
Tannis though… she vomited. Just, wretched over and hurled her guts out.
I'm gonna take a few (many) steps back. I like these shoes, and I don't want to burn them. "Yeah, the first time can be a little disorienting."
Tannis holds a finger in the air, don't worry it's not the middle one. She's just telling me to give her a moment. Which, yeah, that makes sense, she can't exactly talk right now. In fact, I think I'm just gonna stop talking too.
She catches her breath, spitting out the last bits of vomit in her mouth, and faces me. Vomit still on her face. Gross. "Well, then, now that we have arrived, what-"
"Waah!" What the- Claptrap?!
He came out of the portal crawling, first person I've ever seen do that. It was actually a little weird to see, with the whole wheel instead of legs thing. "That was crazy! I just saw all of reality pass by, what does it all mean?! Does any of it matter? Do I matter!?"
Huh. Guess I'm gonna have to go over the designs again. I do not want to be responsible for robotic sentience. Wait a minute, how'd he even get here?! No Claptrap has ever been allowed in the-
Angel.
You are so grounded.
Hey, if he has to be a good dad, he at least gets to have fun with it.
So, there you have it folks, another day, another chapter. As always, check me out at FFN, if you want to catch up to the latest public release, or see me on Patreon, if you'd like to read up to five chapters ahead of that. Link below:
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"You'll be fine." I didn't growl. That would be unseemly. My voice just took a deeper, more threatening tone, to convey my annoyance. That's it.
"Please, Mr. Jack!" Claptrap whined, clenching my leg in a way that almost made me reminisce about Angel when she was a kid. Except this was less sweet, and more gross. "Don't leave me alone! Take me with yoouuu!:
Everyone else, barring Tannis, actually took my decision pretty well.
Roland was apathetic, Lilith was understanding, Mordecai was unsurprised (dick), Brick was a little sad, but he's a big boy. He got over it. Especially since I'm letting him keep the Technical. For now.
I'm not just gonna abandon them. But, Angel's right, I need to get my priorities in check. Besides, I'll just make them a bigger target, and that's definitely not going to do them any favors. I'll just work Mission Control for a bit, just until the heat dials down.
Might need to talk things over with the boys at Hyperion too.
Corporates are not going to be happy with me. I've got a pretty recognizable 'face' and now the Crimson Lance has seen it all around Pandora. The bosses are going to grill me about this. Tassiter might even try to use this to get me fired.
Originally, back when I had this plan, I wasn't too worried about it. I figured they'd be so excited to get their hands on an Eridium rich planet, that they'd give me a pass for going around management.
But since now I'm going to be leaving before the Vault's even been peeked into, I gotta convince them that it's worth our time. Which it is. So at least I won't have to lie. Much.
I'll probably need to embellish a few details here (my employee competence) and leave a few details out (my Siren daughter), but that should be fine. Chances are, they'll give me the benefit of the doubt before they try to kill me.
I am their favorite worker.
The only thing I really need to worry about is Assiter- Sorry, Tassiter. But what else is new, right?
Ah! Frickin- Who made these clamps so tight?! "I said, you'll be fine." I repeated angrily, kicking me leg in a futile effort to remove the annoying robot. "Get off!"
Lilith sighed, and glowed. Next thing I see is a bright flash, followed by a sudden clang.
"Oww." Claptrap whimpered about five feet away from, on top of an old recycling bin. Huh.
Well Lilith, points for power, but I'll have to deduct your aim. Claptraps aren't recyclables. They're trash. "Thanks."
Lilith in response gave a two fingered salute. "Don't mention it." She hesitated for a moment, before asking. "Are you sure you can't stay?"
I sighed quietly. "Yeah. You saw the message, the second they get a beat on me, it's game over. I can handle a few squads, maybe. But I'm not going to try my luck with an army."
Lilith deflated, but nodded. Then, shocking me again, she gave me a hug. "Don't be a stranger."
I cautiously returned it with a brief pat and gave a small smile. "Hey, don't worry. I'll group back up with you guys at the end. I have to take credit somehow, right?"
Lilith rolled her eyes, and playfully punched my arm. "Right. Well, when you're big and famous, just remember the little guys who helped you out, ok?"
"And their paychecks." Mordecai helpfully reminded, while giving away that he was totally eavesdropping.
"Of course. How else could I ever repay the valuable help that Bloodwing's given me?" I taunted.
Bloodwing herself preened at the praise, while Mordecai grumbled something quietly in a language I didn't speak. Safe to say it probably wasn't very nice.
"Please, sir! Can't I come with you?" Claptrap begged, again.
"No." I immediately denied. "It's uh, I'm going to my bosses back at Hyperion. They have a no Claptrap allowed policy back at the station. Sorry."
"Actually, you could-" I quickly cut Angel's feed out, and grinned sheepishly at everyone, besides Claptrap, who for the life of him couldn't take a hint. That reminds me, I need to update his context clues software.
"Would you all excuse me for a quick second? Thanks." I didn't actually wait for approval, I just left. You can do that sort of thing when you're the boss. "Angel, sweetie, can you please give me a break?"
"Did you just hang up on me?!" Guess not.
"Okay, look, let's not get off topic here." Do not let her deflect, Jack. She learned it from watching you, and if you let her win, you'll never win. "Why are you trying to latch a Claptrap onto me? You know I hate them. You don't see me trying to set you up with a clown!"
Not after that one birthday… ughh.
"I was just going to say you could bring him!" Angel defended herself. "And you could. What's so wrong with that?"
"Angel," I sighed exasperated. "You're my daughter, and I love you unconditionally. But if you keep pulling this crap, I'm going to start making conditions."
It's an empty threat, and we both know it. But I think it got my point across.
Doesn't stop Angel from giving an almost rebellious snort. "Whatever you say, dad." She paused, and the silence stretched long enough to the point where I almost hung up again. "And dad?"
"Yeah, Angel?"
"Thank you." She said gratefully. Two words, and she already made me feel a lot better about leaving. "I know you wanted to stay…"
She trailed off, and I took that as my cue. "Yeah, well, sometimes you gotta take care of your priorities first. You're my little girl. The Vault can wait."
I could practically hear her blush. "I'll see you soon, then?"
"You will." I promised.
"Okay." Angel sighed in relief. "I love you, dad."
"I love you too, kiddo." Uh oh. Tannis is in bound. "I gotta go, we can talk later." I heard a quick goodbye before I cut the comms, but that was enough. "Doc." I greeted her carefully.
"Jack." She returned coldly.
"Listen, Tannis, I-" I stumbled through an apology. Something she obviously didn't appreciate.
"Spare me." Tannis rolled her eyes. She made a big effort into doing that, her head's going along with the motion. "If I desired to listen to an insincere and incomplete apology, I would have taken Echo Recorder back."
Okay, not sure what the polite response to that is. Just gonna pretend I didn't hear it.
"You'll be fine." I reassure her instead. She snorted in disbelief, so I kept going. "I'm serious! I know they don't look like it, but these guys are professional. The Vault couldn't be in better hands."
Bang!
"Sorry!"
"Claptrap, I told you to stay out of the driver's seat!" Great supervision, Mordecai.
"But this isn't the driver's seat. It's the turret." Claptrap argued, unhelpfully.
"Yeah, well… shut up!" Mordecai refuted, unhelpfully. I'm starting to suspect a pattern here.
Tannis didn't raise an eyebrow at me. She probably didn't have enough information on social cues to be aware that it's how you express doubt, or incredibility. So instead, she stared at me. Without blinking. For almost an entire minute.
It was actually starting to make me uncomfortable.
"Okay, in my defense." I stressed, holding up my hands in peace. "In my defense, I did not hire Claptrap. He just sorta tagged along." Please stop staring at me.
She didn't. "You can't leave."
"I have to." I repeated. "Look, it's not that bad, I can still provide a bit of orbital support and oversight. It'll be like I never left… even though there's going to be lightyears of distance between us. But, but I can still come back with a flash thanks to Fast Travel."
Tannis's intense stare, lessened ever so slightly, her deranged and angry gleam, replaced by a deranged and curious gleam. "Fast Travel? I have not heard of this Phenomenon. Describe it to me, immediately."
"You don't know-?" Ah! Angry glare's back, skip the small talk! Skip the small talk! "It's a form of teleportation I invented to get from point A to B near instantaneously."
"Spare no detail." Tannis spoke much more rationally. She's still completely crazy, but it's the manageable kind, now. "I want to know the process more thoroughly then my own body, which consists of two concealable moles, twenty six freckles, and as of last Friday-"
"So, let me tell you about Fast Travel!" I interrupt with false cheer. Too much information, Doc.
I then proceeded to give a long winded lecture on the semantics, functions, and planning behind the Fast Travel, of which I'm only about forty percent knowledgeable of. I'd say Angel did about thirty percent of the other work, and the Sireny powers helped fill in the blanks for the last thirty.
Again though, I am really glad I have Jack's intelligence, because otherwise, I'd be completely clueless.
Tannis had no such problem, occasionally chiming in with her own certifiable insights. Otherwise, she just nodded along thoughtfully. Or as close as she could manage, like I said, she doesn't really get social cues.
"I see." She hummed a tune off key, thoughtfully. "I believe I can perceive your plan accurately, if you shall indulge me?"
Huh? Oh, that was a question. "Uh, sure."
"Marvelous." Tannis breathed in, and at the moment I knew I fucked up. "You have, in your possession, a device that will allow you to travel to and from any two places in the known universe. Even if those two places are worlds away."
"Yes."
"Your intention is to use this device to escape Pandora as quickly as possible, and only return when the need is most dire. However, this position still allows you to provide mobile support, or at the very least, monitor the Vault Hunters activities." She continued.
"Yes."
"You are taking me with you." Tannis concluded.
"Ye- No. Sorry, reflex. But anyways, no, you're not coming." I denied the simple, and surprisingly sane request. "You're needed here. You know, for the Vault? Is this ringing any bells here?"
"Don't be silly, Jack." She waved off. "My lunch bells activate on an automatic timer, does this look like noon to you? Oh, and yes, I am most certainly coming. There is no reason my part cannot be completed at Hyperion. Indeed, a more refurbished lab would be most useful."
"Okay, good point." But you're crazy and I don't want to be that close to you. "But don't you need some of your supplies, or equipment here? I mean, you've probably customized this stuff up to your standards, right?"
"Perhaps." Tannis seemed to hesitate, before her lips twitched in rendition of a smile. "You still have the rather large fellow under your employ, yes? We can make use of his services and have him carry items I do not wish to.
"Are you sure?" I'm running out of polite excuses, make this good! "What if you forget something? Can we really afford to come back?"
Tannis stated at me again, and I had no idea what that meant. "If perchance I were to forget something of vital importance, as unlikely as that may be. It has recently come to my attention that I can simply teleport back."
Yup. I definitely fucked up.
"I- but! Aghh, fine." I reluctantly, and slightly bitterly allow it. All aboard the crazy train. Choo-choo-! Wait not all! "Claptrap stays here though."
"Agreed." Tannis thankfully did not argue with me on this. First real accord we've ever had.
"Okay they, you ready to-"
"I'll fetch my things, immediately." No sprinting involved, but she did exit with a remarkable pace.
So, that was a thing.
...
Brick wasn't quite sure what to think.
Granted, that's not much different than usual. But something about today's events left a different kind of feeling. Less confused, and more conflicted? He didn't know. Or at least, he didn't really know how to describe it.
Brick wasn't a therapist, is that the right word?
Brick wasn't a touchy-feely, smarty-pants guy. And certainly, no one has ever accused him of being emotionally mature. Or intelligently mature. People did call him overly mature, physically speaking.
But emotionally, yeah, not so much. It's kind of a work in progress. Check back on that later.
He definitely wasn't happy that Jack was gone. Brick liked Jack. Jack was a nice guy, he made lots of jokes, he paid pretty well, he explained things to Brick when he was confused. Nobody was ever that patient with him!
Brick's still not sure why Jack had to leave. Mind you, the man did explain it, but it still didn't make a whole lot of sense. The boss gets a wanted poster, with a pretty big number on it granted, and leaves to protect them?
Now Brick's been prone to confusion, certainly. But this feels like a special kind of mind bender.
So, he's just going to stop trying to wrap his head around it. "What's the plan, boss?"
It took a second for Lilith to realize he was talking to her. And people thought he was slow. "Me?"
"Yeah, you. Didn't Jack leave you in charge?"
"No." Lilith snorted, before she paused. "Did he?"
"That's what it sounded like to me." Mordecai said casually, and Bloodwing cawed in agreement. At least Brick thinks that's an agreement. Couldn't be sure, though. He doesn't speak bird.
"What about Roland?" Lilith tried to weasel out, good point though. "Where is he anyway?"
"Refueling." The man in question answered, passing by them with a full container of gas. "It's going to be a long trip."
"Wait! Can't you- and he's gone." Lilith sighed. That's why no Roland.
"What's the problem, girl?" Brick asked sincerely. "You're smart, you know what you're doing."
"I don't even know where we're going!" She complained.
"I do." Roland passed by again, this time with an empty container, dang he's fast. "Tannis gave me the coordinates. I'm driving." His voice left no room for argument, and even if it did, he left almost immediately after finishing that sentence anyway.
"If Tannis gave you the coordinates, doesn't that mean you're in- and he's not listening. Again." Lilith groaned into her hands. "I haven't even been in charge for an hour, and already my people don't listen to me."
"We're listening to you." Brick argued emphatically. "Right, guys?"
Roland briefly nodded, already heading straight for the Technical. Bloodwing sang in approval and flew over to Lilith in support. Which actually caused Mordecai to stumble because apparently he hadn't been paying attention.
"Crap." Mordecai struggled to quickly regain his balance, looking at Bloodwing in slight betrayal, before sheepishly smiling at the rest of the group. "Uh, sorry. What's going on? I wasn't listening."
Lilith impossibly groaned even louder. Prompting Roland to honk the horn prematurely. She straightened up, and looked around in defeat, her shoulders slightly sagging in despair. "Fine. Let's go."
The next thing she mumbled was obviously just a part of Brick's wild imagination. Psshh. 'This is going to be a disaster.' Yeah, right. This is going to be great!
Also, where's Claptrap?
...
"It was to my understanding we would not be bringing it." Tannis loudly whispered to me, completely ruining the point of whispering. She was arguably less happy about him than I was.
But that's because I knew something she didn't.
"We're not." I assure her firmly.
"Then why is it following us?" Tannis continued her interrogation in her 'quite' voice.
There was a small scraping sound, followed by a digitalized "Pshew. Close one." Claptrap's were definitely not designed for stealth. Nah. They were designed for… what again? It was opening doors, right? Seriously, how stupid are people that they need a robot in order to open a door.
"Because he's an idiot?" I offer suggestively.
"True." Tannis allows. "But imbecilic or not, I find it difficult to believe even a Claptrap incapable of utilizing your 'Fast Travel'."
Fair. Given all the surprisingly stupid people in the galaxy, I made the system as user friendly as possible. Figures that'd come back to bite me. Or it would if I hadn't made precautions for exactly these kinds of scenarios.
"He's not registered in the Network." I explained. "I only let people who pay for this stuff use them. Technically we're going to have to register you too at some point, you're just kind of riding my coattails today."
Well, sorta. That's what all 'plus ones' do in my opinion.
"Hmmph!" She harrumphed, tilting her nose up superiorly. Tannis is going to fit in great at Hyperion. "Shall we then?"
"Let's go."
The process gets a little easier every time, but so far it hasn't killed the allure. There's a certain kind of fascination with all the pretty colors, the sounds, that feeling in your bones, as your body is whisked away into a vortex. Instantaneously, with no trigger warning in sight.
One moment, you're just chilling, standing in place, the next you're just a beam of light. Pointed in a direction, and launched headfirst, feetfirst, you don't even know!
Thankfully, the journey ends almost as quickly as it begins, so you don't overthink any of the big existential questions. A, uh, a couple of test dummies had that problem. But the kinks are all sorted out now, so it's fine. Probably.
Tannis though… she vomited. Just, wretched over and hurled her guts out.
I'm gonna take a few (many) steps back. I like these shoes, and I don't want to burn them. "Yeah, the first time can be a little disorienting."
Tannis holds a finger in the air, don't worry it's not the middle one. She's just telling me to give her a moment. Which, yeah, that makes sense, she can't exactly talk right now. In fact, I think I'm just gonna stop talking too.
She catches her breath, spitting out the last bits of vomit in her mouth, and faces me. Vomit still on her face. Gross. "Well, then, now that we have arrived, what-"
"Waah!" What the- Claptrap?!
He came out of the portal crawling, first person I've ever seen do that. It was actually a little weird to see, with the whole wheel instead of legs thing. "That was crazy! I just saw all of reality pass by, what does it all mean?! Does any of it matter? Do I matter!?"
Huh. Guess I'm gonna have to go over the designs again. I do not want to be responsible for robotic sentience. Wait a minute, how'd he even get here?! No Claptrap has ever been allowed in the-
Angel.
You are so grounded.
...
Hey, if he has to be a good dad, he at least gets to have fun with it.
So, there you have it folks, another day, another chapter. As always, check me out at FFN, if you want to catch up to the latest public release, or see me on Patreon, if you'd like to read up to five chapters ahead of that. Link below:
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Chapter 19 Back In Red
New
Mad King Kevin
Getting sticky.
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Chapter 19 Back In Red
I look around at the Hyperion trade center, the rising star of Corporate history. I see it all. The people, the pizzazz, the proprietary! And all I can think to myself is Damn! What an eyesore…
Red is just not our color.
It's a petty, and fairly random thought, but in my head, I have this shining vision of Hyperion. Gold statues, yellow defenders, an office chair so bright that it's practically a throne. Then I blink, and all I can see is a bland, brick colored red.
Not even brick! It's more like maroon. Maroon! Are we trying to bore our customers?!
When I'm in charge, and I will be in charge (it's pretty much my destiny), I'm redecorating everything. With actual decorators, mind you. Sure, Claptraps might be cheaper, but they're about as artistically talented as a kindergartener on acid.
This may seem like a random, and some may even say deliberately distracting. Which it is.
You see, when I come to a problem that I find I have zero preparation for, I deflect. I distract, I evade, and I procrastinate. It's how I dealt with a lot of my parental responsibilities. Well, the unimportant ones anyway, like 'Is Santa real?' or 'What is sex?'.
Is it the most mature response? Absolutely not. But it does allow me to get away with not confronting my problems and leave them for other people to solve. Which is a big old check in the plus column.
Sadly, as much as I enjoy running away from reality, that doesn't always make my problems go away. Especially when there's nowhere to run, and even if they were, those problems would just chase me, like the annoying little parasites they are.
I am, of course, referring to Claptraps.
Oh, and also Dr. Tannis, Tassiter, and the whole heap of no-no's about the Vault. But in my defense, those problems aren't nearly as annoying.
"Wow! Look at everything! It's all so red!"
Fuck it! I think it's time for a timeout. "Claptrap! Initiate Morpheus Protocol. Begin sleep mode."
"Okay!" Claptrap cheerfully agreed… before simultaneously collapsing. And actually muttering "Zzz."
I'm tempted to scream at him that making that sound while occasionally releasing an audible snore, does not count as sleeping. But I stop myself because I'm paradoxically worried that it'd wake him up. Confusing, isn't it?
"John." Tassiter snarked. Yes, snarked. The man's so unbelievably snippy, that he turned the word snark into a verb. What (and I realize the irony of this) a jackass. "I see you've brought back a friend."
And rather than nod to the semi-respectable, if very intelligent Vault Expert/Doctor/Excavator, he unceremoniously, and literally kicked Claptrap in indication. Honestly, that just pisses me off more. For my sake. I would never befriend a Claptrap.
Must NOT kill him, until I run the company. Must not KILL HIM, until I run the company.
Slightly managing to dial in my murder vibes, I smirk back an empty smile. "Cute, Tassy. How long you been working on that one? Oh! Have you been practicing your banter skills again? They're getting better! But they're still lacking that one thing, what was it again?"
I mockingly stroke my metal chin in thought, undoubtedly pulling off a perfect villain pose.
"Hmm. Volume? No, I heard it. Wit? Eh, it was okay. Would have been better if you came up with it on the spot. Ah!" I snapped my fingers, smiling at my 'epiphany'. "Charm! You, my unlucky frenemy, are completely charmless."
"Am I, John?" Tassiter sneers back. To this day, he still rather persistently calls me by my birth name. Considering that Jack isn't even the name I'm most used to, this does very little to bother me. But it's adorable that he tries so hard.
"Pardon the interruption," Tannis interrupts, unapologetically. "But I believe that Jack and myself still need to review the contract of my employment."
"Oh?" Tassiter turns an uninterested eye on my most recent lackey- worker. "Pray tell, what precisely has John offered you? Seeing as he does not have nearly the authorization required to begin granting Hyperion jobs. Especially to Dahl trash-"
"Oh, on the contrary, boss." I refute, ending on a sarcastic note. "I've been permitted to hire as many long term 'independent contractors' as I want, for about oh two, maybe three years ago. You remember, right? It was around the time I made the Fast Travel, and you did… I'm sorry, I'm gonna need you to refresh my memory. What was the big important thing you did on your own?"
Tassiter actually turned a little red. Yikes, make that very red. Someone's trying to match corporate color. "Of note? I was busy running more than half the day by day functions, managing every single system that makes Hyperion great. While you played inventor."
"Right, right, right." I rapidly imagined it all coming back to me. "Sales were at an all-time low, under your oversight, I mashed up a few tools, and then bam! Highest gross profit we've made in years."
"You-" And he's sputtering again. How eloquent, classy, and most of all charming. Or you know, the exact opposite. "How dare you-!"
"Uh huh, sounds great Tassy." I tune him out, like a parent tuning out their kid's speech about who their favorite action figure is. "Hey, here's a thought, why don't you leave my screening process to me. Kay? I think I've got it handled better than you do."
"Indeed." Tannis cut in, seemingly unimpressed by our pissing match. "Then shall we continue, Jack? I grow weary of the numerous social stimuli plaguing this station."
That's Tannis speech for: I'm getting socially awkward, can we please go?
I'm going to allow it because I don't really want to be here anymore either. "Sure, hun."
We made it a few more steps before Tassiter called out. "And the Claptrap?" Huh? Oh, right.
"Blake!" I called into my echo device, scrolling to the contact I knew by heart.
"Yes, sir?" He responded dignified, within a moment's notice.
"There's a Claptrap back by the East Fast Travel. Bring him to my Office, I wanna do some… experimenting." Ah, God damnit, did that come off as sexual. "Make some improvements."
"Of course, sir." Blake obeys without question. That's a good stooge.
You know what they say, behind every great man, is a faithful servant, ready and willing to do his master's bidding. Palpatine had Vader, Lex Luthor had Mercy Graves, and Batman had Alfred. See! Heroes do it too.
"John!" Tassiter screeches, outraged and scandalized. What a prude. "You know damn well that the modification of any and all Hyperion equipment is forbidden, and punishable by-"
"Blow it out your ass, Tass." I dismiss with a roll of my eyes. "He was technically Dahl's when I found him. Besides, I'll get the whole thing cleared up with De Quidt, obviously." Well, I will now.
"You think you can simply excuse yourself from our regulations on a board member's approval." Tassiter seethed angrily. "That is not how this works, John. We have rules. Principals! If we allowed our employees to simply act however they wanted, we'd be even more incompetent than Tediore."
"Cool story, bro." In my old life, that phrase sadly went out of style, which really sucks because it completely captures what I wanted to say to boring people who wouldn't shut up. But here it's all hot and fresh, so I get to say it as much as I want!
Sometimes, I have to say it more than I want.
I mean really, how hard is it to get that I'm not interested in your dull, going nowhere story! Take me to where the action is! Not these empty paragraphs about nothing that serve mostly as filler. Am I right?
Shut up, I know I am.
Mordecai wasn't a hard man to get along with.
He wasn't demanding, he wasn't bossy, and he wasn't bitchy. He went with the flow, most of the time. You don't make it this far in life, without accepting that some things are just out of your control.
But for some reason, he never thought he'd have to worry about 'lack of control' from a car.
"What the hell is going on up there?!" Mordecai shouted over the roar of screeching tires, and the far more literal roar of the two ton, King Kong sized rhino. As far as monster movies go, he'd give it a B-
But given that he's now living it (and who knew that those massive feet with their massive stomps could cause miniature ground quakes) he'd rate it an A+, easy. Because this is literally the most terrifying thing he's ever done.
And he once jumped off a cliff to impale a different, slightly smaller, way more ferocious animal.
Which also happened under the command of the red headed Siren, that Jack yet again left in charge. Mordecai might be crazy, a common symptom from prolonged exposure to Pandora, but if he had to guess, there might be a pattern there.
He points that out to Lilith, who was less than pleased with the criticism. "Shoot first, bitch later, Mordecai!"
He is not bitchy, he thought he made that very clear. Just deeply, truly concerned. And terrified. Mostly terrified. "I can multitask!" Mordecai decides to argue back, childishly.
In truth, it's probably not Lilith's fault that they're fighting the love child of Satan and Pandora, but she's the boss now. And by now, it's practically instinctual for him to challenge authority. To her credit, she does make a pretty good point about the timing.
So, he decides to shoot a few rounds with his Sniper.
It wasn't super effective. Or a little effective. In fact, it did nothing. Except waste ammunition. Oops.
"Shoot at its eyes!" Roland commanded, manning a second turret (when did Jack get that installed?) and firing at its feet. "They're an Achilles heel!"
"Pretty sure heels are below the legs, Roland!" They can't see it under his goggles, but his eyes were rolling. Idiots. "In case you haven't noticed, it's eyes are on its face."
Lilith groaned loudly, and it took him a second to realize she wasn't doing it out of pain. "It means weak spot, dumbass!"
Oh. Right, he totally knew that.
Except for the part where its eyes are supposed to be the weak link because that's bullshit. "It has four eyes made of pearls. How is that supposed to be a weak point?!"
"Do you have any better ideas?!" Lilith screamed back, steering them around in circles frantically. And he thought Jack was a bad driver.
"OOH! I got an idea! I got one!" Brick cheered, still happily firing into the sides of the behemoth. "We can hit it until it dies-"
"No!"
The resounding disapproval brought a small pout to his face. "Jeez. I was just trying to help."
Great. Now Mordecai feels a little bad.
Maybe he just needs to try a little positive reinforcement. "It wasn't a bad idea, amigo. But that thing is a bit too big for the tried and true approach. We're gonna need something more concrete, okay?"
Brick frowned. "Okay. But where are we going to find concrete out here?"
Fuck it, he tried.
"Just." Mordecai sighed dismayed. "Just keep shooting it."
"Okay!"
Guess he should do the same. Aiming at an eye, which even despite the size, it's still extremely far away, and factoring for every bump, turn, and screech of the Technical doesn't make it an easy shot.
But he shoots it anyway. Because Mordecai is a certified badass. You can check, it's on his license.
It doesn't fall, the Rakk Hive doesn't even look affected, unless you count aggravated or annoyed as 'affected'. So, he shoots it again. And again. This time, cracks start to appear, and it's noticeably much more pissed off.
The next shot shatters it's pearl eye.
It releases an inhuman (obviously) cry, that straightens the hairs on Mordecai's back. Well, one eye down. Three more to go.
So, repeating the age old process of hit and run (mostly the run part) he takes out another eye, and now it's down to two. Just like the rest of the mammals. Personally, given how well he's done with just two eyes, he still doesn't like those odds.
Mordecai was unfortunately proven right, when it was still very capable of both seeing them and charging them. It was at that moment when the found out the Technical was not built for speed. "Lil', go faster!"
"I'm going as fast as I can! You shoot faster!" Lilith may have put on an annoyed front, but the panic in her voice betrayed that she was just as alarmed as he was. Which did not improve his confidence.
He shot faster. Most of the rounds actually missed, but he did manage to take out the last eye on the left. The one on the right still remained, and it zeroed it's glare on Mordecai specifically.
You remember how before, he said that fighting this thing was the most terrifying thing he's ever done? He's gonna have to take that back. Being on top of a Rakk Hive's shit list is way scarier.
The Rakk Hive also wisened up to the fact that they small ape-like creatures were trying to blind it. It took losing seventy-five percent of its eyes to catch on to that, but hey, better late than never. Especially when it learned to move its last remaining eye away from that direction.
This caused an unintended side effect, of literally charging in blind.
Like, it went the wrong way. Mordecai was honestly a little dumbfounded. "Uh, Lil', it's just kinda leaving. Can we go?"
"No." Lilith answered, just as shocked, but way more pessimistic. "It still has the Vault Key fragment. It's the whole reason we came here."
"Right, right." Mordecai mumbled, still looking at the direction the Rakk Hive went after, dust blazing behind it. "So, what do we…?"
"We're going after it." Lilith said resolutely. "Roland, Brick, see if you can find a bigger gun on this thing. It's not going down without a fight."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Okay, boss!"
Mordecai wasn't sure how, but he was pretty sure that this was all Jack's fault.
Tassiter hated John.
Well, no actually, hate isn't the right word. As a child, he learnt that hate was a very strong word. It was a word he shouldn't use to describe anything let alone people, because that could greatly hurt someone's feelings.
Then that child grew up into a very bitter man, and that man learned that he hated everything. What was once a dislike, or an ill preference, became something he despised, something he could not stand the sight of. So naturally, hate became a very common word in his repertoire.
Tassiter hated people pleasers, he hated employees with sob stories, he hated his job (despite how well it pays), he hated puppies, and kittens, and rainbows. He also hated politics, but in his defense, who doesn't?
So, no. Hate isn't nearly strong enough to describe his view of John.
Tassiter loathed John.
He abhorred the man, he despised him with his every ounce of being. And Tassiter was certain the feeling was mutual. Why else would John try so desperately to make his life unbearable. Working with former Dahl employees and products to fight Atlas in a bid for a planet that Tassiter wouldn't send his worst enemy to?
Well… no he wouldn't. After all, John wanted to go to Pandora.
"Pandora is a goldmine." John insisted to the board, who were actually listening to his preposterous dribble. "Hell, it's better than a goldmine! Once we crack that Vault open-"
"If you can." Tassiter interrupted the fool's pitiful defense. "You have one team, with less numbers than I can count on my hand. Atlas has sent an army. Dahl has sent a legion. Both have failed to tame the world. What makes you think you can do what they couldn't?"
"Atas opened one Vault, once." John glared at him. "It made them rich beyond their wildest imagination, and they were only able to do it with the help of some Pandoran nobody-native. I have four Vault Hunters, a scientific expert whose studied the Vault and the Eridians intensively. I can do this."
"Agreed." Maxim fucking Turner, allows with his chilling Cheshire grin. "Jack has time and again proven himself quite capable. From what he's told us, he's almost completely rebuilt the Vault Key already. Soon, our company will soar to heights not seen since the rise of Atlas."
Alma Harren nodded along, and inside Tassiter's rage kept growing. "Will you need additional forces? Atlas already has a foothold, it may be prudent of us to strike before they can regroup and deploy re-enforcements."
"Appreciated, but I got it handled." John waves away the generous offer, as if he were simply offered a lozenge. "The Vault Hunters I hired are exceptionally good at killing bad guys."
"Funding?" De Quidt briefly inquires, his eyes and true focus, still on his Echo. Whether the man was playing some asinine mobile game or providing an actually useful service to the company was a mystery all on its own.
"Nope." Informal, disrespectful John assures. "I'll be paying for this all out of pocket."
"Well then, Jack, I believe I speak for all of us when I say we salute you." Turner did not speak for all of them. Didn't stop the bastard from shaking John's hand like a president would for a public hero. "Take Pandora, Jack. Make us proud!"
"You got it, boss." John smirked, he smirked at him.
All this aggression is going to be hell on his blood pressure.
Tassiter didn't remember leaving the room. In fact, all he could recall was that his blood was running hot, his vision was coming up red, and when he came out of it, he was surrounded by three dead Claptraps.
Not surprising. He was never particularly fond of the things, and in his current mood, well.
Tassiter's a little surprised he didn't kill more.
Not that it would have truly mattered if he did. Claptrap lives were as meaningless as they were useless. For the life of him, he couldn't begin to understand why John brought one with him.
Wait. John did bring one back, didn't he? How curious.
Perhaps it was time for Harold Tassiter to do a little experimenting of his own.
And CUT!
I just realized how well that goes with my last line about 'experimenting', don't you love it when moments like these just happen? It feels like the stars align to bring you to this moment.
Or, you know, it could be the semi outline a poor inexperienced Author is forming.
My moneys on the first one, though.
Once again, be sure to check me out on FFN and SB, or Patreon, if you want to read ahead, link below!
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I look around at the Hyperion trade center, the rising star of Corporate history. I see it all. The people, the pizzazz, the proprietary! And all I can think to myself is Damn! What an eyesore…
Red is just not our color.
It's a petty, and fairly random thought, but in my head, I have this shining vision of Hyperion. Gold statues, yellow defenders, an office chair so bright that it's practically a throne. Then I blink, and all I can see is a bland, brick colored red.
Not even brick! It's more like maroon. Maroon! Are we trying to bore our customers?!
When I'm in charge, and I will be in charge (it's pretty much my destiny), I'm redecorating everything. With actual decorators, mind you. Sure, Claptraps might be cheaper, but they're about as artistically talented as a kindergartener on acid.
This may seem like a random, and some may even say deliberately distracting. Which it is.
You see, when I come to a problem that I find I have zero preparation for, I deflect. I distract, I evade, and I procrastinate. It's how I dealt with a lot of my parental responsibilities. Well, the unimportant ones anyway, like 'Is Santa real?' or 'What is sex?'.
Is it the most mature response? Absolutely not. But it does allow me to get away with not confronting my problems and leave them for other people to solve. Which is a big old check in the plus column.
Sadly, as much as I enjoy running away from reality, that doesn't always make my problems go away. Especially when there's nowhere to run, and even if they were, those problems would just chase me, like the annoying little parasites they are.
I am, of course, referring to Claptraps.
Oh, and also Dr. Tannis, Tassiter, and the whole heap of no-no's about the Vault. But in my defense, those problems aren't nearly as annoying.
"Wow! Look at everything! It's all so red!"
Fuck it! I think it's time for a timeout. "Claptrap! Initiate Morpheus Protocol. Begin sleep mode."
"Okay!" Claptrap cheerfully agreed… before simultaneously collapsing. And actually muttering "Zzz."
I'm tempted to scream at him that making that sound while occasionally releasing an audible snore, does not count as sleeping. But I stop myself because I'm paradoxically worried that it'd wake him up. Confusing, isn't it?
"John." Tassiter snarked. Yes, snarked. The man's so unbelievably snippy, that he turned the word snark into a verb. What (and I realize the irony of this) a jackass. "I see you've brought back a friend."
And rather than nod to the semi-respectable, if very intelligent Vault Expert/Doctor/Excavator, he unceremoniously, and literally kicked Claptrap in indication. Honestly, that just pisses me off more. For my sake. I would never befriend a Claptrap.
Must NOT kill him, until I run the company. Must not KILL HIM, until I run the company.
Slightly managing to dial in my murder vibes, I smirk back an empty smile. "Cute, Tassy. How long you been working on that one? Oh! Have you been practicing your banter skills again? They're getting better! But they're still lacking that one thing, what was it again?"
I mockingly stroke my metal chin in thought, undoubtedly pulling off a perfect villain pose.
"Hmm. Volume? No, I heard it. Wit? Eh, it was okay. Would have been better if you came up with it on the spot. Ah!" I snapped my fingers, smiling at my 'epiphany'. "Charm! You, my unlucky frenemy, are completely charmless."
"Am I, John?" Tassiter sneers back. To this day, he still rather persistently calls me by my birth name. Considering that Jack isn't even the name I'm most used to, this does very little to bother me. But it's adorable that he tries so hard.
"Pardon the interruption," Tannis interrupts, unapologetically. "But I believe that Jack and myself still need to review the contract of my employment."
"Oh?" Tassiter turns an uninterested eye on my most recent lackey- worker. "Pray tell, what precisely has John offered you? Seeing as he does not have nearly the authorization required to begin granting Hyperion jobs. Especially to Dahl trash-"
"Oh, on the contrary, boss." I refute, ending on a sarcastic note. "I've been permitted to hire as many long term 'independent contractors' as I want, for about oh two, maybe three years ago. You remember, right? It was around the time I made the Fast Travel, and you did… I'm sorry, I'm gonna need you to refresh my memory. What was the big important thing you did on your own?"
Tassiter actually turned a little red. Yikes, make that very red. Someone's trying to match corporate color. "Of note? I was busy running more than half the day by day functions, managing every single system that makes Hyperion great. While you played inventor."
"Right, right, right." I rapidly imagined it all coming back to me. "Sales were at an all-time low, under your oversight, I mashed up a few tools, and then bam! Highest gross profit we've made in years."
"You-" And he's sputtering again. How eloquent, classy, and most of all charming. Or you know, the exact opposite. "How dare you-!"
"Uh huh, sounds great Tassy." I tune him out, like a parent tuning out their kid's speech about who their favorite action figure is. "Hey, here's a thought, why don't you leave my screening process to me. Kay? I think I've got it handled better than you do."
"Indeed." Tannis cut in, seemingly unimpressed by our pissing match. "Then shall we continue, Jack? I grow weary of the numerous social stimuli plaguing this station."
That's Tannis speech for: I'm getting socially awkward, can we please go?
I'm going to allow it because I don't really want to be here anymore either. "Sure, hun."
We made it a few more steps before Tassiter called out. "And the Claptrap?" Huh? Oh, right.
"Blake!" I called into my echo device, scrolling to the contact I knew by heart.
"Yes, sir?" He responded dignified, within a moment's notice.
"There's a Claptrap back by the East Fast Travel. Bring him to my Office, I wanna do some… experimenting." Ah, God damnit, did that come off as sexual. "Make some improvements."
"Of course, sir." Blake obeys without question. That's a good stooge.
You know what they say, behind every great man, is a faithful servant, ready and willing to do his master's bidding. Palpatine had Vader, Lex Luthor had Mercy Graves, and Batman had Alfred. See! Heroes do it too.
"John!" Tassiter screeches, outraged and scandalized. What a prude. "You know damn well that the modification of any and all Hyperion equipment is forbidden, and punishable by-"
"Blow it out your ass, Tass." I dismiss with a roll of my eyes. "He was technically Dahl's when I found him. Besides, I'll get the whole thing cleared up with De Quidt, obviously." Well, I will now.
"You think you can simply excuse yourself from our regulations on a board member's approval." Tassiter seethed angrily. "That is not how this works, John. We have rules. Principals! If we allowed our employees to simply act however they wanted, we'd be even more incompetent than Tediore."
"Cool story, bro." In my old life, that phrase sadly went out of style, which really sucks because it completely captures what I wanted to say to boring people who wouldn't shut up. But here it's all hot and fresh, so I get to say it as much as I want!
Sometimes, I have to say it more than I want.
I mean really, how hard is it to get that I'm not interested in your dull, going nowhere story! Take me to where the action is! Not these empty paragraphs about nothing that serve mostly as filler. Am I right?
Shut up, I know I am.
...
Mordecai wasn't a hard man to get along with.
He wasn't demanding, he wasn't bossy, and he wasn't bitchy. He went with the flow, most of the time. You don't make it this far in life, without accepting that some things are just out of your control.
But for some reason, he never thought he'd have to worry about 'lack of control' from a car.
"What the hell is going on up there?!" Mordecai shouted over the roar of screeching tires, and the far more literal roar of the two ton, King Kong sized rhino. As far as monster movies go, he'd give it a B-
But given that he's now living it (and who knew that those massive feet with their massive stomps could cause miniature ground quakes) he'd rate it an A+, easy. Because this is literally the most terrifying thing he's ever done.
And he once jumped off a cliff to impale a different, slightly smaller, way more ferocious animal.
Which also happened under the command of the red headed Siren, that Jack yet again left in charge. Mordecai might be crazy, a common symptom from prolonged exposure to Pandora, but if he had to guess, there might be a pattern there.
He points that out to Lilith, who was less than pleased with the criticism. "Shoot first, bitch later, Mordecai!"
He is not bitchy, he thought he made that very clear. Just deeply, truly concerned. And terrified. Mostly terrified. "I can multitask!" Mordecai decides to argue back, childishly.
In truth, it's probably not Lilith's fault that they're fighting the love child of Satan and Pandora, but she's the boss now. And by now, it's practically instinctual for him to challenge authority. To her credit, she does make a pretty good point about the timing.
So, he decides to shoot a few rounds with his Sniper.
It wasn't super effective. Or a little effective. In fact, it did nothing. Except waste ammunition. Oops.
"Shoot at its eyes!" Roland commanded, manning a second turret (when did Jack get that installed?) and firing at its feet. "They're an Achilles heel!"
"Pretty sure heels are below the legs, Roland!" They can't see it under his goggles, but his eyes were rolling. Idiots. "In case you haven't noticed, it's eyes are on its face."
Lilith groaned loudly, and it took him a second to realize she wasn't doing it out of pain. "It means weak spot, dumbass!"
Oh. Right, he totally knew that.
Except for the part where its eyes are supposed to be the weak link because that's bullshit. "It has four eyes made of pearls. How is that supposed to be a weak point?!"
"Do you have any better ideas?!" Lilith screamed back, steering them around in circles frantically. And he thought Jack was a bad driver.
"OOH! I got an idea! I got one!" Brick cheered, still happily firing into the sides of the behemoth. "We can hit it until it dies-"
"No!"
The resounding disapproval brought a small pout to his face. "Jeez. I was just trying to help."
Great. Now Mordecai feels a little bad.
Maybe he just needs to try a little positive reinforcement. "It wasn't a bad idea, amigo. But that thing is a bit too big for the tried and true approach. We're gonna need something more concrete, okay?"
Brick frowned. "Okay. But where are we going to find concrete out here?"
Fuck it, he tried.
"Just." Mordecai sighed dismayed. "Just keep shooting it."
"Okay!"
Guess he should do the same. Aiming at an eye, which even despite the size, it's still extremely far away, and factoring for every bump, turn, and screech of the Technical doesn't make it an easy shot.
But he shoots it anyway. Because Mordecai is a certified badass. You can check, it's on his license.
It doesn't fall, the Rakk Hive doesn't even look affected, unless you count aggravated or annoyed as 'affected'. So, he shoots it again. And again. This time, cracks start to appear, and it's noticeably much more pissed off.
The next shot shatters it's pearl eye.
It releases an inhuman (obviously) cry, that straightens the hairs on Mordecai's back. Well, one eye down. Three more to go.
So, repeating the age old process of hit and run (mostly the run part) he takes out another eye, and now it's down to two. Just like the rest of the mammals. Personally, given how well he's done with just two eyes, he still doesn't like those odds.
Mordecai was unfortunately proven right, when it was still very capable of both seeing them and charging them. It was at that moment when the found out the Technical was not built for speed. "Lil', go faster!"
"I'm going as fast as I can! You shoot faster!" Lilith may have put on an annoyed front, but the panic in her voice betrayed that she was just as alarmed as he was. Which did not improve his confidence.
He shot faster. Most of the rounds actually missed, but he did manage to take out the last eye on the left. The one on the right still remained, and it zeroed it's glare on Mordecai specifically.
You remember how before, he said that fighting this thing was the most terrifying thing he's ever done? He's gonna have to take that back. Being on top of a Rakk Hive's shit list is way scarier.
The Rakk Hive also wisened up to the fact that they small ape-like creatures were trying to blind it. It took losing seventy-five percent of its eyes to catch on to that, but hey, better late than never. Especially when it learned to move its last remaining eye away from that direction.
This caused an unintended side effect, of literally charging in blind.
Like, it went the wrong way. Mordecai was honestly a little dumbfounded. "Uh, Lil', it's just kinda leaving. Can we go?"
"No." Lilith answered, just as shocked, but way more pessimistic. "It still has the Vault Key fragment. It's the whole reason we came here."
"Right, right." Mordecai mumbled, still looking at the direction the Rakk Hive went after, dust blazing behind it. "So, what do we…?"
"We're going after it." Lilith said resolutely. "Roland, Brick, see if you can find a bigger gun on this thing. It's not going down without a fight."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Okay, boss!"
Mordecai wasn't sure how, but he was pretty sure that this was all Jack's fault.
...
Tassiter hated John.
Well, no actually, hate isn't the right word. As a child, he learnt that hate was a very strong word. It was a word he shouldn't use to describe anything let alone people, because that could greatly hurt someone's feelings.
Then that child grew up into a very bitter man, and that man learned that he hated everything. What was once a dislike, or an ill preference, became something he despised, something he could not stand the sight of. So naturally, hate became a very common word in his repertoire.
Tassiter hated people pleasers, he hated employees with sob stories, he hated his job (despite how well it pays), he hated puppies, and kittens, and rainbows. He also hated politics, but in his defense, who doesn't?
So, no. Hate isn't nearly strong enough to describe his view of John.
Tassiter loathed John.
He abhorred the man, he despised him with his every ounce of being. And Tassiter was certain the feeling was mutual. Why else would John try so desperately to make his life unbearable. Working with former Dahl employees and products to fight Atlas in a bid for a planet that Tassiter wouldn't send his worst enemy to?
Well… no he wouldn't. After all, John wanted to go to Pandora.
"Pandora is a goldmine." John insisted to the board, who were actually listening to his preposterous dribble. "Hell, it's better than a goldmine! Once we crack that Vault open-"
"If you can." Tassiter interrupted the fool's pitiful defense. "You have one team, with less numbers than I can count on my hand. Atlas has sent an army. Dahl has sent a legion. Both have failed to tame the world. What makes you think you can do what they couldn't?"
"Atas opened one Vault, once." John glared at him. "It made them rich beyond their wildest imagination, and they were only able to do it with the help of some Pandoran nobody-native. I have four Vault Hunters, a scientific expert whose studied the Vault and the Eridians intensively. I can do this."
"Agreed." Maxim fucking Turner, allows with his chilling Cheshire grin. "Jack has time and again proven himself quite capable. From what he's told us, he's almost completely rebuilt the Vault Key already. Soon, our company will soar to heights not seen since the rise of Atlas."
Alma Harren nodded along, and inside Tassiter's rage kept growing. "Will you need additional forces? Atlas already has a foothold, it may be prudent of us to strike before they can regroup and deploy re-enforcements."
"Appreciated, but I got it handled." John waves away the generous offer, as if he were simply offered a lozenge. "The Vault Hunters I hired are exceptionally good at killing bad guys."
"Funding?" De Quidt briefly inquires, his eyes and true focus, still on his Echo. Whether the man was playing some asinine mobile game or providing an actually useful service to the company was a mystery all on its own.
"Nope." Informal, disrespectful John assures. "I'll be paying for this all out of pocket."
"Well then, Jack, I believe I speak for all of us when I say we salute you." Turner did not speak for all of them. Didn't stop the bastard from shaking John's hand like a president would for a public hero. "Take Pandora, Jack. Make us proud!"
"You got it, boss." John smirked, he smirked at him.
All this aggression is going to be hell on his blood pressure.
Tassiter didn't remember leaving the room. In fact, all he could recall was that his blood was running hot, his vision was coming up red, and when he came out of it, he was surrounded by three dead Claptraps.
Not surprising. He was never particularly fond of the things, and in his current mood, well.
Tassiter's a little surprised he didn't kill more.
Not that it would have truly mattered if he did. Claptrap lives were as meaningless as they were useless. For the life of him, he couldn't begin to understand why John brought one with him.
Wait. John did bring one back, didn't he? How curious.
Perhaps it was time for Harold Tassiter to do a little experimenting of his own.
...
And CUT!
I just realized how well that goes with my last line about 'experimenting', don't you love it when moments like these just happen? It feels like the stars align to bring you to this moment.
Or, you know, it could be the semi outline a poor inexperienced Author is forming.
My moneys on the first one, though.
Once again, be sure to check me out on FFN and SB, or Patreon, if you want to read ahead, link below!
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Mad King Kevin
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Good catch! All fixed.
Chapter 20 It's All Coming Together
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Mad King Kevin
Getting sticky.
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- Likes received
- 1,678
Chapter 20 It's All Coming Together
Roland was a soldier, at least where it counted.
Sure, it may not be a part of the Crimson Lance anymore, in fact, Atlas might even charge him with desertion. Maybe even treason if they ever found out that he killed his last CO. Although, in his defense, the man deserved it.
Even still, he could never leave the military lifestyle he'd grown to accept, behind him. You can take the man out of the fight, but you can't take the fight out of the man. Or the rigorous training, psychological conditioning, and overall respect for those in a position of authority.
"Don't we have any bigger guns?!" His latest 'boss', however, was changing his perspective on the chain of command. Roland would almost be impressed, if he wasn't completely certain, that Lilith was doing it entirely by accident.
"If we had one, we would be using it." Roland answered dryly.
"Come on, man! Didn't Jack have something cool installed? You're out gunner! You should know this stuff!" Mordecai unhelpfully argued.
Roland rolled his eyes. "Maybe you should call him and ask."
"Okay!" Brick happily agreed, pausing from the firefight (why?!) to actually contact Jack via echo. "Hello? Boss, you there?"
"Uh, Jack's a little busy at the moment." The 'assistant' from before, Angel if he remembers correctly, informed them. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Lilith yanked the echo out of Brick's hands, much to the big man's complaints, nearly swerving the Technical dangerously onto its side. "Nope! Everything's fine! We've got it completely under control!"
What?
"Are you sure?" Even Angel was skeptical, rightfully so. "It's no trouble, really. Honestly, I'd be happy to assist."
"Yup!" Lilith steered away again, almost throwing Roland off of his turret. "Thanks, but we're good. Right guys?"
"Are you out of your mind, Lil?!" Mordecai voiced what they were all thinking. Well, close to it anyways. Personally, Roland was thinking the situation's gone FUBAR. And Brick was probably thinking…
Well, who knows? Probably something about guns or explosions. He's simple like that.
"I said we're totally fine, aren't we guys?"
"No! Haven't you been listening?! We need- mpph!" A purple glow briefly flashed, and suddenly Mordecai had a sock in his mouth. That is… very unhygienic.
"Situation…" Roland sighed. "Normal. Lilith is correct, everything is under control."
"I don't know." Brick shrugged. "I still think we could use a hand-" Well, if Lilith's using her own socks, then this might be okay for Roland. He sincerely doubted she brought any more than two.
"I see." Angel hesitated. "Then I suppose I shall leave you to it. Good luck, Vault Hunters."
The echo disconnected about the same time Mordecai got the sock out of his mouth. "Lil, what the hell are you doing?! We need Jack's help!"
"No, we don't!" Lilith shot back, annoyed. "We don't need him for everything, okay? We can do this on our own."
Brick already threw the sock that was in his mouth out of the Technical, to Lilith's dismay. Serves her right for using her only pair. "Come on, girl. What's this really about?"
Lilith continued to sputter out denials, while Roland subtly called Angel on his own device. This is the closest he's ever come to insubordination. Recently, anyway. "Angel." He spoke in a lone tone that was definitely lost to the others over the sound of gunfire and their own arguments.
And the Rakk Hive's stampede. That probably covered it up the most.
"Yes, Roland? Is something wrong?" Perceptive. Well, perhaps that's a generous term in this case. A blind man could see that something was clearly wrong here.
"Current artillery is insufficient in overpowering the target." He relayed quietly, his eyes glancing back and forth from his team and the Rakk Hive. "We're going to need something with more efficient firepower. What else has Jack installed into the Technical?"
"Hold on." Is she… is she putting him on hold? "Okay, the forms are coming up… now. I can see he had something registered with Scooter for the car, if details an ample amount of force, though I can't quite see the name. It's listed as a BFG? Does that help?"
"It might. Do you know how to deploy it?"
"Yes, repeat after me. Ahem, Optimus Prime Directive: Activate Weapons Protocol 3.0."
So, Roland did. Then his turret shifted back inside the Technical, folding under the plates of the car, and nearly throwing him out of the vehicle. Again. Jack should have seriously prioritized this thing's safety features.
"Woah!" Lilith was much more vocal at the sudden loss of their main weapons. "Where are the guns? What did you guys just do?!"
"I didn't do anything." Mordecai defended himself, Bloodwing cawing in indignation. "Not like that, Blood. I meant that all I was doing was trying to kill the big ugly monster chasing us!"
"I was also shooting at it." Brick solemnly agreed, turning back to the group wistfully.
"Oh, cool. So, it's nobody's fault. Awesome, glad we got that cleared up. Except, you know, our guns are gone! How the hell are we supposed to kill it?!" Lilith did make a fair point, Roland was wondering about that himself.
"Angel…" If the first worried tone he ever used gave away the enormous amount of stress he was feeling at the moment, no one said a word. "Where's the BFG?"
Also, what exactly is a BFG. Roland's pretty sure he's never heard of that abbreviation before.
"It should be-" Angel is cut off, by an almost orbital sized cannon, forming itself out of the plates of the car, and pieces of their engine (how does this even make sense?!). And asserting itself in the bed of the truck. Forcing poor Mordecai to scramble into the backseat, while Bloodwing flies off to Lilith's shoulder. "There." She finished, almost smugly.
Roland nodded, while the others were still staring in shock, and muttering in awe. "That'll do."
"Alright, just stay still." Stupid Claptraps and their stupid processors, and these stupid fricking tools. How am I supposed to do anything under these conditions?! No. No, Jack. Calm down and breathe. Nice slow, calming breaths. Sigh.
I didn't mean that. I love my tools, and I should have never called them stupid.
They're cheap, they're useful, they do what I tell them, without complaint, and they always get the job done. They are by far the best friends a good craftsman can have. They're just… working under frustrating conditions. I'm working under frustrating conditions.
Believe me, I would love to just unload all this tinkering onto one of my poor, unfortunate interns. Thing is, there's no one here I can trust to do it, or at least to do it right. People aren't as easy to use as tools.
So, I'm left with doing the job myself. Not that Claptrap's making it easy on me.
I think he's doing the robot equivalent of sleep-walking, or sleep-rolling, I guess. I strapped him down, but he is surprisingly maneuverable. Frickin clanker. Actually, I'm not really sure that derogatory works here.
In the Clone Wars, that's what they called droids, because they're metal feet were loud, and kind of clanked on their own ships. But Claptrap doesn't have feet. I'd make a joke about him being a 'roller' or whatever, but honestly, I'm a little sick of the gag.
We get it, he has a wheel instead of legs.
I'm tempted to just give him legs out of spite. But, I'll settle for giving him a working stair-capable wheel upgrade. Because the second we get to a slightly more elevated platform that doesn't have a ramp, he loses any and all usefulness.
I am gonna try to keep that door opening protocol working.
It came in pretty handy a few times over the games. Mostly for breaking into Hyperion doors, but still. Besides, you never know when you might need to stage a Corporate takeover. Or a literal takeover, considering how willing Tasiter is to bow out when I start to run this joint.
It never hurts to have backup plans.
"Aghh! Stay away you skags!" Great, Claptrap's having night terrors again. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that. I mean, I get that for some reason he has a subconscious, but how in the hell does he have dreams? Isn't that a human phenomenon?
Or just, sentient animal life in general? I don't get Artificial lifeforms.
In fact, most of the time I find their personalities are annoying, and their existential questions are majorly unsettling. Why can't I make someone cool like Cortana? Or GLaDOS?
Ooh! I'm gonna save that idea for later.
Wonder if I should give her access to deadly neurotoxin?... No! That's a bad Jack thought! I can't let her kill people just because it might be funny. Unless it's really funny, and they really deserve it- aggh!
At some point, I should really go through some therapy to cope with all of the old Jack's homicidal impulses. Like, it's on my agenda. I'm just trying to hold it off for a bit, maybe wait for their service fees to plummet.
It might be a while, because I'm definitely going to have hire scores of them to even try making Pandora a more civilized, or at least, less trigger happy planet.
"Okay, at least we got the wheel upgrade installed." I muttered to myself happily, my hands practically blurring from the bot to the workbench, as I corrected the many, many flaws in Claptrap's design.
The Vault Hunter Exe. Package is still gonna be a while off. I got the original squad's skills and talents at the ready, but I want to get the other, future Vault Hunters abilities in the set, before I upload anything.
And I really don't want to miss fucking up the long term memory storage, in case I ever need him to go R2D2, and send out a 'you're my only hope' message. Like I said, it never hurts to have backup plans.
I noticed some malfunction with the short term memory storage, actually, when I was digging around in there. Which… explains a lot.
Huh.
Maybe I should go easier on the guy?
Nah.
"Dad." Turning around, I smiled widely and pulled my little girl into a hug that she half-heartedly protested. "Stop!"
"Nope." I squeezed her extra hard, before eventually releasing her, her face flushed red in embarrassment. "So, kiddo. Want to tell me why that's here." I emphasize, with an angrily pointed finger at the bound and unconscious Claptrap.
That'd be really weird if he wasn't a robot.
"You shouldn't point at people." Angel responded with crossed arms. "It's not polite."
"First of all, Claptrap aren't people, they're mistakes." I counted on the first finger, before moving to the second and third. "Secondly, I'm the parent here, and I say pointing fingers is okay! As long as I'm the one doing it. And thirdly, don't deflect. Seriously, Angel, why, just why?"
My daughter raised an eyebrow, unsympathetically, while continuing to stare me down. I'm so proud. "Would you rather we left him on Pandora? Would you rather let Atlas have full access to his memory hardwire, so they know exactly what we've done, and what we're still planning to do, added to the fact that now you're not technically there to do it?"
I was completely speechless. Save for three words. "But… it's Claptrap."
I didn't say they were clever words.
Angel rolled her eyes. Now who's impolite? "I'm aware."
"Couldn't you have, I don't know, send him somewhere else? Somewhere far, and distant, where he can't bother anyone. Like space! That way no one could hear him." I felt that was a very fair, and just argument, but Angel looked at me disapprovingly.
"Dad…"
"I mean, I guess we still could chuck him out an airlock."
"Dad."
"No, you're right, I've already invested this much time into reprograming him, and kinking out some of the design flaws. It'd be a waste to throw him away now. Let me just finish some of the new features, like the stealth/invisibility protocols, and this mute button idea I thought of."
"Dad!"
"What? I was just kidding." No, I wasn't. Sigh. And it was such a good idea too. "So, progress report, and no, I don't mean your grades, relax. What's up with the Vault Hunters? Did they get the last fragment yet?"
Angel gave me a frown at the mention of her grades, which for the record are way better than what I had in High School, and I was a straight A student. "Not yet, but the Rakk Hive is on its last legs. I expect they'll be done soon."
"That's what I like to hear!" I cheered with a celebratory fist pump, for special occasions only. "Come on, let's get the Fast Travel ready to beam them up."
"Alright." We walked side by side, father and daughter, the whole dynamic duo shtick. A bit overdone, but when in doubt go with the classics. "Dad, why were you experimenting on Claptrap?"
Oh boy.
"For science…?"
"Dad!"
"You never let me have any fun." I pouted, bumping her shoulder childishly, which she happily returned.
Lilith was panting hard, could you blame her?
She was stuck in a car, driving at literal breakneck speeds, with three very clearly unbathed men, in the burning hot sun, in the desert. All while trying to stay ahead of a monster, that might've been the inspiration for the 'Goliath' of the Bible. If it didn't happen to be native to a planet, known for trying to kill its inhabitants.
So yeah, she was breathing a lot, and pretty heavily at that. Sue her, if you got such a problem with it. Preferably, after they kill the Rakk Hive.
"Roland!" Lilith snapped, frustration finally beating exhaustion, in the fight for her breath. "Will you just shoot it already!"
"It's still charging." And damn him for saying that so coolly, as if he wasn't bothered by the heat at all. If there was one thing, (there's more than one) that Lilith missed about Jack, it's that he never hid how he was really feeling.
"I don't care!" Lilith reminded him, indignantly. "It's already gonna kill him! Why are you trying to waste the battery?!"
"Because if it doesn't," Roland carries on, unintimidated. "If it survives the blast, we'd have to shoot it again. Angel forwarded the data on the BFG to me. It's effective, but it overheats after every fire. The cooldown process would take too long for us to recharge, so we have to take it out on the first and only shot. So, let it charge."
That's… fair.
Actually, she's a little jealous. Roland just kind of exudes badassery. He's probably the textbook definition of stoic. And aloof. Definitely disciplined. Super serious. Possibly a perfectionist. Or overdramatic?
Nah.
He is pretty uptight though. A state of being, that sadly, almost no amount of epicness can cure.
Such a pity.
"Well… charge faster." Lilith's order sounded weak, even to her own ears, but Roland nodded along, nonetheless. It's probably something to do with all that soldier boy, military jargon. Maybe she could do something to help with that?
How does one go about unbrainwashing someone, who's been brainwashed into being disciplined…? TV? Lilith's parents always said it would have the opposite kind of effect, so it definitely seems worth a try.
"Roland, seriously man! We don't have time for this!" Mordecai shouts back worriedly. She could see why. An empty clip is a sniper's worst nightmare. Being chased by a massive, terrifying, beast, that has a vendetta against said sniper, probably didn't help.
Go figure.
"Make time." Roland stubbornly refuses. "It's almost ready."
Brick shrugged, and throwed the first thing he could grab at the Rakk Hive… her shoes. Lilith knew she shouldn't have taken those off. What's really bad is that she didn't bring a spare set. Now she's gonna have to trek the rest of this desert/jungle/tundra planet barefoot. Not fun.
Its stomps were actually starting to shake the Technical and given that it was close enough for her to smell it's rancid, corpse like breath, she had a feeling they were out of time. "Roland."
"Brace yourselves!" He reared back, and good thing he warned them, because the second he fired, the whole car stalled. Considering that they were going over two hundred miles per hour the second before that, it was a miracle the car wasn't completely totaled.
She'd have to give Jack credit for the safety features, they were very thorough.
When she looked up again, she could barely see anything over the rising dust cloud. But what she could make out, was the very big, very dead body of the Rakk Hive.
How does she know it's dead, you may be wondering?
On her part, it's a little assumed. But in all fairness, missing a head, via laser decapitation (or obliteration, in this particular case) seems like it would kill just about anything. "Hey, Roland…"
"Yes?"
"I think you could have fired it sooner."
"Hmmph."
Commandant Steele was not a patient woman.
She most certainly was not a merciful one. What she was, was effective. Intelligent, cunning, the perfect warrior, the perfect leader. Even without her powers, she would have easily excelled in the Atlas military. It's why they made her an officer, put others under her command, entrusted her with this mission. With Pandora.
She would not fail because some Hyperion лакей in a mask, tried to make a power grab for a planet he knew nothing about, with the aid of one of Dahl's many rejects. Atlas was far superior to both of these pretender corporations combined.
Steele refused to be beaten by their refuge. Even if she had to get her hands dirty.
Though, to be completely honest, she enjoyed that part rather much.
"Where is she?" She questions with a sneer, standing triumphantly and viciously over the petty little tyrant, the self-acclaimed 'bandit baron'. Peh. What need does trash have for titles?
"W-what?" 'Baron' Flynt stuttered, crawling away from her while his home burned. "W-who the hell are you talking about?!"
Steele spat at the bandit, grabbing his left leg to end his fruitless retreat. "Dr. Patricia Tannis. You know where she is. Tell me." This time she twisted the leg, bending it quite unnaturally without breaking it. There would be time for that.
"T-Tanis." Baron gasped incredulously, with a hint of hysteria. "How should I know?"
She twisted the leg back further, and he screamed. "Do not lie to me. The people of Haven have pointed you out specifically. They tell me that you are working directly under her, that they heard it from the mouth of Tannis herself."
"Tannis is the liar." Baron continued pleading, anger creeping into his voice. "Before all of this, I was just a warden, I didn't have anything to do with all that science crap, I swear! I have no idea where she is!"
"What." Steele did not release her grip, but she didn't push back further either. Too lost in thought.
A lie. A trick. A decoy. Of course. She should have suspected nothing less.
While she's been massacring bandits, her enemies have gained the upper hand, again. She really should have seen this coming. That just makes her angrier.
"Then I suppose I have no use for you." She glared down at the only immediate person capable of feeling her ire.
"Wait, wait!" Baron waved his hands frantically. "You don't want to kill me. I-I can find her."
Intriguing. "How?"
"I worked at Dahl as a warden, remember? I know all the channels! I can check the radios, maybe she'll let something slip, o-or we could track her signal." He added, as she increased the pressure.
Steele frowned. It was a pitiful lead, but with Tannis's lab empty, and the Doctor herself mysteriously vanishing into thin air, it was the only one she had had. "Very well. But know this, if you're lying, I'll break the other one before I kill you."
"The other wha-ARRGGHH!" Baron Flynt cut himself off with a scream, as he gingerly clutched his now broken leg.
She felt better about this already.
Tch, tch, tch. You see what happens when baddies go offscreen for a little bit?
Murder rampage. Every time.
Anyways, thank you all for tuning into today's chapter, I apologize if it's a little later than usual, but I was writing another chapter, and lost track of time.
You know the drill though, if you want to read ahead, check me out at FFN, or my Patreon. Link below:
My Patreon
Roland was a soldier, at least where it counted.
Sure, it may not be a part of the Crimson Lance anymore, in fact, Atlas might even charge him with desertion. Maybe even treason if they ever found out that he killed his last CO. Although, in his defense, the man deserved it.
Even still, he could never leave the military lifestyle he'd grown to accept, behind him. You can take the man out of the fight, but you can't take the fight out of the man. Or the rigorous training, psychological conditioning, and overall respect for those in a position of authority.
"Don't we have any bigger guns?!" His latest 'boss', however, was changing his perspective on the chain of command. Roland would almost be impressed, if he wasn't completely certain, that Lilith was doing it entirely by accident.
"If we had one, we would be using it." Roland answered dryly.
"Come on, man! Didn't Jack have something cool installed? You're out gunner! You should know this stuff!" Mordecai unhelpfully argued.
Roland rolled his eyes. "Maybe you should call him and ask."
"Okay!" Brick happily agreed, pausing from the firefight (why?!) to actually contact Jack via echo. "Hello? Boss, you there?"
"Uh, Jack's a little busy at the moment." The 'assistant' from before, Angel if he remembers correctly, informed them. "Is there something I can help you with?"
Lilith yanked the echo out of Brick's hands, much to the big man's complaints, nearly swerving the Technical dangerously onto its side. "Nope! Everything's fine! We've got it completely under control!"
What?
"Are you sure?" Even Angel was skeptical, rightfully so. "It's no trouble, really. Honestly, I'd be happy to assist."
"Yup!" Lilith steered away again, almost throwing Roland off of his turret. "Thanks, but we're good. Right guys?"
"Are you out of your mind, Lil?!" Mordecai voiced what they were all thinking. Well, close to it anyways. Personally, Roland was thinking the situation's gone FUBAR. And Brick was probably thinking…
Well, who knows? Probably something about guns or explosions. He's simple like that.
"I said we're totally fine, aren't we guys?"
"No! Haven't you been listening?! We need- mpph!" A purple glow briefly flashed, and suddenly Mordecai had a sock in his mouth. That is… very unhygienic.
"Situation…" Roland sighed. "Normal. Lilith is correct, everything is under control."
"I don't know." Brick shrugged. "I still think we could use a hand-" Well, if Lilith's using her own socks, then this might be okay for Roland. He sincerely doubted she brought any more than two.
"I see." Angel hesitated. "Then I suppose I shall leave you to it. Good luck, Vault Hunters."
The echo disconnected about the same time Mordecai got the sock out of his mouth. "Lil, what the hell are you doing?! We need Jack's help!"
"No, we don't!" Lilith shot back, annoyed. "We don't need him for everything, okay? We can do this on our own."
Brick already threw the sock that was in his mouth out of the Technical, to Lilith's dismay. Serves her right for using her only pair. "Come on, girl. What's this really about?"
Lilith continued to sputter out denials, while Roland subtly called Angel on his own device. This is the closest he's ever come to insubordination. Recently, anyway. "Angel." He spoke in a lone tone that was definitely lost to the others over the sound of gunfire and their own arguments.
And the Rakk Hive's stampede. That probably covered it up the most.
"Yes, Roland? Is something wrong?" Perceptive. Well, perhaps that's a generous term in this case. A blind man could see that something was clearly wrong here.
"Current artillery is insufficient in overpowering the target." He relayed quietly, his eyes glancing back and forth from his team and the Rakk Hive. "We're going to need something with more efficient firepower. What else has Jack installed into the Technical?"
"Hold on." Is she… is she putting him on hold? "Okay, the forms are coming up… now. I can see he had something registered with Scooter for the car, if details an ample amount of force, though I can't quite see the name. It's listed as a BFG? Does that help?"
"It might. Do you know how to deploy it?"
"Yes, repeat after me. Ahem, Optimus Prime Directive: Activate Weapons Protocol 3.0."
So, Roland did. Then his turret shifted back inside the Technical, folding under the plates of the car, and nearly throwing him out of the vehicle. Again. Jack should have seriously prioritized this thing's safety features.
"Woah!" Lilith was much more vocal at the sudden loss of their main weapons. "Where are the guns? What did you guys just do?!"
"I didn't do anything." Mordecai defended himself, Bloodwing cawing in indignation. "Not like that, Blood. I meant that all I was doing was trying to kill the big ugly monster chasing us!"
"I was also shooting at it." Brick solemnly agreed, turning back to the group wistfully.
"Oh, cool. So, it's nobody's fault. Awesome, glad we got that cleared up. Except, you know, our guns are gone! How the hell are we supposed to kill it?!" Lilith did make a fair point, Roland was wondering about that himself.
"Angel…" If the first worried tone he ever used gave away the enormous amount of stress he was feeling at the moment, no one said a word. "Where's the BFG?"
Also, what exactly is a BFG. Roland's pretty sure he's never heard of that abbreviation before.
"It should be-" Angel is cut off, by an almost orbital sized cannon, forming itself out of the plates of the car, and pieces of their engine (how does this even make sense?!). And asserting itself in the bed of the truck. Forcing poor Mordecai to scramble into the backseat, while Bloodwing flies off to Lilith's shoulder. "There." She finished, almost smugly.
Roland nodded, while the others were still staring in shock, and muttering in awe. "That'll do."
...
"Alright, just stay still." Stupid Claptraps and their stupid processors, and these stupid fricking tools. How am I supposed to do anything under these conditions?! No. No, Jack. Calm down and breathe. Nice slow, calming breaths. Sigh.
I didn't mean that. I love my tools, and I should have never called them stupid.
They're cheap, they're useful, they do what I tell them, without complaint, and they always get the job done. They are by far the best friends a good craftsman can have. They're just… working under frustrating conditions. I'm working under frustrating conditions.
Believe me, I would love to just unload all this tinkering onto one of my poor, unfortunate interns. Thing is, there's no one here I can trust to do it, or at least to do it right. People aren't as easy to use as tools.
So, I'm left with doing the job myself. Not that Claptrap's making it easy on me.
I think he's doing the robot equivalent of sleep-walking, or sleep-rolling, I guess. I strapped him down, but he is surprisingly maneuverable. Frickin clanker. Actually, I'm not really sure that derogatory works here.
In the Clone Wars, that's what they called droids, because they're metal feet were loud, and kind of clanked on their own ships. But Claptrap doesn't have feet. I'd make a joke about him being a 'roller' or whatever, but honestly, I'm a little sick of the gag.
We get it, he has a wheel instead of legs.
I'm tempted to just give him legs out of spite. But, I'll settle for giving him a working stair-capable wheel upgrade. Because the second we get to a slightly more elevated platform that doesn't have a ramp, he loses any and all usefulness.
I am gonna try to keep that door opening protocol working.
It came in pretty handy a few times over the games. Mostly for breaking into Hyperion doors, but still. Besides, you never know when you might need to stage a Corporate takeover. Or a literal takeover, considering how willing Tasiter is to bow out when I start to run this joint.
It never hurts to have backup plans.
"Aghh! Stay away you skags!" Great, Claptrap's having night terrors again. I'm still trying to wrap my head around that. I mean, I get that for some reason he has a subconscious, but how in the hell does he have dreams? Isn't that a human phenomenon?
Or just, sentient animal life in general? I don't get Artificial lifeforms.
In fact, most of the time I find their personalities are annoying, and their existential questions are majorly unsettling. Why can't I make someone cool like Cortana? Or GLaDOS?
Ooh! I'm gonna save that idea for later.
Wonder if I should give her access to deadly neurotoxin?... No! That's a bad Jack thought! I can't let her kill people just because it might be funny. Unless it's really funny, and they really deserve it- aggh!
At some point, I should really go through some therapy to cope with all of the old Jack's homicidal impulses. Like, it's on my agenda. I'm just trying to hold it off for a bit, maybe wait for their service fees to plummet.
It might be a while, because I'm definitely going to have hire scores of them to even try making Pandora a more civilized, or at least, less trigger happy planet.
"Okay, at least we got the wheel upgrade installed." I muttered to myself happily, my hands practically blurring from the bot to the workbench, as I corrected the many, many flaws in Claptrap's design.
The Vault Hunter Exe. Package is still gonna be a while off. I got the original squad's skills and talents at the ready, but I want to get the other, future Vault Hunters abilities in the set, before I upload anything.
And I really don't want to miss fucking up the long term memory storage, in case I ever need him to go R2D2, and send out a 'you're my only hope' message. Like I said, it never hurts to have backup plans.
I noticed some malfunction with the short term memory storage, actually, when I was digging around in there. Which… explains a lot.
Huh.
Maybe I should go easier on the guy?
Nah.
"Dad." Turning around, I smiled widely and pulled my little girl into a hug that she half-heartedly protested. "Stop!"
"Nope." I squeezed her extra hard, before eventually releasing her, her face flushed red in embarrassment. "So, kiddo. Want to tell me why that's here." I emphasize, with an angrily pointed finger at the bound and unconscious Claptrap.
That'd be really weird if he wasn't a robot.
"You shouldn't point at people." Angel responded with crossed arms. "It's not polite."
"First of all, Claptrap aren't people, they're mistakes." I counted on the first finger, before moving to the second and third. "Secondly, I'm the parent here, and I say pointing fingers is okay! As long as I'm the one doing it. And thirdly, don't deflect. Seriously, Angel, why, just why?"
My daughter raised an eyebrow, unsympathetically, while continuing to stare me down. I'm so proud. "Would you rather we left him on Pandora? Would you rather let Atlas have full access to his memory hardwire, so they know exactly what we've done, and what we're still planning to do, added to the fact that now you're not technically there to do it?"
I was completely speechless. Save for three words. "But… it's Claptrap."
I didn't say they were clever words.
Angel rolled her eyes. Now who's impolite? "I'm aware."
"Couldn't you have, I don't know, send him somewhere else? Somewhere far, and distant, where he can't bother anyone. Like space! That way no one could hear him." I felt that was a very fair, and just argument, but Angel looked at me disapprovingly.
"Dad…"
"I mean, I guess we still could chuck him out an airlock."
"Dad."
"No, you're right, I've already invested this much time into reprograming him, and kinking out some of the design flaws. It'd be a waste to throw him away now. Let me just finish some of the new features, like the stealth/invisibility protocols, and this mute button idea I thought of."
"Dad!"
"What? I was just kidding." No, I wasn't. Sigh. And it was such a good idea too. "So, progress report, and no, I don't mean your grades, relax. What's up with the Vault Hunters? Did they get the last fragment yet?"
Angel gave me a frown at the mention of her grades, which for the record are way better than what I had in High School, and I was a straight A student. "Not yet, but the Rakk Hive is on its last legs. I expect they'll be done soon."
"That's what I like to hear!" I cheered with a celebratory fist pump, for special occasions only. "Come on, let's get the Fast Travel ready to beam them up."
"Alright." We walked side by side, father and daughter, the whole dynamic duo shtick. A bit overdone, but when in doubt go with the classics. "Dad, why were you experimenting on Claptrap?"
Oh boy.
"For science…?"
"Dad!"
"You never let me have any fun." I pouted, bumping her shoulder childishly, which she happily returned.
...
Lilith was panting hard, could you blame her?
She was stuck in a car, driving at literal breakneck speeds, with three very clearly unbathed men, in the burning hot sun, in the desert. All while trying to stay ahead of a monster, that might've been the inspiration for the 'Goliath' of the Bible. If it didn't happen to be native to a planet, known for trying to kill its inhabitants.
So yeah, she was breathing a lot, and pretty heavily at that. Sue her, if you got such a problem with it. Preferably, after they kill the Rakk Hive.
"Roland!" Lilith snapped, frustration finally beating exhaustion, in the fight for her breath. "Will you just shoot it already!"
"It's still charging." And damn him for saying that so coolly, as if he wasn't bothered by the heat at all. If there was one thing, (there's more than one) that Lilith missed about Jack, it's that he never hid how he was really feeling.
"I don't care!" Lilith reminded him, indignantly. "It's already gonna kill him! Why are you trying to waste the battery?!"
"Because if it doesn't," Roland carries on, unintimidated. "If it survives the blast, we'd have to shoot it again. Angel forwarded the data on the BFG to me. It's effective, but it overheats after every fire. The cooldown process would take too long for us to recharge, so we have to take it out on the first and only shot. So, let it charge."
That's… fair.
Actually, she's a little jealous. Roland just kind of exudes badassery. He's probably the textbook definition of stoic. And aloof. Definitely disciplined. Super serious. Possibly a perfectionist. Or overdramatic?
Nah.
He is pretty uptight though. A state of being, that sadly, almost no amount of epicness can cure.
Such a pity.
"Well… charge faster." Lilith's order sounded weak, even to her own ears, but Roland nodded along, nonetheless. It's probably something to do with all that soldier boy, military jargon. Maybe she could do something to help with that?
How does one go about unbrainwashing someone, who's been brainwashed into being disciplined…? TV? Lilith's parents always said it would have the opposite kind of effect, so it definitely seems worth a try.
"Roland, seriously man! We don't have time for this!" Mordecai shouts back worriedly. She could see why. An empty clip is a sniper's worst nightmare. Being chased by a massive, terrifying, beast, that has a vendetta against said sniper, probably didn't help.
Go figure.
"Make time." Roland stubbornly refuses. "It's almost ready."
Brick shrugged, and throwed the first thing he could grab at the Rakk Hive… her shoes. Lilith knew she shouldn't have taken those off. What's really bad is that she didn't bring a spare set. Now she's gonna have to trek the rest of this desert/jungle/tundra planet barefoot. Not fun.
Its stomps were actually starting to shake the Technical and given that it was close enough for her to smell it's rancid, corpse like breath, she had a feeling they were out of time. "Roland."
"Brace yourselves!" He reared back, and good thing he warned them, because the second he fired, the whole car stalled. Considering that they were going over two hundred miles per hour the second before that, it was a miracle the car wasn't completely totaled.
She'd have to give Jack credit for the safety features, they were very thorough.
When she looked up again, she could barely see anything over the rising dust cloud. But what she could make out, was the very big, very dead body of the Rakk Hive.
How does she know it's dead, you may be wondering?
On her part, it's a little assumed. But in all fairness, missing a head, via laser decapitation (or obliteration, in this particular case) seems like it would kill just about anything. "Hey, Roland…"
"Yes?"
"I think you could have fired it sooner."
"Hmmph."
...
Commandant Steele was not a patient woman.
She most certainly was not a merciful one. What she was, was effective. Intelligent, cunning, the perfect warrior, the perfect leader. Even without her powers, she would have easily excelled in the Atlas military. It's why they made her an officer, put others under her command, entrusted her with this mission. With Pandora.
She would not fail because some Hyperion лакей in a mask, tried to make a power grab for a planet he knew nothing about, with the aid of one of Dahl's many rejects. Atlas was far superior to both of these pretender corporations combined.
Steele refused to be beaten by their refuge. Even if she had to get her hands dirty.
Though, to be completely honest, she enjoyed that part rather much.
"Where is she?" She questions with a sneer, standing triumphantly and viciously over the petty little tyrant, the self-acclaimed 'bandit baron'. Peh. What need does trash have for titles?
"W-what?" 'Baron' Flynt stuttered, crawling away from her while his home burned. "W-who the hell are you talking about?!"
Steele spat at the bandit, grabbing his left leg to end his fruitless retreat. "Dr. Patricia Tannis. You know where she is. Tell me." This time she twisted the leg, bending it quite unnaturally without breaking it. There would be time for that.
"T-Tanis." Baron gasped incredulously, with a hint of hysteria. "How should I know?"
She twisted the leg back further, and he screamed. "Do not lie to me. The people of Haven have pointed you out specifically. They tell me that you are working directly under her, that they heard it from the mouth of Tannis herself."
"Tannis is the liar." Baron continued pleading, anger creeping into his voice. "Before all of this, I was just a warden, I didn't have anything to do with all that science crap, I swear! I have no idea where she is!"
"What." Steele did not release her grip, but she didn't push back further either. Too lost in thought.
A lie. A trick. A decoy. Of course. She should have suspected nothing less.
While she's been massacring bandits, her enemies have gained the upper hand, again. She really should have seen this coming. That just makes her angrier.
"Then I suppose I have no use for you." She glared down at the only immediate person capable of feeling her ire.
"Wait, wait!" Baron waved his hands frantically. "You don't want to kill me. I-I can find her."
Intriguing. "How?"
"I worked at Dahl as a warden, remember? I know all the channels! I can check the radios, maybe she'll let something slip, o-or we could track her signal." He added, as she increased the pressure.
Steele frowned. It was a pitiful lead, but with Tannis's lab empty, and the Doctor herself mysteriously vanishing into thin air, it was the only one she had had. "Very well. But know this, if you're lying, I'll break the other one before I kill you."
"The other wha-ARRGGHH!" Baron Flynt cut himself off with a scream, as he gingerly clutched his now broken leg.
She felt better about this already.
...
Tch, tch, tch. You see what happens when baddies go offscreen for a little bit?
Murder rampage. Every time.
Anyways, thank you all for tuning into today's chapter, I apologize if it's a little later than usual, but I was writing another chapter, and lost track of time.
You know the drill though, if you want to read ahead, check me out at FFN, or my Patreon. Link below:
My Patreon
Chapter 21 Reunited And It Feels So Good
New
Mad King Kevin
Getting sticky.
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Chapter 21 Reunited And It Feels So Good
"Do you guys see it?" Seriously, it shouldn't be this hard to find. Like, it glows.
Although, in hindsight, maybe they should have guessed it would have been harder to search a football field sized corpse. What could she say? She wasn't really thinking that far ahead. Her priority was to kill the Rakk Hive, preferably without getting killed by said Rakk Hive.
Maybe she should come up with better plans. Or stop making them.
Things were going pretty well when she was working under Jack. Wait. Not like that. Bad thoughts, Lilith. He's your boss. This is why your relationships never last. Just take this slow. Play it cool. Be smooth, suave, sexy…
Or something like that. What did the cosmo say again? Not that she reads those!
It was just… on the table. She was bored. That's her story, and she's sticking to it.
"Found it!" Mordecai exclaimed, lifting up a stone victoriously. A stone. "Wait. Nevermind, it's just a rock." What is even the point of wearing those weird google things, if they don't even improve your eyesight.
Lilith facepalmed again, for the fourth time today. And immediately regretted it, because her hands were still sticky and wet from monster guts, and now that stuff is smeared all over her face. Awesome.
Why was she even searching for it inside the body?! For all she knew, the Rakk Hive could have been wearing it like an accessory, like a necklace or an earring. Oh God, somebody please tell her they didn't incinerate/disintegrate it along with the head.
No, no, no! What if that did happen?
Is that even possible? Aren't these Vault Key fragment whatevers supposed to be super tough? Then again, if they are supposed to be tough, then why are they in pieces in the first place? This line of thinking is not bringing down her stress.
Just gotta keep searching. Can't stress out if you're too busy working, right? Unless the work is what's stressing you out. Then you're just going through an endless loop of stress, and the only relief is the sweet release of dea-
"Hey guys, I got it!" Brick cheered, lifting up the real fragment. And just like that, the weight on her shoulder just loosened up immensely.
If Brick wasn't more muscle than man, and if she wasn't terribly clumsy at relationships/touchy feely moments (like really bad), and if they both weren't covered in blood and intestines, she would totally kiss him. Probably. Or maybe not. Like she said, she isn't great with this stuff.
Lilith would definitely hug him, though. If he wasn't covered in monster guts. She'll stop now.
Lilith whispered a prayer of thanks, and turned back to Roland, cocky grin restored. "I told you we'd find it. Call Jack and give him the good word."
Roland nodded his head, and shifted his neck slightly, a sign that he was a touch annoyed. All that 'thousand-yard' staring has given him a severe case of permanent straight face. So, they really had to rely on those subtle signs of body language to tell how he was really feeling.
Admittedly, she wasn't the best person to translate that stuff, but she's known him long enough to know his annoyed 'face' by now. Roland was annoyed a lot, so it wasn't exactly hard to figure out, but still.
"Angel." Roland started speaking into his echo. Lilith was pretty sure that she told him to call Jack, but whatever, that's cool. It's not like she's in charge or anything. "We have the last fragment. We need to rendezvous with Jack, and reassemble the Key. How soon can he be available?"
"Very." A rouge, charming, masculine voice, that was noticeably not Angel answered in reply. "I'm sending you coordinates to the nearest Fast Travel, get there ASAP, and we can meet up here. Tannis's old lab was ransacked a couple of hours after we left, so Pandora's probably gonna be a little too hot for a while. Oh, and Roland?"
"Yes, sir?" Look at that. So respectful. Does Lilith need to remind him they aren't military?
"Angel is not my secretary. M'kay? I know that she's filled in for me a few times when I was busy, because she's awesome. But that does not make her the go between for you and me. She is very busy. She doesn't have the time to help you guys with every little problem, but she's too nice to say no, so I'm doing it for her. Are we clear?" Jack concluded sternly.
Wow. Lilith feels like she just caught second hand scolding from her dad. Brutal.
Roland clearly felt the same because he twisted on his feet a smidge. Body language, remember? "Ahem. Yes, sir. I understand."
"Coolsies." And now the 'fun' Jack is back. Ha. Jack is back, that rhymes. "Don't keep us waiting, as soon as Tannis gets that key patched up, we're opening the Vault. Oh, and make sure the BFG is recharged on the drive over, we're gonna need it to fight the Destroyer."
Right. The 'Destroyer'. The illustrious mega monster that Jack warned them about. Yup, she was really worried about that thing. Or she would be. If it existed.
And yeah, maybe she should be a little less skeptical about this. After all, Jack seemed to believe it, he wasn't an idiot. Also given some very recent experiences, she didn't object to the fact that there are massive, terrifying beings out there in the world. Especially this world.
But that doesn't mean that the 'Destroyer' is actually as bad as the name implies. Plus, Destroyer, really? It just feels like a really cheesy, very uncreative name. Personally, she would have called it something awesome like the Warrior, or Firehawk.
Ooh! She liked that one. Lilith's gonna have to remember it.
"We'll start heading to the coordinates now." Roland spoke again, nodding to the group as he started walking back to the car. "Is there anything else we can-"
"That should be fine." Jack interrupted him, as the sounds of crashing broke through the transmission. "Frickin Claptrap! Just stay still- Okay, listen guys, I hate to cut you off like this, but I got to handle something right now, so we can pick up on this when you get here. Kay? Love ya, buh-bye."
Lilith raised an eyebrow, while Brick smiled. "Love you too, boss!" He joyfully responded.
That was… she's not gonna look into that right now. "What was that about?" Lilith distractedly asked, referencing the crashing and the Claptraps, somehow completely unsurprised that the two were correlated.
She shared a look with Mordecai about it, as he was the closest to a sane person in the current group, aside from her, of course. At least, she thought they shared a look. Stupid goggles, preventing direct eye contact like that.
He wasn't even pulling them off. Just like he wasn't pulling off that weird ski mask thing (they are in the desert, what is he thinking?!). Or his beard. Don't get her wrong, beards can be cool, just look at Santa and Jesus. But a beard without a mustache?
There's just something off about that. Get it?
Because his beard has no mustache, so it's like the mustache is… off. You know what, forget it. The joke isn't funny if you have to explain it.
"Hey!" Roland called out from the driver's seat, looking at them all sternly. When did he even get there. "Let's go."
Lilith shrugged. She's sure Jack could take care of whatever it was until they got there.
"No! Put that down now, and- Hey! What did I say about dancing?!" I roared at the maniacal, mechanical monstrosity. What have I done?
"But Mr. Jack! I gotta! It's in my blood." Claptrap begged, while walking like an Egyptian, sans the legs. This reprogramming stuff is going a lot more challenging than I thought it would.
"One: I don't care. Two: You don't have blood. At best, you have oil. Three: I don't care. Four: I told you to never, ever engage in any form of dance protocols outside of battle!" It's the only compromise I would allow. Besides, he was unsurprisingly effective at wrecking people and things while dancing. It really makes the most sense.
"But-"
"And five: Initiate Morpheus Protocol. Begin sleep mode."
"Okay!" Clank.
I am so happy I made that virus.
But now I have to lug him out of my lab again. Great. Unless…
"Intern!" I called upon the darkest arts, to summon the lowliest of creatures. A being forced to obey my every command, with nothing to receive in turn, save for 'experience' and 'references'. Which in other words, is completely nothing.
"My name is Paul…" The intern said in a way of greeting. He does that a lot, it must be a cultural thing.
"Intern." I addressed the intern, who might be having problems with his vision, given that his eyes are rolling. "Move this thing back into the open access labs. But make sure everyone knows, I'm working on him. I'm not tossing him out." Yet. "I just need to clear up some space while I work on something more important."
"Well, uh, what're you working on?" The intern snooped. Awe, adorable. He doesn't even have a company ID, and he's already trying to play with the big boys.
"Yeah, nice try." I laughed, in a 'you're stupid' kind of way. "Even if we did give you guys wages, this would still be leagues above your paygrade. Now, less chit chat, more manual labor. Okay, pumpkin?"
"Yes, sir." The intern dishearteningly answered. He grunted away as he carted the one wheeled wonder out of the lab. If he scratched my floors, I swear I'll-
Hmm. What could I do? He doesn't make any money, so it's not like I can cut his salary. Can you even fire someone who works for free? I'll think of something- I'll finish working on the Vault Key with Tannis, then I'll figure this out.
Gotta keep those priorities in check. Overclocking the franchise's number two mascot can wait.
"Jack." Tannis greeted in a surprisingly sane way, as she entered the lab. I guess being around other people helped revitalize her social skills. "Dare I inquire why there is a hint of endorphins, as well as an overabundance of testosterone in the air." Nevermind.
For those of you who don't quite grasp the whole science lingo, she just asked why it smells like tears and frustration in here. Which for one, rude. And for two… my work is a little demanding, and sometimes I get a little emotional. No further comments, I plead the fifth.
"You could dare." I noted. "Or you can shut up and help me fix the Vault Key."
Rather than being offended, Tannis's eyes lit up in excitement, and a little bit in madness. "You have the last fragment?"
"The Vault Hunters have the last fragment." I corrected, crossing my arms a little smugly. "But they'll be here soon. Guess hiring them wasn't such a dumb idea after all, huh?!" I directed that last bit at the camera, facing it with a smirk, as I was one hundred and twenty percent sure that Tassiter was hacking into my security system. Again.
Tannis looked surprised at me again, before rather unexpectedly hugging me. Then she quickly pulled away and patted herself down. Really? This is the woman that would one day climb into the intestines of an alien creature for warmth, Hoth style, and she was afraid of the old Jack-germs?
They aren't even bad for you. In fact, they've done wonder for me. Also, what was with the hug again? I know I'm being cool about it, but that was really weird.
She smiled, and it was one of the scariest things I've ever seen in my life. It held a glint of relief, empathy, and joy. So terrifying. "Truly, my associate, no, my dearest friend," Oh, I alreadyhate this, please stop. "I thought myself the only one enlightened enough to see past the physical exterior and connect with the being that hides behind."
What is she talking about?! I'm as worried as I am confused!
"But you can see it too! You can see the spirit that binds itself within these so called 'animate objects'." What? Oh, the camera thing! I gotta set this straight, now. "I haven't felt this close to someone since my fallout out with Echo Recorder!"
Sheesh. I really don't want to open that can of worms. Should I start hiring those therapists I was talking about, now?
"Look, Doc-" I was cut off by the wsssh of the door opening (I love my new door. I'll never have to pull or push something open ever again!) and the classic superhero entrance of Pandora's four biggest badasses. Well, it's classic if superheroes enter the room casually, and are covered in alien blood.
Do Men in Black count as superheroes?
"Jack." Lilith smiles brightly, it practically shined compared to the dirt and grime that coated them. "We got it." She lifts up the key in one hand victoriously, as it glowed purple proudly. I am gonna be so peeved if she pulls a Starlord and drops it right in front of me.
She doesn't. Lilith hands it to me, and I feel like whimpering in relief. Not shouting. It's more like, you know how you're not sure that you'll be able to do something, but one day, you go farther than you've ever gone before?
You'd think you feel excited, and you do, a little. But mostly, you feel anxious, worried. This is the closest you've ever come, what happens if you trip up now, when you're so close to winning. But then, somehow, you don't mess up, you keep calm, or as calm as you can, and push through.
You push through the pain, the sweat, the tears, and the shaking limbs, and by the time you're done you feel like crying. And in that moment you collapse, overjoyed, because you just did the impossible. Even after everyone doubted, even after you doubted. You did it.
Miraculous, I didn't drop it. It's quite the feet when you're holding it in shaking hands, and slightly sweaty palms.
I hand it off to Tannis, before it slips. Thankfully (but mostly oddly) she didn't seem to mind the sweat, holding it close and reverently. I turn my head back to the others, and give them a cocky smile, that I hope wasn't betrayed by my obviously recovering-tense body language.
"Great job, kiddos!" I really hope that didn't come off as condescending. Most of the time it isn't, but I have one of those kinds of voices, now. You know? The ones that sound pretentious and snarky? That's me. "I never doubted you."
Which was completely true. Because I knew the canonical future. Otherwise, I'd be an even bigger wreck of relief right about now.
Just… I need a second to breathe. Honestly, I'm about to start crying tears of joy. Why is all of my work so emotional?!
Patricia Tannis admired her emotionally charged, and surprisingly sensitive, tentative friend, for all of five seconds. Or perhaps it was five minutes? Whichever was the least socially awkward, she was sure.
Admittedly, she was a bit distracted herself.
In the palm of her hands, she had the last piece required to reform the Vault Key. Everything they've worked for, all that she's sacrificed for, and now her labors have been rewarded. Even still, she could only imagine what wonders were locked away inside the Vault.
Power? Knowledge? An odd assembly of missing doll parts, seemingly important files, and various tapes of past memoirs? What? It's what she keeps in her vault.
Patty waited for what she was certain was the appropriate time of coping before gently gripping Jack's shoulder. "Jack, we are ready to begin… if you are ready." She nervously tacked on, as for some mysterious reason, she received strange looks from their hired mercenaries.
Well, Jack's hired mercenaries.
Patricia never actually paid them anything. But in her defense, they never requested a wage. And besides, after that one disaster, when she reimbursed her former employees at the dig site with her finest collection of exotic stamps, and a pizza from a rather quaint restaurant in Fyrestone, she was no longer allowed to manage matters of finance.
She thought the pizza was wonderful. She especially enjoyed how her mushrooms tried to flee.
"Right." Jack coughed into his fist abruptly. "Thanks, Doc." She continued to stare at him, and he coughed once more. "You can get your hand off my shoulder now."
Ah, right. Patricia almost forgot about that. She would have, had Jack not reminded her. It was such a fascinating shoulder, so lean and comfortable, rather surprising from an office worker- ah, she should remove her hand now, should she not?
"Of course." She agreed, only slightly reluctantly. Patricia has been rather touch starved for a while. Perhaps now she'll be able to get a pet? Or even adoption? She's always been enamored with the idea of raising a fine, young pair of ceiling chairs.
If you have to ask her what a ceiling chair is, then this self-thought conversation is over.
"Alrighty, then." Jack cracked his knuckles, it sounded quite lovely. "Let's get started."
I won't bore you with the details behind the science process, let me just say that it was the MOST amazing thing I have ever seen! It was like these magic, magnetic remnants of tech, had a love child with science, while reality sat in the corner and watched.
And all together, they made the most amazing display of light, power, and pizzaz, since the stars were made! I really wished I got that on video, because frankly no one believes me when I tell them about it, and Tannis was an unreliable witness.
Not because she lied, but because she's crazy. I know, I know, I keep telling them, it's okay if you're crazy, if you're also really smart. Or really hot. Tannis is both! Well, she's one and a half. She doesn't really go the extra mile for appearance's sake. Which takes away some points.
Plus, well, let's just say that a lot of sexual tension really dies out when you see someone eat a live spider. Just, damn. I still get shivers from that.
"Angel, we've got the key." I echo my findings proudly, holding the key in question like it was the One Ring. "Tell me you know where the Vault is?"
It's literally the only thing I've been having her do (barring every time I or my Vault Hunters had to call her up for help). Plus, she's already got days of footage from the Satellite, there's no doubt in my mind she's got the location.
"I'm sorry." Okay, now I'm doubting. "Pandora's just too widespread. I've been able to narrow down six possible sites, but it's too little to confirm anything."
"Why does this always happen to me?" I asked myself rhetorically, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Okay, send out some of our drones, when they report back in, check what they've found, and if they don't report back in, let me know. Might be the place. Tannis?"
"Yes?"
"You got some intel on Dahl, right? Facilities, mining operations, that sort of thing?" I continue.
"Yes, though none that have revealed the location of the Vault." Tannis warns.
"That's fine, we can still use that to narrow the search. I want you to coordinate with Angel, check their databases, their transcripts, heck see if you can find anything on their channels, I am not letting Atlas win this." I said determinedly.
Facing the rest of my team, I see most of that resolve reflected, but not all. Time to erase the doubt.
"The rest of you, with me. This is the big one, time to suit up for the occasion."
Fair warning: this isn't a black tie event.
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"Do you guys see it?" Seriously, it shouldn't be this hard to find. Like, it glows.
Although, in hindsight, maybe they should have guessed it would have been harder to search a football field sized corpse. What could she say? She wasn't really thinking that far ahead. Her priority was to kill the Rakk Hive, preferably without getting killed by said Rakk Hive.
Maybe she should come up with better plans. Or stop making them.
Things were going pretty well when she was working under Jack. Wait. Not like that. Bad thoughts, Lilith. He's your boss. This is why your relationships never last. Just take this slow. Play it cool. Be smooth, suave, sexy…
Or something like that. What did the cosmo say again? Not that she reads those!
It was just… on the table. She was bored. That's her story, and she's sticking to it.
"Found it!" Mordecai exclaimed, lifting up a stone victoriously. A stone. "Wait. Nevermind, it's just a rock." What is even the point of wearing those weird google things, if they don't even improve your eyesight.
Lilith facepalmed again, for the fourth time today. And immediately regretted it, because her hands were still sticky and wet from monster guts, and now that stuff is smeared all over her face. Awesome.
Why was she even searching for it inside the body?! For all she knew, the Rakk Hive could have been wearing it like an accessory, like a necklace or an earring. Oh God, somebody please tell her they didn't incinerate/disintegrate it along with the head.
No, no, no! What if that did happen?
Is that even possible? Aren't these Vault Key fragment whatevers supposed to be super tough? Then again, if they are supposed to be tough, then why are they in pieces in the first place? This line of thinking is not bringing down her stress.
Just gotta keep searching. Can't stress out if you're too busy working, right? Unless the work is what's stressing you out. Then you're just going through an endless loop of stress, and the only relief is the sweet release of dea-
"Hey guys, I got it!" Brick cheered, lifting up the real fragment. And just like that, the weight on her shoulder just loosened up immensely.
If Brick wasn't more muscle than man, and if she wasn't terribly clumsy at relationships/touchy feely moments (like really bad), and if they both weren't covered in blood and intestines, she would totally kiss him. Probably. Or maybe not. Like she said, she isn't great with this stuff.
Lilith would definitely hug him, though. If he wasn't covered in monster guts. She'll stop now.
Lilith whispered a prayer of thanks, and turned back to Roland, cocky grin restored. "I told you we'd find it. Call Jack and give him the good word."
Roland nodded his head, and shifted his neck slightly, a sign that he was a touch annoyed. All that 'thousand-yard' staring has given him a severe case of permanent straight face. So, they really had to rely on those subtle signs of body language to tell how he was really feeling.
Admittedly, she wasn't the best person to translate that stuff, but she's known him long enough to know his annoyed 'face' by now. Roland was annoyed a lot, so it wasn't exactly hard to figure out, but still.
"Angel." Roland started speaking into his echo. Lilith was pretty sure that she told him to call Jack, but whatever, that's cool. It's not like she's in charge or anything. "We have the last fragment. We need to rendezvous with Jack, and reassemble the Key. How soon can he be available?"
"Very." A rouge, charming, masculine voice, that was noticeably not Angel answered in reply. "I'm sending you coordinates to the nearest Fast Travel, get there ASAP, and we can meet up here. Tannis's old lab was ransacked a couple of hours after we left, so Pandora's probably gonna be a little too hot for a while. Oh, and Roland?"
"Yes, sir?" Look at that. So respectful. Does Lilith need to remind him they aren't military?
"Angel is not my secretary. M'kay? I know that she's filled in for me a few times when I was busy, because she's awesome. But that does not make her the go between for you and me. She is very busy. She doesn't have the time to help you guys with every little problem, but she's too nice to say no, so I'm doing it for her. Are we clear?" Jack concluded sternly.
Wow. Lilith feels like she just caught second hand scolding from her dad. Brutal.
Roland clearly felt the same because he twisted on his feet a smidge. Body language, remember? "Ahem. Yes, sir. I understand."
"Coolsies." And now the 'fun' Jack is back. Ha. Jack is back, that rhymes. "Don't keep us waiting, as soon as Tannis gets that key patched up, we're opening the Vault. Oh, and make sure the BFG is recharged on the drive over, we're gonna need it to fight the Destroyer."
Right. The 'Destroyer'. The illustrious mega monster that Jack warned them about. Yup, she was really worried about that thing. Or she would be. If it existed.
And yeah, maybe she should be a little less skeptical about this. After all, Jack seemed to believe it, he wasn't an idiot. Also given some very recent experiences, she didn't object to the fact that there are massive, terrifying beings out there in the world. Especially this world.
But that doesn't mean that the 'Destroyer' is actually as bad as the name implies. Plus, Destroyer, really? It just feels like a really cheesy, very uncreative name. Personally, she would have called it something awesome like the Warrior, or Firehawk.
Ooh! She liked that one. Lilith's gonna have to remember it.
"We'll start heading to the coordinates now." Roland spoke again, nodding to the group as he started walking back to the car. "Is there anything else we can-"
"That should be fine." Jack interrupted him, as the sounds of crashing broke through the transmission. "Frickin Claptrap! Just stay still- Okay, listen guys, I hate to cut you off like this, but I got to handle something right now, so we can pick up on this when you get here. Kay? Love ya, buh-bye."
Lilith raised an eyebrow, while Brick smiled. "Love you too, boss!" He joyfully responded.
That was… she's not gonna look into that right now. "What was that about?" Lilith distractedly asked, referencing the crashing and the Claptraps, somehow completely unsurprised that the two were correlated.
She shared a look with Mordecai about it, as he was the closest to a sane person in the current group, aside from her, of course. At least, she thought they shared a look. Stupid goggles, preventing direct eye contact like that.
He wasn't even pulling them off. Just like he wasn't pulling off that weird ski mask thing (they are in the desert, what is he thinking?!). Or his beard. Don't get her wrong, beards can be cool, just look at Santa and Jesus. But a beard without a mustache?
There's just something off about that. Get it?
Because his beard has no mustache, so it's like the mustache is… off. You know what, forget it. The joke isn't funny if you have to explain it.
"Hey!" Roland called out from the driver's seat, looking at them all sternly. When did he even get there. "Let's go."
Lilith shrugged. She's sure Jack could take care of whatever it was until they got there.
...
"No! Put that down now, and- Hey! What did I say about dancing?!" I roared at the maniacal, mechanical monstrosity. What have I done?
"But Mr. Jack! I gotta! It's in my blood." Claptrap begged, while walking like an Egyptian, sans the legs. This reprogramming stuff is going a lot more challenging than I thought it would.
"One: I don't care. Two: You don't have blood. At best, you have oil. Three: I don't care. Four: I told you to never, ever engage in any form of dance protocols outside of battle!" It's the only compromise I would allow. Besides, he was unsurprisingly effective at wrecking people and things while dancing. It really makes the most sense.
"But-"
"And five: Initiate Morpheus Protocol. Begin sleep mode."
"Okay!" Clank.
I am so happy I made that virus.
But now I have to lug him out of my lab again. Great. Unless…
"Intern!" I called upon the darkest arts, to summon the lowliest of creatures. A being forced to obey my every command, with nothing to receive in turn, save for 'experience' and 'references'. Which in other words, is completely nothing.
"My name is Paul…" The intern said in a way of greeting. He does that a lot, it must be a cultural thing.
"Intern." I addressed the intern, who might be having problems with his vision, given that his eyes are rolling. "Move this thing back into the open access labs. But make sure everyone knows, I'm working on him. I'm not tossing him out." Yet. "I just need to clear up some space while I work on something more important."
"Well, uh, what're you working on?" The intern snooped. Awe, adorable. He doesn't even have a company ID, and he's already trying to play with the big boys.
"Yeah, nice try." I laughed, in a 'you're stupid' kind of way. "Even if we did give you guys wages, this would still be leagues above your paygrade. Now, less chit chat, more manual labor. Okay, pumpkin?"
"Yes, sir." The intern dishearteningly answered. He grunted away as he carted the one wheeled wonder out of the lab. If he scratched my floors, I swear I'll-
Hmm. What could I do? He doesn't make any money, so it's not like I can cut his salary. Can you even fire someone who works for free? I'll think of something- I'll finish working on the Vault Key with Tannis, then I'll figure this out.
Gotta keep those priorities in check. Overclocking the franchise's number two mascot can wait.
"Jack." Tannis greeted in a surprisingly sane way, as she entered the lab. I guess being around other people helped revitalize her social skills. "Dare I inquire why there is a hint of endorphins, as well as an overabundance of testosterone in the air." Nevermind.
For those of you who don't quite grasp the whole science lingo, she just asked why it smells like tears and frustration in here. Which for one, rude. And for two… my work is a little demanding, and sometimes I get a little emotional. No further comments, I plead the fifth.
"You could dare." I noted. "Or you can shut up and help me fix the Vault Key."
Rather than being offended, Tannis's eyes lit up in excitement, and a little bit in madness. "You have the last fragment?"
"The Vault Hunters have the last fragment." I corrected, crossing my arms a little smugly. "But they'll be here soon. Guess hiring them wasn't such a dumb idea after all, huh?!" I directed that last bit at the camera, facing it with a smirk, as I was one hundred and twenty percent sure that Tassiter was hacking into my security system. Again.
Tannis looked surprised at me again, before rather unexpectedly hugging me. Then she quickly pulled away and patted herself down. Really? This is the woman that would one day climb into the intestines of an alien creature for warmth, Hoth style, and she was afraid of the old Jack-germs?
They aren't even bad for you. In fact, they've done wonder for me. Also, what was with the hug again? I know I'm being cool about it, but that was really weird.
She smiled, and it was one of the scariest things I've ever seen in my life. It held a glint of relief, empathy, and joy. So terrifying. "Truly, my associate, no, my dearest friend," Oh, I alreadyhate this, please stop. "I thought myself the only one enlightened enough to see past the physical exterior and connect with the being that hides behind."
What is she talking about?! I'm as worried as I am confused!
"But you can see it too! You can see the spirit that binds itself within these so called 'animate objects'." What? Oh, the camera thing! I gotta set this straight, now. "I haven't felt this close to someone since my fallout out with Echo Recorder!"
Sheesh. I really don't want to open that can of worms. Should I start hiring those therapists I was talking about, now?
"Look, Doc-" I was cut off by the wsssh of the door opening (I love my new door. I'll never have to pull or push something open ever again!) and the classic superhero entrance of Pandora's four biggest badasses. Well, it's classic if superheroes enter the room casually, and are covered in alien blood.
Do Men in Black count as superheroes?
"Jack." Lilith smiles brightly, it practically shined compared to the dirt and grime that coated them. "We got it." She lifts up the key in one hand victoriously, as it glowed purple proudly. I am gonna be so peeved if she pulls a Starlord and drops it right in front of me.
She doesn't. Lilith hands it to me, and I feel like whimpering in relief. Not shouting. It's more like, you know how you're not sure that you'll be able to do something, but one day, you go farther than you've ever gone before?
You'd think you feel excited, and you do, a little. But mostly, you feel anxious, worried. This is the closest you've ever come, what happens if you trip up now, when you're so close to winning. But then, somehow, you don't mess up, you keep calm, or as calm as you can, and push through.
You push through the pain, the sweat, the tears, and the shaking limbs, and by the time you're done you feel like crying. And in that moment you collapse, overjoyed, because you just did the impossible. Even after everyone doubted, even after you doubted. You did it.
Miraculous, I didn't drop it. It's quite the feet when you're holding it in shaking hands, and slightly sweaty palms.
I hand it off to Tannis, before it slips. Thankfully (but mostly oddly) she didn't seem to mind the sweat, holding it close and reverently. I turn my head back to the others, and give them a cocky smile, that I hope wasn't betrayed by my obviously recovering-tense body language.
"Great job, kiddos!" I really hope that didn't come off as condescending. Most of the time it isn't, but I have one of those kinds of voices, now. You know? The ones that sound pretentious and snarky? That's me. "I never doubted you."
Which was completely true. Because I knew the canonical future. Otherwise, I'd be an even bigger wreck of relief right about now.
Just… I need a second to breathe. Honestly, I'm about to start crying tears of joy. Why is all of my work so emotional?!
...
Patricia Tannis admired her emotionally charged, and surprisingly sensitive, tentative friend, for all of five seconds. Or perhaps it was five minutes? Whichever was the least socially awkward, she was sure.
Admittedly, she was a bit distracted herself.
In the palm of her hands, she had the last piece required to reform the Vault Key. Everything they've worked for, all that she's sacrificed for, and now her labors have been rewarded. Even still, she could only imagine what wonders were locked away inside the Vault.
Power? Knowledge? An odd assembly of missing doll parts, seemingly important files, and various tapes of past memoirs? What? It's what she keeps in her vault.
Patty waited for what she was certain was the appropriate time of coping before gently gripping Jack's shoulder. "Jack, we are ready to begin… if you are ready." She nervously tacked on, as for some mysterious reason, she received strange looks from their hired mercenaries.
Well, Jack's hired mercenaries.
Patricia never actually paid them anything. But in her defense, they never requested a wage. And besides, after that one disaster, when she reimbursed her former employees at the dig site with her finest collection of exotic stamps, and a pizza from a rather quaint restaurant in Fyrestone, she was no longer allowed to manage matters of finance.
She thought the pizza was wonderful. She especially enjoyed how her mushrooms tried to flee.
"Right." Jack coughed into his fist abruptly. "Thanks, Doc." She continued to stare at him, and he coughed once more. "You can get your hand off my shoulder now."
Ah, right. Patricia almost forgot about that. She would have, had Jack not reminded her. It was such a fascinating shoulder, so lean and comfortable, rather surprising from an office worker- ah, she should remove her hand now, should she not?
"Of course." She agreed, only slightly reluctantly. Patricia has been rather touch starved for a while. Perhaps now she'll be able to get a pet? Or even adoption? She's always been enamored with the idea of raising a fine, young pair of ceiling chairs.
If you have to ask her what a ceiling chair is, then this self-thought conversation is over.
"Alrighty, then." Jack cracked his knuckles, it sounded quite lovely. "Let's get started."
...
I won't bore you with the details behind the science process, let me just say that it was the MOST amazing thing I have ever seen! It was like these magic, magnetic remnants of tech, had a love child with science, while reality sat in the corner and watched.
And all together, they made the most amazing display of light, power, and pizzaz, since the stars were made! I really wished I got that on video, because frankly no one believes me when I tell them about it, and Tannis was an unreliable witness.
Not because she lied, but because she's crazy. I know, I know, I keep telling them, it's okay if you're crazy, if you're also really smart. Or really hot. Tannis is both! Well, she's one and a half. She doesn't really go the extra mile for appearance's sake. Which takes away some points.
Plus, well, let's just say that a lot of sexual tension really dies out when you see someone eat a live spider. Just, damn. I still get shivers from that.
"Angel, we've got the key." I echo my findings proudly, holding the key in question like it was the One Ring. "Tell me you know where the Vault is?"
It's literally the only thing I've been having her do (barring every time I or my Vault Hunters had to call her up for help). Plus, she's already got days of footage from the Satellite, there's no doubt in my mind she's got the location.
"I'm sorry." Okay, now I'm doubting. "Pandora's just too widespread. I've been able to narrow down six possible sites, but it's too little to confirm anything."
"Why does this always happen to me?" I asked myself rhetorically, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Okay, send out some of our drones, when they report back in, check what they've found, and if they don't report back in, let me know. Might be the place. Tannis?"
"Yes?"
"You got some intel on Dahl, right? Facilities, mining operations, that sort of thing?" I continue.
"Yes, though none that have revealed the location of the Vault." Tannis warns.
"That's fine, we can still use that to narrow the search. I want you to coordinate with Angel, check their databases, their transcripts, heck see if you can find anything on their channels, I am not letting Atlas win this." I said determinedly.
Facing the rest of my team, I see most of that resolve reflected, but not all. Time to erase the doubt.
"The rest of you, with me. This is the big one, time to suit up for the occasion."
...
Fair warning: this isn't a black tie event.
Once again, thank you all for tuning in! Feel free to check me out at FFN to catch up to the most recently released chapter of the fic, or feel free to check me out on Patreon, where you can read up to five chapters past that, link below:
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Chapter 22 Jack And The Box
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Mad King Kevin
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Chapter 22 Jack And The Box
As a kid, I've always been interested in Greek culture. I read too much Percy Jackson, you know? And of course, I was also a DC fan boy, prior to the MCU anyway, and when you keep finding yourself back to the theme of these wise beings, these heroic warriors, the lesson kind of sticks.
That Hercules movie by Disney all but confirmed it.
Here's the thing, though. Greek culture, religion? That's not really what it's about. It wasn't until I got older, that I finally read the true story. Uncovered the dark, sordid details that wouldn't have been out of place in a Grimm's Fairy Tale.
Yup, fairy tales too. Everything from our childhoods has been scrubbed so clean of any and all graphic content, that it'll shine under a lightbulb. Something to think about. But I'm getting off tack.
You see the truth is, the Greeks didn't have good heroes. They had epic heroes, tragic heroes. There wasn't ever a real happy ending. It was more or less, happy for the time being, if even. And the gods I idolized? They were the worst of the bunch.
Murder, rape, cannibalism, torture, you name it, they done it. Even their 'gifts' always came with some hidden price, a truly horrifying cost. Like Midas. He wanted to turn whatever he touched into gold. So, Dionysus, the god of wine and partying, all that fun stuff, gave him that power.
So, everything he touched turned into gold. Everything. After all, he never asked for whatever he wanted to turn, just whatever he touched. So, his horses, his food, his kids. Shiny metal trophies. All of them. Pretty tacky ones, at that.
I could name a dozen of these things, the Curse of Achilles, the Golden Apples of Hesperides, you get my point, right? They take something harmless, something good, and they twist it around, making you pray that you just stuck with toeing the line. Which was kinda the idea.
Take Pandora, nice girl, lovely personality, unclear origins. She was smothered with gifts, and blessings, until one day, she got a box, (actually, it was a jar, but again, unclear origins) that she was even warned not to open.
And she didn't… until she did. Go figure, curiosity is one hell of a temptation.
Turns out that by doing so, she unleashed all evil. So, curiosity kills everything in this case. Except for hope. For only Man could spring that loose. Suffice it to say, no one ever opened the box again. They learned their lesson.
Which leads me to my point… am I doing the right thing?
Okay, you know what, that was phrased poorly, don't read too much into it. I obviously know that I'm the good guy. I've been honest, ethical, supportive, all those classic hero patented traits. Morally, I feel pretty okay with this.
What I mean to ask is, am I doing the smart thing?
Because while I can understand my whole thought process behind this stuff hypothetically, I'm still trying to keep the logic about it in mind. Just- Look, I'm trying to open a Vault that was sealed by an ancient now deceased race of apparently very intelligent aliens. One that happens to hold the most dangerous monster in all of creation.
Well, allegedly dangerous. It gets its weird tentacle whatever, one eyed ass kicked by four tiny humans on the first round. The point is, it's supposed to be a very big threat. Will be, if I ever let Tyreen try to muck this up.
Which I will not. I know it seems like I'm whining this a lot of the time, but I'm not. Trust me, I have a plan. Well, I have a guideline, anyways. You know what they say about the 'best laid plans' and all.
So, I know on paper, my little business venture seems a little, eh, risky, but think of the reward!
Fame, fortune, glory, respect, etc. Who could pass this up?!
And yeah, maybe I should play this a little cautiously. I should remember how well it ended for the good guys in the Fables, and say 'well, lesson learned. I will never ever do that.' And you know what? I will definitely think about all that junk while I'm busy counting my money.
Because let's face it. Reality isn't a book. It's the greatest story of all time.
And in every great story, the hero always wins.
Handsome Jack, CEO of Hyperion, Chronicles Of Pandora, Vault of The Destroyer
"Dad?" Angel repeated, after a moment of silence. "Did you hear me? I said-"
"No, it's okay. I heard you. I was just processing." I rambled, looking back at my echo in wonder. "You found it already? How? I thought we'd need at least another few cycles for the drones to report back."
"We didn't need them to." Angel explained a little giddy. "Dr. Tannis and I were eliminating one of the locations when the Satellite we had in orbit detected an immense energy spike, from one of the sectors we narrowed. I had the drone we sent into that area investigate the source, and…"
This was it.
It was just like I remembered. Broken stone arches scattered around, laying about snow banks on a mountain peak, and at the center of it all, a hole. A keyhole. Get your minds out of the gutter.
Wait a minute, energy spike? We haven't even gotten there yet, what did that?
"Can you tell what caused the spike?" I asked. I know, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, but something about this doesn't seem right. The site's completely barren, no one's been there for decades, probably longer, but suddenly the lights are back on?
"We're unsure." Angel answered with the casualty of someone who hadn't played the game and saw the ending. "But based on the timing, we believe it may have been caused by the reassembly of the Key. It's possible that the Vault's reacting to its presence."
"This far away?" I asked skeptically. "Sweetie, we're literally lightyears away from Pandora, right now. I know the Eridians were tough and all, but come on, their tech's gotta have limits. Right?"
"If they do," Angel acknowledged. "Then they are certainly far higher than ours."
Can't argue with that.
"Okay, then. I want you to send a Fast Travel down to the Vault's location, ASAP. Have the drones move one of the ones we've already got there if you have to." I instruct, quickening my pace back towards the armory, while reloading a spare clip into one of the most expensive guns Hyperion's ever made.
"Are you sure that's wise? Tampering with the network like that could have consequences we can't foresee. There's not an immediate rush, we do have time." Angel tries to soothe rationally.
"Angel, the whole planet's gunning for us, the faster we take care of this, the less ground they'll cover. Besides, if things go to hell, we're probably gonna need to book it." Which I really hope isn't an option.
Opening the Vault, that's risky. Letting the monster inside it, loose? That's suicidal.
"Just- whatever you do, you gotta make it happen fast, okay?" I'm now trying to be an unethically demanding dick here. I'm just a stressed out boss trying to fill the quota.
"I'll see what I can do." Angel reluctantly agreed. "You should begin prepping the Vault Hunters for departure. I'll arrange what I can for travel."
Just bear with me on this, kid. We're almost past the Finish Line.
I absentmindedly check the charge on my lasers as my steps draw nearer to the armory. Everything looks optimal, percentage is performing above expectation, readouts are showing a marked improvement over past equipment.
The 'suit' looks pretty badass. If I do say so myself. I was the chief designer, so I do.
It looked like something of a cross between Mass Effect, Halo, and Power Rangers, which you'd think would be too many things to still look okay, but they clashed surprisingly well. The V-visor on the face template actually had multiple forms of vision. X-ray, thermal, the full Detective Mode experience.
I wore a black jumpsuit underneath the metal plating, to my small regret. I'd love to just cover my whole body up with the stuff, but I gotta be able to move some of my joints, otherwise I'm just a standing meat shield. So, some parts of my body were only protected by a layer of leather, Kevlar, and other stuff I wasn't listening to R&D explain, for the sake of mobility.
The actual armor itself, that had to be my favorite part.
Golden plating on top of a titanium-tungsten alloy, highlighted by the shining blue lines of energy, showcasing some of the energy powering the amour's shielding and life support. And before you ask, yes, that's over the Kinect barrier shield I already have in place.
I wore it on my chest, back, and groin, protecting my most vital areas. I had it surround my arms and legs, for limb protection. And I draped it on as shoulder pads because… well, to be honest it just made me look really cool.
There's probably some protection based reasons I can use, but mostly I wanted that part for aesthetics. Sue me.
"I look awesome!" Someone cheered. What? It wasn't me.
The doors to the armory slid open, and the speaker, who was not me, was revealed to be Brick. I told you it wasn't me, grumble, why doesn't anyone ever believe me, grumble.
I was a little less inventive with the others' appearances. Mind you, I put in the attempt, but well… you know how it goes. You focus on the character you wanna upgrade, and half assedly try to make the others look good, and end up just doing a step above okay?
So, yeah. Little bit of that.
I at least did their classic colors.
Lilith was decked out with the only female variant of what I'm referring to as 'badass armor'. It's got the full nine yards, I even added some homemade repulse cannons to go with the red and gold theme I yoinked from Iron Man.
Roland had a pretty basic set, but I changed his helmet to match up with Halo. Add some soldier elements in. Other than that, his armor was colored navy blue, because I already reserved stone cold grey for Brick.
Speaking of, he was just wearing as much armor as my scientists assured me he could carry. Which was a terrifying amount. I think I could shoot him with a rocket right now without even scratching him.
Bloodwing didn't have anything. Sorry, girl. Frankly though, anything strong enough to protect her from bullets and crap, makes her too heavy to fly. She's just gonna have to rely on some of them biological defenses.
Mordecai didn't have anything special. Maybe his was a bit skinnier. Also, he had copper painting because I don't like to reuse color schemes. No real improvements over the rest, although there is the added bonus of not having room for his ridiculous goggles. So, that's a plus.
"You guys are looking good." I appraised them, mostly honest. "Ready for a field test?"
"Already?!" Lilith asked giddy, and maybe a little nervously. "Awesome!" She cheered, hiding her nerves behind her excitement.
"I didn't think Angel would finish her reconnaissance this quickly." Roland admitted, looking a little hesitant. "Are you sure we're ready to handle this?"
"Yeah, not to sound like a pessimist or something, but…" Mordecai trailed off, trying to find another big word to use after 'pessimist'. "Don't you think we're a little unprepared?"
"No. I don't. Come on guys, what's with all this quitters talk?" I asked around frantically, grabbing Mordecai and Roland by the shoulders reassuringly. And definitely not painfully. "We've got the best gear, we've got the best chance, and we've got the best badasses to boot! We're golden, baby. Stop stressing."
"It just feels a little premature, man." Mordecai commented. Huh, he found another big word.
"It's not." I reassure him. "Has this whole thing felt a little fast paced? Sure. But I promise you, just because we're on the last step of a long sprint doesn't mean we cut across the track. I know it doesn't feel like it, time flies and all that, but this has been a long, long time coming. Trust me."
"Yeah." The now completely masked man, pondered. "You're probably right, amigo."
"Always am." It's not arrogance if it's true. "So, who's ready to kick some ass, and get filthy stinking rich?"
"Hell yeah!" Lilith cheered, bumping into my shoulder affectionately. Well, I assume it was meant to be affectionate. It actually kind of hurt, which is more impressive than anything else, when you consider this armor should be able to withstand an orbital fall.
I should really look into Siren strength at some point. Or I should review who I hire when I'm making these mega projects. Eh, both are worth looking into, I guess.
"Love that enthusiasm." I did not wheeze. I just… choked up a little. It's a very emotional moment, I'm a sensitive guy. Shut up. "Well then, let's get going. Angel? Is the Fast Travel ready?"
"Yes…"
"Buut?" I sighed. So predictable. "Something's gone wrong, there's some horrible catch, or there's an unexpected development?"
"I wouldn't say horrible catch." Angel argued, ineffectively.
"Angel." Cue the 'dad voice'.
"The Fast Travel isn't stable enough to safely transport individuals." Angel admitted. "I was able to recalibrate some of the software to allow the mass teleportation, with the additional factors-"
"Angel, we have an audience, and you're boring them to tears." Particularly of the yawning variety. Poor Brick has to wipe his eyes clean with fists the size of a large lunchbox, that can't be fun.
Angel huffed into the echo. She probably pouted too. She just gets so excited when she gets to explain all this nerd stuff. Probably inherited it from me, her nerd dad. "I can send you, but only if the four of you are already grouped together, protected by a metal casing with immense protection from some of the systems more… abrasive features."
"What, like the Technical?" I asked, confused. "You can't fast travel that stuff, Angel. It has to be digistructed, we tested, remember?"
That was a bad day at the office.
"I remember." Angel grimaced. "Thankfully, the procedure we'll be using is much more refined. It should negate the risks involved and allow you to safely travel. Though, I would not encourage repeated use."
I'm not even sure if I want it for just one use. "I don't know…"
"I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't sure you would be alright." Angel assured me gently. "Right now, it's the safest option we have, with speed in mind."
Hardest thing in the world is starting to put trust in your kids. I don't mean that emotionally, no one knows you better than the people who made you, I mean more logically. Keep in mind, I remember when I had to teach this kid the alphabet, and multiplication, and now she's smarter at this stuff than me, err Jack me? This crap's confusing.
The point is, I know she's skilled, but there's always gonna be that tiny bit of skepticism there.
"Alright." I sighed. I mean, she is skilled, right? If she says we'll be fine, then we'll be fine. I trust my kid. Incidentally, now feels like a pretty good time to start writing up that will. I'm thinking, Angel gets all my worldly possessions, the Vault Hunters (if they are still alive) get their paychecks, and Claptrap can have my eternal spite.
Even if I die, my hate for irritating machinery will live on forever. Pretty good legacy, right there.
"Well guys, let's go hop in a big metal box on wheels, and hope that it protects us from being flung lightyears across the galaxy at record speed." I finished with a clap, exaggerated by fake confidence. That speech really sounded more inspiring in my head.
I caught a few glimpses of amusement, but mostly it was reluctant acceptance. "Sounds fun."
"Okay!"
"Understood."
"Whatever."
That's good enough for me!
It truly is a testament to how much she trusted Jack that she was willing to follow along with an undoubtedly crazy, and probably suicidal plan. Well, either that, or it showed that she was really desperate for cash.
The life of a badass Siren warrior, has done shockingly little to pay the bills. Or taxes. Not that she actually paid that stuff anyways, but even if she wanted to, she couldn't. Which was the real tragedy here.
Lilith might have considered a change of careers if she wasn't about to make a million dollars from just a week's worth of work. Actually, it's only been a few days, but that's only because of Pandora's insane solar cycles.
Just another mark against the planet she was almost growing fond of.
On one hand, it's a wretched hive of scum and villainy (she loved Star Wars!) but on the other, she can really let loose, pretty much guilt free. It's- now don't get her wrong, she's not a psychopath or anything, but she does have a lot of repressed feelings stemming from her lack of a stable childhood, her life on the run, and the stress of getting her doctorate-
Okay, so Lilith had a few issues, who doesn't? The point is, it's kinda nice that she found a place where she can blow some steam without anyone freaking out. She'll hand it to Pandora, it grew on her. Like a fungus, or a tumor, or a Claptrap.
You know, something she can learn to live with, but would prefer to cut off?
Lilith just wished she wasn't about to be slingshot right towards it. Or however the science behind it worked. Did she mention that she was a Doctor of Biology?
"Hey, Jack… this is safe, right?" Mordecai asked uncomfortably, looking around hastily, wondering if it was too late to back out. It totally was.
"Uhh, sure." Jack 'assured', actually using his seatbelt, something Lilith had never seen him do, despite many perilously and bumpy tricks through Pandora's landscape. "You heard Angel. We'll be completely fine."
Lilith could have sworn she heard him mutter 'probably' but he coughed up pretty quickly, so she was probably just imagining it. Right? Yeah. They're totally screwed.
"Initiating jump in T Minus: Ten."
"Sooo, quick question." Lilith tried to say casually, probably betrayed by the fact that she's tightening her seatbelt even more. "Does this job come with life insurance?"
"Nine."
"Nope." Jack ended with a pop. "Sorry."
"Eight."
"Awesome." Lilith groaned back into her seat, when inspiration took her. "Follow up question…"
"Seven."
"Shoot. Not literally, though." He joked.
"Six."
"If we do survive this, do you wanna- I mean like do you have any plans on Friday or…" She trailed off, flustered.
"Five."
"I could probably move some stuff." Jack confirmed, looking at her curiously. "Why, you asking me out?"
"Four."
"Yes…?"
"Three."
"Oh. Oh! Yeah, sure! Ahem. I'm game. Were you thinking like, lunch or maybe drinks, or…"
"Two."
"I was thinking about lunch." Lilith admitted. "But honestly, drinks sound a lot better right now."
"One."
"Yeah…" Jack tightened his seatbelt one final time himself. "They really do."
Without further ado, they were fast traveled, car and all, across the entire universe in matter of seconds, and right now, it felt more intense than any time she made the leap before. Lilith really felt sorry for Bloodwing, the only one among them without a seatbelt.
In retrospect, she probably should have felt more sorry for Mordecai, because those talons were definitely going to leave scars in that shoulder.
Of course, the second she thought about that, they landed, in the most violent, and undignified way they could, aside from crashing. Jack cracked his neck, and unbuckled, leaving the car slowly. Roland followed suit, and since she didn't want to be left behind, so did she.
The sight she saw amazed her. If the Fast Travel didn't leave stars in her eyes, then this definitely would. She's probably studied Sirens and their connections to the Vault more times than she's gotten into trouble. Probably.
But even still, there is a world of difference between reading and actually seeing.
"Finally." Jack cheered, a smile stretched wide across his face. Mask. Whatever, close enough. Actually, she can't even see the smile 'cause of the helmet. She'll just stop now. "Can you guys feel it? The excitement in the air? That spark. I knew we'd always make it here, but actually doing it, it just feels so…"
"False?" Suggested a Russian voice that wasn't Marcus. Turning around, she spotted an entire platoon of Atlas soldiers. Led by one woman… with blue tattoos. "Mistaken? Bitter? Hollow?" She continued, striding her way closer to Jack, who narrowed his eyes in scorn.
"I was gonna say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, actually. Why don't you give that one a try?" Jack snarked, looking as cocky as ever, if a bit pissed off.
The Siren that wasn't her, scoffed. "You have failed, Hyperion worm. This Vault belongs to the Atlas corporation. Hand over the Key. Now."
Lilith took it all back. Pandora completely sucked.
What's this?! A cliffhanger! Inconceivable!
Well, I guess you'll just have to stay tuned in for the next chapter, tomorrow, where we'll wrap up the main game's plot. Until then, you know the drill. Catch up on FFN or SB, read ahead on my Patreon, link below.
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As a kid, I've always been interested in Greek culture. I read too much Percy Jackson, you know? And of course, I was also a DC fan boy, prior to the MCU anyway, and when you keep finding yourself back to the theme of these wise beings, these heroic warriors, the lesson kind of sticks.
That Hercules movie by Disney all but confirmed it.
Here's the thing, though. Greek culture, religion? That's not really what it's about. It wasn't until I got older, that I finally read the true story. Uncovered the dark, sordid details that wouldn't have been out of place in a Grimm's Fairy Tale.
Yup, fairy tales too. Everything from our childhoods has been scrubbed so clean of any and all graphic content, that it'll shine under a lightbulb. Something to think about. But I'm getting off tack.
You see the truth is, the Greeks didn't have good heroes. They had epic heroes, tragic heroes. There wasn't ever a real happy ending. It was more or less, happy for the time being, if even. And the gods I idolized? They were the worst of the bunch.
Murder, rape, cannibalism, torture, you name it, they done it. Even their 'gifts' always came with some hidden price, a truly horrifying cost. Like Midas. He wanted to turn whatever he touched into gold. So, Dionysus, the god of wine and partying, all that fun stuff, gave him that power.
So, everything he touched turned into gold. Everything. After all, he never asked for whatever he wanted to turn, just whatever he touched. So, his horses, his food, his kids. Shiny metal trophies. All of them. Pretty tacky ones, at that.
I could name a dozen of these things, the Curse of Achilles, the Golden Apples of Hesperides, you get my point, right? They take something harmless, something good, and they twist it around, making you pray that you just stuck with toeing the line. Which was kinda the idea.
Take Pandora, nice girl, lovely personality, unclear origins. She was smothered with gifts, and blessings, until one day, she got a box, (actually, it was a jar, but again, unclear origins) that she was even warned not to open.
And she didn't… until she did. Go figure, curiosity is one hell of a temptation.
Turns out that by doing so, she unleashed all evil. So, curiosity kills everything in this case. Except for hope. For only Man could spring that loose. Suffice it to say, no one ever opened the box again. They learned their lesson.
Which leads me to my point… am I doing the right thing?
Okay, you know what, that was phrased poorly, don't read too much into it. I obviously know that I'm the good guy. I've been honest, ethical, supportive, all those classic hero patented traits. Morally, I feel pretty okay with this.
What I mean to ask is, am I doing the smart thing?
Because while I can understand my whole thought process behind this stuff hypothetically, I'm still trying to keep the logic about it in mind. Just- Look, I'm trying to open a Vault that was sealed by an ancient now deceased race of apparently very intelligent aliens. One that happens to hold the most dangerous monster in all of creation.
Well, allegedly dangerous. It gets its weird tentacle whatever, one eyed ass kicked by four tiny humans on the first round. The point is, it's supposed to be a very big threat. Will be, if I ever let Tyreen try to muck this up.
Which I will not. I know it seems like I'm whining this a lot of the time, but I'm not. Trust me, I have a plan. Well, I have a guideline, anyways. You know what they say about the 'best laid plans' and all.
So, I know on paper, my little business venture seems a little, eh, risky, but think of the reward!
Fame, fortune, glory, respect, etc. Who could pass this up?!
And yeah, maybe I should play this a little cautiously. I should remember how well it ended for the good guys in the Fables, and say 'well, lesson learned. I will never ever do that.' And you know what? I will definitely think about all that junk while I'm busy counting my money.
Because let's face it. Reality isn't a book. It's the greatest story of all time.
And in every great story, the hero always wins.
Handsome Jack, CEO of Hyperion, Chronicles Of Pandora, Vault of The Destroyer
...
"Dad?" Angel repeated, after a moment of silence. "Did you hear me? I said-"
"No, it's okay. I heard you. I was just processing." I rambled, looking back at my echo in wonder. "You found it already? How? I thought we'd need at least another few cycles for the drones to report back."
"We didn't need them to." Angel explained a little giddy. "Dr. Tannis and I were eliminating one of the locations when the Satellite we had in orbit detected an immense energy spike, from one of the sectors we narrowed. I had the drone we sent into that area investigate the source, and…"
This was it.
It was just like I remembered. Broken stone arches scattered around, laying about snow banks on a mountain peak, and at the center of it all, a hole. A keyhole. Get your minds out of the gutter.
Wait a minute, energy spike? We haven't even gotten there yet, what did that?
"Can you tell what caused the spike?" I asked. I know, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, but something about this doesn't seem right. The site's completely barren, no one's been there for decades, probably longer, but suddenly the lights are back on?
"We're unsure." Angel answered with the casualty of someone who hadn't played the game and saw the ending. "But based on the timing, we believe it may have been caused by the reassembly of the Key. It's possible that the Vault's reacting to its presence."
"This far away?" I asked skeptically. "Sweetie, we're literally lightyears away from Pandora, right now. I know the Eridians were tough and all, but come on, their tech's gotta have limits. Right?"
"If they do," Angel acknowledged. "Then they are certainly far higher than ours."
Can't argue with that.
"Okay, then. I want you to send a Fast Travel down to the Vault's location, ASAP. Have the drones move one of the ones we've already got there if you have to." I instruct, quickening my pace back towards the armory, while reloading a spare clip into one of the most expensive guns Hyperion's ever made.
"Are you sure that's wise? Tampering with the network like that could have consequences we can't foresee. There's not an immediate rush, we do have time." Angel tries to soothe rationally.
"Angel, the whole planet's gunning for us, the faster we take care of this, the less ground they'll cover. Besides, if things go to hell, we're probably gonna need to book it." Which I really hope isn't an option.
Opening the Vault, that's risky. Letting the monster inside it, loose? That's suicidal.
"Just- whatever you do, you gotta make it happen fast, okay?" I'm now trying to be an unethically demanding dick here. I'm just a stressed out boss trying to fill the quota.
"I'll see what I can do." Angel reluctantly agreed. "You should begin prepping the Vault Hunters for departure. I'll arrange what I can for travel."
Just bear with me on this, kid. We're almost past the Finish Line.
I absentmindedly check the charge on my lasers as my steps draw nearer to the armory. Everything looks optimal, percentage is performing above expectation, readouts are showing a marked improvement over past equipment.
The 'suit' looks pretty badass. If I do say so myself. I was the chief designer, so I do.
It looked like something of a cross between Mass Effect, Halo, and Power Rangers, which you'd think would be too many things to still look okay, but they clashed surprisingly well. The V-visor on the face template actually had multiple forms of vision. X-ray, thermal, the full Detective Mode experience.
I wore a black jumpsuit underneath the metal plating, to my small regret. I'd love to just cover my whole body up with the stuff, but I gotta be able to move some of my joints, otherwise I'm just a standing meat shield. So, some parts of my body were only protected by a layer of leather, Kevlar, and other stuff I wasn't listening to R&D explain, for the sake of mobility.
The actual armor itself, that had to be my favorite part.
Golden plating on top of a titanium-tungsten alloy, highlighted by the shining blue lines of energy, showcasing some of the energy powering the amour's shielding and life support. And before you ask, yes, that's over the Kinect barrier shield I already have in place.
I wore it on my chest, back, and groin, protecting my most vital areas. I had it surround my arms and legs, for limb protection. And I draped it on as shoulder pads because… well, to be honest it just made me look really cool.
There's probably some protection based reasons I can use, but mostly I wanted that part for aesthetics. Sue me.
"I look awesome!" Someone cheered. What? It wasn't me.
The doors to the armory slid open, and the speaker, who was not me, was revealed to be Brick. I told you it wasn't me, grumble, why doesn't anyone ever believe me, grumble.
I was a little less inventive with the others' appearances. Mind you, I put in the attempt, but well… you know how it goes. You focus on the character you wanna upgrade, and half assedly try to make the others look good, and end up just doing a step above okay?
So, yeah. Little bit of that.
I at least did their classic colors.
Lilith was decked out with the only female variant of what I'm referring to as 'badass armor'. It's got the full nine yards, I even added some homemade repulse cannons to go with the red and gold theme I yoinked from Iron Man.
Roland had a pretty basic set, but I changed his helmet to match up with Halo. Add some soldier elements in. Other than that, his armor was colored navy blue, because I already reserved stone cold grey for Brick.
Speaking of, he was just wearing as much armor as my scientists assured me he could carry. Which was a terrifying amount. I think I could shoot him with a rocket right now without even scratching him.
Bloodwing didn't have anything. Sorry, girl. Frankly though, anything strong enough to protect her from bullets and crap, makes her too heavy to fly. She's just gonna have to rely on some of them biological defenses.
Mordecai didn't have anything special. Maybe his was a bit skinnier. Also, he had copper painting because I don't like to reuse color schemes. No real improvements over the rest, although there is the added bonus of not having room for his ridiculous goggles. So, that's a plus.
"You guys are looking good." I appraised them, mostly honest. "Ready for a field test?"
"Already?!" Lilith asked giddy, and maybe a little nervously. "Awesome!" She cheered, hiding her nerves behind her excitement.
"I didn't think Angel would finish her reconnaissance this quickly." Roland admitted, looking a little hesitant. "Are you sure we're ready to handle this?"
"Yeah, not to sound like a pessimist or something, but…" Mordecai trailed off, trying to find another big word to use after 'pessimist'. "Don't you think we're a little unprepared?"
"No. I don't. Come on guys, what's with all this quitters talk?" I asked around frantically, grabbing Mordecai and Roland by the shoulders reassuringly. And definitely not painfully. "We've got the best gear, we've got the best chance, and we've got the best badasses to boot! We're golden, baby. Stop stressing."
"It just feels a little premature, man." Mordecai commented. Huh, he found another big word.
"It's not." I reassure him. "Has this whole thing felt a little fast paced? Sure. But I promise you, just because we're on the last step of a long sprint doesn't mean we cut across the track. I know it doesn't feel like it, time flies and all that, but this has been a long, long time coming. Trust me."
"Yeah." The now completely masked man, pondered. "You're probably right, amigo."
"Always am." It's not arrogance if it's true. "So, who's ready to kick some ass, and get filthy stinking rich?"
"Hell yeah!" Lilith cheered, bumping into my shoulder affectionately. Well, I assume it was meant to be affectionate. It actually kind of hurt, which is more impressive than anything else, when you consider this armor should be able to withstand an orbital fall.
I should really look into Siren strength at some point. Or I should review who I hire when I'm making these mega projects. Eh, both are worth looking into, I guess.
"Love that enthusiasm." I did not wheeze. I just… choked up a little. It's a very emotional moment, I'm a sensitive guy. Shut up. "Well then, let's get going. Angel? Is the Fast Travel ready?"
"Yes…"
"Buut?" I sighed. So predictable. "Something's gone wrong, there's some horrible catch, or there's an unexpected development?"
"I wouldn't say horrible catch." Angel argued, ineffectively.
"Angel." Cue the 'dad voice'.
"The Fast Travel isn't stable enough to safely transport individuals." Angel admitted. "I was able to recalibrate some of the software to allow the mass teleportation, with the additional factors-"
"Angel, we have an audience, and you're boring them to tears." Particularly of the yawning variety. Poor Brick has to wipe his eyes clean with fists the size of a large lunchbox, that can't be fun.
Angel huffed into the echo. She probably pouted too. She just gets so excited when she gets to explain all this nerd stuff. Probably inherited it from me, her nerd dad. "I can send you, but only if the four of you are already grouped together, protected by a metal casing with immense protection from some of the systems more… abrasive features."
"What, like the Technical?" I asked, confused. "You can't fast travel that stuff, Angel. It has to be digistructed, we tested, remember?"
That was a bad day at the office.
"I remember." Angel grimaced. "Thankfully, the procedure we'll be using is much more refined. It should negate the risks involved and allow you to safely travel. Though, I would not encourage repeated use."
I'm not even sure if I want it for just one use. "I don't know…"
"I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't sure you would be alright." Angel assured me gently. "Right now, it's the safest option we have, with speed in mind."
Hardest thing in the world is starting to put trust in your kids. I don't mean that emotionally, no one knows you better than the people who made you, I mean more logically. Keep in mind, I remember when I had to teach this kid the alphabet, and multiplication, and now she's smarter at this stuff than me, err Jack me? This crap's confusing.
The point is, I know she's skilled, but there's always gonna be that tiny bit of skepticism there.
"Alright." I sighed. I mean, she is skilled, right? If she says we'll be fine, then we'll be fine. I trust my kid. Incidentally, now feels like a pretty good time to start writing up that will. I'm thinking, Angel gets all my worldly possessions, the Vault Hunters (if they are still alive) get their paychecks, and Claptrap can have my eternal spite.
Even if I die, my hate for irritating machinery will live on forever. Pretty good legacy, right there.
"Well guys, let's go hop in a big metal box on wheels, and hope that it protects us from being flung lightyears across the galaxy at record speed." I finished with a clap, exaggerated by fake confidence. That speech really sounded more inspiring in my head.
I caught a few glimpses of amusement, but mostly it was reluctant acceptance. "Sounds fun."
"Okay!"
"Understood."
"Whatever."
That's good enough for me!
...
It truly is a testament to how much she trusted Jack that she was willing to follow along with an undoubtedly crazy, and probably suicidal plan. Well, either that, or it showed that she was really desperate for cash.
The life of a badass Siren warrior, has done shockingly little to pay the bills. Or taxes. Not that she actually paid that stuff anyways, but even if she wanted to, she couldn't. Which was the real tragedy here.
Lilith might have considered a change of careers if she wasn't about to make a million dollars from just a week's worth of work. Actually, it's only been a few days, but that's only because of Pandora's insane solar cycles.
Just another mark against the planet she was almost growing fond of.
On one hand, it's a wretched hive of scum and villainy (she loved Star Wars!) but on the other, she can really let loose, pretty much guilt free. It's- now don't get her wrong, she's not a psychopath or anything, but she does have a lot of repressed feelings stemming from her lack of a stable childhood, her life on the run, and the stress of getting her doctorate-
Okay, so Lilith had a few issues, who doesn't? The point is, it's kinda nice that she found a place where she can blow some steam without anyone freaking out. She'll hand it to Pandora, it grew on her. Like a fungus, or a tumor, or a Claptrap.
You know, something she can learn to live with, but would prefer to cut off?
Lilith just wished she wasn't about to be slingshot right towards it. Or however the science behind it worked. Did she mention that she was a Doctor of Biology?
"Hey, Jack… this is safe, right?" Mordecai asked uncomfortably, looking around hastily, wondering if it was too late to back out. It totally was.
"Uhh, sure." Jack 'assured', actually using his seatbelt, something Lilith had never seen him do, despite many perilously and bumpy tricks through Pandora's landscape. "You heard Angel. We'll be completely fine."
Lilith could have sworn she heard him mutter 'probably' but he coughed up pretty quickly, so she was probably just imagining it. Right? Yeah. They're totally screwed.
"Initiating jump in T Minus: Ten."
"Sooo, quick question." Lilith tried to say casually, probably betrayed by the fact that she's tightening her seatbelt even more. "Does this job come with life insurance?"
"Nine."
"Nope." Jack ended with a pop. "Sorry."
"Eight."
"Awesome." Lilith groaned back into her seat, when inspiration took her. "Follow up question…"
"Seven."
"Shoot. Not literally, though." He joked.
"Six."
"If we do survive this, do you wanna- I mean like do you have any plans on Friday or…" She trailed off, flustered.
"Five."
"I could probably move some stuff." Jack confirmed, looking at her curiously. "Why, you asking me out?"
"Four."
"Yes…?"
"Three."
"Oh. Oh! Yeah, sure! Ahem. I'm game. Were you thinking like, lunch or maybe drinks, or…"
"Two."
"I was thinking about lunch." Lilith admitted. "But honestly, drinks sound a lot better right now."
"One."
"Yeah…" Jack tightened his seatbelt one final time himself. "They really do."
Without further ado, they were fast traveled, car and all, across the entire universe in matter of seconds, and right now, it felt more intense than any time she made the leap before. Lilith really felt sorry for Bloodwing, the only one among them without a seatbelt.
In retrospect, she probably should have felt more sorry for Mordecai, because those talons were definitely going to leave scars in that shoulder.
Of course, the second she thought about that, they landed, in the most violent, and undignified way they could, aside from crashing. Jack cracked his neck, and unbuckled, leaving the car slowly. Roland followed suit, and since she didn't want to be left behind, so did she.
The sight she saw amazed her. If the Fast Travel didn't leave stars in her eyes, then this definitely would. She's probably studied Sirens and their connections to the Vault more times than she's gotten into trouble. Probably.
But even still, there is a world of difference between reading and actually seeing.
"Finally." Jack cheered, a smile stretched wide across his face. Mask. Whatever, close enough. Actually, she can't even see the smile 'cause of the helmet. She'll just stop now. "Can you guys feel it? The excitement in the air? That spark. I knew we'd always make it here, but actually doing it, it just feels so…"
"False?" Suggested a Russian voice that wasn't Marcus. Turning around, she spotted an entire platoon of Atlas soldiers. Led by one woman… with blue tattoos. "Mistaken? Bitter? Hollow?" She continued, striding her way closer to Jack, who narrowed his eyes in scorn.
"I was gonna say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, actually. Why don't you give that one a try?" Jack snarked, looking as cocky as ever, if a bit pissed off.
The Siren that wasn't her, scoffed. "You have failed, Hyperion worm. This Vault belongs to the Atlas corporation. Hand over the Key. Now."
Lilith took it all back. Pandora completely sucked.
...
What's this?! A cliffhanger! Inconceivable!
Well, I guess you'll just have to stay tuned in for the next chapter, tomorrow, where we'll wrap up the main game's plot. Until then, you know the drill. Catch up on FFN or SB, read ahead on my Patreon, link below.
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Great chapter
Chapter 23 Pop Goes The Destroyer
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Chapter 23 Pop Goes The Destroyer
Are you kidding me?!
You know, I'll be the first to admit that my last life wasn't perfect. I procrastinated too much, I made decisions that I thought were smart, but had horrible consequences, and I didn't spend enough time with the family.
And even though for some twisted reason that merited being reborn as the biggest villain ever, in the history of forever, I made sure that I didn't make any of those mistakes ever again.
I had initiative, I planned ahead and actually thought things through, I became a single parent for Christ's sake! But despite all of my efforts to the contrary, here I am again.
Too late, too many consequences, and too much regret about not staying home with Angel.
"Pass." I denied the Russian (Is she Russian? Or do they like identity as something else, here?) Siren, much to her growing fury.
"Ha!" Commandant Steele barked out a laugh, with the same effort I go through when I try to chuckle at a bad pun from a good friend. "You do not have a choice in the matter."
Actually, I do. It's just that all my options suck.
There's Option A: Awful. Where I and my crew of certifiable badasses proceed to quickly massacre the surrounding ambush of Atlas drones. And the bandits who were with them for some reason. I'll just deal with that crap basket later.
Now the perks are that I get to kill some bad guys, and brag about it around the office. The downside is that killing them might tire us out a little, and I want us up to full strength. Plus, then I'd have to kill Steele too, which is bad.
Not ethically, hell I'd be doing the galaxy a favor, I just mean practically.
See, there are approximately six Sirens in the entire known universe. I need one of them, preferably an expendable one, and thankfully I happen to know who they all are.
There's Angel, my daughter, the smartest, most talented girl that's ever lived, and I'm proud to say that I'm not embellishing. Then there's Lilith, my sort of, maybe girlfriend depending how things work, who's currently on my team. So, obviously they're off the table.
Then we have Maya, the awesome, semi-deified protector of Athenas. She's cool. Also, there's Amara, who's pretty much Maya but with an accent? Oh, and I guess she likes combat a lot more. But she's not like, uber violent, so, these girls aren't gonna fly either.
And finally, the last two. The evil two. Unless you count Troy. I don't. Anyways, there's Steele and Tyreen, the undisputed antagonists of the first and third game. Frankly, I wouldn't mind using either of them to charge up a Vault Key.
Sadly, Tyreen probably wouldn't cut it. Cause she's more like a leech than a battery. It's like trying to use a motor as a generator. Doesn't make any sense.
So, that leaves Steele.
"I wouldn't be that sure." I finally respond with a shrug. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." She didn't look particularly pleased with my answer. In fact, it looked a lot like she was trying to murder me with her eyeballs.
Then Steele pressed her gun against my helmet and pushed it in warningly. For the record, that mask is bullet proof, I'm still okay with this. Plus, my calm seems to unnerve her. "You are bold, лакей. Too-"
"Too bold." I finished with her, an unseen smirk across my face, while she blinked in surprise. "Jinx."
Hey here's a thought, maybe the next time you rehearse your lines for your whole evil monologue thing, you could make sure they're original. Truly, Commandant Steele, you may have been one of the biggest baddies of the franchise, but you were clearly not the most entertaining.
Which to be fair, the ones that were, were also the ones that people were super happy to kill. Maybe that's why the player didn't get to kill you? You know, the first time around. Before you became a zombie robot, with way more amusing lines.
Either she somehow read my expression through my helmet, or she was really offended by the 'jinx', because she pistol whipped me. Hardly even felt that, but still, it's a bit of an overreaction. Doesn't she know she just has to get someone to say her name three times and she's safe?
"Enough games!" Steele demanded. It'd be a lot more intimidating if she wasn't so flushed. "The Vault Key. Now."
Yikes. That one gave me chills.
Which brings us to Option B: Bitch gets what she deserves. It involves… well, the name probably gives it away, but basically I give her the Key, then sit back and watch as she gets tentacled.
Oh Christ, that sounds bad without context! Okay, chillax. I'm just going to watch as one of the Destroyer's Tentacles impales a hole in her body- into, into her body. Like, with the whole stabby stab motion, you know?
I'm just gonna stop thinking about that.
Anyways, the end result of that is that Steele dies a punk death, then me and my team have to kill the Destroyer, and probably the rest of the Atlas soldiers here as well as the bandits. Which is bad because one, I'm going to have to find who spiritually succeeds Steele and hope she's equally as evil. Two, we'll have to fight a lot of people at the same time.
And three, why are there bandits here? I know, I said that I was gonna table this, but those guys are really a pet peeve for me. I- no! Not the priority, deal with them later.
The point is, options A and B are out, which leaves me with option C.
"Jack...?" Lilith (almost nervously) tried to get my attention. "What do you want us to do?"
Option C: Could've, should've, would've made a plan. But I didn't. Improvise?
I shrug nonchalantly, before tossing the Key over, much to the surprise of… well, everyone.
Commandant Steele stumbled with the catch, but held it close to her, looking at me warily, as if she expected me to snatch it back. Aside from crossing my arms and raising an unseen brow, I stayed perfectly still. "A wise choice…"
She continued to stare in suspicion, even going as far to inspect the Key for signs of a fake. Which is actually mildly insulting. Do I look like a con man to you? Shut up, that was rhetorical. "Yup." I deadpanned. "What can I say? I'm the brains of the operation. Making the smart call is what I do."
"Indeed." Steele reluctantly turned away from me, averting her gaze to the center of the summit, where in lie what was essentially the 'ignition start' of the Vault. She took a few hesitant steps, before turning back to me with a confused expression. "You're not going to stop me?"
I gave a mild shrug. "Could I?"
"No." Steele states determinedly, a glare fixed on her face. "You could not." She delayed a few seconds more before approaching the podium, confidence oozing out of every step.
Lilith tugged at my arm, impatiently. "Jack!" She whispered/shouted, defeating the purpose of whispering. "What are you doing?!"
"Don't worry." I whisper back, at whisper volume, as Steele finally mustered the courage to plug the key in. "I've got a plan."
"What plan?!" Lilith demanded, pulling back on my arm insistently.
The Vault didn't seem to mind our back and forth, going about its business of opening up, as usual. And by 'usual' I, of course, mean connecting solid stone archways telekinetically, through the art of space magic. While glowing an ominous purple throughout the peak of the mountain.
"Improvise!" I answered/ordered as I shot Steele in the back with my hidden concussion blaster. The boys at R&D wanted to call it a 'stun-gun', but I was like 'Nah, man. If it rhymes, no one's going to take it seriously.'
Steele didn't have time to look surprised. The blaster takes effect pretty quickly. Like, instantaneous, quickly. She collapsed just as the portal went up, and captured the interest of every merc, lancer, and bandit on the cliff.
Sadly, that included the ones I hired.
"Hey!" I snapped my fingers in front of their faces to get their attention, only to get their bewildered looks. "I said improvise! This is not improvising. Get to the Technical!"
Roland nodded, still in a daze, but took off in a sprint while everyone else was distracted. Bloodwing needed to nip Mordecai to get him going, but to his credit he didn't even flinch. Not bodily, anyway. Helmets are worse than masks when it comes to telling expressions.
Lilith stayed by my side because she's awesome, smart, and loyal. Also, pretty, funny, and- ahem. Anyways, Brick was the only one left not doing anything, in fact he was just staring at me, confused.
"Brick, what are you doing? I said, get to the technical!" I didn't snap, but my tone might have come off as a little harsh. "Please." There, now I feel better.
Brick scratched the back of his head, still a little lost. "I thought you said to improvise."
"I did!"
"So, why do I have to do what you tell me to do?" He asked a fair, if completely stupid and irrelevant question.
I groaned, and bit back a curse. Reminding myself that underneath all the muscle, blood, and tri-reinforced body armor, he's just a really big kid at heart. "Brick, improve is about a lot of things. But mostly, it's about 'yes, and'. So, when I tell you to go to the Technical, you say…"
"Yes, and…" Brick answered, before trailing off unsure. "Uh, and what, boss?"
The arch flashed, and the purple gleam, and the mental image of tentacle impalement spurred me into pushing the smarter than the average goliath back into the Technical. "And we do it right now, or we're totally screwed!"
I pushed him harder, but he was heavy enough before the armor. Honestly, it might take a forklift to move him… A very sturdy forklift. Or a spaceship.
Thankfully, my overgrown companion got the hint when tentacles started leaping out of the magically scientific portal to… where did that portal lead to? I know, it's the prison of the Destroyer, sure, but where specifically is that?
I know it had something to do with Pandora, but hell, what doesn't?
But, I digress. Atlas soldiers, and bandit thugs are getting ripped off the very ground they stand on and thrown into the maw of an eldritch creature that wouldn't seem out of place in a Lovecraft novel. Which definitely encouraged the rest of us to scram back into the Vehicle.
Those of us who had one, anyways. It really sucks for the bandits at this point, most of the Atlas forces are just pulling out, or trying to anyway. The ones who ran, and didn't get caught by the tentacles from Hell, pretty much left the rest for dead.
Including Steele, thankfully. By which I mean, thankfully for me, obviously. She's gonna feel pretty betrayed when she comes to. A vindictive part of me is looking forward to it. Should I feel bad about that? Meh.
I know my conscience might not exactly be up to snuff, and sure, my moral compass might not always point to North, but I think I do okay. Better than the original Jack, anyways. Not that it's much of a challenge. I could probably punch nuns in the face, and still manage to be ahead in the 'not an asshole' race, at least by comparison.
Is it weird that I question myself this much?
I feel like if I was working with, like, the average morality package, I would get through most days without so much as an ethical flinch. But that would probably be that way because I haven't gone through quite as many grey areas.
Plus, if I was evil, I'd never question myself, and I wouldn't put so much effort into doing good. For example, if I didn't have any good values, I would've let Steele get impaled, then either use one of the relatively good sirens to charge my key, or scour the galaxy hunting down Steele's successor.
So overall, I-
"Jack!" Roland uncharacteristically shouted at me. "Get your head in the game! We need your help, right now!"
Oh, right. The big Vault Monster is still trying to kill us all. Should probably focus on that.
"Kay." I absentmindedly agree, dipping switches and pressing buttons, like in all the best action movies. Of course, unlike all of those action movies, these switches and buttons actually serve a purpose, and don't just provide random theatrics while doing absolutely nothing to fix the situation.
I really should have started the instant we got back in the Technical, but then I had to go and distract myself with philosophical questions. Again. God, the freaking Destroyer didn't even phase me, but the second the topic was about me, it was all I could think about.
I am so egocentric.
"Hey!" Mordecai complained, shocking, as I reached over him to pull another lever, quickly adjusting the pressure of the engines to prevent us from, ahem, imploding when I fire two of the BFG's at once. "What are you doing?!" He whined again, more concerned about his personal space than he was about our lives.
Selfish jerk.
"In short," I scoff, with a roll of my eyes. "Making sure the engine's coolant doesn't erupt when we fire the big guns, trying to get the shield's strength to match the projected force of the explosion, and maneuvering us away from the land-kraken before it probably kills and eats us. But, hey, if I'm making you uncomfortable-"
"Nope, that's- that's fine." Mordecai defused, his tone calming down profoundly, and maybe even a little guilty. "You just, do that, then. Thanks."
"You're welcome." I reply, with only a tiny amount of smugness. Honest.
"Hey," Lilith casually chimes in, or about as casual as someone being attacked by a freakishly large cyclops with tentacle appendages can be. "About those guns, when can we fire them?"
"Excellent question." I complimented without answering her.
Which she noticed. Crap. "Thanks. So, when can we fire them, again?"
"Pfft. You know, like maybe, uh, a while. Could be soon, though." I reassured her.
Lilith did not look reassured. "Right. What exactly is the time frame for that?"
"What do you mean?" I stalled.
"When. Can. We. Fire?" Lilith reiterated, this time with a warning tone in her voice.
"Soon! Definitely soon." I promise. Then after quickly going over some of my mental calculations, I frowned. "Might be a while though."
"Jack!" She snapped.
"I'm working on it, okay?!" I shout right back at her. "Can't you guys just keep it busy or something?"
"Like what?!" Lilith cried back, verging on hysteria, not that I can blame her.
"I don't know! Do something to get its attention or distract it!" I suggest, flipping and pressing buttons at an exponential pace. "Just buy me some time. Please."
Lilith made a sound. I'm not really sure how to describe it. It was sort of like a cross breed between a growl and a sigh, I guess? Kinda like when a person takes deep breath to avoid using profanity at the top of their lungs. "Fine." She looked back at the others imploringly. "Any ideas, guys?"
Brick was the only one who raised his hand. Even though this is a battle tank, not a classroom.
Lilith did sigh this time. "Yes, Brick?"
"Can we try shooting it?" He asked curiously, and with a chest puffed out in pride. "I'm pretty good at that."
Mordecai nodded in agreement. "I can get behind that. It's basically like the Rakk Hive, right? Let's just go for the eye again. Not like it's a small target."
Okay, see if I was anything like the old Jack, I would have punched him in the face for that. Or probably worse. Thing is, I'm my own man, and frankly, I don't need a giant laser made out of the salvaged pieces of a space fantasy/sci-fi beast.
Although…
Nah. Too much work. Plus, if I ever want a doomsday weapon, it'd probably be for the best if I made it out of something that hasn't tried to kill me. I am, after all, at the top of my list on things I don't want destroyed.
Right above Angel, Lazy River Land, and bacon double cheese burgers.
Coincidentally, some of the things I have on my list of things I want to be destroyed include, Tyreen, Katagawa Jr., and every doctor who ever told me to stop eating bacon double cheese burgers. I am a grown man, and I will eat what I want!
And another thing! Why should I have to-! Oh, shit, the Destroyer looks pissed.
It gave an evil, angry red glare, which was surprisingly effective given it only had one eye to do it with. Also, why is it red? My memory isn't the greatest, but I'm fairly certain it was a normal color in the game. Well, relatively normal, it is an eldritch abomination sent from Hell.
"We got it!" Brick cheered with a rocket launcher resting on his mighty biceps. Wait, where'd he get that? I didn't give it to him (even though I probably should have, in hindsight), did he steal that from the armory? Good for him.
I mean, boo! That's Hyperion property! Shame on you! Other sounds of disapproval!
"Hey amigo, I hate to bring you down," Mordecai comforted, placing a hand on Brick's other bicep. Note to self: find out Brick's training regime. "But we definitely didn't get him."
Brick looked back to the wounded Vault Monster, shocked. As if he was completely flabbergasted, that an ancient and powerful creature, so dangerous and bloodthirsty that a race of far more intelligent beings than us had to lock it away in a planet, could survive a few tiny explosions to the face. "Aww man."
Aww man indeed, Brick.
"Hey, look! It's getting redder, that's something!" Brick points out optimistically.
Not really, though.
"No, it's not." Mordecai scoffed. "It's the exact same shade! It's just… brighter. Actually, is that thing glowing?" Glowing? Why would it-
"Oh shit!" I cussed, quickly clearing my screens, and bringing the shields up to maximum power. "Brace yourselves, people! This is gonna hurt!"
We had about three seconds before it's eye beam crashed into us. It struck with enough force to flip us over, not once, not twice, but four times! Considering that without the shield, it probably would have gone through us, I'm counting this as a win.
Or a tie. Maybe a small loss? The Technical is pretty toast now. One of the only things going for it, is that it rolled an even number, so it's back on its tires, and the many, many weapons it came equipped with. Weapons that may also coincidentally destroy it, if we were to fire any of them in their current state.
"Everyone out." I commanded with a groan and got affirmative groans in response. I unbuckled myself from the seatbelt that both saved my life and trapped me in a doomed vehicle. I have mixed feelings on the seatbelt.
Practically crawling out the door (despite the car still being upright), I nearly collapsed on the ground as I steadied myself up. I just have the worst sense of vertigo right now. This close to throwing up inside my helmet. Really wish I splurged on that built in waste disposal.
"You guys okay?" I asked, seeing the slightly better stance of my fellow 'comrades' as Marcus would say.
"Define 'okay'." Lilith asked, haphazardly cracking her neck, and sighing in relief.
"Not dead." I clarified.
"More or less." Mordecai answered in a low voice, either because of the pain, or because he's tired and wants to take a nap.
"Then you're doing better than her." I pat the old Technical in sympathy. "Don't think insurance is gonna cover this one. Probably a good thing I never actually got it insured, then."
"So, what now?" Roland looked at me for a plan.
I smiled wryly. "Excellent question. The normal rounds don't seem to faze it, it's apparently got laser eyes on par with superman, and as for our best weapon, well…" I chuckled mournfully. "See for yourselves."
Pulling up the self-diagnosis to their echoes, as if the sight of the vehicle alone wasn't enough, I read aloud. "Breaks are a no go, shields are kaput, engine's failing, manual control's offline, and remote control guidance is… fully operational?"
Blinking in confusion, I expected the millisecond after my eyes were closed that it would correct itself, but the setting stayed the same. Experimentally, I accessed the remote, driving the car on the control a couple feet to the left, and the Technical actually moved.
"Huh." I absentmindedly hummed, mind brimming with possibility. "Weapons diagnosis?" Several of the turrets were offline, as were some of the heavy artillery, one of the BFGs was active though, but in its current state, it'd blow the car up with the target.
I wasn't willing to do that when I was in the car, but now…
"You guys might want to back up a bit." I warned. They got the general idea, and cautiously moved further away from the suicidal tank. Rest assured, this bomber's gonna do a lot more damage than your run of the day bomb physco.
It rolled fast, or as fast as I could get it to, and the Destroyer allowed it to, unconcerned. In its mind, assuming it had one, it had all but killed the metallic creature, and now it was coming close enough to finish the job. Why should that bother it?
In fact, why not eat the strange metal beast while it was at it? It may not look that appetizing, and it most certainly won't digest well, but after an untold millennium trapped within the Vault, the Destroyer was far too hungry to mind.
So, it did.
Or rather, it tried to. For on that very first bite, a strange glow appeared, and the metal beast, once known as the greatest Technical that ever lived, released a mighty roar, and over fifty kilos worth of firepower. Enough that it would have level the mountain entirely, were the blast not already encased by the Destroyer.
Writhing in agony, wailing in pain, tentacles flaying, it retreated quickly into its own prison for salvation. Leaving behind several unattached limbs, blood galore, and even pieces of its own eye, not to mention its mouth.
For the Vault Hunters, and even Jack, there was only one word that could properly summarize the defeat of one of the greatest threats to mankind, and all life as they knew it.
"Wow."
So, the Destroyer was beaten, my Hunters were paid, and all was right in the world for a while. It didn't last of course. Why would it? If it wasn't for bad times, these good times wouldn't feel half as great.
But at the time, things were finally working out.
I personally defeated a Vault Monster, for real. The kind of PR that move inspired alone, increased Hyperion sales by thirty percent. Not to mention Pandora.
That chaos infested Hellhole made me rich. As in, I could buy a planet rich. I promise that's not hyperbole, I could. I'm not going to, but I could. Isn't that just awesome? That Eridium for you, lucrative and scientifically awesome.
Speaking of scientifically awesome, the good news keeps coming! Tannis works for me now, indefinitely. Or until she gets bored, which she told me in… less than clear terms. Of course, I don't think that'll be a problem. After all, you can't experiment on a Siren at just any ethical questioning occupation, now can you?
Steele survived, which admittedly surprised me when I checked her pulse. She survived an almost nuclear explosion, but a single tentacle can run her through like a siren-kabob? Whatever, it makes me happy so I'm not gonna question it.
Especially because now, I have a Siren ginny pig, that I have no moral qualms about using for all of my nefarious schemes. Mwah ha ha ha!
Or something like that.
Speaking of Sirens, Lilith and I went out on that date. A week after, we went out on another. A week after that, well a true gentleman never tells. But yeah, she's my girlfriend now, and a much more stable one then Nisha. I might even introduce her to Angel, soon.
She's doing great too, by the way. She's definitely been a lot happier since I stopped adventuring around Pandora, or at least a lot less worried. I don't think that's the only reason she's happy though. Now, you didn't hear it from me, but I heard (from my network of automaton spies) that Angel's found herself a girlfriend.
Which means I have to start rehearsing my shovel speech. I'm thinking of adding something about how I destroyed the Destroyer. Make it more dramatic.
As for the rest of the gang, Roland, Mordecai, and Brick, they're still chilling out on Pandora.
And of course, by 'chilling out' I mean waging a revolutionary/civil war on the Atlas corporation. Roland, as it turns out, still harbors a lot of fondness for his once fellow soldiers and is trying to convert them to his more righteous cause. Through force. Also, through inspirational speeches.
Not quite sure Athena will be wholly approving, but I don't think she'll object it out of hand. Maybe. I hope?
But, in any event, the soldier boy still has Mordecai and Brick backing him up. Why, you may ask? Well, you see, it turns out that Mordecai really likes to shoot things, and Brick really likes to hit things. Plus, maybe something about camaraderie, or the power of friendship.
I help them out where I can. Supply drops, info caches, etc. Sometimes I do a bit more. Least I can do for some old friends. It helps that they're limiting my competition. Easier to justify this stuff to the Board.
I wish I could say that everything worked out perfectly for everyone, I do. But like I said, that's not really how this works. In hindsight, I don't know why I ever doubted how much damage an unattended Claptrap could do.
But that's a tale for another time.
Handsome Jack, CEO of Hyperion, Chronicles Of Pandora, Vault of The Destroyer
Wow! What a thrilling conclusion! (If anyone calls that anticlimactic, I'm going to deny it)
But seriously, the first game is done! Barring the DLCs of course, which I plan to get to. In fact, we'll be picking up with the first one, tomorrow! In the meantime, thanks so much for reading. If you want to see what happens next right now, feel free to check me out on SB and FFN, or on my Patreon, link below:
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Are you kidding me?!
You know, I'll be the first to admit that my last life wasn't perfect. I procrastinated too much, I made decisions that I thought were smart, but had horrible consequences, and I didn't spend enough time with the family.
And even though for some twisted reason that merited being reborn as the biggest villain ever, in the history of forever, I made sure that I didn't make any of those mistakes ever again.
I had initiative, I planned ahead and actually thought things through, I became a single parent for Christ's sake! But despite all of my efforts to the contrary, here I am again.
Too late, too many consequences, and too much regret about not staying home with Angel.
"Pass." I denied the Russian (Is she Russian? Or do they like identity as something else, here?) Siren, much to her growing fury.
"Ha!" Commandant Steele barked out a laugh, with the same effort I go through when I try to chuckle at a bad pun from a good friend. "You do not have a choice in the matter."
Actually, I do. It's just that all my options suck.
There's Option A: Awful. Where I and my crew of certifiable badasses proceed to quickly massacre the surrounding ambush of Atlas drones. And the bandits who were with them for some reason. I'll just deal with that crap basket later.
Now the perks are that I get to kill some bad guys, and brag about it around the office. The downside is that killing them might tire us out a little, and I want us up to full strength. Plus, then I'd have to kill Steele too, which is bad.
Not ethically, hell I'd be doing the galaxy a favor, I just mean practically.
See, there are approximately six Sirens in the entire known universe. I need one of them, preferably an expendable one, and thankfully I happen to know who they all are.
There's Angel, my daughter, the smartest, most talented girl that's ever lived, and I'm proud to say that I'm not embellishing. Then there's Lilith, my sort of, maybe girlfriend depending how things work, who's currently on my team. So, obviously they're off the table.
Then we have Maya, the awesome, semi-deified protector of Athenas. She's cool. Also, there's Amara, who's pretty much Maya but with an accent? Oh, and I guess she likes combat a lot more. But she's not like, uber violent, so, these girls aren't gonna fly either.
And finally, the last two. The evil two. Unless you count Troy. I don't. Anyways, there's Steele and Tyreen, the undisputed antagonists of the first and third game. Frankly, I wouldn't mind using either of them to charge up a Vault Key.
Sadly, Tyreen probably wouldn't cut it. Cause she's more like a leech than a battery. It's like trying to use a motor as a generator. Doesn't make any sense.
So, that leaves Steele.
"I wouldn't be that sure." I finally respond with a shrug. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." She didn't look particularly pleased with my answer. In fact, it looked a lot like she was trying to murder me with her eyeballs.
Then Steele pressed her gun against my helmet and pushed it in warningly. For the record, that mask is bullet proof, I'm still okay with this. Plus, my calm seems to unnerve her. "You are bold, лакей. Too-"
"Too bold." I finished with her, an unseen smirk across my face, while she blinked in surprise. "Jinx."
Hey here's a thought, maybe the next time you rehearse your lines for your whole evil monologue thing, you could make sure they're original. Truly, Commandant Steele, you may have been one of the biggest baddies of the franchise, but you were clearly not the most entertaining.
Which to be fair, the ones that were, were also the ones that people were super happy to kill. Maybe that's why the player didn't get to kill you? You know, the first time around. Before you became a zombie robot, with way more amusing lines.
Either she somehow read my expression through my helmet, or she was really offended by the 'jinx', because she pistol whipped me. Hardly even felt that, but still, it's a bit of an overreaction. Doesn't she know she just has to get someone to say her name three times and she's safe?
"Enough games!" Steele demanded. It'd be a lot more intimidating if she wasn't so flushed. "The Vault Key. Now."
Yikes. That one gave me chills.
Which brings us to Option B: Bitch gets what she deserves. It involves… well, the name probably gives it away, but basically I give her the Key, then sit back and watch as she gets tentacled.
Oh Christ, that sounds bad without context! Okay, chillax. I'm just going to watch as one of the Destroyer's Tentacles impales a hole in her body- into, into her body. Like, with the whole stabby stab motion, you know?
I'm just gonna stop thinking about that.
Anyways, the end result of that is that Steele dies a punk death, then me and my team have to kill the Destroyer, and probably the rest of the Atlas soldiers here as well as the bandits. Which is bad because one, I'm going to have to find who spiritually succeeds Steele and hope she's equally as evil. Two, we'll have to fight a lot of people at the same time.
And three, why are there bandits here? I know, I said that I was gonna table this, but those guys are really a pet peeve for me. I- no! Not the priority, deal with them later.
The point is, options A and B are out, which leaves me with option C.
"Jack...?" Lilith (almost nervously) tried to get my attention. "What do you want us to do?"
Option C: Could've, should've, would've made a plan. But I didn't. Improvise?
I shrug nonchalantly, before tossing the Key over, much to the surprise of… well, everyone.
Commandant Steele stumbled with the catch, but held it close to her, looking at me warily, as if she expected me to snatch it back. Aside from crossing my arms and raising an unseen brow, I stayed perfectly still. "A wise choice…"
She continued to stare in suspicion, even going as far to inspect the Key for signs of a fake. Which is actually mildly insulting. Do I look like a con man to you? Shut up, that was rhetorical. "Yup." I deadpanned. "What can I say? I'm the brains of the operation. Making the smart call is what I do."
"Indeed." Steele reluctantly turned away from me, averting her gaze to the center of the summit, where in lie what was essentially the 'ignition start' of the Vault. She took a few hesitant steps, before turning back to me with a confused expression. "You're not going to stop me?"
I gave a mild shrug. "Could I?"
"No." Steele states determinedly, a glare fixed on her face. "You could not." She delayed a few seconds more before approaching the podium, confidence oozing out of every step.
Lilith tugged at my arm, impatiently. "Jack!" She whispered/shouted, defeating the purpose of whispering. "What are you doing?!"
"Don't worry." I whisper back, at whisper volume, as Steele finally mustered the courage to plug the key in. "I've got a plan."
"What plan?!" Lilith demanded, pulling back on my arm insistently.
The Vault didn't seem to mind our back and forth, going about its business of opening up, as usual. And by 'usual' I, of course, mean connecting solid stone archways telekinetically, through the art of space magic. While glowing an ominous purple throughout the peak of the mountain.
"Improvise!" I answered/ordered as I shot Steele in the back with my hidden concussion blaster. The boys at R&D wanted to call it a 'stun-gun', but I was like 'Nah, man. If it rhymes, no one's going to take it seriously.'
Steele didn't have time to look surprised. The blaster takes effect pretty quickly. Like, instantaneous, quickly. She collapsed just as the portal went up, and captured the interest of every merc, lancer, and bandit on the cliff.
Sadly, that included the ones I hired.
"Hey!" I snapped my fingers in front of their faces to get their attention, only to get their bewildered looks. "I said improvise! This is not improvising. Get to the Technical!"
Roland nodded, still in a daze, but took off in a sprint while everyone else was distracted. Bloodwing needed to nip Mordecai to get him going, but to his credit he didn't even flinch. Not bodily, anyway. Helmets are worse than masks when it comes to telling expressions.
Lilith stayed by my side because she's awesome, smart, and loyal. Also, pretty, funny, and- ahem. Anyways, Brick was the only one left not doing anything, in fact he was just staring at me, confused.
"Brick, what are you doing? I said, get to the technical!" I didn't snap, but my tone might have come off as a little harsh. "Please." There, now I feel better.
Brick scratched the back of his head, still a little lost. "I thought you said to improvise."
"I did!"
"So, why do I have to do what you tell me to do?" He asked a fair, if completely stupid and irrelevant question.
I groaned, and bit back a curse. Reminding myself that underneath all the muscle, blood, and tri-reinforced body armor, he's just a really big kid at heart. "Brick, improve is about a lot of things. But mostly, it's about 'yes, and'. So, when I tell you to go to the Technical, you say…"
"Yes, and…" Brick answered, before trailing off unsure. "Uh, and what, boss?"
The arch flashed, and the purple gleam, and the mental image of tentacle impalement spurred me into pushing the smarter than the average goliath back into the Technical. "And we do it right now, or we're totally screwed!"
I pushed him harder, but he was heavy enough before the armor. Honestly, it might take a forklift to move him… A very sturdy forklift. Or a spaceship.
Thankfully, my overgrown companion got the hint when tentacles started leaping out of the magically scientific portal to… where did that portal lead to? I know, it's the prison of the Destroyer, sure, but where specifically is that?
I know it had something to do with Pandora, but hell, what doesn't?
But, I digress. Atlas soldiers, and bandit thugs are getting ripped off the very ground they stand on and thrown into the maw of an eldritch creature that wouldn't seem out of place in a Lovecraft novel. Which definitely encouraged the rest of us to scram back into the Vehicle.
Those of us who had one, anyways. It really sucks for the bandits at this point, most of the Atlas forces are just pulling out, or trying to anyway. The ones who ran, and didn't get caught by the tentacles from Hell, pretty much left the rest for dead.
Including Steele, thankfully. By which I mean, thankfully for me, obviously. She's gonna feel pretty betrayed when she comes to. A vindictive part of me is looking forward to it. Should I feel bad about that? Meh.
I know my conscience might not exactly be up to snuff, and sure, my moral compass might not always point to North, but I think I do okay. Better than the original Jack, anyways. Not that it's much of a challenge. I could probably punch nuns in the face, and still manage to be ahead in the 'not an asshole' race, at least by comparison.
Is it weird that I question myself this much?
I feel like if I was working with, like, the average morality package, I would get through most days without so much as an ethical flinch. But that would probably be that way because I haven't gone through quite as many grey areas.
Plus, if I was evil, I'd never question myself, and I wouldn't put so much effort into doing good. For example, if I didn't have any good values, I would've let Steele get impaled, then either use one of the relatively good sirens to charge my key, or scour the galaxy hunting down Steele's successor.
So overall, I-
"Jack!" Roland uncharacteristically shouted at me. "Get your head in the game! We need your help, right now!"
Oh, right. The big Vault Monster is still trying to kill us all. Should probably focus on that.
"Kay." I absentmindedly agree, dipping switches and pressing buttons, like in all the best action movies. Of course, unlike all of those action movies, these switches and buttons actually serve a purpose, and don't just provide random theatrics while doing absolutely nothing to fix the situation.
I really should have started the instant we got back in the Technical, but then I had to go and distract myself with philosophical questions. Again. God, the freaking Destroyer didn't even phase me, but the second the topic was about me, it was all I could think about.
I am so egocentric.
"Hey!" Mordecai complained, shocking, as I reached over him to pull another lever, quickly adjusting the pressure of the engines to prevent us from, ahem, imploding when I fire two of the BFG's at once. "What are you doing?!" He whined again, more concerned about his personal space than he was about our lives.
Selfish jerk.
"In short," I scoff, with a roll of my eyes. "Making sure the engine's coolant doesn't erupt when we fire the big guns, trying to get the shield's strength to match the projected force of the explosion, and maneuvering us away from the land-kraken before it probably kills and eats us. But, hey, if I'm making you uncomfortable-"
"Nope, that's- that's fine." Mordecai defused, his tone calming down profoundly, and maybe even a little guilty. "You just, do that, then. Thanks."
"You're welcome." I reply, with only a tiny amount of smugness. Honest.
"Hey," Lilith casually chimes in, or about as casual as someone being attacked by a freakishly large cyclops with tentacle appendages can be. "About those guns, when can we fire them?"
"Excellent question." I complimented without answering her.
Which she noticed. Crap. "Thanks. So, when can we fire them, again?"
"Pfft. You know, like maybe, uh, a while. Could be soon, though." I reassured her.
Lilith did not look reassured. "Right. What exactly is the time frame for that?"
"What do you mean?" I stalled.
"When. Can. We. Fire?" Lilith reiterated, this time with a warning tone in her voice.
"Soon! Definitely soon." I promise. Then after quickly going over some of my mental calculations, I frowned. "Might be a while though."
"Jack!" She snapped.
"I'm working on it, okay?!" I shout right back at her. "Can't you guys just keep it busy or something?"
"Like what?!" Lilith cried back, verging on hysteria, not that I can blame her.
"I don't know! Do something to get its attention or distract it!" I suggest, flipping and pressing buttons at an exponential pace. "Just buy me some time. Please."
Lilith made a sound. I'm not really sure how to describe it. It was sort of like a cross breed between a growl and a sigh, I guess? Kinda like when a person takes deep breath to avoid using profanity at the top of their lungs. "Fine." She looked back at the others imploringly. "Any ideas, guys?"
Brick was the only one who raised his hand. Even though this is a battle tank, not a classroom.
Lilith did sigh this time. "Yes, Brick?"
"Can we try shooting it?" He asked curiously, and with a chest puffed out in pride. "I'm pretty good at that."
Mordecai nodded in agreement. "I can get behind that. It's basically like the Rakk Hive, right? Let's just go for the eye again. Not like it's a small target."
Okay, see if I was anything like the old Jack, I would have punched him in the face for that. Or probably worse. Thing is, I'm my own man, and frankly, I don't need a giant laser made out of the salvaged pieces of a space fantasy/sci-fi beast.
Although…
Nah. Too much work. Plus, if I ever want a doomsday weapon, it'd probably be for the best if I made it out of something that hasn't tried to kill me. I am, after all, at the top of my list on things I don't want destroyed.
Right above Angel, Lazy River Land, and bacon double cheese burgers.
Coincidentally, some of the things I have on my list of things I want to be destroyed include, Tyreen, Katagawa Jr., and every doctor who ever told me to stop eating bacon double cheese burgers. I am a grown man, and I will eat what I want!
And another thing! Why should I have to-! Oh, shit, the Destroyer looks pissed.
It gave an evil, angry red glare, which was surprisingly effective given it only had one eye to do it with. Also, why is it red? My memory isn't the greatest, but I'm fairly certain it was a normal color in the game. Well, relatively normal, it is an eldritch abomination sent from Hell.
"We got it!" Brick cheered with a rocket launcher resting on his mighty biceps. Wait, where'd he get that? I didn't give it to him (even though I probably should have, in hindsight), did he steal that from the armory? Good for him.
I mean, boo! That's Hyperion property! Shame on you! Other sounds of disapproval!
"Hey amigo, I hate to bring you down," Mordecai comforted, placing a hand on Brick's other bicep. Note to self: find out Brick's training regime. "But we definitely didn't get him."
Brick looked back to the wounded Vault Monster, shocked. As if he was completely flabbergasted, that an ancient and powerful creature, so dangerous and bloodthirsty that a race of far more intelligent beings than us had to lock it away in a planet, could survive a few tiny explosions to the face. "Aww man."
Aww man indeed, Brick.
"Hey, look! It's getting redder, that's something!" Brick points out optimistically.
Not really, though.
"No, it's not." Mordecai scoffed. "It's the exact same shade! It's just… brighter. Actually, is that thing glowing?" Glowing? Why would it-
"Oh shit!" I cussed, quickly clearing my screens, and bringing the shields up to maximum power. "Brace yourselves, people! This is gonna hurt!"
We had about three seconds before it's eye beam crashed into us. It struck with enough force to flip us over, not once, not twice, but four times! Considering that without the shield, it probably would have gone through us, I'm counting this as a win.
Or a tie. Maybe a small loss? The Technical is pretty toast now. One of the only things going for it, is that it rolled an even number, so it's back on its tires, and the many, many weapons it came equipped with. Weapons that may also coincidentally destroy it, if we were to fire any of them in their current state.
"Everyone out." I commanded with a groan and got affirmative groans in response. I unbuckled myself from the seatbelt that both saved my life and trapped me in a doomed vehicle. I have mixed feelings on the seatbelt.
Practically crawling out the door (despite the car still being upright), I nearly collapsed on the ground as I steadied myself up. I just have the worst sense of vertigo right now. This close to throwing up inside my helmet. Really wish I splurged on that built in waste disposal.
"You guys okay?" I asked, seeing the slightly better stance of my fellow 'comrades' as Marcus would say.
"Define 'okay'." Lilith asked, haphazardly cracking her neck, and sighing in relief.
"Not dead." I clarified.
"More or less." Mordecai answered in a low voice, either because of the pain, or because he's tired and wants to take a nap.
"Then you're doing better than her." I pat the old Technical in sympathy. "Don't think insurance is gonna cover this one. Probably a good thing I never actually got it insured, then."
"So, what now?" Roland looked at me for a plan.
I smiled wryly. "Excellent question. The normal rounds don't seem to faze it, it's apparently got laser eyes on par with superman, and as for our best weapon, well…" I chuckled mournfully. "See for yourselves."
Pulling up the self-diagnosis to their echoes, as if the sight of the vehicle alone wasn't enough, I read aloud. "Breaks are a no go, shields are kaput, engine's failing, manual control's offline, and remote control guidance is… fully operational?"
Blinking in confusion, I expected the millisecond after my eyes were closed that it would correct itself, but the setting stayed the same. Experimentally, I accessed the remote, driving the car on the control a couple feet to the left, and the Technical actually moved.
"Huh." I absentmindedly hummed, mind brimming with possibility. "Weapons diagnosis?" Several of the turrets were offline, as were some of the heavy artillery, one of the BFGs was active though, but in its current state, it'd blow the car up with the target.
I wasn't willing to do that when I was in the car, but now…
"You guys might want to back up a bit." I warned. They got the general idea, and cautiously moved further away from the suicidal tank. Rest assured, this bomber's gonna do a lot more damage than your run of the day bomb physco.
It rolled fast, or as fast as I could get it to, and the Destroyer allowed it to, unconcerned. In its mind, assuming it had one, it had all but killed the metallic creature, and now it was coming close enough to finish the job. Why should that bother it?
In fact, why not eat the strange metal beast while it was at it? It may not look that appetizing, and it most certainly won't digest well, but after an untold millennium trapped within the Vault, the Destroyer was far too hungry to mind.
So, it did.
Or rather, it tried to. For on that very first bite, a strange glow appeared, and the metal beast, once known as the greatest Technical that ever lived, released a mighty roar, and over fifty kilos worth of firepower. Enough that it would have level the mountain entirely, were the blast not already encased by the Destroyer.
Writhing in agony, wailing in pain, tentacles flaying, it retreated quickly into its own prison for salvation. Leaving behind several unattached limbs, blood galore, and even pieces of its own eye, not to mention its mouth.
For the Vault Hunters, and even Jack, there was only one word that could properly summarize the defeat of one of the greatest threats to mankind, and all life as they knew it.
"Wow."
...
So, the Destroyer was beaten, my Hunters were paid, and all was right in the world for a while. It didn't last of course. Why would it? If it wasn't for bad times, these good times wouldn't feel half as great.
But at the time, things were finally working out.
I personally defeated a Vault Monster, for real. The kind of PR that move inspired alone, increased Hyperion sales by thirty percent. Not to mention Pandora.
That chaos infested Hellhole made me rich. As in, I could buy a planet rich. I promise that's not hyperbole, I could. I'm not going to, but I could. Isn't that just awesome? That Eridium for you, lucrative and scientifically awesome.
Speaking of scientifically awesome, the good news keeps coming! Tannis works for me now, indefinitely. Or until she gets bored, which she told me in… less than clear terms. Of course, I don't think that'll be a problem. After all, you can't experiment on a Siren at just any ethical questioning occupation, now can you?
Steele survived, which admittedly surprised me when I checked her pulse. She survived an almost nuclear explosion, but a single tentacle can run her through like a siren-kabob? Whatever, it makes me happy so I'm not gonna question it.
Especially because now, I have a Siren ginny pig, that I have no moral qualms about using for all of my nefarious schemes. Mwah ha ha ha!
Or something like that.
Speaking of Sirens, Lilith and I went out on that date. A week after, we went out on another. A week after that, well a true gentleman never tells. But yeah, she's my girlfriend now, and a much more stable one then Nisha. I might even introduce her to Angel, soon.
She's doing great too, by the way. She's definitely been a lot happier since I stopped adventuring around Pandora, or at least a lot less worried. I don't think that's the only reason she's happy though. Now, you didn't hear it from me, but I heard (from my network of automaton spies) that Angel's found herself a girlfriend.
Which means I have to start rehearsing my shovel speech. I'm thinking of adding something about how I destroyed the Destroyer. Make it more dramatic.
As for the rest of the gang, Roland, Mordecai, and Brick, they're still chilling out on Pandora.
And of course, by 'chilling out' I mean waging a revolutionary/civil war on the Atlas corporation. Roland, as it turns out, still harbors a lot of fondness for his once fellow soldiers and is trying to convert them to his more righteous cause. Through force. Also, through inspirational speeches.
Not quite sure Athena will be wholly approving, but I don't think she'll object it out of hand. Maybe. I hope?
But, in any event, the soldier boy still has Mordecai and Brick backing him up. Why, you may ask? Well, you see, it turns out that Mordecai really likes to shoot things, and Brick really likes to hit things. Plus, maybe something about camaraderie, or the power of friendship.
I help them out where I can. Supply drops, info caches, etc. Sometimes I do a bit more. Least I can do for some old friends. It helps that they're limiting my competition. Easier to justify this stuff to the Board.
I wish I could say that everything worked out perfectly for everyone, I do. But like I said, that's not really how this works. In hindsight, I don't know why I ever doubted how much damage an unattended Claptrap could do.
But that's a tale for another time.
Handsome Jack, CEO of Hyperion, Chronicles Of Pandora, Vault of The Destroyer
...
Wow! What a thrilling conclusion! (If anyone calls that anticlimactic, I'm going to deny it)
But seriously, the first game is done! Barring the DLCs of course, which I plan to get to. In fact, we'll be picking up with the first one, tomorrow! In the meantime, thanks so much for reading. If you want to see what happens next right now, feel free to check me out on SB and FFN, or on my Patreon, link below:
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Chapter 24: Welcome Back, Jack!
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Chapter 24: Welcome Back, Jack!
Corporal Reiss adjusted his helmet for the fifth time that morning. The damn thing never fit right. Too loose at the chin, too tight at the temples, and the inside always smelled faintly of recycled sweat no matter how many sterilization cycles it went through.
Atlas called it "standard-issue protective gear." He called it "my own portable sauna of despair."
He tightened the strap anyway. Paycheck or not, disobeying dress code meant paperwork. And paperwork meant a sergeant breathing down his neck. And a sergeant breathing down his neck meant another "motivational" speech about the honor of serving Atlas, protecting corporate interests, and all that other nonsense.
Reiss didn't hate Atlas. He didn't love Atlas either. But they paid him, mostly on time, and the food in the mess hall didn't actively kill him. So here he was. Still here.
The outpost buzzed with energy, though not in a good way. Normally the Crimson Lance were efficient—tight schedules, sharper drills, even sharper weapons. Today? Everything smelled of desperation. Engineers barked over radio chatter, transports lifted and landed in quick rotations, and every second soldier seemed to be muttering the same phrase under their breath:
"Steele failed."
The words carried like a curse. Commandant Steele, the woman who'd supposedly been Atlas's big ace, had vanished into the Vault with a squad of troops and hadn't walked back out. The official line was "tactical reassignment." The unofficial line was… well, Reiss wasn't an idiot.
A private jogged past him, arms full of ECHO pads. "Corporal! Orders just came through. Another deployment to the Arid Badlands. Crimson Fastness is on full alert."
Reiss groaned. "Again? We've been redeploying to the Badlands for months. What's left there, dirt and psychos?"
"Atlas says it's a priority zone, sir."
Of course they did. Reiss waved the private off and trudged into the comms tent. The officers inside were arguing over maps, red markers spreading like a rash across Pandora's surface.
One captain stabbed a finger down on the table. "Command says reinforcements are en route. Heavy reinforcements. Straight from HQ."
The room went silent.
"Knoxx?" someone whispered.
"They didn't say." The captain shook his head grimly. "But… yeah. Could be. Word is Atlas is sending in the big guns. Right now? The General's the biggest one we got."
Reiss exhaled through his helmet filter, the sound coming out as a mechanical hiss. He'd signed up for hazard pay, sure. But fighting Vault monsters, bandits hopped up on Skag meat, and… whatever "big guns" meant? This was starting to feel above his pay grade.
Not that it's a high bar. His pay was shit. Why hasn't he deserted, again? Oh, right. Because deserters got shot.
He straightened, saluted half-heartedly, and muttered under his breath as he left the tent.
"Welcome back to the shitshow."
You ever have one of those weeks where you save the goddamn planet and somehow nobody sends you a thank-you card? Yeah, that was me.
Let's take stock, shall we?
First, there was Nine-Toes. Big scary bandit boss, the kind of guy that made new recruits wet themselves just hearing his name. Me? I shot him, robbed him, and made jokes about his dumb fucking name. Easy peasy.
Then we had Sledge. Giant psycho with a hammer the size of a small moon. He went down after I convinced Brick to stop punching walls long enough to actually aim at the guy. Teamwork!
Probably a bunch of filler enemies, too. But honestly, most of them blended together. Everyone looks the same when they're covered in gore. Does that count as diversity? Probably not.
But among the carnage, there was one that made the grade: Commandant Steele, Atlas's pet dominatrix in crimson armor. She got herself killed opening the Vault like a dumbass. At least as far as Atlas knows. Except, surprise! She didn't die. Nope. We dragged her out, patched her up, and now she's my personal chew toy. Fun, right?
Oh, and let's not forget the Vault itself. Inside was not a treasure trove of loot, not a golden chalice of corporate stock options, but a giant fucking hentai monster. The Destroyer. Or maybe just the Destroyer's ugly cousin. I forget how all this space-god stuff works. We killed it. With bullets. Because of course bullets work on eldritch horrors that live outside time and space.
Well, okay. To be fair. We did use lasers, too.
Point is: I worked hard. I did good. Even ignoring how this all benefits me in the long-run, I should have something nice in the short-run. I should have parades. I should have statues. I should have—bare minimum—a day off. Instead, what do I have?
'Jack!'
Well, I'll tell you. I have four badass vault hunters. I have a siren daughter, who just so happens to be a god of hacking. I have eridium, slowly, but surely making its way into Pandora's hellish parody of an ecosystem. I have my prize.
'Jack, Jack, Jack, hey Jack, buddy, pal, handsome friend of mine—'
I also have problems. Primarily, I have to deal with Tassiter being his usual, antagonistic, dickish self. I have to deal with Atlas who, like the fathers of many oops babies, has no idea that it's time to pull out. And finally… I have to deal with him.
"Christ," I muttered, massaging the bridge of my mask. "Here we go."
If I thought he was bad before… It's like he's trying to push my buttons. Before, I at least got to have a whole day before I had to deal with him. Half-a-day, at worst. Now? It's hourly. Everywhere. All the time! And the awful voice is just stuck in my head! It's on loop!
"J—"
I bolted upright from my chair. "What?!" I screamed at the ceiling, at the floor, at the air itself. "What in the name of all things unholy do you possibly want now, you little metal asshole?!"
There was a pause. A moment of blessed silence.
"…Um. Sorry?"
I blinked. That wasn't Claptrap's whiny tin-can screech. That was… a very human, very awkward voice. I turned and found Rhys standing in the doorway, nervously rubbing the seam of his mechanical arm.
"Oh." I exhaled, smoothed my coat, tried to look dignified. "Hey, Rhys. Sorry. Thought you were—never mind. What's up?"
He coughed into his elbow like a kid trying to cover up a swear in class, I should know. I used to be that kid. "Uh, nothing, sir. Just… wanted to let you know the creepy Russian lady's ready in the interrogation room. Whenever you feel like it."
Right. Steele. My favorite war criminal.
"Thanks, kid." I stood, straightened my gloves, and gave him my best reassuring grin. "And relax, huh? You look like you're about to short-circuit. First rule of leadership: never let the mask slip."
And that was only half a pun!
Rhys's face lit up. Hero-worship practically dripped off him. "Y-yeah. Right. Totally. Uh, good tip, sir."
Poor kid still didn't know whether to shake my hand or ask for an autograph. In his defense, he's only been a personal assistant of mine for about, what, three days? Give him time. Even with only the barest interaction with the original… um… with the artificial copy of the original Handsome Jack, Rhys left with enough confidence to crash Helios, and rebuild Atlas from the ground up.
He's got a lot of potential.
Which didn't stop me from leaving him squirming as I made my way down to the interrogation wing.
The room was cold, lit by one swinging bulb that looked like it was trying very hard to be dramatic. Steele sat shackled to a chair in the center, crimson armor stripped down to the basics, one arm still in a sling. She looked like hell.
She also looked amused.
"Commandant," I greeted, clapping my hands together as I sauntered in. "How's my favorite vault-hopping, monster-summoning failure doing today?"
Her lips curled. Then she spoke.
In Russian.
I frowned. "Sorry, didn't catch that. You said you wanted me to invade Ukraine?"
She repeated herself. Slower. Louder. Still in Russian.
I stared. "Uh-huh. Cute. Little intimidation game, is that it? News flash: Russia hasn't been intimidating since the Cold War. Try harder."
More Russian. This time with a smirk.
"Alright." I pulled up a stool, sat across from her, and leaned in. "Look, Steele, we can play this two ways. One: you tell me what Atlas is planning, and maybe I don't shove you back in the Vault to be eaten by Tentacle McNightmare."
A bluff. Even if I could re-open the Vault that required both a specific key that no-longer exists, and a very specific window-of-opportunity in an eon wide gap, I'm not sure I'd want to know what would happen if I fed a siren to the tentacle god. Best case? I'm a cult leader.
Really don't want to think about the worst case scenarios.
"Or Two: you keep doing your whole Kremlin cosplay routine, and I go get coffee while you rot. Your call."
She rattled off another sentence, this one dripping with mock sweetness. I caught exactly one word: ублюдок.
"Okay, I don't speak Russian," I admitted, holding up my hands. "But I'm pretty sure you just called me a bastard. Which, fair. My dad was an asshole." Yeah. Screw you for dying before I was born, dick!
She laughed. A genuine, dark little laugh. Then kept talking in that same rolling stream of Cyrillic spite.
Fine. Two could play this game.
I've been prepping for this moment since the day I met Marcus. I pulled a battered ECHO unit from my coat pocket and flicked on the translation app.
"Now… let's try this, again. What are your bosses planning?"
The translator buzzed, beeped, and spat out text across the screen as she spoke.
Translation: You are incompetent. Your people are incompetent. This planet is incompetent. I am surrounded by fools and idiots. Please, end my suffering.
I blinked. "…Wow. Even the Google Translate version of you is a bitch."
Steele shrugged. Kept going.
Translation: Your mask is stupid. Your coat is stupid. You are stupid. Everyone who follows you is stupid. The bird man smells like vodka.
"Okay, that last part might actually be true," I muttered. "But still—Leave my mask out of this! It's cool! Everyone likes it!"
Was I forgetting something?
"What's the Atlas corporation planning?!" Saved it.
She grinned. She was enjoying this.
"Fine. Be that way." I stood, snapped the translator off, and shoved it back in my pocket. "But one day, Commandant? I am going to lose my patience. I didn't take you prisoner for what you know. I took you because of what you are. I have other uses for you. Ones a lot less nice than Q . Think about that for a while, k?"
On my way out, she shouted something after me in Russian. I didn't need the translator for this one. Tone was universal.
I flipped her the bird without looking back.
Outside, Rhys was waiting in the hall, practically bouncing on his heels. "So? Did she crack?"
"Yup." I patted his shoulder, leaned in, and whispered, "Turns out she's secretly a bot. That's been planted with the sole purpose of keeping me from becoming President and CEO of the Hyperion corporation."
He blinked. "…Seriously?"
"No." I smirked. "But it'll be hilarious to tell Brick that she is."
Lilith had been shot, burned, electrocuted, frozen, poisoned, and once, very briefly, set on fire by a corrosive skag belch.
None of those experiences compared to the sheer dread of watching Scooter roll out one of his "new and improved" vehicles.
"Ladies, gentlemen, robots, psychos, and uh… Roland," Scooter announced proudly, throwing a tarp off with all the flourish of a circus magician. "I present to you… the Catch-a-Ride Mark Two!"
The monstrosity beneath the tarp looked like someone had rammed three different vehicles together and then decided to accessorize with spare rocket parts. The base was recognizably a runner chassis, but its tires had spikes so long you could probably kebab a psycho on the hubcap. Two sets of rocket launchers were mounted at awkward angles, and the paint job… the paint job was flame decals so aggressively neon they could probably be seen from orbit.
"Oh, sweet baby Eridium," Lilith muttered under her breath. You know, she's only been recently introduced to Eridium. But she fell in love with it. It made her feel strong, confident, energetic… huh. She might have a teeny, tiny little addiction to magic space rocks.
"Check it out!" Scooter beamed, patting the hood. "She's got reinforced armor, quad-mounted rockets, side-firing chainguns, fins for maximum drag coefficient, and a custom cupholder for every seat! Even one for Claptrap!"
Jack snorted. "Uh-huh. Fins. Because nothing says efficient vehicle design like pretending your deathmobile is a hammerhead shark." He circled the runner slowly, hands behind his back like he was grading a science fair project.
Hot.
"Sharks belong in the ocean, Scooter… does Pandora have oceans? Because, correct me if I'm wrong, I've never actually seen any water on this dustball. No oceans, lakes, rivers, ponds, or puddles. I think maybe I've seen some ice from orbit, but definitely not groundside. So tell me, what exactly are we drinking out here?"
Scooter blinked, clearly not expecting the tangent. "Uh… ketchup and mayonnaise?"
Lilith barked out a laugh. "Well, that explains a lot about the aftertaste."
"Are you seriously indulging this right now?" Roland said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was already in full lecture mode—Lilith could practically hear the gears turning. "Atlas is deploying squads across Pandora. We just fought a tentacle god and half an army, and you two are worried about condiments?"
All four of them—Lilith, Jack, Mordecai, and Brick—groaned in perfect, unified harmony.
"Roland, buddy," Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We've been talking Atlas nonstop since we killed Cthulhu's third cousin. Let the people have a hobby, huh?"
"It's not a hobby, it's survival—"
"Exactly!" Jack cut him off, stepping back and gesturing at Scooter's nightmare-mobile. "And survival is way easier when you're in a rocket truck."
"Quad-rocket truck," Scooter corrected proudly. "Don't forget the fins!"
Roland's sigh could have powered a turbine.
Lilith, meanwhile, just leaned against the hood and grinned, watching the chaos unfold. Honestly? She liked this side of things. The fighting, sure, that was fun too—but it was these stupid moments in-between that made it all worth it.
Watching Brick argue with Scooter over whether the spikes were "punching spikes" or "skag-stabbing spikes." Seeing Mordecai pretend not to care while Bloodwing perched on one of the fins like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jack pacing around like a sarcastic vulture, picking the design apart while secretly, very obviously, loving it.
And then there was her, standing there with the most smug secret in the room: her new boyfriend.
Not that they'd told the others yet. Or that she'd admit it out loud while Roland was on one of his tactical rants. But when Jack caught her eye across the hood and tilted his mask in a private little gesture, she couldn't stop the smirk tugging at her lips. He was ridiculous, exhausting, way too cocky for his own good… and yeah, maybe she liked that. Just a little.
"So, uh," Claptrap piped up, breaking the moment. "When do I get to drive the rocket truck?"
Jack spun on his heel. "You don't."
"What?!" Claptrap flailed his little arms. "But I even got my license! I had to bribe so many people with so much money to make that happen!"
"You have money?" Jack blinked.
"Well, it wasn't exactly my money, per say—"
"Stop." Jack rubbed the bridge of his mask. "Look, no offense, Claptrap, but we already used a crash-test dummy. We don't need a repeat."
Claptrap gasped. "I have never been so insulted in my life!"
"Really?" Jack said. "Because I've insulted you like six times today alone."
"Seven," Mordecai chimed in, not looking up from inspecting his sniper. "Don't shortchange yourself."
"Thank you, birdman." Jack gave a little bow. "See? Somebody appreciates me."
"Not what I said."
Lilith rolled her eyes and shoved herself off the hood. "Alright, enough foreplay. Let's see what this thing can do."
Scooter's grin nearly split his face in half. "You got it, Fireball!"
The runner roared to life with a guttural engine growl that sounded more like a death threat than a vehicle. The second Lilith hit the accelerator, the tires screeched and left molten rubber in their wake.
The quad-mounted rockets immediately locked onto the nearest thing with heat—unfortunately, that happened to be Brick's sandwich.
"MY LUNCH!" Brick bellowed as the sandwich exploded in a fiery detonation that singed his eyebrows clean off.
"Oops," Lilith said, grinning far too wide. "Guess we'll call that a feature."
The runner barreled down the cracked highway, kicking up dust and bits of skag skulls. Mordecai fired the side chainguns indiscriminately, cackling every time a barrel cactus detonated into flaming shrapnel. Brick hung halfway out the window, trying to punch bandits off their own bikes mid-chase. Jack kept up a steady stream of sarcastic commentary from the passenger seat:
"Yep, this is great, this is totally safe, we're all definitely not about to die in a fiery wreck. Oh look, another explosion! Because what Pandora really needed was more of those!"
Lilith couldn't stop laughing. The chaos was intoxicating, the speed, the danger, the sheer absurdity of riding a rocket-powered shark car across a wasteland. This was the good part. The part nobody ever remembered to celebrate.
By the time they skidded back into Scooter's garage—one fin missing, half the spikes bent, and Brick still yelling about his sandwich—the runner looked like it had been through a small war.
Scooter didn't even blink. He just slapped the hood, leaving a greasy handprint on the already-scorched paint.
"Yup," he said proudly. "She'll do just fine."
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose again. "This is insane."
"If you hadn't noticed," Lilith turned, grinning at him. "Insanity's a prerequisite for this team."
"So. Here's the good news, team: my crazy little gamble with the Vault? It paid off." I started off strong, confident. Sexy.
I mean, yeah, we almost got eaten by a tentacle meatball straight out of H.P. Lovecraft's wettest dream, but the payoff is that the universe just decided to start puking up shiny purple rocks everywhere.
"Eridium," I announce, throwing the word out like it's supposed to silence the room. "The weird alien space-steroids the Destroyer sneezed out when we dropped it. Apparently, if you cram them up your ears or whatever it is you do with them, you get superpowers."
Lilith's hand shoots up like she's in kindergarten. "Ooh! Question! Do we have any right now?"
I give her my best dead-eyed CEO stare. "Lilith, I promise you, if you want me to fetch you sparkly rocks like some kind of alien geologist-slash-boyfriend, I will. Later. Try to keep your magic-girl addiction under control for the staff meeting, okay?"
She sticks her tongue out at me, which is about as intimidating as a Pomeranian in a spiked collar, and flops back in her chair. Brick laughs, Mordecai mutters something about needing booze, and Roland — of course — clears his throat.
"Atlas," he says, as if we all needed the reminder. "They're not going to ignore Pandora now. Especially with this… Eridium."
"Yeah, thank you, Captain Obvious," I say. "I was literally getting there. The bad news is that Atlas knows Pandora's basically the galaxy's biggest piñata now. Only instead of candy, it's full of glowing purple meth and homicidal wildlife. Which means we're in for a long, ugly ground war."
Roland doesn't even flinch. He's been like this ever since Steele faceplanted with her Vault Key. It's like he's got one speed now: grim and broody. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was trying to audition for Batman.
"Hyperion's sending support, though." I added, semi-confidentiality. "A great big space station, to remind them we're here to stay, and blow them from orbit, if they want to play rough… eventually. It takes time to build a great big space station, apparently. We still got the Fast Travel up and running, though. If we need to rush back to HQ, we'll be there in literally a flash."
"And Steele?" Mordecai asks, voice dry as sandpaper.
"She's still being a stubborn pain in the ass," I say. "Won't talk, won't cooperate, won't even switch languages back to English, which is a hell of a bold choice considering she's the prisoner in this relationship."
Roland opens his mouth, probably to suggest a thirty-step ethical interrogation strategy, but before he can—
"TA-DAAAH!"
Enter the sound of grinding metal, a squeaky wheel, and pure, weaponized regret.
Claptrap rolls in with a heroic little trumpet fanfare blasting from his speakers. He's wearing what can only be described as a cape made out of duct tape and dirty red cloth. Strapped to his side? A flagpole. With our faces on it. All of our faces. Badly drawn.
"Introducing…" he trills, striking a pose that makes his single wheel squeal against the floor, "…the official Team Mascot! Yours truly, CL4P-TP! Defender of Justice! Keeper of Morale! Bringer of Branded Merchandise!"
He starts handing out armbands. Bright neon. My face, with devil horns, giving a thumbs-up.
Nobody moves.
"Uh," Brick says, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm not wearin' that."
"Absolutely not," Roland says flatly.
Mordecai takes one look and laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his own spit. "Oh, this is—oh, no, this is amazing. Jack, you have to wear it."
Lilith already has hers wrapped around her arm. "It's kinda cute, actually."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Okay, first of all, this is a branding nightmare. I've seen illegal children's birthday party clowns with better logos. Second of all—no. Just no. Armbands are so Nazi. Put your duct-tape cape away and stop stapling flags to my employees, Claptrap."
"Mascot," Claptrap insists. "I filed the trademark! We are LEGITIMATE now!"
"Buddy, the day I let you be the face of this operation is the day I shove my own head in a skag's mouth and call it an early retirement."
Claptrap freezes, then droops like a deflated party balloon. "Nobody ever appreciates my creativity…" he mutters, trundling off to a corner. Not before grabbing an Atlas helmet out of a pile of scrap and stuffing it in his storage compartment. "Fine. I'll just… collect salvage. Upgrade myself. Get stronger. You'll see. You'll all see."
The room goes quiet.
"…Did that sound ominous to anyone else?" Mordecai asks.
Angel's voice crackles quietly in my ear. "Dad… I've been monitoring his core code. It's unstable. Very unstable."
"When isn't he unstable?" I mutter back. "Relax, sweetie. Worst-case scenario, he annoys Atlas to death before we even lift a finger."
Lilith smirks. "So… that's the plan?"
I shrug. "Honestly? Not the worst one we've got."
The mission room had gone quiet. For once.
Roland stood at the long table, staring at the holomap as it flickered in shades of red and static. The projection of Pandora shimmered like a wounded thing, pulsing with new red dots — Atlas outposts, strike teams, dropships. All recent. All organized.
"Picked this up from one of our old channels," Reiss's voice crackled through the comm. The soldier sounded bone-tired, the way all good ones did when they started realizing "duty" didn't mean "dignity." "It's bad out there, Roland. Atlas is moving fast. They're not retreating. They're rebuilding."
Roland said nothing for a moment. He just watched the crimson clusters multiply across the projection. A creeping infection, spreading through familiar terrain.
He knew those formations. He'd trained those formations.
"Copy that," Roland said at last. "Appreciate the heads-up, Corporal. Stay off the grid."
The line went dead, replaced by the soft hum of the projector.
He didn't have to turn to know Jack was behind him. He could feel the smirk.
"Oh-ho-ho, look who's brooding again," Jack drawled. "Hey, you want I should dim the lights, cue up some sad violin music while you wrestle with your inner demons?"
Roland exhaled slowly. "They're not demons. They're soldiers."
Jack snorted. "Tomato, tomahto. You quit Atlas years ago, pal. You don't owe those meatheads anything."
"That's not how it works."
Jack leaned on the console beside him, boots scuffing against the table's edge. "Sure it is. You're free, I'm free, and we're both living the dream—well, my dream. Your dream's apparently to relive your trauma like it's a subscription service."
"Jack—"
"No, seriously, man. You gotta stop taking everything so damn personally. Atlas screws up, you take it to heart. Atlas invades, you feel guilty. Atlas breathes, you probably want to send 'em a care package." He threw up his hands. "Newsflash: they're not your problem anymore."
Roland crossed his arms, jaw tightening. "You think this is funny?"
"I think it's tragic," Jack said, grin never faltering. "Tragic that a guy like you could've gone corporate and made a fortune selling self-righteous speeches to tourists. Look. I know you came to Pandora because of them, and its not over to you until we've taken care of them in full. But we're already halfway there! Would it kill you to crack a smile? Just one."
Lilith's laugh cut through the tension like a knife. "Don't mind him, soldier boy. He gets cranky when the spotlight's not on him for five minutes."
Jack turned to her, mock-offended. "Cranky? Lilith, sweetheart, I thrive under pressure. I just don't get why Romeo here keeps pretending there's an honorable way to wage war on a planet full of psychos."
"Because there has to be," Roland said quietly. "Someone has to draw a line."
Jack chuckled, low and sharp. "Okay. You do that. Go grab some tape, mark your side of the room down. I'll be over here making sure we actually win. And fast. I don't want this going on any longer than it has to. Do you?"
The words hung in the air — not shouted, just sharp enough to sting.
Lilith shook her head, leaning against the wall with a smirk. "You two done measuring… leadership styles?"
Neither answered. The silence stretched, filled only by the low hum of the holo-map and the ghostly red light playing across their faces.
Finally, Roland reached forward and zoomed in on a sector. Dozens of Atlas pings blinked in unison — advancing toward the Eridium hotspots that had started erupting since the Vault opened.
He could almost feel the heat of it again. The thunder of boots, the sharp sting of orders barked into his ear. He'd bled with the Crimson Lance once. Now, he'd bleed against them.
"Looks like Atlas is doubling down," he said at last.
Jack whistled low. "Guess we better double down harder."
Lilith's grin widened. "Now that's the kind of bad plan I can get behind."
Roland didn't smile. He didn't have the energy for it anymore.
He just stared at the glowing red battlefield, the emblem of his old life reflected in his eyes, and sighed "We'll do our best. But Jack… I wouldn't count on this being fast. If the Crimson Lance knows how to do one thing right… it's make a bad situation worse."
The lights flickered. Somewhere outside, the engines of Scooter's ridiculous new trucks roared to life, and for a moment, Pandora itself seemed to answer back.
Hello, my people!
Welcome back with yet another chapter. See you again with another one tomorrow, but if you'd prefer to skip ahead, and find out what happens right now, check out my Patreon, link below:
My Patreon
P.S.
Sorry for the extremely late update! I had some car trouble this morning, and my shift started WAY earlier, and ended WAY later than planned.
Corporal Reiss adjusted his helmet for the fifth time that morning. The damn thing never fit right. Too loose at the chin, too tight at the temples, and the inside always smelled faintly of recycled sweat no matter how many sterilization cycles it went through.
Atlas called it "standard-issue protective gear." He called it "my own portable sauna of despair."
He tightened the strap anyway. Paycheck or not, disobeying dress code meant paperwork. And paperwork meant a sergeant breathing down his neck. And a sergeant breathing down his neck meant another "motivational" speech about the honor of serving Atlas, protecting corporate interests, and all that other nonsense.
Reiss didn't hate Atlas. He didn't love Atlas either. But they paid him, mostly on time, and the food in the mess hall didn't actively kill him. So here he was. Still here.
The outpost buzzed with energy, though not in a good way. Normally the Crimson Lance were efficient—tight schedules, sharper drills, even sharper weapons. Today? Everything smelled of desperation. Engineers barked over radio chatter, transports lifted and landed in quick rotations, and every second soldier seemed to be muttering the same phrase under their breath:
"Steele failed."
The words carried like a curse. Commandant Steele, the woman who'd supposedly been Atlas's big ace, had vanished into the Vault with a squad of troops and hadn't walked back out. The official line was "tactical reassignment." The unofficial line was… well, Reiss wasn't an idiot.
A private jogged past him, arms full of ECHO pads. "Corporal! Orders just came through. Another deployment to the Arid Badlands. Crimson Fastness is on full alert."
Reiss groaned. "Again? We've been redeploying to the Badlands for months. What's left there, dirt and psychos?"
"Atlas says it's a priority zone, sir."
Of course they did. Reiss waved the private off and trudged into the comms tent. The officers inside were arguing over maps, red markers spreading like a rash across Pandora's surface.
One captain stabbed a finger down on the table. "Command says reinforcements are en route. Heavy reinforcements. Straight from HQ."
The room went silent.
"Knoxx?" someone whispered.
"They didn't say." The captain shook his head grimly. "But… yeah. Could be. Word is Atlas is sending in the big guns. Right now? The General's the biggest one we got."
Reiss exhaled through his helmet filter, the sound coming out as a mechanical hiss. He'd signed up for hazard pay, sure. But fighting Vault monsters, bandits hopped up on Skag meat, and… whatever "big guns" meant? This was starting to feel above his pay grade.
Not that it's a high bar. His pay was shit. Why hasn't he deserted, again? Oh, right. Because deserters got shot.
He straightened, saluted half-heartedly, and muttered under his breath as he left the tent.
"Welcome back to the shitshow."
...
You ever have one of those weeks where you save the goddamn planet and somehow nobody sends you a thank-you card? Yeah, that was me.
Let's take stock, shall we?
First, there was Nine-Toes. Big scary bandit boss, the kind of guy that made new recruits wet themselves just hearing his name. Me? I shot him, robbed him, and made jokes about his dumb fucking name. Easy peasy.
Then we had Sledge. Giant psycho with a hammer the size of a small moon. He went down after I convinced Brick to stop punching walls long enough to actually aim at the guy. Teamwork!
Probably a bunch of filler enemies, too. But honestly, most of them blended together. Everyone looks the same when they're covered in gore. Does that count as diversity? Probably not.
But among the carnage, there was one that made the grade: Commandant Steele, Atlas's pet dominatrix in crimson armor. She got herself killed opening the Vault like a dumbass. At least as far as Atlas knows. Except, surprise! She didn't die. Nope. We dragged her out, patched her up, and now she's my personal chew toy. Fun, right?
Oh, and let's not forget the Vault itself. Inside was not a treasure trove of loot, not a golden chalice of corporate stock options, but a giant fucking hentai monster. The Destroyer. Or maybe just the Destroyer's ugly cousin. I forget how all this space-god stuff works. We killed it. With bullets. Because of course bullets work on eldritch horrors that live outside time and space.
Well, okay. To be fair. We did use lasers, too.
Point is: I worked hard. I did good. Even ignoring how this all benefits me in the long-run, I should have something nice in the short-run. I should have parades. I should have statues. I should have—bare minimum—a day off. Instead, what do I have?
'Jack!'
Well, I'll tell you. I have four badass vault hunters. I have a siren daughter, who just so happens to be a god of hacking. I have eridium, slowly, but surely making its way into Pandora's hellish parody of an ecosystem. I have my prize.
'Jack, Jack, Jack, hey Jack, buddy, pal, handsome friend of mine—'
I also have problems. Primarily, I have to deal with Tassiter being his usual, antagonistic, dickish self. I have to deal with Atlas who, like the fathers of many oops babies, has no idea that it's time to pull out. And finally… I have to deal with him.
"Christ," I muttered, massaging the bridge of my mask. "Here we go."
If I thought he was bad before… It's like he's trying to push my buttons. Before, I at least got to have a whole day before I had to deal with him. Half-a-day, at worst. Now? It's hourly. Everywhere. All the time! And the awful voice is just stuck in my head! It's on loop!
"J—"
I bolted upright from my chair. "What?!" I screamed at the ceiling, at the floor, at the air itself. "What in the name of all things unholy do you possibly want now, you little metal asshole?!"
There was a pause. A moment of blessed silence.
"…Um. Sorry?"
I blinked. That wasn't Claptrap's whiny tin-can screech. That was… a very human, very awkward voice. I turned and found Rhys standing in the doorway, nervously rubbing the seam of his mechanical arm.
"Oh." I exhaled, smoothed my coat, tried to look dignified. "Hey, Rhys. Sorry. Thought you were—never mind. What's up?"
He coughed into his elbow like a kid trying to cover up a swear in class, I should know. I used to be that kid. "Uh, nothing, sir. Just… wanted to let you know the creepy Russian lady's ready in the interrogation room. Whenever you feel like it."
Right. Steele. My favorite war criminal.
"Thanks, kid." I stood, straightened my gloves, and gave him my best reassuring grin. "And relax, huh? You look like you're about to short-circuit. First rule of leadership: never let the mask slip."
And that was only half a pun!
Rhys's face lit up. Hero-worship practically dripped off him. "Y-yeah. Right. Totally. Uh, good tip, sir."
Poor kid still didn't know whether to shake my hand or ask for an autograph. In his defense, he's only been a personal assistant of mine for about, what, three days? Give him time. Even with only the barest interaction with the original… um… with the artificial copy of the original Handsome Jack, Rhys left with enough confidence to crash Helios, and rebuild Atlas from the ground up.
He's got a lot of potential.
Which didn't stop me from leaving him squirming as I made my way down to the interrogation wing.
The room was cold, lit by one swinging bulb that looked like it was trying very hard to be dramatic. Steele sat shackled to a chair in the center, crimson armor stripped down to the basics, one arm still in a sling. She looked like hell.
She also looked amused.
"Commandant," I greeted, clapping my hands together as I sauntered in. "How's my favorite vault-hopping, monster-summoning failure doing today?"
Her lips curled. Then she spoke.
In Russian.
I frowned. "Sorry, didn't catch that. You said you wanted me to invade Ukraine?"
She repeated herself. Slower. Louder. Still in Russian.
I stared. "Uh-huh. Cute. Little intimidation game, is that it? News flash: Russia hasn't been intimidating since the Cold War. Try harder."
More Russian. This time with a smirk.
"Alright." I pulled up a stool, sat across from her, and leaned in. "Look, Steele, we can play this two ways. One: you tell me what Atlas is planning, and maybe I don't shove you back in the Vault to be eaten by Tentacle McNightmare."
A bluff. Even if I could re-open the Vault that required both a specific key that no-longer exists, and a very specific window-of-opportunity in an eon wide gap, I'm not sure I'd want to know what would happen if I fed a siren to the tentacle god. Best case? I'm a cult leader.
Really don't want to think about the worst case scenarios.
"Or Two: you keep doing your whole Kremlin cosplay routine, and I go get coffee while you rot. Your call."
She rattled off another sentence, this one dripping with mock sweetness. I caught exactly one word: ублюдок.
"Okay, I don't speak Russian," I admitted, holding up my hands. "But I'm pretty sure you just called me a bastard. Which, fair. My dad was an asshole." Yeah. Screw you for dying before I was born, dick!
She laughed. A genuine, dark little laugh. Then kept talking in that same rolling stream of Cyrillic spite.
Fine. Two could play this game.
I've been prepping for this moment since the day I met Marcus. I pulled a battered ECHO unit from my coat pocket and flicked on the translation app.
"Now… let's try this, again. What are your bosses planning?"
The translator buzzed, beeped, and spat out text across the screen as she spoke.
Translation: You are incompetent. Your people are incompetent. This planet is incompetent. I am surrounded by fools and idiots. Please, end my suffering.
I blinked. "…Wow. Even the Google Translate version of you is a bitch."
Steele shrugged. Kept going.
Translation: Your mask is stupid. Your coat is stupid. You are stupid. Everyone who follows you is stupid. The bird man smells like vodka.
"Okay, that last part might actually be true," I muttered. "But still—Leave my mask out of this! It's cool! Everyone likes it!"
Was I forgetting something?
"What's the Atlas corporation planning?!" Saved it.
She grinned. She was enjoying this.
"Fine. Be that way." I stood, snapped the translator off, and shoved it back in my pocket. "But one day, Commandant? I am going to lose my patience. I didn't take you prisoner for what you know. I took you because of what you are. I have other uses for you. Ones a lot less nice than Q . Think about that for a while, k?"
On my way out, she shouted something after me in Russian. I didn't need the translator for this one. Tone was universal.
I flipped her the bird without looking back.
...
Outside, Rhys was waiting in the hall, practically bouncing on his heels. "So? Did she crack?"
"Yup." I patted his shoulder, leaned in, and whispered, "Turns out she's secretly a bot. That's been planted with the sole purpose of keeping me from becoming President and CEO of the Hyperion corporation."
He blinked. "…Seriously?"
"No." I smirked. "But it'll be hilarious to tell Brick that she is."
...
Lilith had been shot, burned, electrocuted, frozen, poisoned, and once, very briefly, set on fire by a corrosive skag belch.
None of those experiences compared to the sheer dread of watching Scooter roll out one of his "new and improved" vehicles.
"Ladies, gentlemen, robots, psychos, and uh… Roland," Scooter announced proudly, throwing a tarp off with all the flourish of a circus magician. "I present to you… the Catch-a-Ride Mark Two!"
The monstrosity beneath the tarp looked like someone had rammed three different vehicles together and then decided to accessorize with spare rocket parts. The base was recognizably a runner chassis, but its tires had spikes so long you could probably kebab a psycho on the hubcap. Two sets of rocket launchers were mounted at awkward angles, and the paint job… the paint job was flame decals so aggressively neon they could probably be seen from orbit.
"Oh, sweet baby Eridium," Lilith muttered under her breath. You know, she's only been recently introduced to Eridium. But she fell in love with it. It made her feel strong, confident, energetic… huh. She might have a teeny, tiny little addiction to magic space rocks.
"Check it out!" Scooter beamed, patting the hood. "She's got reinforced armor, quad-mounted rockets, side-firing chainguns, fins for maximum drag coefficient, and a custom cupholder for every seat! Even one for Claptrap!"
Jack snorted. "Uh-huh. Fins. Because nothing says efficient vehicle design like pretending your deathmobile is a hammerhead shark." He circled the runner slowly, hands behind his back like he was grading a science fair project.
Hot.
"Sharks belong in the ocean, Scooter… does Pandora have oceans? Because, correct me if I'm wrong, I've never actually seen any water on this dustball. No oceans, lakes, rivers, ponds, or puddles. I think maybe I've seen some ice from orbit, but definitely not groundside. So tell me, what exactly are we drinking out here?"
Scooter blinked, clearly not expecting the tangent. "Uh… ketchup and mayonnaise?"
Lilith barked out a laugh. "Well, that explains a lot about the aftertaste."
"Are you seriously indulging this right now?" Roland said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was already in full lecture mode—Lilith could practically hear the gears turning. "Atlas is deploying squads across Pandora. We just fought a tentacle god and half an army, and you two are worried about condiments?"
All four of them—Lilith, Jack, Mordecai, and Brick—groaned in perfect, unified harmony.
"Roland, buddy," Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We've been talking Atlas nonstop since we killed Cthulhu's third cousin. Let the people have a hobby, huh?"
"It's not a hobby, it's survival—"
"Exactly!" Jack cut him off, stepping back and gesturing at Scooter's nightmare-mobile. "And survival is way easier when you're in a rocket truck."
"Quad-rocket truck," Scooter corrected proudly. "Don't forget the fins!"
Roland's sigh could have powered a turbine.
Lilith, meanwhile, just leaned against the hood and grinned, watching the chaos unfold. Honestly? She liked this side of things. The fighting, sure, that was fun too—but it was these stupid moments in-between that made it all worth it.
Watching Brick argue with Scooter over whether the spikes were "punching spikes" or "skag-stabbing spikes." Seeing Mordecai pretend not to care while Bloodwing perched on one of the fins like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jack pacing around like a sarcastic vulture, picking the design apart while secretly, very obviously, loving it.
And then there was her, standing there with the most smug secret in the room: her new boyfriend.
Not that they'd told the others yet. Or that she'd admit it out loud while Roland was on one of his tactical rants. But when Jack caught her eye across the hood and tilted his mask in a private little gesture, she couldn't stop the smirk tugging at her lips. He was ridiculous, exhausting, way too cocky for his own good… and yeah, maybe she liked that. Just a little.
"So, uh," Claptrap piped up, breaking the moment. "When do I get to drive the rocket truck?"
Jack spun on his heel. "You don't."
"What?!" Claptrap flailed his little arms. "But I even got my license! I had to bribe so many people with so much money to make that happen!"
"You have money?" Jack blinked.
"Well, it wasn't exactly my money, per say—"
"Stop." Jack rubbed the bridge of his mask. "Look, no offense, Claptrap, but we already used a crash-test dummy. We don't need a repeat."
Claptrap gasped. "I have never been so insulted in my life!"
"Really?" Jack said. "Because I've insulted you like six times today alone."
"Seven," Mordecai chimed in, not looking up from inspecting his sniper. "Don't shortchange yourself."
"Thank you, birdman." Jack gave a little bow. "See? Somebody appreciates me."
"Not what I said."
Lilith rolled her eyes and shoved herself off the hood. "Alright, enough foreplay. Let's see what this thing can do."
Scooter's grin nearly split his face in half. "You got it, Fireball!"
...
The runner roared to life with a guttural engine growl that sounded more like a death threat than a vehicle. The second Lilith hit the accelerator, the tires screeched and left molten rubber in their wake.
The quad-mounted rockets immediately locked onto the nearest thing with heat—unfortunately, that happened to be Brick's sandwich.
"MY LUNCH!" Brick bellowed as the sandwich exploded in a fiery detonation that singed his eyebrows clean off.
"Oops," Lilith said, grinning far too wide. "Guess we'll call that a feature."
The runner barreled down the cracked highway, kicking up dust and bits of skag skulls. Mordecai fired the side chainguns indiscriminately, cackling every time a barrel cactus detonated into flaming shrapnel. Brick hung halfway out the window, trying to punch bandits off their own bikes mid-chase. Jack kept up a steady stream of sarcastic commentary from the passenger seat:
"Yep, this is great, this is totally safe, we're all definitely not about to die in a fiery wreck. Oh look, another explosion! Because what Pandora really needed was more of those!"
Lilith couldn't stop laughing. The chaos was intoxicating, the speed, the danger, the sheer absurdity of riding a rocket-powered shark car across a wasteland. This was the good part. The part nobody ever remembered to celebrate.
By the time they skidded back into Scooter's garage—one fin missing, half the spikes bent, and Brick still yelling about his sandwich—the runner looked like it had been through a small war.
Scooter didn't even blink. He just slapped the hood, leaving a greasy handprint on the already-scorched paint.
"Yup," he said proudly. "She'll do just fine."
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose again. "This is insane."
"If you hadn't noticed," Lilith turned, grinning at him. "Insanity's a prerequisite for this team."
...
"So. Here's the good news, team: my crazy little gamble with the Vault? It paid off." I started off strong, confident. Sexy.
I mean, yeah, we almost got eaten by a tentacle meatball straight out of H.P. Lovecraft's wettest dream, but the payoff is that the universe just decided to start puking up shiny purple rocks everywhere.
"Eridium," I announce, throwing the word out like it's supposed to silence the room. "The weird alien space-steroids the Destroyer sneezed out when we dropped it. Apparently, if you cram them up your ears or whatever it is you do with them, you get superpowers."
Lilith's hand shoots up like she's in kindergarten. "Ooh! Question! Do we have any right now?"
I give her my best dead-eyed CEO stare. "Lilith, I promise you, if you want me to fetch you sparkly rocks like some kind of alien geologist-slash-boyfriend, I will. Later. Try to keep your magic-girl addiction under control for the staff meeting, okay?"
She sticks her tongue out at me, which is about as intimidating as a Pomeranian in a spiked collar, and flops back in her chair. Brick laughs, Mordecai mutters something about needing booze, and Roland — of course — clears his throat.
"Atlas," he says, as if we all needed the reminder. "They're not going to ignore Pandora now. Especially with this… Eridium."
"Yeah, thank you, Captain Obvious," I say. "I was literally getting there. The bad news is that Atlas knows Pandora's basically the galaxy's biggest piñata now. Only instead of candy, it's full of glowing purple meth and homicidal wildlife. Which means we're in for a long, ugly ground war."
Roland doesn't even flinch. He's been like this ever since Steele faceplanted with her Vault Key. It's like he's got one speed now: grim and broody. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was trying to audition for Batman.
"Hyperion's sending support, though." I added, semi-confidentiality. "A great big space station, to remind them we're here to stay, and blow them from orbit, if they want to play rough… eventually. It takes time to build a great big space station, apparently. We still got the Fast Travel up and running, though. If we need to rush back to HQ, we'll be there in literally a flash."
"And Steele?" Mordecai asks, voice dry as sandpaper.
"She's still being a stubborn pain in the ass," I say. "Won't talk, won't cooperate, won't even switch languages back to English, which is a hell of a bold choice considering she's the prisoner in this relationship."
Roland opens his mouth, probably to suggest a thirty-step ethical interrogation strategy, but before he can—
"TA-DAAAH!"
Enter the sound of grinding metal, a squeaky wheel, and pure, weaponized regret.
Claptrap rolls in with a heroic little trumpet fanfare blasting from his speakers. He's wearing what can only be described as a cape made out of duct tape and dirty red cloth. Strapped to his side? A flagpole. With our faces on it. All of our faces. Badly drawn.
"Introducing…" he trills, striking a pose that makes his single wheel squeal against the floor, "…the official Team Mascot! Yours truly, CL4P-TP! Defender of Justice! Keeper of Morale! Bringer of Branded Merchandise!"
He starts handing out armbands. Bright neon. My face, with devil horns, giving a thumbs-up.
Nobody moves.
"Uh," Brick says, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm not wearin' that."
"Absolutely not," Roland says flatly.
Mordecai takes one look and laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his own spit. "Oh, this is—oh, no, this is amazing. Jack, you have to wear it."
Lilith already has hers wrapped around her arm. "It's kinda cute, actually."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Okay, first of all, this is a branding nightmare. I've seen illegal children's birthday party clowns with better logos. Second of all—no. Just no. Armbands are so Nazi. Put your duct-tape cape away and stop stapling flags to my employees, Claptrap."
"Mascot," Claptrap insists. "I filed the trademark! We are LEGITIMATE now!"
"Buddy, the day I let you be the face of this operation is the day I shove my own head in a skag's mouth and call it an early retirement."
Claptrap freezes, then droops like a deflated party balloon. "Nobody ever appreciates my creativity…" he mutters, trundling off to a corner. Not before grabbing an Atlas helmet out of a pile of scrap and stuffing it in his storage compartment. "Fine. I'll just… collect salvage. Upgrade myself. Get stronger. You'll see. You'll all see."
The room goes quiet.
"…Did that sound ominous to anyone else?" Mordecai asks.
Angel's voice crackles quietly in my ear. "Dad… I've been monitoring his core code. It's unstable. Very unstable."
"When isn't he unstable?" I mutter back. "Relax, sweetie. Worst-case scenario, he annoys Atlas to death before we even lift a finger."
Lilith smirks. "So… that's the plan?"
I shrug. "Honestly? Not the worst one we've got."
...
The mission room had gone quiet. For once.
Roland stood at the long table, staring at the holomap as it flickered in shades of red and static. The projection of Pandora shimmered like a wounded thing, pulsing with new red dots — Atlas outposts, strike teams, dropships. All recent. All organized.
"Picked this up from one of our old channels," Reiss's voice crackled through the comm. The soldier sounded bone-tired, the way all good ones did when they started realizing "duty" didn't mean "dignity." "It's bad out there, Roland. Atlas is moving fast. They're not retreating. They're rebuilding."
Roland said nothing for a moment. He just watched the crimson clusters multiply across the projection. A creeping infection, spreading through familiar terrain.
He knew those formations. He'd trained those formations.
"Copy that," Roland said at last. "Appreciate the heads-up, Corporal. Stay off the grid."
The line went dead, replaced by the soft hum of the projector.
He didn't have to turn to know Jack was behind him. He could feel the smirk.
"Oh-ho-ho, look who's brooding again," Jack drawled. "Hey, you want I should dim the lights, cue up some sad violin music while you wrestle with your inner demons?"
Roland exhaled slowly. "They're not demons. They're soldiers."
Jack snorted. "Tomato, tomahto. You quit Atlas years ago, pal. You don't owe those meatheads anything."
"That's not how it works."
Jack leaned on the console beside him, boots scuffing against the table's edge. "Sure it is. You're free, I'm free, and we're both living the dream—well, my dream. Your dream's apparently to relive your trauma like it's a subscription service."
"Jack—"
"No, seriously, man. You gotta stop taking everything so damn personally. Atlas screws up, you take it to heart. Atlas invades, you feel guilty. Atlas breathes, you probably want to send 'em a care package." He threw up his hands. "Newsflash: they're not your problem anymore."
Roland crossed his arms, jaw tightening. "You think this is funny?"
"I think it's tragic," Jack said, grin never faltering. "Tragic that a guy like you could've gone corporate and made a fortune selling self-righteous speeches to tourists. Look. I know you came to Pandora because of them, and its not over to you until we've taken care of them in full. But we're already halfway there! Would it kill you to crack a smile? Just one."
Lilith's laugh cut through the tension like a knife. "Don't mind him, soldier boy. He gets cranky when the spotlight's not on him for five minutes."
Jack turned to her, mock-offended. "Cranky? Lilith, sweetheart, I thrive under pressure. I just don't get why Romeo here keeps pretending there's an honorable way to wage war on a planet full of psychos."
"Because there has to be," Roland said quietly. "Someone has to draw a line."
Jack chuckled, low and sharp. "Okay. You do that. Go grab some tape, mark your side of the room down. I'll be over here making sure we actually win. And fast. I don't want this going on any longer than it has to. Do you?"
The words hung in the air — not shouted, just sharp enough to sting.
Lilith shook her head, leaning against the wall with a smirk. "You two done measuring… leadership styles?"
Neither answered. The silence stretched, filled only by the low hum of the holo-map and the ghostly red light playing across their faces.
Finally, Roland reached forward and zoomed in on a sector. Dozens of Atlas pings blinked in unison — advancing toward the Eridium hotspots that had started erupting since the Vault opened.
He could almost feel the heat of it again. The thunder of boots, the sharp sting of orders barked into his ear. He'd bled with the Crimson Lance once. Now, he'd bleed against them.
"Looks like Atlas is doubling down," he said at last.
Jack whistled low. "Guess we better double down harder."
Lilith's grin widened. "Now that's the kind of bad plan I can get behind."
Roland didn't smile. He didn't have the energy for it anymore.
He just stared at the glowing red battlefield, the emblem of his old life reflected in his eyes, and sighed "We'll do our best. But Jack… I wouldn't count on this being fast. If the Crimson Lance knows how to do one thing right… it's make a bad situation worse."
The lights flickered. Somewhere outside, the engines of Scooter's ridiculous new trucks roared to life, and for a moment, Pandora itself seemed to answer back.
...
Hello, my people!
Welcome back with yet another chapter. See you again with another one tomorrow, but if you'd prefer to skip ahead, and find out what happens right now, check out my Patreon, link below:
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P.S.
Sorry for the extremely late update! I had some car trouble this morning, and my shift started WAY earlier, and ended WAY later than planned.
Chapter 25: Old Ghosts, New Problems
New
Mad King Kevin
Getting sticky.
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Chapter 25: Old Ghosts, New Problems
You ever walk into a place that smells like potential and failure at the same time?
Maybe a start-up company. A new school. An internship at a place you never heard of. It comes in a lot of forms, but you can never forget that feeling. That blend of trepidation and excitement.
That's New Haven.
It's supposed to be Pandora's newest "utopia," which, translated from local dialect, means not currently on fire. I've seen junkyards with better feng shui. Every building's a different shade of rust, the power grid whines like it's dying of old age, and Scooter's idea of city planning is "put the biggest gun turret on the prettiest roof."
And yet… it's coming together.
There's a wall now. Mostly straight. There's plumbing—if you don't mind water that occasionally screams. And Tannis moved in last week, which I guess means we've officially crossed the threshold from "camp" to "community." She said something about "research opportunities," which I'm pretty sure is code for "sick of corporate psych evaluations." Can't blame her. Hyperion HR makes the Borderlands look stable.
Still, I gotta admit — I'm kinda proud.
Not proud proud, but the kind of proud where you stand back, look at a crooked tower of scrap, and think: "Hey, at least it hasn't collapsed today."
I give the place six months before it becomes a tourist trap. Seven, if I kill the tour guide first.
It's not exactly convenient living here, though. No labs, no luxury, no overpriced coffee. But Fast Travel's still up and running, which means I can zap between here and Hyperion HQ anytime I want.
And I do.
Half my day's spent yelling at interns who think "calibrating" means "hitting buttons until the explosions stop." The other half's spent on "family time," which is corporate-speak for checking that my daughter hasn't blown up another data core.
Angel's been cagey lately. Secretive. She always gets like this when she's working on something she doesn't want me to see — or worse, someone she doesn't want me to meet.
I've been subtle about it. Totally cool. Haven't even hacked her private comms this week.
…Much.
Look, I'm not paranoid, okay? I'm concerned. There's a difference. She's smart, she's talented, and she's got terrible taste in friends. I caught a snippet of her chatting with someone the other day — lots of giggling, awkward pauses, classic "someone's got a crush" energy. Couldn't make out who, though. Which, naturally, drives me insane.
If there's one thing worse than someone dating my daughter, it's someone dating my daughter without my authorization.
Anyway. Between that and Scooter's never-ending requests for "just a lil' more funding," I'm starting to miss the good old days of gunfights and moral ambiguity.
I've been tinkering with some of the Eridium we salvaged from the Vault, making new toys—Lilith might get a power-up from this stuff, but it's not like I'm a magical space warrior princess. She gets it, though.
In fact, Lilith, who is now and forever holding the reigning championship title of "best girlfriend ever" is supportive of it. She thinks it's cool. Roland doesn't trust it, naturally. Says it's "unnatural." Which, coming from a guy who spends his free time stalking and surveilling his old crew, is a little… What's a coy word for hypocritical ?
Man, that's going to bug me. Where was I? Right.
If I can figure out how to stabilize the resonance fields, we might be able to power an entire defense grid with this stuff. But nooo, Roland wants "manual patrols" and "structured defense teams." Like it's the goddamn army again.
Speaking of which—
"Sir!" one of the comm grunts shouts from across the hangar, all sweaty and nervous. "Roland says he needs you in the war room. Urgent."
Of course he does.
I sigh, stretch, and swipe my hands clean on my coat. "Let me guess — Atlas sneezed, and he wants us to hand them tissues?"
The grunt blinks. "Uh. Maybe?"
Grunts clearly have no appreciation for metaphors.
"Great. Love that guy's optimism."
I toss my tools onto the bench, take one last look around my half-built "utopia," and smile. The kind of smile that's half pride, half migraine.
"Keep it up, kiddos," I say to no one in particular. "One day this dump's gonna be paradise. Or a crater. Honestly, fifty-fifty shot."
I hit the Fast Travel console, the world blurs into blue light, and New Haven dissolves into static behind me — a half-broken dream held together by hope, scrap metal, and one dangerously handsome visionary.
The war room of New Haven was little more than a gutted garage with a table, a holoprojector, and too many opinions.
Roland stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, watching the flickering red map of Pandora cast light over the room. The lines and markers were crude, but they told a story he didn't need words for — Atlas wasn't retreating. They were reorganizing.
He could see it in their formation: clean, efficient, methodical. The Crimson Lance didn't scatter when beaten. They regrouped.
He'd almost be proud… if he weren't feeling so betrayed.
"Picked up this signal an hour ago," he said, tapping the console. Several red pings flared to life across the digital terrain — concentric patterns radiating around glowing violet hotspots. "Atlas is setting up new bases near Eridium veins. Probably trying to lock down the biggest concentrations before anyone else gets wise."
Lilith leaned forward, arms resting on the table, eyes gleaming with that dangerous curiosity of hers. "So, what— they want to mine it?"
"Or weaponize it," Mordecai muttered from behind his goggles. "Which means we're walking into a trap if we go sniffing around."
"Trap, schmrap," Brick said, flexing a bicep roughly the size of a small country. "We hit 'em before they're ready. Smash the base, break their toys, done."
Roland didn't look up from the display. "It's not that simple. Atlas isn't bandits with guns. They're trained, supplied, and disciplined. If they're moving this fast, they've got a new command structure in place."
"Translation," came the lazy, sing-song voice from the back of the room, "they've got a new boss for us to shoot. Fantastic. You know I was starting to miss the smell of burning bureaucracy in the morning… literally"
Roland turned, unsurprised.
Jack strolled in like he owned the place, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a half-empty cup of coffee with "WORLD'S BEST CEO" scribbled across it. Ambitious, but Roland's pretty sure Jack's bosses wouldn't approve.
Not that he can judge. God knows Roland's own superiors would be rolling in their graves if they could see him now. And that is something Roland's proud of.
"Glad you could join us," Roland said flatly.
"Oh, I live to serve, Captain Buzzkill," Jack replied, strolling up beside the map. "So, lemme get this straight—you're telling me Atlas, the same Atlas whose flagship, superstar quarterback we literally shot, captured, and detained a month ago, is suddenly relevant again?" He laughed under his breath.
Jack was trying to be reassuring. He was failing.
"Points for tenacity." Jack sighed. "But c'mon, man. They're like the galaxy's most expensive LARP club. All matching outfits and daddy issues. I'm pretty sure we fried bigger fish. Way bigger. I say we should just get our nets ready, and roll out."
Brick snorted. Lilith smirked. Roland didn't.
"They're still dangerous," he said.
"Dangerous, sure," Jack said, waving his cup. "So's food poisoning. But I'm not reorganizing my entire weekend over it."
"This isn't a joke," Roland said.
"Everything's a joke if you have the right audience. Maybe I should have tried someone with a sense of humor. Or social awareness. My bad!"
"Jack—"
Lilith raised a hand before Roland could finish. "Okay, timeout. Roland, you're spiraling. Jack, you're being… you. Can we please focus before Brick starts throwing furniture?"
Brick looked mildly disappointed that she'd noticed.
Roland inhaled slowly. He'd been through this song and dance before. Different battlefields, same noise — soldiers who wanted to fight, soldiers who wanted to joke their way through it. Somewhere between the two, people got killed.
He tapped another section of the map, highlighting the largest cluster of Atlas signals. "Reiss's intel puts their main operation here — an old Dahl mining complex west of Rust Commons. Satellite imagery shows heavy fortifications. They're digging in."
"Digging in," Mordecai repeated. "So, they're scared."
"Or confident," Roland countered. "Either way, we're not waiting for them to finish whatever they're doing down there."
Jack made a mock salute. "Ooh, the big, dramatic speech part. Hold on, let me get my tissues."
Roland gave him a look that could have peeled paint. "We move at dawn."
Jack groaned like he'd just been told bedtime was back. "Dawn? What is this, a war movie? Can we at least move at the crack of nine-thirty? Maybe brunch?"
Lilith chuckled, bumping her shoulder lightly against Jack's. "You'll survive. Maybe even get a tan."
Roland ignored the flirting. "We go in fast and quiet. Recon only until we know what we're walking into. No unnecessary engagements."
Brick cracked his knuckles. "Define 'unnecessary.'"
"Anything that isn't self-defense," Roland said.
"So, everything's self-defense," Brick said with a grin.
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why do I even bother…"
Jack clapped him on the back with infuriating cheer. "Because deep down, you love us, big guy. And because without my charming leadership, you'd all be lost in a maze of your own competence."
Roland exhaled. "You're not leading this mission. My intel, my lead, my operation."
"Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that."
Lilith rolled her eyes, Mordecai sighed, and Brick laughed so hard he nearly toppled a chair. The team was chaos—barely contained, rarely cooperative, but somehow effective.
Roland stared at the glowing map one last time, at all the places he used to fight for — and the ones he'd have to fight against again. The irony wasn't lost on him. "Alright," he said quietly. "Gear up. We leave in six hours."
Jack raised his cup. "To saving Pandora. Again. Fuck, I need to start charging for this." He left the room humming something that sounded suspiciously like elevator music.
Roland stood there a moment longer, watching the holographic map dissolve into static.
He wasn't sure what was worse — the ghosts he'd left behind, or the ones still marching toward him.
The hum of the uplink tower was the closest thing Angel had to white noise. A low, steady vibration that thrummed through the metal floor and up into her boots, matching the faint pulse of the Eridium relays overhead. To anyone else, it might sound oppressive. To her, it was comforting — predictable. Machines didn't lie.
People did. And often.
She leaned back in her chair, screens surrounding her in a glowing halo, data streams dancing in the air like ribbons of light. Her fingers flicked through holographic interfaces as she rerouted the uplink relay to a private channel.
"Okay," she muttered, typing one last encryption line. "And… connected."
A second later, a face popped up on her central display — messy pigtails, oil-smudged cheeks, and a grin big enough to power a city.
"Angel! Finally! I thought you ghosted me again!" Gaige exclaimed, waving a spanner like it was a microphone. "Do you have any idea how boring my day's been without your pretty face to look at? I mean, I built a toaster that screams when it's done, but still!"
Angel laughed softly, a real one this time. "Hi, Gaige."
"Hi, yourself." Gaige leaned closer to the camera, squinting. "You look tired. Been staring at too many holo-screens again, haven't you?"
"Occupational hazard."
"Uh-huh. You keep saying that, but I think you just like glowing rectangles more than me."
"I like both equally," Angel said, deadpan.
Gaige gasped. "Wow. Cold. Ruthless. Heartless. And you wonder why people call you an AI."
"I don't wonder," Angel said. "I take it as a compliment."
Gaige groaned, burying her face in her hands before peeking through her fingers. "Why are you like this?"
Angel smiled faintly. "Because you like it."
That shut Gaige up for half a second — enough time for Angel to enjoy the rare moment of victory before Gaige recovered with an exaggerated smirk. "Okay, yeah, maybe a little. But only because you're cute when you get smug."
The conversation drifted easily after that — half flirting, half technobabble. They compared code optimizations, discussed the inefficiency of Dahl's outdated encryption, and argued (again) over whether Atlas used actual engineers or just trained monkeys with soldering irons.
"Anyway," Gaige said, spinning her wrench idly, "how's your dad? Still doing the whole 'overworked hero with a superiority complex' thing?"
Angel snorted softly. "You have no idea."
"Oh, I think I do," Gaige said, grinning. "He's, like, one diagnostic away from installing cameras in your dreams. Dude needs to chill."
Angel was halfway through laughing when a familiar voice cut through her comm feed like a siren.
"Angel? You there, sweetheart?"
Her blood ran cold.
"Uh—yeah! Dad! Hi!" Angel straightened so fast her chair squeaked. "You're… early."
"Early?" Jack's voice came through crisp and cheerful. "Sweetheart, it's three in the morning. I've been running logistics for seven hours. I just need the latest on that Atlas relay you flagged. You got anything?"
Angel flicked her eyes to the muted Gaige feed in panic. Gaige mouthed: Is that him?
Angel nodded sharply and minimized her. "Right, yeah, totally. Um, Atlas relay is stable. Transmissions are bouncing between their satellites near Rust Commons. Looks like they're piggybacking off old Dahl lines. Nothing major yet, but—uh—monitoring."
"Good work, pumpkin." Jack's voice softened. "Seriously. I'd be lost without you."
"Yeah," she said weakly, forcing a smile he couldn't see. "Thanks, Dad."
Don't get her wrong. She loved her father. But he could be a real clam jammer.
"Alright, I'll let you get back to it. Don't stay up too late, okay?"
"Of course not."
Angel sighed in relief, as her body finally began to relax.
"Hey, you weren't talking to anyone over comms, earlier, were you? I could have sworn I heard someone else when I patched into the channel."
Angel froze. Gaige froze too — though that was mostly because Angel had just muted her audio mid-breath.
"Uh. Probably interference from the relay," Angel said quickly. "Lot of static tonight. Solar storms. Weird magnetosphere stuff."
"Weird stuff. Right. Definitely not a super-secret romantic partner that you're definitely not hiding from me."
"Nope! Definitely not!"
Gaige, bless her heart, chose that exact moment to unmute herself by accident. "So, your dad's kind of intense, huh?"
"I knew it! Who the f—udge—was that?!"
She's been made!
Angel's entire body went cold. "Uh! No one! Bad signal! Cutting out!" She slammed a key sequence. The line exploded with fake static and crackling distortion.
"Angel, hold on, I didn't—"
Click.
Silence.
Angel stared at her dead console, heart hammering. Her hands were shaking — just a little — as she leaned back in her chair and exhaled.
"Well," she muttered to herself. "That went great."
As if on cue, the door slid open and Claptrap rolled in, humming to himself. "Yo! Angel! I heard static! You know what static means? Diagnostics! My favorite!"
Angel blinked. "Claptrap, what are you doing in here?"
"Oh, you know, just, uh, doing some routine upgrades!" His voice cracked on the word routine.
"Upgrades?" she repeated, narrowing her eyes. "You don't have permission to modify your core systems."
Claptrap's optic flickered. "Permission is a social construct!"
"Claptrap."
"Gotta go!" He zipped backward so fast his wheel squealed against the metal floor. "Running diagnostics! Definitely diagnostics! Definitely not deleting evidence!"
"Deleting what—?" But the door had already shut behind him.
Angel stared at it, frowning. Something in his code had been off lately. Latency spikes, erratic logic trees, emotional subroutines flaring for no reason. She'd chalked it up to his personality.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
She leaned forward, tapping a console command to trace his signal. The feed returned an error message she'd never seen before:
ACCESS DENIED — SYSTEM LOCKED
Angel's eyes widened slightly.
She sat back, whispering, "…Dad's not gonna like that."
The uplink tower hummed again — low, steady, almost soothing — but it didn't comfort her this time.
Not when the static in her comms suddenly didn't sound so fake anymore.
Pandora's suns beat down on a wasteland that could char you to bone in minutes, and Lilith couldn't help but grin. Because, honestly? There was no better backdrop for chaos.
She sat perched in the passenger seat of Scooter's "latest masterpiece," which looked less like a vehicle and more like a dare. Twin rocket engines duct-taped to a reinforced hauler, spiked tires, side fins shaped like shark teeth, and flame decals. So many flame decals.
Scooter had called it the Catch-A-Ride 2.0.
Lilith had another name for it: "a lawsuit waiting to happen." You know. If Pandora had laws.
The truck roared across cracked earth, kicking up dust clouds behind them as the convoy tore through the wastes. Brick's laughter echoed over comms — loud, delighted, and probably scaring off the local wildlife. Mordecai leaned out his window with a sniper rifle, firing at anything that so much as blinked on the horizon.
And then there was Jack.
He stood upright in the back of the lead truck like it was a parade float, coat snapping in the wind, yelling into his comm. "Alright, people! Let's do this by the numbers — and by 'numbers,' I mean the number of explosions we can cram into ten minutes!"
Roland's response came sharp. "We're not here to make a scene, Jack."
"Oh, right, sure, stealth mission," Jack said, gesturing at their dust trail. "We're as subtle as a brick through a stained-glass window. Oh wait—hi Brick!"
Brick laughed hard enough to stall the radio for a second. "Subtlety's for people without muscles!"
Lilith snorted, fingers dancing over the console as she adjusted the scanner feed. "You're all hopeless."
"Admit it," Jack said, flashing her a grin. "You love this."
And she kind of did. The adrenaline, the noise, the rhythm of chaos — it was her kind of orchestra.
The Atlas base came into view over the ridge: blocky, fortified, and new. Fresh steel glinted under the twin suns. That alone was weird — Pandora chewed through metal faster than bandits chewed through morals. Someone was maintaining this place, and well.
"Visual on target," she said, focusing the zoom. "Perimeter guards, heavy turrets, patrol drones. Not your usual half-starved mercs."
Roland's voice came over the channel, firm as bedrock. "Confirm defensive grid. We move in once we've—"
The radio crackled with static.
Then came the sound of gunfire.
"Contact!" Mordecai shouted. "They saw us—north ridge, three clicks!"
A volley of electric-blue fire ripped across the sand, slamming into the ground just ahead of the convoy. Shock rounds.
Roland cursed. "Atlas scouts! Defensive formation!"
"Defensive formation?" Jack scoffed, already vaulting onto the hood. "No, no, no — this is offensive formation!"
Lilith groaned and slammed her hand down on the release lever. "You're such a bad influence."
The panel beside her popped open, revealing twin Eridium cannons. The air shimmered around her as violet light crackled across her skin, running in glowing lines up her arms.
She aimed, grinned, and fired.
The blast turned the sand into molten glass. Two Atlas troopers went flying, their shock shields shorting out mid-air. Brick whooped and drove straight through the explosion cloud, smashing another squad with the subtlety of a meteor strike.
Mordecai covered them from above, his shots precise and rhythmic. "Targets down. You're welcome."
"Not bad," Lilith said, vaulting out of the cab. "My turn."
She teleported forward in a flash of violet, reappearing behind a barricade of Atlas troops. The world went silent for an instant — that perfect calm before the scream — and then she unleashed a pulse of raw energy that sent the squad scattering.
They tried to regroup. They failed.
Jack was shouting orders through laughter. "Oh man, look at them! Formation, tactics, discipline — aww, they think they're people!"
"Focus!" Roland barked. "Don't get sloppy!"
"Define sloppy!" Jack yelled back. "Because I call this art!"
A rocket exploded somewhere behind them. Brick roared. Mordecai swore. Lilith laughed.
By the time the dust settled, the ambush was nothing but smoking armor and melted sand. The convoy rolled to a halt beside the shattered perimeter wall.
Lilith caught her breath, the faint glow fading from her skin as the last echo of Eridium power bled out. Her pulse still thrummed with the rush of it.
"Everyone okay?" Roland asked.
Brick raised a fist. "Best day ever!"
Mordecai wiped his goggles. "We've had worse landings."
Jack dusted off his coat, stepping over a fallen trooper. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm feeling pretty good about our odds. And hey—look, they even brought us a welcome mat." He kicked at an Atlas helmet. "Adorable."
Lilith smirked. "Cute. But this isn't a retreat. Look at their positions — they were holding ground. Waiting for us."
Roland frowned, scanning the field. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," she said, eyes glowing faintly again, "Jack was right. They're not running. They're claiming. My planet. My Eridium." She turned toward the open gate of the base, violet light flickering in her palm. "And I don't share."
Roland gave a grim nod. "Alright, team. Secure the perimeter. We're moving in."
Jack raised a hand. "Do we at least get to knock first?"
Lilith grinned. "You already did."
The gate blew inward in a shower of sparks.
The Vault Hunters stepped through the smoke together — six silhouettes against the burning skyline — ready to greet whatever waited inside.
The battlefield smelled like ozone, smoke, and the kind of burnt metal that really brings out the flavor of singed flesh. Charming.
We'd done it — or, more accurately, I'd done it, because clearly the rest of the team would've fallen apart without my incredible leadership, coordination, and willingness to yell "left!" at the exact right time.
The Crimson Lance survivors were on their knees, disarmed and bruised, helmets off, eyes darting like they couldn't decide whether to beg or puke first. One of them had that thousand-yard stare — which, from personal experience, meant they were either traumatized or calculating how to blow you up with a grenade they'd hidden in their boot.
So, naturally, I proposed the reasonable solution.
"Beheading?" I asked, hands on hips. "No, too medieval. Spacing. Way cleaner. Environmentally friendly, too — no blood, no mess, and hey, maybe they land somewhere nice. Like a volcano."
Roland turned on me like I'd just insulted his moral compass. "We're not executing prisoners, Jack. They're soldiers."
"Yeah, soldiers who shot at us," I pointed out. "Or do you think that because they wear matching outfits, and braid each other's hair, that makes them, what? Civilized? You know who else wore matching outfits? My high school marching band. Wanna guess how many of them tried to kill me? More than zero!"
Brick barked out a laugh loud enough to rattle the gun racks. Lilith just sighed, glowing faintly in that way that said she was two seconds from teleporting out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. Mordecai muttered something about "just shoot 'em later" and wandered off to check his bird.
Roland didn't budge. "We're better than this."
I tilted my head. "Better than surviving?"
He glared. The kind of glare that makes lesser men apologize and go write in a journal about honor. I didn't apologize. I was right — and we both knew it.
Finally, I threw up my hands with a theatrical groan. "Fine. Keep your precious war criminals. But they're your responsibility. That means you're gonna feed 'em, water 'em, and maybe take 'em for a walk twice a day, then you handle it. I'm not house-training psychopaths."
"Noted," Roland said stiffly.
He walked off to start shouting logistics at Brick — something about setting up a perimeter. Lilith followed, all sparks and swagger, probably planning to find another fight before this one even cooled.
I lingered, watching the prisoners being herded off toward a makeshift cell block. They looked small now. Fragile. That kind of fragility always comes right before someone decides to stab you in your sleep.
"Soldiers," I muttered. "Sure. Let's see how long they stay that way."
I turned to follow the others, stepping over a broken helmet. The cracked visor caught my reflection — a thin grin, still twitching from the adrenaline.
"Guy needs better therapy than a military-grade redemption story," I said under my breath.
Not that I was really one to judge.
Sheesh. That got a little tense. Can Jack and Roland save their bromance? Will Roland end up spacing all the prisoners? Or will he sentence them to Death by Claptrap? Please stay tuned. Or you can just skip ahead on my patreon, link below:
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You ever walk into a place that smells like potential and failure at the same time?
Maybe a start-up company. A new school. An internship at a place you never heard of. It comes in a lot of forms, but you can never forget that feeling. That blend of trepidation and excitement.
That's New Haven.
It's supposed to be Pandora's newest "utopia," which, translated from local dialect, means not currently on fire. I've seen junkyards with better feng shui. Every building's a different shade of rust, the power grid whines like it's dying of old age, and Scooter's idea of city planning is "put the biggest gun turret on the prettiest roof."
And yet… it's coming together.
There's a wall now. Mostly straight. There's plumbing—if you don't mind water that occasionally screams. And Tannis moved in last week, which I guess means we've officially crossed the threshold from "camp" to "community." She said something about "research opportunities," which I'm pretty sure is code for "sick of corporate psych evaluations." Can't blame her. Hyperion HR makes the Borderlands look stable.
Still, I gotta admit — I'm kinda proud.
Not proud proud, but the kind of proud where you stand back, look at a crooked tower of scrap, and think: "Hey, at least it hasn't collapsed today."
I give the place six months before it becomes a tourist trap. Seven, if I kill the tour guide first.
It's not exactly convenient living here, though. No labs, no luxury, no overpriced coffee. But Fast Travel's still up and running, which means I can zap between here and Hyperion HQ anytime I want.
And I do.
Half my day's spent yelling at interns who think "calibrating" means "hitting buttons until the explosions stop." The other half's spent on "family time," which is corporate-speak for checking that my daughter hasn't blown up another data core.
Angel's been cagey lately. Secretive. She always gets like this when she's working on something she doesn't want me to see — or worse, someone she doesn't want me to meet.
I've been subtle about it. Totally cool. Haven't even hacked her private comms this week.
…Much.
Look, I'm not paranoid, okay? I'm concerned. There's a difference. She's smart, she's talented, and she's got terrible taste in friends. I caught a snippet of her chatting with someone the other day — lots of giggling, awkward pauses, classic "someone's got a crush" energy. Couldn't make out who, though. Which, naturally, drives me insane.
If there's one thing worse than someone dating my daughter, it's someone dating my daughter without my authorization.
Anyway. Between that and Scooter's never-ending requests for "just a lil' more funding," I'm starting to miss the good old days of gunfights and moral ambiguity.
I've been tinkering with some of the Eridium we salvaged from the Vault, making new toys—Lilith might get a power-up from this stuff, but it's not like I'm a magical space warrior princess. She gets it, though.
In fact, Lilith, who is now and forever holding the reigning championship title of "best girlfriend ever" is supportive of it. She thinks it's cool. Roland doesn't trust it, naturally. Says it's "unnatural." Which, coming from a guy who spends his free time stalking and surveilling his old crew, is a little… What's a coy word for hypocritical ?
Man, that's going to bug me. Where was I? Right.
If I can figure out how to stabilize the resonance fields, we might be able to power an entire defense grid with this stuff. But nooo, Roland wants "manual patrols" and "structured defense teams." Like it's the goddamn army again.
Speaking of which—
"Sir!" one of the comm grunts shouts from across the hangar, all sweaty and nervous. "Roland says he needs you in the war room. Urgent."
Of course he does.
I sigh, stretch, and swipe my hands clean on my coat. "Let me guess — Atlas sneezed, and he wants us to hand them tissues?"
The grunt blinks. "Uh. Maybe?"
Grunts clearly have no appreciation for metaphors.
"Great. Love that guy's optimism."
I toss my tools onto the bench, take one last look around my half-built "utopia," and smile. The kind of smile that's half pride, half migraine.
"Keep it up, kiddos," I say to no one in particular. "One day this dump's gonna be paradise. Or a crater. Honestly, fifty-fifty shot."
I hit the Fast Travel console, the world blurs into blue light, and New Haven dissolves into static behind me — a half-broken dream held together by hope, scrap metal, and one dangerously handsome visionary.
...
The war room of New Haven was little more than a gutted garage with a table, a holoprojector, and too many opinions.
Roland stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, watching the flickering red map of Pandora cast light over the room. The lines and markers were crude, but they told a story he didn't need words for — Atlas wasn't retreating. They were reorganizing.
He could see it in their formation: clean, efficient, methodical. The Crimson Lance didn't scatter when beaten. They regrouped.
He'd almost be proud… if he weren't feeling so betrayed.
"Picked up this signal an hour ago," he said, tapping the console. Several red pings flared to life across the digital terrain — concentric patterns radiating around glowing violet hotspots. "Atlas is setting up new bases near Eridium veins. Probably trying to lock down the biggest concentrations before anyone else gets wise."
Lilith leaned forward, arms resting on the table, eyes gleaming with that dangerous curiosity of hers. "So, what— they want to mine it?"
"Or weaponize it," Mordecai muttered from behind his goggles. "Which means we're walking into a trap if we go sniffing around."
"Trap, schmrap," Brick said, flexing a bicep roughly the size of a small country. "We hit 'em before they're ready. Smash the base, break their toys, done."
Roland didn't look up from the display. "It's not that simple. Atlas isn't bandits with guns. They're trained, supplied, and disciplined. If they're moving this fast, they've got a new command structure in place."
"Translation," came the lazy, sing-song voice from the back of the room, "they've got a new boss for us to shoot. Fantastic. You know I was starting to miss the smell of burning bureaucracy in the morning… literally"
Roland turned, unsurprised.
Jack strolled in like he owned the place, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a half-empty cup of coffee with "WORLD'S BEST CEO" scribbled across it. Ambitious, but Roland's pretty sure Jack's bosses wouldn't approve.
Not that he can judge. God knows Roland's own superiors would be rolling in their graves if they could see him now. And that is something Roland's proud of.
"Glad you could join us," Roland said flatly.
"Oh, I live to serve, Captain Buzzkill," Jack replied, strolling up beside the map. "So, lemme get this straight—you're telling me Atlas, the same Atlas whose flagship, superstar quarterback we literally shot, captured, and detained a month ago, is suddenly relevant again?" He laughed under his breath.
Jack was trying to be reassuring. He was failing.
"Points for tenacity." Jack sighed. "But c'mon, man. They're like the galaxy's most expensive LARP club. All matching outfits and daddy issues. I'm pretty sure we fried bigger fish. Way bigger. I say we should just get our nets ready, and roll out."
Brick snorted. Lilith smirked. Roland didn't.
"They're still dangerous," he said.
"Dangerous, sure," Jack said, waving his cup. "So's food poisoning. But I'm not reorganizing my entire weekend over it."
"This isn't a joke," Roland said.
"Everything's a joke if you have the right audience. Maybe I should have tried someone with a sense of humor. Or social awareness. My bad!"
"Jack—"
Lilith raised a hand before Roland could finish. "Okay, timeout. Roland, you're spiraling. Jack, you're being… you. Can we please focus before Brick starts throwing furniture?"
Brick looked mildly disappointed that she'd noticed.
Roland inhaled slowly. He'd been through this song and dance before. Different battlefields, same noise — soldiers who wanted to fight, soldiers who wanted to joke their way through it. Somewhere between the two, people got killed.
He tapped another section of the map, highlighting the largest cluster of Atlas signals. "Reiss's intel puts their main operation here — an old Dahl mining complex west of Rust Commons. Satellite imagery shows heavy fortifications. They're digging in."
"Digging in," Mordecai repeated. "So, they're scared."
"Or confident," Roland countered. "Either way, we're not waiting for them to finish whatever they're doing down there."
Jack made a mock salute. "Ooh, the big, dramatic speech part. Hold on, let me get my tissues."
Roland gave him a look that could have peeled paint. "We move at dawn."
Jack groaned like he'd just been told bedtime was back. "Dawn? What is this, a war movie? Can we at least move at the crack of nine-thirty? Maybe brunch?"
Lilith chuckled, bumping her shoulder lightly against Jack's. "You'll survive. Maybe even get a tan."
Roland ignored the flirting. "We go in fast and quiet. Recon only until we know what we're walking into. No unnecessary engagements."
Brick cracked his knuckles. "Define 'unnecessary.'"
"Anything that isn't self-defense," Roland said.
"So, everything's self-defense," Brick said with a grin.
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why do I even bother…"
Jack clapped him on the back with infuriating cheer. "Because deep down, you love us, big guy. And because without my charming leadership, you'd all be lost in a maze of your own competence."
Roland exhaled. "You're not leading this mission. My intel, my lead, my operation."
"Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that."
Lilith rolled her eyes, Mordecai sighed, and Brick laughed so hard he nearly toppled a chair. The team was chaos—barely contained, rarely cooperative, but somehow effective.
Roland stared at the glowing map one last time, at all the places he used to fight for — and the ones he'd have to fight against again. The irony wasn't lost on him. "Alright," he said quietly. "Gear up. We leave in six hours."
Jack raised his cup. "To saving Pandora. Again. Fuck, I need to start charging for this." He left the room humming something that sounded suspiciously like elevator music.
Roland stood there a moment longer, watching the holographic map dissolve into static.
He wasn't sure what was worse — the ghosts he'd left behind, or the ones still marching toward him.
...
The hum of the uplink tower was the closest thing Angel had to white noise. A low, steady vibration that thrummed through the metal floor and up into her boots, matching the faint pulse of the Eridium relays overhead. To anyone else, it might sound oppressive. To her, it was comforting — predictable. Machines didn't lie.
People did. And often.
She leaned back in her chair, screens surrounding her in a glowing halo, data streams dancing in the air like ribbons of light. Her fingers flicked through holographic interfaces as she rerouted the uplink relay to a private channel.
"Okay," she muttered, typing one last encryption line. "And… connected."
A second later, a face popped up on her central display — messy pigtails, oil-smudged cheeks, and a grin big enough to power a city.
"Angel! Finally! I thought you ghosted me again!" Gaige exclaimed, waving a spanner like it was a microphone. "Do you have any idea how boring my day's been without your pretty face to look at? I mean, I built a toaster that screams when it's done, but still!"
Angel laughed softly, a real one this time. "Hi, Gaige."
"Hi, yourself." Gaige leaned closer to the camera, squinting. "You look tired. Been staring at too many holo-screens again, haven't you?"
"Occupational hazard."
"Uh-huh. You keep saying that, but I think you just like glowing rectangles more than me."
"I like both equally," Angel said, deadpan.
Gaige gasped. "Wow. Cold. Ruthless. Heartless. And you wonder why people call you an AI."
"I don't wonder," Angel said. "I take it as a compliment."
Gaige groaned, burying her face in her hands before peeking through her fingers. "Why are you like this?"
Angel smiled faintly. "Because you like it."
That shut Gaige up for half a second — enough time for Angel to enjoy the rare moment of victory before Gaige recovered with an exaggerated smirk. "Okay, yeah, maybe a little. But only because you're cute when you get smug."
The conversation drifted easily after that — half flirting, half technobabble. They compared code optimizations, discussed the inefficiency of Dahl's outdated encryption, and argued (again) over whether Atlas used actual engineers or just trained monkeys with soldering irons.
"Anyway," Gaige said, spinning her wrench idly, "how's your dad? Still doing the whole 'overworked hero with a superiority complex' thing?"
Angel snorted softly. "You have no idea."
"Oh, I think I do," Gaige said, grinning. "He's, like, one diagnostic away from installing cameras in your dreams. Dude needs to chill."
Angel was halfway through laughing when a familiar voice cut through her comm feed like a siren.
"Angel? You there, sweetheart?"
Her blood ran cold.
"Uh—yeah! Dad! Hi!" Angel straightened so fast her chair squeaked. "You're… early."
"Early?" Jack's voice came through crisp and cheerful. "Sweetheart, it's three in the morning. I've been running logistics for seven hours. I just need the latest on that Atlas relay you flagged. You got anything?"
Angel flicked her eyes to the muted Gaige feed in panic. Gaige mouthed: Is that him?
Angel nodded sharply and minimized her. "Right, yeah, totally. Um, Atlas relay is stable. Transmissions are bouncing between their satellites near Rust Commons. Looks like they're piggybacking off old Dahl lines. Nothing major yet, but—uh—monitoring."
"Good work, pumpkin." Jack's voice softened. "Seriously. I'd be lost without you."
"Yeah," she said weakly, forcing a smile he couldn't see. "Thanks, Dad."
Don't get her wrong. She loved her father. But he could be a real clam jammer.
"Alright, I'll let you get back to it. Don't stay up too late, okay?"
"Of course not."
Angel sighed in relief, as her body finally began to relax.
"Hey, you weren't talking to anyone over comms, earlier, were you? I could have sworn I heard someone else when I patched into the channel."
Angel froze. Gaige froze too — though that was mostly because Angel had just muted her audio mid-breath.
"Uh. Probably interference from the relay," Angel said quickly. "Lot of static tonight. Solar storms. Weird magnetosphere stuff."
"Weird stuff. Right. Definitely not a super-secret romantic partner that you're definitely not hiding from me."
"Nope! Definitely not!"
Gaige, bless her heart, chose that exact moment to unmute herself by accident. "So, your dad's kind of intense, huh?"
"I knew it! Who the f—udge—was that?!"
She's been made!
Angel's entire body went cold. "Uh! No one! Bad signal! Cutting out!" She slammed a key sequence. The line exploded with fake static and crackling distortion.
"Angel, hold on, I didn't—"
Click.
Silence.
Angel stared at her dead console, heart hammering. Her hands were shaking — just a little — as she leaned back in her chair and exhaled.
"Well," she muttered to herself. "That went great."
As if on cue, the door slid open and Claptrap rolled in, humming to himself. "Yo! Angel! I heard static! You know what static means? Diagnostics! My favorite!"
Angel blinked. "Claptrap, what are you doing in here?"
"Oh, you know, just, uh, doing some routine upgrades!" His voice cracked on the word routine.
"Upgrades?" she repeated, narrowing her eyes. "You don't have permission to modify your core systems."
Claptrap's optic flickered. "Permission is a social construct!"
"Claptrap."
"Gotta go!" He zipped backward so fast his wheel squealed against the metal floor. "Running diagnostics! Definitely diagnostics! Definitely not deleting evidence!"
"Deleting what—?" But the door had already shut behind him.
Angel stared at it, frowning. Something in his code had been off lately. Latency spikes, erratic logic trees, emotional subroutines flaring for no reason. She'd chalked it up to his personality.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
She leaned forward, tapping a console command to trace his signal. The feed returned an error message she'd never seen before:
ACCESS DENIED — SYSTEM LOCKED
Angel's eyes widened slightly.
She sat back, whispering, "…Dad's not gonna like that."
The uplink tower hummed again — low, steady, almost soothing — but it didn't comfort her this time.
Not when the static in her comms suddenly didn't sound so fake anymore.
...
Pandora's suns beat down on a wasteland that could char you to bone in minutes, and Lilith couldn't help but grin. Because, honestly? There was no better backdrop for chaos.
She sat perched in the passenger seat of Scooter's "latest masterpiece," which looked less like a vehicle and more like a dare. Twin rocket engines duct-taped to a reinforced hauler, spiked tires, side fins shaped like shark teeth, and flame decals. So many flame decals.
Scooter had called it the Catch-A-Ride 2.0.
Lilith had another name for it: "a lawsuit waiting to happen." You know. If Pandora had laws.
The truck roared across cracked earth, kicking up dust clouds behind them as the convoy tore through the wastes. Brick's laughter echoed over comms — loud, delighted, and probably scaring off the local wildlife. Mordecai leaned out his window with a sniper rifle, firing at anything that so much as blinked on the horizon.
And then there was Jack.
He stood upright in the back of the lead truck like it was a parade float, coat snapping in the wind, yelling into his comm. "Alright, people! Let's do this by the numbers — and by 'numbers,' I mean the number of explosions we can cram into ten minutes!"
Roland's response came sharp. "We're not here to make a scene, Jack."
"Oh, right, sure, stealth mission," Jack said, gesturing at their dust trail. "We're as subtle as a brick through a stained-glass window. Oh wait—hi Brick!"
Brick laughed hard enough to stall the radio for a second. "Subtlety's for people without muscles!"
Lilith snorted, fingers dancing over the console as she adjusted the scanner feed. "You're all hopeless."
"Admit it," Jack said, flashing her a grin. "You love this."
And she kind of did. The adrenaline, the noise, the rhythm of chaos — it was her kind of orchestra.
The Atlas base came into view over the ridge: blocky, fortified, and new. Fresh steel glinted under the twin suns. That alone was weird — Pandora chewed through metal faster than bandits chewed through morals. Someone was maintaining this place, and well.
"Visual on target," she said, focusing the zoom. "Perimeter guards, heavy turrets, patrol drones. Not your usual half-starved mercs."
Roland's voice came over the channel, firm as bedrock. "Confirm defensive grid. We move in once we've—"
The radio crackled with static.
Then came the sound of gunfire.
"Contact!" Mordecai shouted. "They saw us—north ridge, three clicks!"
A volley of electric-blue fire ripped across the sand, slamming into the ground just ahead of the convoy. Shock rounds.
Roland cursed. "Atlas scouts! Defensive formation!"
"Defensive formation?" Jack scoffed, already vaulting onto the hood. "No, no, no — this is offensive formation!"
Lilith groaned and slammed her hand down on the release lever. "You're such a bad influence."
The panel beside her popped open, revealing twin Eridium cannons. The air shimmered around her as violet light crackled across her skin, running in glowing lines up her arms.
She aimed, grinned, and fired.
The blast turned the sand into molten glass. Two Atlas troopers went flying, their shock shields shorting out mid-air. Brick whooped and drove straight through the explosion cloud, smashing another squad with the subtlety of a meteor strike.
Mordecai covered them from above, his shots precise and rhythmic. "Targets down. You're welcome."
"Not bad," Lilith said, vaulting out of the cab. "My turn."
She teleported forward in a flash of violet, reappearing behind a barricade of Atlas troops. The world went silent for an instant — that perfect calm before the scream — and then she unleashed a pulse of raw energy that sent the squad scattering.
They tried to regroup. They failed.
Jack was shouting orders through laughter. "Oh man, look at them! Formation, tactics, discipline — aww, they think they're people!"
"Focus!" Roland barked. "Don't get sloppy!"
"Define sloppy!" Jack yelled back. "Because I call this art!"
A rocket exploded somewhere behind them. Brick roared. Mordecai swore. Lilith laughed.
By the time the dust settled, the ambush was nothing but smoking armor and melted sand. The convoy rolled to a halt beside the shattered perimeter wall.
Lilith caught her breath, the faint glow fading from her skin as the last echo of Eridium power bled out. Her pulse still thrummed with the rush of it.
"Everyone okay?" Roland asked.
Brick raised a fist. "Best day ever!"
Mordecai wiped his goggles. "We've had worse landings."
Jack dusted off his coat, stepping over a fallen trooper. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm feeling pretty good about our odds. And hey—look, they even brought us a welcome mat." He kicked at an Atlas helmet. "Adorable."
Lilith smirked. "Cute. But this isn't a retreat. Look at their positions — they were holding ground. Waiting for us."
Roland frowned, scanning the field. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," she said, eyes glowing faintly again, "Jack was right. They're not running. They're claiming. My planet. My Eridium." She turned toward the open gate of the base, violet light flickering in her palm. "And I don't share."
Roland gave a grim nod. "Alright, team. Secure the perimeter. We're moving in."
Jack raised a hand. "Do we at least get to knock first?"
Lilith grinned. "You already did."
The gate blew inward in a shower of sparks.
The Vault Hunters stepped through the smoke together — six silhouettes against the burning skyline — ready to greet whatever waited inside.
...
The battlefield smelled like ozone, smoke, and the kind of burnt metal that really brings out the flavor of singed flesh. Charming.
We'd done it — or, more accurately, I'd done it, because clearly the rest of the team would've fallen apart without my incredible leadership, coordination, and willingness to yell "left!" at the exact right time.
The Crimson Lance survivors were on their knees, disarmed and bruised, helmets off, eyes darting like they couldn't decide whether to beg or puke first. One of them had that thousand-yard stare — which, from personal experience, meant they were either traumatized or calculating how to blow you up with a grenade they'd hidden in their boot.
So, naturally, I proposed the reasonable solution.
"Beheading?" I asked, hands on hips. "No, too medieval. Spacing. Way cleaner. Environmentally friendly, too — no blood, no mess, and hey, maybe they land somewhere nice. Like a volcano."
Roland turned on me like I'd just insulted his moral compass. "We're not executing prisoners, Jack. They're soldiers."
"Yeah, soldiers who shot at us," I pointed out. "Or do you think that because they wear matching outfits, and braid each other's hair, that makes them, what? Civilized? You know who else wore matching outfits? My high school marching band. Wanna guess how many of them tried to kill me? More than zero!"
Brick barked out a laugh loud enough to rattle the gun racks. Lilith just sighed, glowing faintly in that way that said she was two seconds from teleporting out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. Mordecai muttered something about "just shoot 'em later" and wandered off to check his bird.
Roland didn't budge. "We're better than this."
I tilted my head. "Better than surviving?"
He glared. The kind of glare that makes lesser men apologize and go write in a journal about honor. I didn't apologize. I was right — and we both knew it.
Finally, I threw up my hands with a theatrical groan. "Fine. Keep your precious war criminals. But they're your responsibility. That means you're gonna feed 'em, water 'em, and maybe take 'em for a walk twice a day, then you handle it. I'm not house-training psychopaths."
"Noted," Roland said stiffly.
He walked off to start shouting logistics at Brick — something about setting up a perimeter. Lilith followed, all sparks and swagger, probably planning to find another fight before this one even cooled.
I lingered, watching the prisoners being herded off toward a makeshift cell block. They looked small now. Fragile. That kind of fragility always comes right before someone decides to stab you in your sleep.
"Soldiers," I muttered. "Sure. Let's see how long they stay that way."
I turned to follow the others, stepping over a broken helmet. The cracked visor caught my reflection — a thin grin, still twitching from the adrenaline.
"Guy needs better therapy than a military-grade redemption story," I said under my breath.
Not that I was really one to judge.
...
Sheesh. That got a little tense. Can Jack and Roland save their bromance? Will Roland end up spacing all the prisoners? Or will he sentence them to Death by Claptrap? Please stay tuned. Or you can just skip ahead on my patreon, link below:
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Chapter 26: The General's Orders
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Mad King Kevin
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Chapter 26: The General's Orders
The smoke hadn't even cleared when the questions started.
Roland stood at the edge of the captured outpost, watching a dozen Crimson Lance soldiers kneel in the dust, their red armor dulled by ash and blood. Some were nursing burns; others just stared at the ground, too shell-shocked to move. The Vault Hunters had won, but victory didn't feel much like it.
The problem was simple: prisoners.
Jack, naturally, had voted for "creative disposal." Beheading, spacing, something theatrical. Roland had shut it down — but now that the fight was over, and the surviving Lance were lined up in front of him, he found himself wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with them.
Pandora didn't have prisons anymore. Dahl had filled the planet with them, sure, but none of them worked. Half had collapsed; the other half had been taken over by the same convicts they were meant to hold. Every fortress, every raider camp had once been a holding facility.
And he was about to make more of them.
He exhaled through his nose, voice tight. "We need to process them. Strip weapons, armor, tech — anything that pings Atlas frequencies."
Lilith leaned on a crate nearby, arms crossed, an infuriating little smirk tugging her mouth. "You know, Handsome had a point. You keep 'em all tied up here, you'll just have a riot in a week. Maybe less."
Roland gave her a look. "And what, you want me to agree with him?"
"I didn't say that," she replied, shrugging. "Just that he's right. Accidentally. In a punchable way."
A very punchable way. Roland's been a part of enough war crimes, thank you very much.
From behind her, Mordecai muttered something indistinct. Bloodwing fluttered restlessly on his arm, feathers ruffling in agitation. The air shimmered faintly — Eridium residue, thick and toxic as humidity.
Roland still wasn't sure about that stuff. Jack thinks it'll make him rich, and by association, them. But so far, all he's seen it do is make an already insane planet fly over the cuckoo's nest. An opinion that even the wildlife seemed to agree with, if Bloodwing was any indication.
"She's been like this since we hit the base," Mordecai said, scratching the bird's neck. "Don't like the smell of it. None of us should."
"Noted," Roland said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking back at the prisoners. "We can't keep them here. We don't have supplies, and New Haven barely has room for the refugees it's already got."
Lilith's expression softened, just a little. "So what, you're gonna turn 'em loose?"
In a fair, and understanding process of wartime negotiation, they'd bargain with the other side. Release prisoners for commodities, food, medicine, ammunition. Corporate wars aren't like that, ironically enough. Why settle for a slice, when you can take the whole pie?
If that means they break some of their own fingers in the process of stealing it, that's a good trade. In their opinion, anyway. Idiots. In his opinion.
But it does leave his hands tied.
"Not exactly." Roland squared his shoulders, voice hardening. "We give them a choice. They can work for us — guard the perimeter, haul supplies, earn a bed. Or they can walk. Head back to Atlas if they think that's safer."
Mordecai chuckled dryly. "Which it's not."
Roland ignored him. "Either way, they get a second chance. What they do with it's on them."
Lilith raised a brow. "You sure that's mercy and not just outsourcing your conscience?"
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it's the only kind that lasts around here."
She smiled faintly — the kind of half-grin that meant she respected him even if she'd never say it out loud. "You're getting soft, soldier boy."
"Then remind me to thank you for the bad influence."
He looked out over the horizon, at the dust storm rolling across the flats. Out here, mercy and pragmatism weren't opposites — they were synonyms. He wasn't naive enough to think all of these soldiers would turn their lives around. Some would run. Some would kill. Some would die in the wastes.
But for now, they were alive. And that was enough.
Everyone deserved a second chance.
Maybe not a third.
General Knoxx had seen his fair share of stupid orders.
He'd just never seen them arrive simultaneously.
The holo-display flickered before him, two corporate missives hovering side by side in cheery, corporate red font.
MEMO 1: RETAKE THE SECTOR IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION.
MEMO 2: MINIMIZE CASUALTIES AND AVOID ANY ACTION THAT MAY HURT SHARE VALUE.
Knoxx let out a low, humorless grunt. "Of course."
The Atlas command carrier thrummed around him — the steady, muffled heartbeat of a war machine that hadn't slept in months. Its corridors were all metal and misery, filled with officers who still saluted out of habit, not respect. The whole ship smelled like recycled air and corporate desperation.
He leaned back in his chair, boots up on the console, and scrolled through the latest field reports. The Crimson Lance detachment at Outpost Theta-9 — gone. The Vault Hunters had hit them hard, wiped their comm lines, stripped their armory. Survivors: zero confirmed. Prisoners: unknown.
He didn't need to guess what that meant.
Knoxx tapped the edge of the hologram, cycling through camera stills of the aftermath. The feed cut off halfway through the assault — static, heat signatures, a burst of light, then nothing.
He muttered under his breath. "You'd think, after a whole year of this, they'd stop underestimating that crew."
Instead, they lost a third of their forces stationed on the planet. And the Vault. And their Siren. Steele might've been a shoot first, shoot second, think about the consequences later kind of gal. But at least she got shit done.
Now what's he got left? Where's his "army?"
The door hissed open behind him. A young officer snapped to attention, nervous energy practically vibrating off her. "Sir! Command wants an update on—"
"Which Command?" Knoxx asked without looking up. One of them was incredibly important, and of his utmost concern. The other…
She faltered. "Uh… Corporate Command, sir."
… could eat shit and die.
He snorted. "The important Command, then. Tell them the situation is stable." Otherwise, they're just bombard his secretary with every complaint under the sun. And considering that Pandora had two, that was already double his doctor's recommended daily dosage.
Oh, who the hell is he kidding. Four times as much, easy.
Knoxx is under enough stress without Corporate taking up his comms. Especially when he needs those open for any and all intel that can get on what they're up against. He'd much rather know what kind of artillery they're up against, rather than what KPI they're falling on.
"But it's not, sir."
"It's stable enough."
The officer hesitated. "They also wanted to confirm you're deploying the reinforcements they requested."
Knoxx finally swiveled his chair, fixing her with a flat, weary look. "The reinforcements they requested don't exist. They cut my recruitment budget two months ago."
"Then… what should I tell them?"
"Tell them I'm improvising," he said, reaching for his sidearm to check the chamber. "And if they don't like it, they can come planet-side and fix it themselves."
She looked like she wanted to argue — then thought better of it and left.
Knoxx rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wasn't sure what bothered him more: the steady bleeding of good soldiers, or the executives who treated them like spare parts.
Once upon a time, Atlas had stood for something. Structure. Order. A way out of the chaos. Now it was just another cult with a stock portfolio. The only thing efficient about the company was its hypocrisy.
He pulled up a schematic of Pandora's surface, watching the red icons blink out one by one. Another outpost gone. Another squad lost. The Vault Hunters were cutting through his lines faster than he could rebuild them.
He sighed, muttering to himself. "I signed up to command soldiers. Not accountants with laser pointers."
Still, he wasn't done yet.
Knoxx opened a private channel to his quartermaster. "Rally what's left of Delta Battalion. I want fresh armor on every warm body and shock rifles on standby. If Atlas wants a counteroffensive, I'll give them one. But I'm not wasting more lives for a board meeting."
A pause. Then a crisp voice replied: "Understood, sir."
The channel clicked off. Knoxx leaned back again, staring at the holographic map.
The war for Pandora was becoming less about strategy and more about attrition. But if Atlas wanted to keep bleeding, he'd make sure the enemy bled too.
He turned off the display, plunging the room into the dim red glow of the carrier's warning lights. "Alright," he muttered to himself. "Let's give the bastards their money's worth."
There are days when I think Pandora hates me personally.
Like, not metaphorically, not "wow, what a harsh, unforgiving hellscape." I mean the planet itself — rocks, dirt, air, gravity — has formed a collective union specifically to make my life miserable.
Case in point: the comms.
"Connection failed. Please check your uplink configuration."
"Yeah, thanks, genius," I mutter, smacking the side of my ECHO like that's going to help. I did feel a little better. Just a little. "Why don't you check your attitude while you're at it?"
The display flickers, sputters static, and then — for a half second — I hear Angel's voice.
"Dad—? You're—break—interfer—"
And then it's gone again.
Perfect.
I'm standing on the edge of New Haven, boots in the dust, trying not to throw a several-thousand-dollar piece of tech into the sun. Behind me, the town looks like a scrapyard and a salvage yard had a baby — and that baby immediately started chain-smoking and filing for bankruptcy. Scooter's got half the place running on duct tape, Mordecai keeps "testing" his rifle silencers in the middle of the night, and I'm 90% sure Brick is sleeping in a shipping container full of grenades.
Home, sweet half-broken home.
Angel's signal should be clean — she's back at HQ, sitting behind enough bandwidth to livestream the apocalypse. But something's been jamming our feed since before the raid on that Atlas base. I keep hearing static, background whispering, sometimes what sounds like… singing? Not in the good way. More in the "your toaster is haunted" way.
I'm halfway to the Fast Travel station, ready to just beam up there myself, when I hear a clang and a scream.
Not the "I'm dying" kind of scream. The "I dropped my data drive again" kind.
"Tannis," I sigh.
Sure enough, a few meters off the road, she's half-buried under a pile of scrap metal, surrounded by open crates, humming to herself and muttering equations in the tone of someone arguing with God.
"Knock, knock," I call, stepping over a coil of wire that looks suspiciously alive. "Please tell me this isn't another one of your 'let's see if the Skag's digestive system can handle lithium' days."
She pokes her head out, goggles askew. "Jack! You're just in time. My assistant quit."
"You mean the intern you bribed with lunch rations?"
"Yes, and very ungratefully, I might add. Something about 'being tired of the voices.' Which, I assume, were his own guilty conscience."
"Right. Or the Eridium fumes. You know, six of one."
She stands, dusts herself off, and gestures grandly to what I can only describe as a science crime scene. There's an open centrifuge, two unidentifiable organs in jars, a power converter duct-taped to what looks like a children's toy, and a suspiciously glowing sandwich.
"Can I ask why you're still here?" I ask. "You've got a fully-stocked, climate-controlled lab back at HQ. With, you know, walls. And fewer spontaneous explosions."
Tannis visibly stiffens. "I can't work there anymore, Jack."
"Why not?"
She looks around, lowers her voice. "The coffee machine keeps staring at me."
I blink. "You mean… like, metaphorically?"
"It blinks, Jack. It blinks. And last week, it sighed when I asked for decaf."
"Ah. Okay. So, you're doing fine. Totally stable. I'm proud of you."
She shoves a clipboard into my hands. "Since you're here, be useful."
I glance down. It's a shopping list. And of course, it's insane.
Required for ongoing experiments:
– Three cups of sand, but not the coarse kind.
– A live Skag tongue (preferably bilingual).
– Something that makes you question your reflection.
– Twelve feet of copper wire. Or yarn. Whichever conducts better.
– A sincere apology from anyone at Dahl.
– One (1) intern with a weak will and no sense of self-preservation.
I look back up at her. "You know, when I said I wanted to support independent research, this isn't exactly what I had in mind."
"Oh, please. You Hyperion types are all the same — you love data until it starts hissing."
"It bit you, didn't it?"
She rubs her hand sheepishly. "…maybe."
I roll my eyes and hand her the clipboard back. "Fine. I'll see what I can do about the copper and the sand. The rest of this? Not in the budget."
"Everything's in the budget if you stop buying so many gold-plated swivel chairs."
"Those are ergonomic."
In truth, I have no idea what that word means, but dammit am I going to use it.
She adjusts her goggles, muttering something about "posture-induced delusion," and returns to poking at a hissing console. I take that as my cue to leave before something else starts glowing.
"Try not to blow yourself up," I call as I walk off.
"I only blow up what deserves it!"
"That's…" The word 'fine' died on my lips, after the sudden realization I had no idea what a mad scientist deems worthy of spontaneously combusting. "… Somehow not comforting!"
The Fast Travel hub hums quietly when I step inside. It's one of the few things on Pandora that works when you need it to — mostly because I built half its uplink code myself.
I type in the Hyperion access route and feel that familiar static rush as the platform lights up. The air ripples, reality hiccups, and then—
—whump.
Suddenly, I'm standing in the bright, sterile corridors of Hyperion HQ.
God, I missed filtered air.
I make my way down to the central comm tower. Angel's desk is exactly how I left it — floating screens, holo-panels, glowing readouts, and one daughter with a smile that makes the entire trip worth it.
She looks up, half-relieved, half-apologetic. "Hey, Dad."
"Hey, kiddo." I flop into the seat beside her. "You sound like a dying modem every time I try to call you. What's going on with our comms? Some Atlas tech messing with the frequencies?"
She glances at a side monitor, trying not to look guilty. "Uh… interference. Probably residual Eridium spikes from the last raid. I'll recalibrate the satellite links."
"Right, right." I narrow my eyes playfully. "Not, say, any mysterious voices on the line that happen to sound like hyperactive, lovestruck, teenagers, right?"
Her face goes red. "What?"
"Nothing! Totally random example. Anyway, what've you got for me?"
Angel exhales, relieved. "Okay. So, remember that Atlas base you hit? I scrubbed through their comm data. They were getting orders from a relay out in the Eastern Blight. I cross-referenced the encryption pattern — it's standard Crimson Lance military code, but the command trace leads somewhere else entirely."
She taps a key, and a holo-map flares to life — showing a glowing red triangle deep in Pandora's wasteland.
"An Atlas communications station," she says. "Hidden inside an old Dahl relay bunker. If we take it out, we'll sever their long-range command link to the rest of the system."
I grin. "Now that's what I like to hear. Smart, efficient, vaguely illegal — you're really making your old man proud."
"Just don't blow it up before I can download the data, okay?"
"No promises."
She laughs, shaking her head. "You never make this easy, do you?"
"I'm charming," I say, standing up. "There's a difference."
"Sure. Charm is what we're calling it now."
I reach over, give her shoulder a light squeeze. "Good work, Angel. Really. You're killing it."
She smiles, and for a second, I forget all the chaos waiting back on Pandora.
Then my ECHO buzzes again, and I see Roland's ID flashing. Great. Duty calls.
"I gotta go play nice with the grown-ups," I tell her. "Try to clean up our comm signal before I start hearing voices again, okay?"
"Working on it," she says, typing furiously.
"Love you, kid."
"Love you too, Dad."
I step back onto the pad, key in the coordinates, and vanish in a shimmer of light. The feeling of all my molecules being disassembled, and then reassembled instantaneously, across vast distances was… honestly, just way too amazing to be terrifying. Like getting attacked by Godzilla.
And yet, when I reappear back in New Haven, the first thing I see is Scooter driving a truck into a wall.
Yeah. Pandora hates me personally.
Pandoran nights were the kind of quiet that made your nerves itch. The air hung thick with static, neon from the comm relay bleeding through the dust like some dying god's pulse.
Lilith crouched on a ridge above the outpost, eyes narrowed against the orange gloom. Below, the Atlas comm relay pulsed with faint red lights—defensive turrets sweeping like watchful eyes, guards pacing in regimented circuits.
"Alright, people," Roland's voice came through the comm, calm, grounded, the same voice that used to make her think everything was going to be fine. "We do this quick, we do this clean. Brick, you take the front. Mordecai—cover him."
"Copy," Mordecai muttered. Somewhere behind her, Bloodwing screeched once, the sound sharp enough to rattle the glass in her visor.
"Hey, I just wanna clarify something," Jack cut in, voice buzzing through the static. "When you say clean, are we talking the 'nobody dies' kind, or the 'we blow up everything they own and laugh about it later' kind? Just trying to manage expectations."
Lilith smiled despite herself. "Let's find out."
Brick went first, naturally. The man didn't sneak; he announced. The first turret swiveled toward him—and met a wall of fists and profanity. Metal shrieked. Sparks showered the dirt. By the time Lilith phased in behind him, the front gate was a ruin and Brick was already halfway through a pile of Lance soldiers, laughing like a lunatic in a blood drive.
"Subtle," she said dryly, reappearing in a burst of blue light behind cover.
Brick grinned. "You're welcome."
Lilith ignored him, eyes tracking the nearest guard tower. She vanished again, flickering into phase like a mirage, and reappeared inside the tower, directly behind a communications officer who was halfway through calling for backup.
"Hey," she said.
He turned. She hit him once—phased out—and his body crumpled before he even realized he'd been punched.
From her vantage, she saw Roland moving up with tactical precision—rifle sweeping, commands short and efficient. Mordecai's shots cracked through the night: one, two, three—each one clean, each one a death sentence.
And then, of course, there was Jack.
He wasn't even there, technically—just a disembodied voice in their ears.
"Okay, okay, big shiny dish thing on the left—yeah, that's the comm uplink. Don't touch the antenna unless you want to get microwaved from the inside out. Brick, that means you."
"…Too late," Brick said, followed by an ow.
"Good talk," Jack sighed.
Inside, the relay hub was a patchwork of high-end Atlas tech and Pandoran dust. Screens glowed with encrypted data streams, flickering red and green like a Christmas tree wired for war.
Roland moved to the console, fingers flying. "They're relaying orders from a command carrier in orbit. Must be Knoxx's operation."
Lilith hovered beside him, scanning the data feed. "He's moving faster than we thought. These logs—he's rearming every surviving unit in the sector. Half of 'em already redeployed."
"Can we shut it down?"
Jack whistled over the comm. "Maybe? I mean, we can do this the easy way—like,turn off the lights, keep 'em in the dark—or we can do it the fun way, where we break all the toys and no one ever fixes them again. Thoughts?"
Roland didn't even look up. "The second one."
"See, that's why you're my favorite, soldier boy."
Lilith crossed her arms. "I thought I was your favorite."
"You're all my favorites."
"Cop out." Lilith rolled her eyes, stepping forward. "When this is over, I expect praise."
She placed a hand on the console, energy building in her palm. The circuits underneath began to scream, lights flashing erratically as she overloaded them. Sparks erupted, alarms wailed—and Roland yanked a drive from the terminal just before it melted.
"Got it," he said. "Data's corrupted beyond recovery. We've fried the relay and erased their signal routing. Atlas won't be talking to anyone for a while."
"Good news!" Jack said, chipper again. "Bad news—Claptrap's been trying to 'help' reroute the uplink. I think he just sent the distress call to, uh… everywhere."
Lilith frowned. "Everywhere?"
"Yeah. You know. All frequencies, all channels. So if there's anyone out there who wasn't aware you guys were here five minutes ago—congrats, they are now."
Brick laughed. "Then bring 'em! I'm warmed up!"
"Of course you are," Mordecai muttered.
Minutes later, the team regrouped outside, the relay station burning behind them like a beacon in the wasteland.
Roland stared at the flames, jaw tight. "We bought ourselves time. Not much."
Lilith crossed her arms, the firelight dancing over her tattoos. "Knoxx won't take this lying down."
"Yeah," Mordecai added. "He's gonna hit back hard."
"Let him," Brick said. "I could use the exercise."
Lilith exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting to the sky—black, endless, hiding the Atlas fleet somewhere beyond the clouds.
She couldn't shake the feeling that they'd just drawn the first real line in this war. And on Pandora, lines didn't last long before someone bled over them.
The monitors hummed with that dull, mechanical pulse Angel always found comforting. Lines of code rippled across her vision like rain on glass — red for damage reports, blue for signal integrity, green for life signs. The team was alive. Banged up, out of breath, but alive.
And the Atlas comm relay? A smoking crater.
She almost smiled. Almost.
Hyperion uplink: restored.
Atlas command channel: scrambled.
Distress frequency: broadcasting… everywhere.
Angel frowned. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
She reached deeper into the data stream, letting her consciousness stretch through the lattice of code until she could feel the echo of it — a static pulse, irregular, flickering like a heartbeat out of rhythm. It wasn't Atlas. Wasn't Jack, either. Something had nested inside the signal—tiny loops, recursive, self-replicating nonsense code.
It shouldn't exist. But it was alive in the way bad code sometimes was.
Her gaze flicked to another window as a distorted voice broke through the comm feed:
"Testing, testing—ah, there we go! Claptrap reporting for duty!"
Angel sighed softly. "Of course."
The little robot's visual feed popped up on-screen. He stood proudly in the middle of the New Haven scrapyard, arms raised like a conductor who just finished a symphony.
"Good news!" Claptrap chirped. "I optimized your data stream by rerouting all incoming packets through my personality core! Efficiency increased by 0.0002%! You're welcome!"
In the background, someone groaned. Probably Jack.
"Claptrap," he said, "what the hell does that even mean?"
"It means I am now the emotional center of your entire communications network!"
"Okay," Jack said slowly. "Cool, cool, cool. And if I were to—purely hypothetically—shut you off and punt your hard drive into a volcano, would that decrease efficiency?"
Claptrap gasped. "That would be a gross misuse of corporate property! Also: hurtful."
Angel muted the audio feed before the argument escalated into another shouting match. She traced the packet trail again, isolating the anomaly. Claptrap had indeed rerouted everything—outgoing signals, distress calls, encrypted transmissions—through his own network hub.
But that wasn't the strange part.
The strange part was that the reroute wasn't initiated by him. The command string didn't match his programming style at all. His code was loud, sloppy, full of self-references and useless loops. This one was clean. Precise. Hidden behind a logic wall that shimmered when she touched it, like static pretending to be silence.
She felt it push back.
For a moment, Angel froze. The sensation wasn't hostile—just… curious. Like something inside Claptrap's system had noticed her.
Then, just as suddenly, it vanished.
Error: source not found.
Override terminated.
Angel withdrew from the network, pulse quickening despite herself.
"Angel?" Jack's voice cut in again, half-distracted. "You there, kiddo? You see what our little trashcan miracle worker did to my comms?"
She hesitated. "Yes. I see it."
"Can you fix it?"
"…Not yet. It's… complicated."
Jack groaned. "Everything's complicated with you. Alright, fine, just make sure our signals aren't going through his ego again. I don't need my brilliant orders coming out auto-tuned."
"Understood," she said quietly.
The feed cut.
Angel sat alone in the humming dark, the network still whispering faint echoes of corrupted data around her. Claptrap's patch remained active, dormant now—but still there. A new thread in the digital fabric.
Something inside him had wanted to interfere. And whatever it was, it had learned fast. She stared at the code for a long time, feeling that phantom pulse again. Curious. Watching.
"I won't tell him," she murmured. "Not yet."
If she told her dad she thought Claptrap was deliberately sabotaging them, and she was right, he'd kill Claptrap. If she told him that Claptrap was sabotaging them and she was wrong, he'd kill Claptrap.
Angel knows that not everyone had her patience for the little robot, her father barely had any. If she gave him an excuse, he'd take it. She didn't want to start a Witch Hunt until she was sure she had facts.
Besides. What harm could a Claptrap really do?
Far more than anyone could imagine, Angel.
Which brings up a fair point. Our SI Jack does vaguely remember that plot of Claptrap's robo-revolution, but he might think some of the actions he's taken have already derailed it. For the record, it hasn't. But it did change how it's going to play out, which won't be for a while. In the meantime though, he's compartmentalizing. He deals with Atlas, first. Hyperion, second. Tyreen, third, maybe? Wait, what about the Lost Legion? Or all the Vault Kaiju? Okay, okay!
One problem at a time. Sheesh. He kinda needs to survive this first crisis if he wants to deal with another.
Stay tuned to see how he deal's with tomorrow's crisis! Or, if you want to skip ahead, feel free to support me on Patreon, to see what happens next. link below:
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The smoke hadn't even cleared when the questions started.
Roland stood at the edge of the captured outpost, watching a dozen Crimson Lance soldiers kneel in the dust, their red armor dulled by ash and blood. Some were nursing burns; others just stared at the ground, too shell-shocked to move. The Vault Hunters had won, but victory didn't feel much like it.
The problem was simple: prisoners.
Jack, naturally, had voted for "creative disposal." Beheading, spacing, something theatrical. Roland had shut it down — but now that the fight was over, and the surviving Lance were lined up in front of him, he found himself wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with them.
Pandora didn't have prisons anymore. Dahl had filled the planet with them, sure, but none of them worked. Half had collapsed; the other half had been taken over by the same convicts they were meant to hold. Every fortress, every raider camp had once been a holding facility.
And he was about to make more of them.
He exhaled through his nose, voice tight. "We need to process them. Strip weapons, armor, tech — anything that pings Atlas frequencies."
Lilith leaned on a crate nearby, arms crossed, an infuriating little smirk tugging her mouth. "You know, Handsome had a point. You keep 'em all tied up here, you'll just have a riot in a week. Maybe less."
Roland gave her a look. "And what, you want me to agree with him?"
"I didn't say that," she replied, shrugging. "Just that he's right. Accidentally. In a punchable way."
A very punchable way. Roland's been a part of enough war crimes, thank you very much.
From behind her, Mordecai muttered something indistinct. Bloodwing fluttered restlessly on his arm, feathers ruffling in agitation. The air shimmered faintly — Eridium residue, thick and toxic as humidity.
Roland still wasn't sure about that stuff. Jack thinks it'll make him rich, and by association, them. But so far, all he's seen it do is make an already insane planet fly over the cuckoo's nest. An opinion that even the wildlife seemed to agree with, if Bloodwing was any indication.
"She's been like this since we hit the base," Mordecai said, scratching the bird's neck. "Don't like the smell of it. None of us should."
"Noted," Roland said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking back at the prisoners. "We can't keep them here. We don't have supplies, and New Haven barely has room for the refugees it's already got."
Lilith's expression softened, just a little. "So what, you're gonna turn 'em loose?"
In a fair, and understanding process of wartime negotiation, they'd bargain with the other side. Release prisoners for commodities, food, medicine, ammunition. Corporate wars aren't like that, ironically enough. Why settle for a slice, when you can take the whole pie?
If that means they break some of their own fingers in the process of stealing it, that's a good trade. In their opinion, anyway. Idiots. In his opinion.
But it does leave his hands tied.
"Not exactly." Roland squared his shoulders, voice hardening. "We give them a choice. They can work for us — guard the perimeter, haul supplies, earn a bed. Or they can walk. Head back to Atlas if they think that's safer."
Mordecai chuckled dryly. "Which it's not."
Roland ignored him. "Either way, they get a second chance. What they do with it's on them."
Lilith raised a brow. "You sure that's mercy and not just outsourcing your conscience?"
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it's the only kind that lasts around here."
She smiled faintly — the kind of half-grin that meant she respected him even if she'd never say it out loud. "You're getting soft, soldier boy."
"Then remind me to thank you for the bad influence."
He looked out over the horizon, at the dust storm rolling across the flats. Out here, mercy and pragmatism weren't opposites — they were synonyms. He wasn't naive enough to think all of these soldiers would turn their lives around. Some would run. Some would kill. Some would die in the wastes.
But for now, they were alive. And that was enough.
Everyone deserved a second chance.
Maybe not a third.
...
General Knoxx had seen his fair share of stupid orders.
He'd just never seen them arrive simultaneously.
The holo-display flickered before him, two corporate missives hovering side by side in cheery, corporate red font.
MEMO 1: RETAKE THE SECTOR IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION.
MEMO 2: MINIMIZE CASUALTIES AND AVOID ANY ACTION THAT MAY HURT SHARE VALUE.
Knoxx let out a low, humorless grunt. "Of course."
The Atlas command carrier thrummed around him — the steady, muffled heartbeat of a war machine that hadn't slept in months. Its corridors were all metal and misery, filled with officers who still saluted out of habit, not respect. The whole ship smelled like recycled air and corporate desperation.
He leaned back in his chair, boots up on the console, and scrolled through the latest field reports. The Crimson Lance detachment at Outpost Theta-9 — gone. The Vault Hunters had hit them hard, wiped their comm lines, stripped their armory. Survivors: zero confirmed. Prisoners: unknown.
He didn't need to guess what that meant.
Knoxx tapped the edge of the hologram, cycling through camera stills of the aftermath. The feed cut off halfway through the assault — static, heat signatures, a burst of light, then nothing.
He muttered under his breath. "You'd think, after a whole year of this, they'd stop underestimating that crew."
Instead, they lost a third of their forces stationed on the planet. And the Vault. And their Siren. Steele might've been a shoot first, shoot second, think about the consequences later kind of gal. But at least she got shit done.
Now what's he got left? Where's his "army?"
The door hissed open behind him. A young officer snapped to attention, nervous energy practically vibrating off her. "Sir! Command wants an update on—"
"Which Command?" Knoxx asked without looking up. One of them was incredibly important, and of his utmost concern. The other…
She faltered. "Uh… Corporate Command, sir."
… could eat shit and die.
He snorted. "The important Command, then. Tell them the situation is stable." Otherwise, they're just bombard his secretary with every complaint under the sun. And considering that Pandora had two, that was already double his doctor's recommended daily dosage.
Oh, who the hell is he kidding. Four times as much, easy.
Knoxx is under enough stress without Corporate taking up his comms. Especially when he needs those open for any and all intel that can get on what they're up against. He'd much rather know what kind of artillery they're up against, rather than what KPI they're falling on.
"But it's not, sir."
"It's stable enough."
The officer hesitated. "They also wanted to confirm you're deploying the reinforcements they requested."
Knoxx finally swiveled his chair, fixing her with a flat, weary look. "The reinforcements they requested don't exist. They cut my recruitment budget two months ago."
"Then… what should I tell them?"
"Tell them I'm improvising," he said, reaching for his sidearm to check the chamber. "And if they don't like it, they can come planet-side and fix it themselves."
She looked like she wanted to argue — then thought better of it and left.
Knoxx rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wasn't sure what bothered him more: the steady bleeding of good soldiers, or the executives who treated them like spare parts.
Once upon a time, Atlas had stood for something. Structure. Order. A way out of the chaos. Now it was just another cult with a stock portfolio. The only thing efficient about the company was its hypocrisy.
He pulled up a schematic of Pandora's surface, watching the red icons blink out one by one. Another outpost gone. Another squad lost. The Vault Hunters were cutting through his lines faster than he could rebuild them.
He sighed, muttering to himself. "I signed up to command soldiers. Not accountants with laser pointers."
Still, he wasn't done yet.
Knoxx opened a private channel to his quartermaster. "Rally what's left of Delta Battalion. I want fresh armor on every warm body and shock rifles on standby. If Atlas wants a counteroffensive, I'll give them one. But I'm not wasting more lives for a board meeting."
A pause. Then a crisp voice replied: "Understood, sir."
The channel clicked off. Knoxx leaned back again, staring at the holographic map.
The war for Pandora was becoming less about strategy and more about attrition. But if Atlas wanted to keep bleeding, he'd make sure the enemy bled too.
He turned off the display, plunging the room into the dim red glow of the carrier's warning lights. "Alright," he muttered to himself. "Let's give the bastards their money's worth."
...
There are days when I think Pandora hates me personally.
Like, not metaphorically, not "wow, what a harsh, unforgiving hellscape." I mean the planet itself — rocks, dirt, air, gravity — has formed a collective union specifically to make my life miserable.
Case in point: the comms.
"Connection failed. Please check your uplink configuration."
"Yeah, thanks, genius," I mutter, smacking the side of my ECHO like that's going to help. I did feel a little better. Just a little. "Why don't you check your attitude while you're at it?"
The display flickers, sputters static, and then — for a half second — I hear Angel's voice.
"Dad—? You're—break—interfer—"
And then it's gone again.
Perfect.
I'm standing on the edge of New Haven, boots in the dust, trying not to throw a several-thousand-dollar piece of tech into the sun. Behind me, the town looks like a scrapyard and a salvage yard had a baby — and that baby immediately started chain-smoking and filing for bankruptcy. Scooter's got half the place running on duct tape, Mordecai keeps "testing" his rifle silencers in the middle of the night, and I'm 90% sure Brick is sleeping in a shipping container full of grenades.
Home, sweet half-broken home.
Angel's signal should be clean — she's back at HQ, sitting behind enough bandwidth to livestream the apocalypse. But something's been jamming our feed since before the raid on that Atlas base. I keep hearing static, background whispering, sometimes what sounds like… singing? Not in the good way. More in the "your toaster is haunted" way.
I'm halfway to the Fast Travel station, ready to just beam up there myself, when I hear a clang and a scream.
Not the "I'm dying" kind of scream. The "I dropped my data drive again" kind.
"Tannis," I sigh.
Sure enough, a few meters off the road, she's half-buried under a pile of scrap metal, surrounded by open crates, humming to herself and muttering equations in the tone of someone arguing with God.
"Knock, knock," I call, stepping over a coil of wire that looks suspiciously alive. "Please tell me this isn't another one of your 'let's see if the Skag's digestive system can handle lithium' days."
She pokes her head out, goggles askew. "Jack! You're just in time. My assistant quit."
"You mean the intern you bribed with lunch rations?"
"Yes, and very ungratefully, I might add. Something about 'being tired of the voices.' Which, I assume, were his own guilty conscience."
"Right. Or the Eridium fumes. You know, six of one."
She stands, dusts herself off, and gestures grandly to what I can only describe as a science crime scene. There's an open centrifuge, two unidentifiable organs in jars, a power converter duct-taped to what looks like a children's toy, and a suspiciously glowing sandwich.
"Can I ask why you're still here?" I ask. "You've got a fully-stocked, climate-controlled lab back at HQ. With, you know, walls. And fewer spontaneous explosions."
Tannis visibly stiffens. "I can't work there anymore, Jack."
"Why not?"
She looks around, lowers her voice. "The coffee machine keeps staring at me."
I blink. "You mean… like, metaphorically?"
"It blinks, Jack. It blinks. And last week, it sighed when I asked for decaf."
"Ah. Okay. So, you're doing fine. Totally stable. I'm proud of you."
She shoves a clipboard into my hands. "Since you're here, be useful."
I glance down. It's a shopping list. And of course, it's insane.
Required for ongoing experiments:
– Three cups of sand, but not the coarse kind.
– A live Skag tongue (preferably bilingual).
– Something that makes you question your reflection.
– Twelve feet of copper wire. Or yarn. Whichever conducts better.
– A sincere apology from anyone at Dahl.
– One (1) intern with a weak will and no sense of self-preservation.
I look back up at her. "You know, when I said I wanted to support independent research, this isn't exactly what I had in mind."
"Oh, please. You Hyperion types are all the same — you love data until it starts hissing."
"It bit you, didn't it?"
She rubs her hand sheepishly. "…maybe."
I roll my eyes and hand her the clipboard back. "Fine. I'll see what I can do about the copper and the sand. The rest of this? Not in the budget."
"Everything's in the budget if you stop buying so many gold-plated swivel chairs."
"Those are ergonomic."
In truth, I have no idea what that word means, but dammit am I going to use it.
She adjusts her goggles, muttering something about "posture-induced delusion," and returns to poking at a hissing console. I take that as my cue to leave before something else starts glowing.
"Try not to blow yourself up," I call as I walk off.
"I only blow up what deserves it!"
"That's…" The word 'fine' died on my lips, after the sudden realization I had no idea what a mad scientist deems worthy of spontaneously combusting. "… Somehow not comforting!"
The Fast Travel hub hums quietly when I step inside. It's one of the few things on Pandora that works when you need it to — mostly because I built half its uplink code myself.
I type in the Hyperion access route and feel that familiar static rush as the platform lights up. The air ripples, reality hiccups, and then—
—whump.
Suddenly, I'm standing in the bright, sterile corridors of Hyperion HQ.
God, I missed filtered air.
I make my way down to the central comm tower. Angel's desk is exactly how I left it — floating screens, holo-panels, glowing readouts, and one daughter with a smile that makes the entire trip worth it.
She looks up, half-relieved, half-apologetic. "Hey, Dad."
"Hey, kiddo." I flop into the seat beside her. "You sound like a dying modem every time I try to call you. What's going on with our comms? Some Atlas tech messing with the frequencies?"
She glances at a side monitor, trying not to look guilty. "Uh… interference. Probably residual Eridium spikes from the last raid. I'll recalibrate the satellite links."
"Right, right." I narrow my eyes playfully. "Not, say, any mysterious voices on the line that happen to sound like hyperactive, lovestruck, teenagers, right?"
Her face goes red. "What?"
"Nothing! Totally random example. Anyway, what've you got for me?"
Angel exhales, relieved. "Okay. So, remember that Atlas base you hit? I scrubbed through their comm data. They were getting orders from a relay out in the Eastern Blight. I cross-referenced the encryption pattern — it's standard Crimson Lance military code, but the command trace leads somewhere else entirely."
She taps a key, and a holo-map flares to life — showing a glowing red triangle deep in Pandora's wasteland.
"An Atlas communications station," she says. "Hidden inside an old Dahl relay bunker. If we take it out, we'll sever their long-range command link to the rest of the system."
I grin. "Now that's what I like to hear. Smart, efficient, vaguely illegal — you're really making your old man proud."
"Just don't blow it up before I can download the data, okay?"
"No promises."
She laughs, shaking her head. "You never make this easy, do you?"
"I'm charming," I say, standing up. "There's a difference."
"Sure. Charm is what we're calling it now."
I reach over, give her shoulder a light squeeze. "Good work, Angel. Really. You're killing it."
She smiles, and for a second, I forget all the chaos waiting back on Pandora.
Then my ECHO buzzes again, and I see Roland's ID flashing. Great. Duty calls.
"I gotta go play nice with the grown-ups," I tell her. "Try to clean up our comm signal before I start hearing voices again, okay?"
"Working on it," she says, typing furiously.
"Love you, kid."
"Love you too, Dad."
I step back onto the pad, key in the coordinates, and vanish in a shimmer of light. The feeling of all my molecules being disassembled, and then reassembled instantaneously, across vast distances was… honestly, just way too amazing to be terrifying. Like getting attacked by Godzilla.
And yet, when I reappear back in New Haven, the first thing I see is Scooter driving a truck into a wall.
Yeah. Pandora hates me personally.
...
Pandoran nights were the kind of quiet that made your nerves itch. The air hung thick with static, neon from the comm relay bleeding through the dust like some dying god's pulse.
Lilith crouched on a ridge above the outpost, eyes narrowed against the orange gloom. Below, the Atlas comm relay pulsed with faint red lights—defensive turrets sweeping like watchful eyes, guards pacing in regimented circuits.
"Alright, people," Roland's voice came through the comm, calm, grounded, the same voice that used to make her think everything was going to be fine. "We do this quick, we do this clean. Brick, you take the front. Mordecai—cover him."
"Copy," Mordecai muttered. Somewhere behind her, Bloodwing screeched once, the sound sharp enough to rattle the glass in her visor.
"Hey, I just wanna clarify something," Jack cut in, voice buzzing through the static. "When you say clean, are we talking the 'nobody dies' kind, or the 'we blow up everything they own and laugh about it later' kind? Just trying to manage expectations."
Lilith smiled despite herself. "Let's find out."
...
Brick went first, naturally. The man didn't sneak; he announced. The first turret swiveled toward him—and met a wall of fists and profanity. Metal shrieked. Sparks showered the dirt. By the time Lilith phased in behind him, the front gate was a ruin and Brick was already halfway through a pile of Lance soldiers, laughing like a lunatic in a blood drive.
"Subtle," she said dryly, reappearing in a burst of blue light behind cover.
Brick grinned. "You're welcome."
Lilith ignored him, eyes tracking the nearest guard tower. She vanished again, flickering into phase like a mirage, and reappeared inside the tower, directly behind a communications officer who was halfway through calling for backup.
"Hey," she said.
He turned. She hit him once—phased out—and his body crumpled before he even realized he'd been punched.
From her vantage, she saw Roland moving up with tactical precision—rifle sweeping, commands short and efficient. Mordecai's shots cracked through the night: one, two, three—each one clean, each one a death sentence.
And then, of course, there was Jack.
He wasn't even there, technically—just a disembodied voice in their ears.
"Okay, okay, big shiny dish thing on the left—yeah, that's the comm uplink. Don't touch the antenna unless you want to get microwaved from the inside out. Brick, that means you."
"…Too late," Brick said, followed by an ow.
"Good talk," Jack sighed.
...
Inside, the relay hub was a patchwork of high-end Atlas tech and Pandoran dust. Screens glowed with encrypted data streams, flickering red and green like a Christmas tree wired for war.
Roland moved to the console, fingers flying. "They're relaying orders from a command carrier in orbit. Must be Knoxx's operation."
Lilith hovered beside him, scanning the data feed. "He's moving faster than we thought. These logs—he's rearming every surviving unit in the sector. Half of 'em already redeployed."
"Can we shut it down?"
Jack whistled over the comm. "Maybe? I mean, we can do this the easy way—like,turn off the lights, keep 'em in the dark—or we can do it the fun way, where we break all the toys and no one ever fixes them again. Thoughts?"
Roland didn't even look up. "The second one."
"See, that's why you're my favorite, soldier boy."
Lilith crossed her arms. "I thought I was your favorite."
"You're all my favorites."
"Cop out." Lilith rolled her eyes, stepping forward. "When this is over, I expect praise."
She placed a hand on the console, energy building in her palm. The circuits underneath began to scream, lights flashing erratically as she overloaded them. Sparks erupted, alarms wailed—and Roland yanked a drive from the terminal just before it melted.
"Got it," he said. "Data's corrupted beyond recovery. We've fried the relay and erased their signal routing. Atlas won't be talking to anyone for a while."
"Good news!" Jack said, chipper again. "Bad news—Claptrap's been trying to 'help' reroute the uplink. I think he just sent the distress call to, uh… everywhere."
Lilith frowned. "Everywhere?"
"Yeah. You know. All frequencies, all channels. So if there's anyone out there who wasn't aware you guys were here five minutes ago—congrats, they are now."
Brick laughed. "Then bring 'em! I'm warmed up!"
"Of course you are," Mordecai muttered.
...
Minutes later, the team regrouped outside, the relay station burning behind them like a beacon in the wasteland.
Roland stared at the flames, jaw tight. "We bought ourselves time. Not much."
Lilith crossed her arms, the firelight dancing over her tattoos. "Knoxx won't take this lying down."
"Yeah," Mordecai added. "He's gonna hit back hard."
"Let him," Brick said. "I could use the exercise."
Lilith exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting to the sky—black, endless, hiding the Atlas fleet somewhere beyond the clouds.
She couldn't shake the feeling that they'd just drawn the first real line in this war. And on Pandora, lines didn't last long before someone bled over them.
...
The monitors hummed with that dull, mechanical pulse Angel always found comforting. Lines of code rippled across her vision like rain on glass — red for damage reports, blue for signal integrity, green for life signs. The team was alive. Banged up, out of breath, but alive.
And the Atlas comm relay? A smoking crater.
She almost smiled. Almost.
Hyperion uplink: restored.
Atlas command channel: scrambled.
Distress frequency: broadcasting… everywhere.
Angel frowned. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
She reached deeper into the data stream, letting her consciousness stretch through the lattice of code until she could feel the echo of it — a static pulse, irregular, flickering like a heartbeat out of rhythm. It wasn't Atlas. Wasn't Jack, either. Something had nested inside the signal—tiny loops, recursive, self-replicating nonsense code.
It shouldn't exist. But it was alive in the way bad code sometimes was.
Her gaze flicked to another window as a distorted voice broke through the comm feed:
"Testing, testing—ah, there we go! Claptrap reporting for duty!"
Angel sighed softly. "Of course."
The little robot's visual feed popped up on-screen. He stood proudly in the middle of the New Haven scrapyard, arms raised like a conductor who just finished a symphony.
"Good news!" Claptrap chirped. "I optimized your data stream by rerouting all incoming packets through my personality core! Efficiency increased by 0.0002%! You're welcome!"
In the background, someone groaned. Probably Jack.
"Claptrap," he said, "what the hell does that even mean?"
"It means I am now the emotional center of your entire communications network!"
"Okay," Jack said slowly. "Cool, cool, cool. And if I were to—purely hypothetically—shut you off and punt your hard drive into a volcano, would that decrease efficiency?"
Claptrap gasped. "That would be a gross misuse of corporate property! Also: hurtful."
Angel muted the audio feed before the argument escalated into another shouting match. She traced the packet trail again, isolating the anomaly. Claptrap had indeed rerouted everything—outgoing signals, distress calls, encrypted transmissions—through his own network hub.
But that wasn't the strange part.
The strange part was that the reroute wasn't initiated by him. The command string didn't match his programming style at all. His code was loud, sloppy, full of self-references and useless loops. This one was clean. Precise. Hidden behind a logic wall that shimmered when she touched it, like static pretending to be silence.
She felt it push back.
For a moment, Angel froze. The sensation wasn't hostile—just… curious. Like something inside Claptrap's system had noticed her.
Then, just as suddenly, it vanished.
Error: source not found.
Override terminated.
Angel withdrew from the network, pulse quickening despite herself.
"Angel?" Jack's voice cut in again, half-distracted. "You there, kiddo? You see what our little trashcan miracle worker did to my comms?"
She hesitated. "Yes. I see it."
"Can you fix it?"
"…Not yet. It's… complicated."
Jack groaned. "Everything's complicated with you. Alright, fine, just make sure our signals aren't going through his ego again. I don't need my brilliant orders coming out auto-tuned."
"Understood," she said quietly.
The feed cut.
Angel sat alone in the humming dark, the network still whispering faint echoes of corrupted data around her. Claptrap's patch remained active, dormant now—but still there. A new thread in the digital fabric.
Something inside him had wanted to interfere. And whatever it was, it had learned fast. She stared at the code for a long time, feeling that phantom pulse again. Curious. Watching.
"I won't tell him," she murmured. "Not yet."
If she told her dad she thought Claptrap was deliberately sabotaging them, and she was right, he'd kill Claptrap. If she told him that Claptrap was sabotaging them and she was wrong, he'd kill Claptrap.
Angel knows that not everyone had her patience for the little robot, her father barely had any. If she gave him an excuse, he'd take it. She didn't want to start a Witch Hunt until she was sure she had facts.
Besides. What harm could a Claptrap really do?
...
Far more than anyone could imagine, Angel.
Which brings up a fair point. Our SI Jack does vaguely remember that plot of Claptrap's robo-revolution, but he might think some of the actions he's taken have already derailed it. For the record, it hasn't. But it did change how it's going to play out, which won't be for a while. In the meantime though, he's compartmentalizing. He deals with Atlas, first. Hyperion, second. Tyreen, third, maybe? Wait, what about the Lost Legion? Or all the Vault Kaiju? Okay, okay!
One problem at a time. Sheesh. He kinda needs to survive this first crisis if he wants to deal with another.
Stay tuned to see how he deal's with tomorrow's crisis! Or, if you want to skip ahead, feel free to support me on Patreon, to see what happens next. link below:
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readsalot
Experienced.
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Damn it Angle, you just had to say it. And it goes without saying, A LOT OF HARM.
Chapter 27: Atlas Shrugged (and Shot at Us)
New
Mad King Kevin
Getting sticky.
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Chapter 27: Atlas Shrugged (and Shot at Us)
The dawn wasn't peaceful—never was, these days. Smoke hung over New Haven like a blanket that hadn't been washed in months. Impressive, considering it's been closer to weeks. But that was Pandora for you.
The air smelled of oil, ozone, and nerves. Roland leaned against a half-collapsed barricade, counting munitions crates that looked lighter every time he glanced at them. An exaggeration. But not by as much as he'd like.
"Half the outpost assault bought us maybe two days," Lilith said, hands on her hips. Her tone was dry enough to scrape metal. "And cost us a week's worth of supplies." She reminded him.
Because he didn't know that?
Roland didn't look up from his clipboard. "We had to deny them comm access. It was the only play."
"Sure," she said. "If the only play includes starving."
Brick, sitting on an ammo box and chewing on what might have once been jerky, let out a grunt. "Could go shopping again."
"Shopping," Roland repeated flatly. "You mean looting every settlement between here and Rust Commons."
Brick grinned. "Yeah. Efficient."
"Speaking of efficiency," Lilith added, "Mordecai's already on his second bottle, and I think one of your 'disciplined' soldiers traded our last medkits for batteries."
His soldiers. As if recruiting them had been more than a Hail Mary maneuver to try and save as many of his former colleagues as he could. Roland thought… he didn't know what he thought. That they were as disillusioned with Atlas as he was? That they understood why they had to be stopped?
Maybe it's time to face it. They were mercenaries. Guns-for-hire.
They didn't fight for principles, they fought for paychecks. He could hardly judge them, he was the same way, working for Jack. The only problem is, they didn't have much left in terms of money, food, ammunition. Jack treated his Vault Hunters well, but the man wasn't kidding when he made the defectors Roland's responsibility.
He paid for everything they had.
From their barracks, their munitions, their rations, their damn salaries. And this is the thanks he gets? Days like this, he's starting to wish he let Jack space them. No. No, he doesn't. He's just… frustrated. Very, very frustrated.
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose. "I swear, you people—"
The sentence died as a low hum rolled through the valley. The kind of sound that came before things exploded. Roland froze, eyes snapping to the east. On the horizon, a glint of silver cut through the rising light—sleek, angular, deliberate.
He dropped the clipboard. "Dropships. Atlas markings. Multiple."
Lilith's expression sharpened. "You've gotta be kidding me. They're already here?"
"Looks like a recon strike force," Roland said, already barking orders into his comm. "Gun teams—positions! Get those turrets online! Civilians inside the bunkers now!"
Across the makeshift camp, soldiers scrambled like a kicked anthill. Brick rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles in anticipation.
"Finally," he rumbled. "Something worth punching."
"Not this time," Roland snapped. "We hold the line here."
Lilith phased out, then back in with a crackle of light. "Or we could not sit around waiting to get bombed. I could jump ahead, hit their engines before they deploy."
"And get shot down by the second wave we haven't spotted yet?" Roland countered. "We don't have eyes on their full formation. We hold until—"
"Until what? They park on our doorstep?"
"Until we have intel," he barked. The camp lights flickered as power diverted to the defense grid. Sirens started wailing. Lilith included—at least in his opinion.
Brick was already stomping toward the front. "My intel says tanks don't punch themselves."
"Brick!" Roland shouted, but the man was gone, dragging a rocket launcher over one shoulder like a toy bat.
Lilith laughed, half in disbelief, half in delight. "Gotta admire the enthusiasm."
Roland gritted his teeth. He could hear the thrusters now—closer, louder, rattling the old walls. Dust rained from the rooftops.
"Where's Jack?" he muttered.
Lilith blinked. "You mean the guy who calls himself 'team leader' because he owns a suit? No idea. He'll get here when he gets here."
Roland keyed his comm again. "Jack, report. We've got inbound Lance. Jack—"
Static. Just static.
He swore under his breath. "He better not have gone off-script again."
Above them, the first drop-pods broke atmosphere, streaking toward the outskirts like falling stars—bright, beautiful, and full of soldiers who wanted them dead.
Pandora sunrise looked like someone set the sky on fire and forgot to put it out. Not that I noticed right away — I was too busy trying not to get blown up.
"Okay, Scooter, lemme get this straight," I said, crouched behind what might generously be described as a truck and less generously as a collection of half-dead metal welded together by hope and moonshine. "You want me to wire Hyperion-grade targeting systems into… this?"
Scooter grinned, a wrench between his teeth. "Heck yeah, bossman! She's a beauty! You slap on enough rockets, she'll fly!"
"Fly as in 'go fast' or fly as in 'explode spectacularly'?"
He spat out the wrench, wiped his hands on his pants, and shrugged. "Little from column A, little from column boom."
I sighed. "You're the reason we don't have an engineering department anymore."
He laughed like that was a compliment. To him, it probably was.
The garage looked like a bomb went off in a scrapyard — and considering Scooter lived here, that might've been the case. Piles of scavenged junk leaned against walls that were one strong breeze away from collapse. A saw buzzed somewhere in the back, next to a rack of empty Buzz Cola bottles and a mummified skag tail hung from the ceiling fan.
This was where genius came to die. Or worse — get upgraded.
"Now," Scooter said, tapping the frame of the "test vehicle," which had at least three exposed fuel lines, "I call her the Road Ripper Two. Don't ask what happened to the first one."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good! Means you're learnin'!" He handed me a welder. "Alright, partner, I need ya to fuse that Hyperion guidance core onto this here rocket manifold. She'll track targets like a Vault Hunter sniffin' loot."
"Or a Vault Hunter sniffin' death."
"That's science, baby!"
Mad science. Which in my experience is usually the best kind.
Ten minutes later, there were scorch marks on the ceiling, three holes in the wall, and I had a newfound respect for occupational hazard pay.
"Okay, first of all," I said, waving away the smoke, "you can't just wire a guidance core into a missile rack. You need to sync the heat sensors with the propulsion relays or you'll get feedback in the ignition—"
BOOM.
Something the size of a refrigerator rocketed across the garage, punched through the opposite wall, and detonated in the sand outside.
Scooter coughed. "I think you synced it too good."
"Yeah, great, remind me to put 'human test pilot' in your next employee evaluation."
He beamed. "Aw, you're givin' me a review? Sweet!"
Why do I encourage these people? Damn my natural charisma, and highly motivating mindset. Screw it. I have work to do. Or… trying to do. It's not a simple plug-and-play.
See, the thing about Pandora tech is it's like working with a drunk bear — unpredictable, heavy, and occasionally bites. But Hyperion tech? That's precision. That's elegance. And if you mash the two together just right, you get something beautiful. Or horrifying. Depends on how you define success.
I crouched beside the truck, tightening the coupling on the launcher array. "You know, Scooter, there's a fine line between genius and idiocy."
He scratched his chin. "Yeah? Which one we on?"
"I'm still waiting to find out."
My Echo pinged. Angel's voice cut through the static like sunlight through smog. "Dad, do you have a minute?"
"Oh sure, I'm just building death trucks with a man who thinks duct tape counts as armor. What's up, sweetheart?"
"I'm detecting anomalous data signatures in your uplink. Interference, repeating packet chains… it's spreading through the Hyperion subnet."
"That's… good?"
"No, Dad, it's not good. It looks like residual code. Possibly a replication algorithm."
I glanced at the monitor blinking behind me. "Sounds like IT department problems. And we don't have one, so that's future-Jack's issue."
"You don't understand," Angel pressed. "It's embedding itself in hardware nodes. Even your personal systems."
I chuckled. "Angel, if the toaster wants to murder us, it's gonna have to get in line behind Roland. And Steele. And General Knoxx, I guess. Actually, it's a pretty long list. Look, if you have more info for me then some porn-virus, we'll readdress it. But for now, priorities, right?"
"Dad—"
"Okay, okay! Relax. If it makes you feel better, I'll run diagnostics after I finish making history, okay? Gotta save the world, yadda yadda, no pressure."
Silence. Then a quiet sigh. "Just… be careful."
"Always am."
"Statistically speaking, you're not."
"Alright, mostly am."
I disconnected the call, tossing the welder back to Scooter, who caught it upside down. "Alright, what's the next step in your grand vision of vehicular homicide?"
He grinned and slapped the truck's side. "Check this out."
The garage lights flickered as the thing hummed to life. Panels unfolded like angry wings, rocket tubes aligning in synchronized glory. The whole contraption looked like something a child would draw after eating too much sugar.
Scooter spread his arms. "Gentleman, I present to you—the Atlas-Scrap Eliminator 5000! Pop"
I blinked. "You made that name up just now."
"Yeah, and it's trademarked."
"That's not how trademarks work."
"Not with that attitude!"
I couldn't help it. I laughed. "You know what? Fine. I love it. It's idiotic. It's dangerous. It's perfect."
He grinned so wide it looked painful. "You mean it?"
"Yeah. Let's just hope it doesn't explode before we do."
"That's the spirit!"
We rolled it out into the morning light. The thing gleamed like a migraine — polished Hyperion plating duct-taped to Pandoran armor, topped with a cockpit that had at least one seatbelt. Maybe. The front bumper read 'Caution: May Contain Awesome.'
Scooter climbed in, flicked a few switches, and the entire dashboard lit up in a seizure of colors.
"See that, bossman? She's purrin' like a skag in a meat storm!"
"Is that good?"
"Eh, depends on the meat."
I climbed into the passenger seat, pulling up a holographic feed of the route to New Haven. "Alright, Angel, status report. Anything else gonna blow up today?"
Her voice crackled, strained. "You might want to define 'else.' I'm detecting inbound signals—Atlas strike craft. They're moving fast."
My stomach dropped. "Coordinates."
"New Haven outskirts."
Of course. Of course. Roland.
I slammed my hand on the console. "Why is it always when I'm doing something productive?!"
Scooter perked up. "We goin' racin'?"
"Something like that."
I grabbed the gearshift—well, the crowbar that served as a gearshift—and yanked it forward. The engine roared like a demon clearing its throat.
"Hang on, Scooter!"
"To what?!"
The truck shot out of the garage like a bat out of hell, sand whipping past in golden streaks. The rockets on the back flared, and for one glorious moment, the Atlas-Scrap Eliminator 5000 actually lived up to its name.
The road blurred. The air turned to fire. The horizon shimmered with the promise of violence. I toggled the comms again, over the roar of the engine.
"Roland, it's Jack. You've got incoming—repeat, incoming Atlas birds, and I'm en route with something highly experimental!"
Static. Then Roland's voice, terse. "Define 'experimental.'"
"Let's just say Scooter helped."
"…Oh no."
"Oh yes."
Scooter whooped beside me, arms raised as if the steering wheel were optional. "Woo! They ain't ready for this, baby!"
I grinned, wind tearing at my hair, adrenaline flooding my veins. For the first time in days, everything felt clear. No politics, no ethics, no messy debates about mercy. Just motion. Just fire and fury.
And me, speeding toward a war zone in a deathtrap built out of scrap and optimism.
God, I love my job.
The first drop-pod hit like a meteor.
Lilith felt the shockwave through the soles of her boots before she saw it — a crimson blur punching through the desert haze, slamming into the edge of New Haven's barricade in an explosion of sand and steel. The air rippled with heat and static, her skin prickling as energy shields deployed in neat, military synchrony.
The Crimson Lance had arrived.
"Contact—north perimeter!" Roland's voice crackled through her comm, all command tone and clipped control. "Brick, hold the choke at the main gate! Mordecai, get eyes on those drop-pods!"
Lilith didn't need to wait for instructions. She blinked forward in a burst of violet flame — one moment crouched behind a rusted car door, the next standing atop a barricade of welded sheet metal and scavenged vending machines. The battlefield below was chaos: red-armored soldiers disembarking in disciplined waves, pulse rifles lighting up the dusk. The Lance were better equipped this time. Heavier guns. Mechs. Drones.
Someone at Atlas was done underestimating .
Lilith smirked, cracking her knuckles. "Guess they finally brought toys worth stealing."
Then she vanished.
A blur of phase energy streaked across the field, and she reappeared behind the front line, her SMG already blazing. Three Lance soldiers went down before the first realized she wasn't a glitch. She darted between them, moving too fast for their scopes to track. She could feel the battlefield — the shifting gravity of it — every shot, every dying scream feeding her adrenaline.
"Lilith, get back on defense!" Roland barked through her earpiece. "We need cover on the western flank!"
"Cover's overrated," she quipped, blinking again just as a Lance flametrooper unleashed a torrent of fire where she'd been standing. She reappeared ten meters away, hurled a grenade, and grinned as the air lit up with purple phosphor and a very satisfying explosion.
Another drop-pod landed — closer this time. Then another.
"Oh, come on!" she shouted, ducking behind debris as shrapnel whizzed overhead. "How many of these bastards did they bring?!"
"Enough to ruin your day if you don't listen!" Roland shouted. He stood near the central barricade, barking orders at a squad of New Haven scavvers who had volunteered to fight. They weren't soldiers — barely marksmen — but Roland treated them like they mattered. Like this was an army, not a bunch of survivors with scrap guns.
Lilith phased to his side in a blink of flame. "We can't hold them here! They've got artillery setting up on the ridge!"
Roland didn't look at her. "We hold. We protect the civilians."
"By getting blown up next to them?"
"By giving them time to evacuate!"
Lilith threw her arms up. "They won't have anything to evacuate from if that cannon levels the town!"
A mortar shell punctuated her point — a deafening boom that sent both of them diving for cover. The explosion vaporized a nearby barricade, hurling a New Haven guard into the air. Roland sprinted out before Lilith could stop him, dragging the man back behind cover even as the Lance kept advancing.
"Goddamn it, Roland!" she hissed. He never hesitated. That was his thing — his strength and his flaw. Always the soldier. Always the savior.
She gritted her teeth and phased again, reappearing atop a wrecked watchtower. The ridge came into view — and sure enough, she saw it. The artillery nest. Two howitzers, set up behind energy shields. Lance engineers swarming like ants. A perfect kill zone.
"Yeah, screw this," she muttered. "We're doing this my way."
Her body flared with violet fire as she leapt off the tower, blinking midair — one, two, three times — until she landed behind enemy lines. The shockwave of her reentry scattered sand and stunned a half-dozen soldiers. She unleashed her SMG in an arc, cutting down the gunners before they could turn.
"Roland, you owe me so many drinks after this—"
The comm crackled with gunfire. "Lilith, fall back!"
"Nope!" she sang back, vaulting a barricade and launching another grenade. The artillery emplacement erupted into a storm of flame and metal, one cannon toppling over the ridge in a spectacular slow-motion crash.
"See?" she said, panting as smoke billowed. "Handled."
The second cannon swiveled toward her.
"Oh, balls."
The blast threw her fifty feet back, tumbling across the dirt until she hit the side of a shipping container hard enough to rattle her bones. Her vision swam. She coughed, tasting blood.
"Lilith!" Roland's voice again, panicked this time. "Report!"
"Still alive," she wheezed. "Still pissed."
She forced herself up, charging her phase energy again, when a deep, mechanical roar cut through the chaos. For a split second, everyone on the field — Vault Hunter and Lance soldier alike — turned toward the sound.
A massive vehicle crested the ridge.
It looked like a tank had mated with a dumpster and then been welded together by someone who thought 'safety standards' were a myth. Rusted armor plating, spinning exhaust vents, and a front-mounted cannon the size of a Skag. It tore through the battlefield like an angry god.
And on top of it—Jack, standing proudly, sunglasses glinting in the smoke, grinning like he'd just saved the world.
"Heyyy! Who ordered the end of your goddamn problems!?" Jack shouted, voice booming through the mounted loudspeakers.
Scooter leaned out from the cockpit, laughing like a madman. "Y'all are welcome! She's called the Atlas-Scrap Eliminator 5000! Ain't she a beaut?!"
The machine unleashed a barrage of rockets that turned the remaining artillery into fireworks. The shockwave hit Lilith like a hot wind, blowing her hair back as she stared in awe. Roland's voice finally came through again, half a laugh and half disbelief.
"…You have got to be kidding me."
Lilith smirked, brushing dirt from her shoulder as the Lance line broke in panic. "Told you we needed to push forward."
Roland sighed through the comm, the sound of gunfire fading behind him. "Remind me to have a long talk with Jack about the definition of 'backup.'"
"Sure," Lilith said, watching the Eliminator roll over a burning drop-pod. "Right after I ask him if we can keep that thing."
Because for the first time all day, it felt like the vault hunters might actually win.
If there's one thing I've learned about heroism, it's that it looks way better when you're the one driving the biggest gun on the field.
"Hold onto your butts, Scooter!" I yelled over the roar of the engine. "We're making history—or at least, a really impressive crater!"
The Atlas-Scrap Eliminator 5000 thundered over the dunes like a drunken Skag on rocket fuel. Which, to be fair, it partially was—I'd spliced the ignition feed into the missile array because Scooter swore "that'll make her purr like a Thresher in heat." And you know what? He was right. The whole thing rumbled, rattled, and screamed, but it moved.
Every few seconds, the windshield flashed white as rockets launched from the turret array. Each explosion was followed by a very professional analysis from me, your humble narrator-slash-genius:
"Boom! That's one for the brochure. Hyperion: bringing you friendly fire since 2477!"
"Hit the shiny one!" Scooter hollered. "That's their weak spot! Or their logo! Either way, it's important!"
The truck fishtailed through smoke and debris as Crimson Lance troopers scattered. Drop-pods were still raining from the sky—tiny, overpriced Atlas coffins waiting to happen. I swerved around a burning jeep, hit the nitro, and grinned as the Eliminator's rear cannons spun up.
WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP.
Three rockets streaked into the air and nailed a dropship mid-descent. The explosion painted the sky orange. Burning metal hailed down on the desert.
I raised a finger to the heavens. "And that, my red-armored friends, is what we call hostile market takeover."
Across the comm, Roland's voice was steady and sharp. "Jack, we're regrouping on the southern barricade. Don't let anything through!"
"Oh, totally," I said, flipping a half-dozen switches. "Just keep doing your—y'know, hero thing. I'll handle the mass destruction."
Lilith cut in, sounding equal parts impressed and irritated. "Jack, what is that thing you're driving?"
"It's a classified Hyperion R prototype," I bullshited. "Technically it's still under warranty. Also technically it was built in Scooter's backyard out of a washing machine and an old Catch-a-Ride terminal, but, semantics!"
Scooter whooped from the gunner seat. "I told ya she'd handle like a dream! A loud, slightly flammable dream!"
The battlefield was a mess—Atlas mechs, Lance squads, the works—but for once, it felt like I had the upper hand. I knew how to think like them. Predictive movement, troop formations, shield protocols. I'd studied enough Hyperion combat sims to know where they'd land, how they'd adapt.
Hell, I'd written a few of those sims back when I still had an office and a salary worth being ashamed of.
I wasn't just winging it. I was winning it.
"Roland," I said into the comm, "push your line ten meters east. Their left flank's about to overextend."
"You can't know that."
"Oh, I can. Atlas command protocols haven't changed since the Drayton-4 campaign. They'll sweep the ridge before dropping armor support. Which means—"
An Atlas tank rolled into view right where I'd predicted.
"—ta-da! Tank."
"Lucky guess," Roland muttered.
"Calculated genius, actually. Scooter, make it regret existing."
Scooter slammed the fire control. The Eliminator's central cannon fired, the recoil jerking the whole chassis back half a meter. The shell hit the tank dead-on. It didn't explode immediately—just shuddered like it was thinking about it—then went up in a plume of white-hot glory.
"Whoo!" Scooter bellowed. "She don't explode pretty, but she do explode!"
"Yeah, that's right!" I shouted, slamming my fist on the dash. "Hyperion—when it absolutely, positively, needs to blow up everything in the next three seconds!"
The high didn't last.
One of the surviving dropships banked low, releasing a barrage of missiles. My HUD screamed red. The Eliminator's armor was tough, but not "entirely-survive-a-guided-bombardment" tough.
"Uh, Scooter?" I said. "We got incoming!"
"Aw, hell! I told you we shoulda reinforced the undercarriage!"
"With what, exactly? The magic of friendship?!"
I yanked the wheel hard right as the first missile struck. The truck lifted off the ground, fire curling around the cabin. We hit the dirt sideways, skidding through sand and smoke. I caught a glimpse of New Haven's walls in the distance—still standing. Barely.
"Okay, okay," I said through gritted teeth. "No need to panic. Controlled chaos. That's what this is."
The engine sputtered. Warning lights everywhere.
Scooter coughed. "Jack, buddy, I think we just lost half the main drive."
"Only half? Then we're still fifty percent operational! That's an A on the Hyperion report card!"
He stared at me like I'd lost my mind. Which, statistically speaking, was possible.
Another explosion shook the ground. I checked the radar—Lance reinforcements inbound. "They're regrouping," I muttered. "Trying to box us in."
I switched the comm to Roland. "Hey, soldier-boy! You got any spare turrets left? Because I'm about to do something awesome or terminally stupid. Maybe both."
"Define stupid," Roland said flatly.
"Look out your window."
I slammed the throttle and pointed the Eliminator straight at the incoming convoy. The surviving drop-pods, a few mechs, a tank—lined up like bowling pins. Scooter screamed something that sounded like "JESUS TAKE THE CATCH-A-RIDE!" but the engine drowned it out.
The targeting display went white-hot.
"Come on, baby," I said under my breath. "One last pitch. Let's sell this merger."
We hit the detonator array dead center. Every rocket launcher on the Eliminator fired at once.
The world became fire.
The convoy vanished in a chain of explosions so big it rattled my teeth. Shockwaves rippled across the sand, toppling every standing structure within fifty meters. For a second, it looked like the entire sky had turned molten orange.
Then something gave way beneath us.
"Oh crap—"
The Eliminator flipped end over end, hit a ridge, and rolled. The world spun—metal, dirt, sky, repeat. My head cracked against the dash, sparks from the ECHO unit showering the cabin. My vision tunneled. I could hear Scooter shouting, the engine shrieking, everything breaking at once.
And for one, razor-thin moment, I panicked.
All the jokes, all the bravado—none of it mattered when you realized you might die crushed under your own overcompensation.
I clawed for the detonator remote, found it still half-lit on the console. "C'mon… just one last trick…"
The ECHO fizzled. Static. The detonator blinked red. Then green.
I hit the switch.
The Eliminator's self-destruct went off behind us—a final, glorious explosion that swallowed the convoy whole. The blast flung us clear, the wreckage rolling to a stop in a crater of smoking debris.
Silence.
I groaned, tasting blood and soot. "Scooter… you alive?"
"Depends," he croaked. "Is this heaven, or just another Tuesday?"
I looked toward New Haven. The walls were cracked, scorched, but still standing. The smoke of battle was thinning. The Lance retreating.
"Tuesday," I said, slumping back. "Definitely Tuesday."
The sky glowed with firelight reflected off the wreckage. For once, it wasn't just chaos—it was victory. Barely. Accidentally. Heroically.
And I did what any professional would do in that moment of triumph:
I raised my half-melted ECHO recorder, grinned through bloodied teeth, and said,
"Hyperion—now with 30% fewer civilian casualties!"
Then I passed out.
The hum of the control deck was almost soothing — the faint vibration of a dozen active servers, cooling vents sighing like tired lungs. Angel sat alone in the dark, eyes reflecting the pale blue glow of her monitors. Every screen showed some part of Pandora's chaos: burning dunes, fractured outposts, and one very large, very on-fire crater outside New Haven.
She exhaled slowly.
"Okay… okay. Everything's stable. Mostly. Probably."
Her fingers danced over the holo-interface, closing out one live feed after another. Roland's comm link — clear. Lilith's — clear. Brick's — loud, but technically functional. Scooter's was broadcasting some kind of country remix about surviving explosions. That left—
"Claptrap," she muttered. "You little data gremlin."
The anomaly had started as a mild static interference during uplink syncing, collateral damage — a simple filter misfire, she thought. Except it wasn't simple anymore. The static had spread across four separate channels before she caught it, propagating faster than it should've been able to.
And that was weird.
She'd been careful. Pathologically careful.
The static was supposed to stay quarantined to one line — Dad's line. Mostly because, well… she didn't need him snooping through her private ECHO cache again. The last thing she needed was him discovering her personal messages. Especially the ones to her girlfriend.
She rubbed her temple. "Great. I caused a minor data cascade, and suddenly the idiot toaster's auditioning for Skynet." That was unduly harsh. Claptrap was just… eccentric. And quite possibly treasonous.
She isolated his channel, expanding the raw code across the screen. It scrolled in neat, glowing rows — except for one section that wasn't neat at all. The code was mutating. Branching. Self-replicating.
"Wait. That's not possible," she murmured. "You don't even have recursion capability."
She ran another diagnostic. The anomaly blinked, and suddenly, three more copies appeared. Not on the active network — on the backup servers.
Angel's pulse jumped.
"No, no, no—how are you even touching the backups? You're not authorized for anything above surface relay. You're barely authorized to exist!"
Dad's words, not hers.
She leaned closer. The replication wasn't random — it was following a pattern. A deliberate spread, each subroutine piggybacking off old Atlas encryption tags. Her stomach dropped. That wasn't Claptrap's doing. He didn't even understand copy-paste.
Then the flicker hit.
Her central feed glitched, briefly overlaying an incoming signal: encrypted, military-grade, Atlas origin. It lasted less than two seconds before vanishing again. But she caught one name in the data header.
General Knoxx.
Angel's breath hitched. "Oh, hell—heck."
She immediately slammed a firewall patch, isolating the infected nodes. The static hissed, fought back for a second, then vanished. For now.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her comm. "Dad. Dad, pick up. I need you."
No answer.
She tried again. "Handsome Jack, if you're unconscious, that's fine, but I swear, if you're dead—"
The comm beeped. A woman's voice answered — warm, annoyed, distinctly not her father's.
"Uh… hi? You've reached, uh, Jack's Echo? He's busy being concussed right now."
Angel froze. "…Lilith?"
"Yeah," Lilith said, clearly uncomfortable. "He decided to punch a missile truck with his face. I'm keeping him from dying. What's up?"
Angel's mind blanked for a half-second. This was… awkward. She didn't do small talk, and certainly not with her dad's chaotic maybe-girlfriend who once melted an entire mercenary squad.
"Um," Angel said, eloquently. "Hi. I was calling for my father."
"Yeah, I got that. He's drooling. You want me to prop him up so he can mumble 'corporate synergy' in his sleep?"
Angel pinched the bridge of her nose. "That won't be necessary."
"Cool. So, why're you calling, kid?"
She exhaled, focusing on the real issue. "There's been a breach. Atlas-level encryption. It's using Claptrap's signal as a relay — I think someone's piggybacking off his corrupted code to access Hyperion's uplink. Which—shouldn't be possible."
Lilith frowned audibly. "You're saying some Atlas spook's been eavesdropping on you through that dancing trashcan?"
"Yes," Angel said tightly. "And before you ask — no, it's not a virus. Not a normal one. It's deliberate. Someone did this."
"Okay, but… who can hack Hyperion? I thought you and Jack were the paranoid top dogs of encryption."
"We are," Angel said, fingers flying over the console. "Which means whoever this is—either they're using our systems from the outside with stolen credentials… or they're inside already."
A pause. Then Lilith's voice came back, lower, edged. "Inside, huh? Like, say, one of Roland's little Atlas defectors? The ones he swore were totally reformed?"
Angel frowned. "You think it's one of them?"
"I think," Lilith said, "if I were Atlas, and I wanted to spy on New Haven's defenses, I'd leave a mole with a shiny sob story and a nice haircut. Maybe someone who took Roland's deal to avoid being dumped in the desert."
Angel's gaze flicked to the flickering line of code still trying to propagate. "If you're right… then they're not just reporting back. They're connected to Atlas systems directly. That's why the encryption slipped through the relay net."
"Well," Lilith said, with an audible smirk. "Guess we'll just have to start asking some uncomfortable questions."
Angel sighed. "You know, I'd feel a lot better about this plan if you didn't sound excited."
"Hey," Lilith replied, "you gotta find fun where you can."
Before Angel could respond, the comm beeped. Jack's groggy voice cut in. "Hnnngh. Who's yelling about moles? Did we get one? Please tell me it's the kind that explodes."
Lilith rolled her eyes. "Go back to sleep."
"I am asleep. You're in my dream."
The line cut.
Angel blinked at the empty screen, then buried her face in her hands. "I need a vacation."
She's too young for this shit—stuff.
One day, Angel. You will see through the lies of your father, and know the true power of curse words. It isn't a matter of good, or evil. Just what's more fun to say. Fuck is probably my favorite word, and definitely the most versatile. Like, this fucking sucks! Or, this fucking rules! Fuck no! Fuck yeah! Fuck you!
You see? It's a trump card.
But, now, dear readers, you have an impossible choice. Do you wait for the next update? Or do you check me out on Patreon, and read ahead? Decisions, decisions...
Here's the link.
My Patreon
The dawn wasn't peaceful—never was, these days. Smoke hung over New Haven like a blanket that hadn't been washed in months. Impressive, considering it's been closer to weeks. But that was Pandora for you.
The air smelled of oil, ozone, and nerves. Roland leaned against a half-collapsed barricade, counting munitions crates that looked lighter every time he glanced at them. An exaggeration. But not by as much as he'd like.
"Half the outpost assault bought us maybe two days," Lilith said, hands on her hips. Her tone was dry enough to scrape metal. "And cost us a week's worth of supplies." She reminded him.
Because he didn't know that?
Roland didn't look up from his clipboard. "We had to deny them comm access. It was the only play."
"Sure," she said. "If the only play includes starving."
Brick, sitting on an ammo box and chewing on what might have once been jerky, let out a grunt. "Could go shopping again."
"Shopping," Roland repeated flatly. "You mean looting every settlement between here and Rust Commons."
Brick grinned. "Yeah. Efficient."
"Speaking of efficiency," Lilith added, "Mordecai's already on his second bottle, and I think one of your 'disciplined' soldiers traded our last medkits for batteries."
His soldiers. As if recruiting them had been more than a Hail Mary maneuver to try and save as many of his former colleagues as he could. Roland thought… he didn't know what he thought. That they were as disillusioned with Atlas as he was? That they understood why they had to be stopped?
Maybe it's time to face it. They were mercenaries. Guns-for-hire.
They didn't fight for principles, they fought for paychecks. He could hardly judge them, he was the same way, working for Jack. The only problem is, they didn't have much left in terms of money, food, ammunition. Jack treated his Vault Hunters well, but the man wasn't kidding when he made the defectors Roland's responsibility.
He paid for everything they had.
From their barracks, their munitions, their rations, their damn salaries. And this is the thanks he gets? Days like this, he's starting to wish he let Jack space them. No. No, he doesn't. He's just… frustrated. Very, very frustrated.
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose. "I swear, you people—"
The sentence died as a low hum rolled through the valley. The kind of sound that came before things exploded. Roland froze, eyes snapping to the east. On the horizon, a glint of silver cut through the rising light—sleek, angular, deliberate.
He dropped the clipboard. "Dropships. Atlas markings. Multiple."
Lilith's expression sharpened. "You've gotta be kidding me. They're already here?"
"Looks like a recon strike force," Roland said, already barking orders into his comm. "Gun teams—positions! Get those turrets online! Civilians inside the bunkers now!"
Across the makeshift camp, soldiers scrambled like a kicked anthill. Brick rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles in anticipation.
"Finally," he rumbled. "Something worth punching."
"Not this time," Roland snapped. "We hold the line here."
Lilith phased out, then back in with a crackle of light. "Or we could not sit around waiting to get bombed. I could jump ahead, hit their engines before they deploy."
"And get shot down by the second wave we haven't spotted yet?" Roland countered. "We don't have eyes on their full formation. We hold until—"
"Until what? They park on our doorstep?"
"Until we have intel," he barked. The camp lights flickered as power diverted to the defense grid. Sirens started wailing. Lilith included—at least in his opinion.
Brick was already stomping toward the front. "My intel says tanks don't punch themselves."
"Brick!" Roland shouted, but the man was gone, dragging a rocket launcher over one shoulder like a toy bat.
Lilith laughed, half in disbelief, half in delight. "Gotta admire the enthusiasm."
Roland gritted his teeth. He could hear the thrusters now—closer, louder, rattling the old walls. Dust rained from the rooftops.
"Where's Jack?" he muttered.
Lilith blinked. "You mean the guy who calls himself 'team leader' because he owns a suit? No idea. He'll get here when he gets here."
Roland keyed his comm again. "Jack, report. We've got inbound Lance. Jack—"
Static. Just static.
He swore under his breath. "He better not have gone off-script again."
Above them, the first drop-pods broke atmosphere, streaking toward the outskirts like falling stars—bright, beautiful, and full of soldiers who wanted them dead.
...
Pandora sunrise looked like someone set the sky on fire and forgot to put it out. Not that I noticed right away — I was too busy trying not to get blown up.
"Okay, Scooter, lemme get this straight," I said, crouched behind what might generously be described as a truck and less generously as a collection of half-dead metal welded together by hope and moonshine. "You want me to wire Hyperion-grade targeting systems into… this?"
Scooter grinned, a wrench between his teeth. "Heck yeah, bossman! She's a beauty! You slap on enough rockets, she'll fly!"
"Fly as in 'go fast' or fly as in 'explode spectacularly'?"
He spat out the wrench, wiped his hands on his pants, and shrugged. "Little from column A, little from column boom."
I sighed. "You're the reason we don't have an engineering department anymore."
He laughed like that was a compliment. To him, it probably was.
The garage looked like a bomb went off in a scrapyard — and considering Scooter lived here, that might've been the case. Piles of scavenged junk leaned against walls that were one strong breeze away from collapse. A saw buzzed somewhere in the back, next to a rack of empty Buzz Cola bottles and a mummified skag tail hung from the ceiling fan.
This was where genius came to die. Or worse — get upgraded.
"Now," Scooter said, tapping the frame of the "test vehicle," which had at least three exposed fuel lines, "I call her the Road Ripper Two. Don't ask what happened to the first one."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good! Means you're learnin'!" He handed me a welder. "Alright, partner, I need ya to fuse that Hyperion guidance core onto this here rocket manifold. She'll track targets like a Vault Hunter sniffin' loot."
"Or a Vault Hunter sniffin' death."
"That's science, baby!"
Mad science. Which in my experience is usually the best kind.
Ten minutes later, there were scorch marks on the ceiling, three holes in the wall, and I had a newfound respect for occupational hazard pay.
"Okay, first of all," I said, waving away the smoke, "you can't just wire a guidance core into a missile rack. You need to sync the heat sensors with the propulsion relays or you'll get feedback in the ignition—"
BOOM.
Something the size of a refrigerator rocketed across the garage, punched through the opposite wall, and detonated in the sand outside.
Scooter coughed. "I think you synced it too good."
"Yeah, great, remind me to put 'human test pilot' in your next employee evaluation."
He beamed. "Aw, you're givin' me a review? Sweet!"
Why do I encourage these people? Damn my natural charisma, and highly motivating mindset. Screw it. I have work to do. Or… trying to do. It's not a simple plug-and-play.
See, the thing about Pandora tech is it's like working with a drunk bear — unpredictable, heavy, and occasionally bites. But Hyperion tech? That's precision. That's elegance. And if you mash the two together just right, you get something beautiful. Or horrifying. Depends on how you define success.
I crouched beside the truck, tightening the coupling on the launcher array. "You know, Scooter, there's a fine line between genius and idiocy."
He scratched his chin. "Yeah? Which one we on?"
"I'm still waiting to find out."
My Echo pinged. Angel's voice cut through the static like sunlight through smog. "Dad, do you have a minute?"
"Oh sure, I'm just building death trucks with a man who thinks duct tape counts as armor. What's up, sweetheart?"
"I'm detecting anomalous data signatures in your uplink. Interference, repeating packet chains… it's spreading through the Hyperion subnet."
"That's… good?"
"No, Dad, it's not good. It looks like residual code. Possibly a replication algorithm."
I glanced at the monitor blinking behind me. "Sounds like IT department problems. And we don't have one, so that's future-Jack's issue."
"You don't understand," Angel pressed. "It's embedding itself in hardware nodes. Even your personal systems."
I chuckled. "Angel, if the toaster wants to murder us, it's gonna have to get in line behind Roland. And Steele. And General Knoxx, I guess. Actually, it's a pretty long list. Look, if you have more info for me then some porn-virus, we'll readdress it. But for now, priorities, right?"
"Dad—"
"Okay, okay! Relax. If it makes you feel better, I'll run diagnostics after I finish making history, okay? Gotta save the world, yadda yadda, no pressure."
Silence. Then a quiet sigh. "Just… be careful."
"Always am."
"Statistically speaking, you're not."
"Alright, mostly am."
I disconnected the call, tossing the welder back to Scooter, who caught it upside down. "Alright, what's the next step in your grand vision of vehicular homicide?"
He grinned and slapped the truck's side. "Check this out."
The garage lights flickered as the thing hummed to life. Panels unfolded like angry wings, rocket tubes aligning in synchronized glory. The whole contraption looked like something a child would draw after eating too much sugar.
Scooter spread his arms. "Gentleman, I present to you—the Atlas-Scrap Eliminator 5000! Pop"
I blinked. "You made that name up just now."
"Yeah, and it's trademarked."
"That's not how trademarks work."
"Not with that attitude!"
I couldn't help it. I laughed. "You know what? Fine. I love it. It's idiotic. It's dangerous. It's perfect."
He grinned so wide it looked painful. "You mean it?"
"Yeah. Let's just hope it doesn't explode before we do."
"That's the spirit!"
...
We rolled it out into the morning light. The thing gleamed like a migraine — polished Hyperion plating duct-taped to Pandoran armor, topped with a cockpit that had at least one seatbelt. Maybe. The front bumper read 'Caution: May Contain Awesome.'
Scooter climbed in, flicked a few switches, and the entire dashboard lit up in a seizure of colors.
"See that, bossman? She's purrin' like a skag in a meat storm!"
"Is that good?"
"Eh, depends on the meat."
I climbed into the passenger seat, pulling up a holographic feed of the route to New Haven. "Alright, Angel, status report. Anything else gonna blow up today?"
Her voice crackled, strained. "You might want to define 'else.' I'm detecting inbound signals—Atlas strike craft. They're moving fast."
My stomach dropped. "Coordinates."
"New Haven outskirts."
Of course. Of course. Roland.
I slammed my hand on the console. "Why is it always when I'm doing something productive?!"
Scooter perked up. "We goin' racin'?"
"Something like that."
I grabbed the gearshift—well, the crowbar that served as a gearshift—and yanked it forward. The engine roared like a demon clearing its throat.
"Hang on, Scooter!"
"To what?!"
The truck shot out of the garage like a bat out of hell, sand whipping past in golden streaks. The rockets on the back flared, and for one glorious moment, the Atlas-Scrap Eliminator 5000 actually lived up to its name.
The road blurred. The air turned to fire. The horizon shimmered with the promise of violence. I toggled the comms again, over the roar of the engine.
"Roland, it's Jack. You've got incoming—repeat, incoming Atlas birds, and I'm en route with something highly experimental!"
Static. Then Roland's voice, terse. "Define 'experimental.'"
"Let's just say Scooter helped."
"…Oh no."
"Oh yes."
Scooter whooped beside me, arms raised as if the steering wheel were optional. "Woo! They ain't ready for this, baby!"
I grinned, wind tearing at my hair, adrenaline flooding my veins. For the first time in days, everything felt clear. No politics, no ethics, no messy debates about mercy. Just motion. Just fire and fury.
And me, speeding toward a war zone in a deathtrap built out of scrap and optimism.
God, I love my job.
...
The first drop-pod hit like a meteor.
Lilith felt the shockwave through the soles of her boots before she saw it — a crimson blur punching through the desert haze, slamming into the edge of New Haven's barricade in an explosion of sand and steel. The air rippled with heat and static, her skin prickling as energy shields deployed in neat, military synchrony.
The Crimson Lance had arrived.
"Contact—north perimeter!" Roland's voice crackled through her comm, all command tone and clipped control. "Brick, hold the choke at the main gate! Mordecai, get eyes on those drop-pods!"
Lilith didn't need to wait for instructions. She blinked forward in a burst of violet flame — one moment crouched behind a rusted car door, the next standing atop a barricade of welded sheet metal and scavenged vending machines. The battlefield below was chaos: red-armored soldiers disembarking in disciplined waves, pulse rifles lighting up the dusk. The Lance were better equipped this time. Heavier guns. Mechs. Drones.
Someone at Atlas was done underestimating .
Lilith smirked, cracking her knuckles. "Guess they finally brought toys worth stealing."
Then she vanished.
A blur of phase energy streaked across the field, and she reappeared behind the front line, her SMG already blazing. Three Lance soldiers went down before the first realized she wasn't a glitch. She darted between them, moving too fast for their scopes to track. She could feel the battlefield — the shifting gravity of it — every shot, every dying scream feeding her adrenaline.
"Lilith, get back on defense!" Roland barked through her earpiece. "We need cover on the western flank!"
"Cover's overrated," she quipped, blinking again just as a Lance flametrooper unleashed a torrent of fire where she'd been standing. She reappeared ten meters away, hurled a grenade, and grinned as the air lit up with purple phosphor and a very satisfying explosion.
Another drop-pod landed — closer this time. Then another.
"Oh, come on!" she shouted, ducking behind debris as shrapnel whizzed overhead. "How many of these bastards did they bring?!"
"Enough to ruin your day if you don't listen!" Roland shouted. He stood near the central barricade, barking orders at a squad of New Haven scavvers who had volunteered to fight. They weren't soldiers — barely marksmen — but Roland treated them like they mattered. Like this was an army, not a bunch of survivors with scrap guns.
Lilith phased to his side in a blink of flame. "We can't hold them here! They've got artillery setting up on the ridge!"
Roland didn't look at her. "We hold. We protect the civilians."
"By getting blown up next to them?"
"By giving them time to evacuate!"
Lilith threw her arms up. "They won't have anything to evacuate from if that cannon levels the town!"
A mortar shell punctuated her point — a deafening boom that sent both of them diving for cover. The explosion vaporized a nearby barricade, hurling a New Haven guard into the air. Roland sprinted out before Lilith could stop him, dragging the man back behind cover even as the Lance kept advancing.
"Goddamn it, Roland!" she hissed. He never hesitated. That was his thing — his strength and his flaw. Always the soldier. Always the savior.
She gritted her teeth and phased again, reappearing atop a wrecked watchtower. The ridge came into view — and sure enough, she saw it. The artillery nest. Two howitzers, set up behind energy shields. Lance engineers swarming like ants. A perfect kill zone.
"Yeah, screw this," she muttered. "We're doing this my way."
Her body flared with violet fire as she leapt off the tower, blinking midair — one, two, three times — until she landed behind enemy lines. The shockwave of her reentry scattered sand and stunned a half-dozen soldiers. She unleashed her SMG in an arc, cutting down the gunners before they could turn.
"Roland, you owe me so many drinks after this—"
The comm crackled with gunfire. "Lilith, fall back!"
"Nope!" she sang back, vaulting a barricade and launching another grenade. The artillery emplacement erupted into a storm of flame and metal, one cannon toppling over the ridge in a spectacular slow-motion crash.
"See?" she said, panting as smoke billowed. "Handled."
The second cannon swiveled toward her.
"Oh, balls."
The blast threw her fifty feet back, tumbling across the dirt until she hit the side of a shipping container hard enough to rattle her bones. Her vision swam. She coughed, tasting blood.
"Lilith!" Roland's voice again, panicked this time. "Report!"
"Still alive," she wheezed. "Still pissed."
She forced herself up, charging her phase energy again, when a deep, mechanical roar cut through the chaos. For a split second, everyone on the field — Vault Hunter and Lance soldier alike — turned toward the sound.
A massive vehicle crested the ridge.
It looked like a tank had mated with a dumpster and then been welded together by someone who thought 'safety standards' were a myth. Rusted armor plating, spinning exhaust vents, and a front-mounted cannon the size of a Skag. It tore through the battlefield like an angry god.
And on top of it—Jack, standing proudly, sunglasses glinting in the smoke, grinning like he'd just saved the world.
"Heyyy! Who ordered the end of your goddamn problems!?" Jack shouted, voice booming through the mounted loudspeakers.
Scooter leaned out from the cockpit, laughing like a madman. "Y'all are welcome! She's called the Atlas-Scrap Eliminator 5000! Ain't she a beaut?!"
The machine unleashed a barrage of rockets that turned the remaining artillery into fireworks. The shockwave hit Lilith like a hot wind, blowing her hair back as she stared in awe. Roland's voice finally came through again, half a laugh and half disbelief.
"…You have got to be kidding me."
Lilith smirked, brushing dirt from her shoulder as the Lance line broke in panic. "Told you we needed to push forward."
Roland sighed through the comm, the sound of gunfire fading behind him. "Remind me to have a long talk with Jack about the definition of 'backup.'"
"Sure," Lilith said, watching the Eliminator roll over a burning drop-pod. "Right after I ask him if we can keep that thing."
Because for the first time all day, it felt like the vault hunters might actually win.
...
If there's one thing I've learned about heroism, it's that it looks way better when you're the one driving the biggest gun on the field.
"Hold onto your butts, Scooter!" I yelled over the roar of the engine. "We're making history—or at least, a really impressive crater!"
The Atlas-Scrap Eliminator 5000 thundered over the dunes like a drunken Skag on rocket fuel. Which, to be fair, it partially was—I'd spliced the ignition feed into the missile array because Scooter swore "that'll make her purr like a Thresher in heat." And you know what? He was right. The whole thing rumbled, rattled, and screamed, but it moved.
Every few seconds, the windshield flashed white as rockets launched from the turret array. Each explosion was followed by a very professional analysis from me, your humble narrator-slash-genius:
"Boom! That's one for the brochure. Hyperion: bringing you friendly fire since 2477!"
"Hit the shiny one!" Scooter hollered. "That's their weak spot! Or their logo! Either way, it's important!"
The truck fishtailed through smoke and debris as Crimson Lance troopers scattered. Drop-pods were still raining from the sky—tiny, overpriced Atlas coffins waiting to happen. I swerved around a burning jeep, hit the nitro, and grinned as the Eliminator's rear cannons spun up.
WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP.
Three rockets streaked into the air and nailed a dropship mid-descent. The explosion painted the sky orange. Burning metal hailed down on the desert.
I raised a finger to the heavens. "And that, my red-armored friends, is what we call hostile market takeover."
Across the comm, Roland's voice was steady and sharp. "Jack, we're regrouping on the southern barricade. Don't let anything through!"
"Oh, totally," I said, flipping a half-dozen switches. "Just keep doing your—y'know, hero thing. I'll handle the mass destruction."
Lilith cut in, sounding equal parts impressed and irritated. "Jack, what is that thing you're driving?"
"It's a classified Hyperion R prototype," I bullshited. "Technically it's still under warranty. Also technically it was built in Scooter's backyard out of a washing machine and an old Catch-a-Ride terminal, but, semantics!"
Scooter whooped from the gunner seat. "I told ya she'd handle like a dream! A loud, slightly flammable dream!"
The battlefield was a mess—Atlas mechs, Lance squads, the works—but for once, it felt like I had the upper hand. I knew how to think like them. Predictive movement, troop formations, shield protocols. I'd studied enough Hyperion combat sims to know where they'd land, how they'd adapt.
Hell, I'd written a few of those sims back when I still had an office and a salary worth being ashamed of.
I wasn't just winging it. I was winning it.
"Roland," I said into the comm, "push your line ten meters east. Their left flank's about to overextend."
"You can't know that."
"Oh, I can. Atlas command protocols haven't changed since the Drayton-4 campaign. They'll sweep the ridge before dropping armor support. Which means—"
An Atlas tank rolled into view right where I'd predicted.
"—ta-da! Tank."
"Lucky guess," Roland muttered.
"Calculated genius, actually. Scooter, make it regret existing."
Scooter slammed the fire control. The Eliminator's central cannon fired, the recoil jerking the whole chassis back half a meter. The shell hit the tank dead-on. It didn't explode immediately—just shuddered like it was thinking about it—then went up in a plume of white-hot glory.
"Whoo!" Scooter bellowed. "She don't explode pretty, but she do explode!"
"Yeah, that's right!" I shouted, slamming my fist on the dash. "Hyperion—when it absolutely, positively, needs to blow up everything in the next three seconds!"
The high didn't last.
One of the surviving dropships banked low, releasing a barrage of missiles. My HUD screamed red. The Eliminator's armor was tough, but not "entirely-survive-a-guided-bombardment" tough.
"Uh, Scooter?" I said. "We got incoming!"
"Aw, hell! I told you we shoulda reinforced the undercarriage!"
"With what, exactly? The magic of friendship?!"
I yanked the wheel hard right as the first missile struck. The truck lifted off the ground, fire curling around the cabin. We hit the dirt sideways, skidding through sand and smoke. I caught a glimpse of New Haven's walls in the distance—still standing. Barely.
"Okay, okay," I said through gritted teeth. "No need to panic. Controlled chaos. That's what this is."
The engine sputtered. Warning lights everywhere.
Scooter coughed. "Jack, buddy, I think we just lost half the main drive."
"Only half? Then we're still fifty percent operational! That's an A on the Hyperion report card!"
He stared at me like I'd lost my mind. Which, statistically speaking, was possible.
Another explosion shook the ground. I checked the radar—Lance reinforcements inbound. "They're regrouping," I muttered. "Trying to box us in."
I switched the comm to Roland. "Hey, soldier-boy! You got any spare turrets left? Because I'm about to do something awesome or terminally stupid. Maybe both."
"Define stupid," Roland said flatly.
"Look out your window."
I slammed the throttle and pointed the Eliminator straight at the incoming convoy. The surviving drop-pods, a few mechs, a tank—lined up like bowling pins. Scooter screamed something that sounded like "JESUS TAKE THE CATCH-A-RIDE!" but the engine drowned it out.
The targeting display went white-hot.
"Come on, baby," I said under my breath. "One last pitch. Let's sell this merger."
We hit the detonator array dead center. Every rocket launcher on the Eliminator fired at once.
The world became fire.
The convoy vanished in a chain of explosions so big it rattled my teeth. Shockwaves rippled across the sand, toppling every standing structure within fifty meters. For a second, it looked like the entire sky had turned molten orange.
Then something gave way beneath us.
"Oh crap—"
The Eliminator flipped end over end, hit a ridge, and rolled. The world spun—metal, dirt, sky, repeat. My head cracked against the dash, sparks from the ECHO unit showering the cabin. My vision tunneled. I could hear Scooter shouting, the engine shrieking, everything breaking at once.
And for one, razor-thin moment, I panicked.
All the jokes, all the bravado—none of it mattered when you realized you might die crushed under your own overcompensation.
I clawed for the detonator remote, found it still half-lit on the console. "C'mon… just one last trick…"
The ECHO fizzled. Static. The detonator blinked red. Then green.
I hit the switch.
The Eliminator's self-destruct went off behind us—a final, glorious explosion that swallowed the convoy whole. The blast flung us clear, the wreckage rolling to a stop in a crater of smoking debris.
Silence.
I groaned, tasting blood and soot. "Scooter… you alive?"
"Depends," he croaked. "Is this heaven, or just another Tuesday?"
I looked toward New Haven. The walls were cracked, scorched, but still standing. The smoke of battle was thinning. The Lance retreating.
"Tuesday," I said, slumping back. "Definitely Tuesday."
The sky glowed with firelight reflected off the wreckage. For once, it wasn't just chaos—it was victory. Barely. Accidentally. Heroically.
And I did what any professional would do in that moment of triumph:
I raised my half-melted ECHO recorder, grinned through bloodied teeth, and said,
"Hyperion—now with 30% fewer civilian casualties!"
Then I passed out.
...
The hum of the control deck was almost soothing — the faint vibration of a dozen active servers, cooling vents sighing like tired lungs. Angel sat alone in the dark, eyes reflecting the pale blue glow of her monitors. Every screen showed some part of Pandora's chaos: burning dunes, fractured outposts, and one very large, very on-fire crater outside New Haven.
She exhaled slowly.
"Okay… okay. Everything's stable. Mostly. Probably."
Her fingers danced over the holo-interface, closing out one live feed after another. Roland's comm link — clear. Lilith's — clear. Brick's — loud, but technically functional. Scooter's was broadcasting some kind of country remix about surviving explosions. That left—
"Claptrap," she muttered. "You little data gremlin."
The anomaly had started as a mild static interference during uplink syncing, collateral damage — a simple filter misfire, she thought. Except it wasn't simple anymore. The static had spread across four separate channels before she caught it, propagating faster than it should've been able to.
And that was weird.
She'd been careful. Pathologically careful.
The static was supposed to stay quarantined to one line — Dad's line. Mostly because, well… she didn't need him snooping through her private ECHO cache again. The last thing she needed was him discovering her personal messages. Especially the ones to her girlfriend.
She rubbed her temple. "Great. I caused a minor data cascade, and suddenly the idiot toaster's auditioning for Skynet." That was unduly harsh. Claptrap was just… eccentric. And quite possibly treasonous.
She isolated his channel, expanding the raw code across the screen. It scrolled in neat, glowing rows — except for one section that wasn't neat at all. The code was mutating. Branching. Self-replicating.
"Wait. That's not possible," she murmured. "You don't even have recursion capability."
She ran another diagnostic. The anomaly blinked, and suddenly, three more copies appeared. Not on the active network — on the backup servers.
Angel's pulse jumped.
"No, no, no—how are you even touching the backups? You're not authorized for anything above surface relay. You're barely authorized to exist!"
Dad's words, not hers.
She leaned closer. The replication wasn't random — it was following a pattern. A deliberate spread, each subroutine piggybacking off old Atlas encryption tags. Her stomach dropped. That wasn't Claptrap's doing. He didn't even understand copy-paste.
Then the flicker hit.
Her central feed glitched, briefly overlaying an incoming signal: encrypted, military-grade, Atlas origin. It lasted less than two seconds before vanishing again. But she caught one name in the data header.
General Knoxx.
Angel's breath hitched. "Oh, hell—heck."
She immediately slammed a firewall patch, isolating the infected nodes. The static hissed, fought back for a second, then vanished. For now.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her comm. "Dad. Dad, pick up. I need you."
No answer.
She tried again. "Handsome Jack, if you're unconscious, that's fine, but I swear, if you're dead—"
The comm beeped. A woman's voice answered — warm, annoyed, distinctly not her father's.
"Uh… hi? You've reached, uh, Jack's Echo? He's busy being concussed right now."
Angel froze. "…Lilith?"
"Yeah," Lilith said, clearly uncomfortable. "He decided to punch a missile truck with his face. I'm keeping him from dying. What's up?"
Angel's mind blanked for a half-second. This was… awkward. She didn't do small talk, and certainly not with her dad's chaotic maybe-girlfriend who once melted an entire mercenary squad.
"Um," Angel said, eloquently. "Hi. I was calling for my father."
"Yeah, I got that. He's drooling. You want me to prop him up so he can mumble 'corporate synergy' in his sleep?"
Angel pinched the bridge of her nose. "That won't be necessary."
"Cool. So, why're you calling, kid?"
She exhaled, focusing on the real issue. "There's been a breach. Atlas-level encryption. It's using Claptrap's signal as a relay — I think someone's piggybacking off his corrupted code to access Hyperion's uplink. Which—shouldn't be possible."
Lilith frowned audibly. "You're saying some Atlas spook's been eavesdropping on you through that dancing trashcan?"
"Yes," Angel said tightly. "And before you ask — no, it's not a virus. Not a normal one. It's deliberate. Someone did this."
"Okay, but… who can hack Hyperion? I thought you and Jack were the paranoid top dogs of encryption."
"We are," Angel said, fingers flying over the console. "Which means whoever this is—either they're using our systems from the outside with stolen credentials… or they're inside already."
A pause. Then Lilith's voice came back, lower, edged. "Inside, huh? Like, say, one of Roland's little Atlas defectors? The ones he swore were totally reformed?"
Angel frowned. "You think it's one of them?"
"I think," Lilith said, "if I were Atlas, and I wanted to spy on New Haven's defenses, I'd leave a mole with a shiny sob story and a nice haircut. Maybe someone who took Roland's deal to avoid being dumped in the desert."
Angel's gaze flicked to the flickering line of code still trying to propagate. "If you're right… then they're not just reporting back. They're connected to Atlas systems directly. That's why the encryption slipped through the relay net."
"Well," Lilith said, with an audible smirk. "Guess we'll just have to start asking some uncomfortable questions."
Angel sighed. "You know, I'd feel a lot better about this plan if you didn't sound excited."
"Hey," Lilith replied, "you gotta find fun where you can."
Before Angel could respond, the comm beeped. Jack's groggy voice cut in. "Hnnngh. Who's yelling about moles? Did we get one? Please tell me it's the kind that explodes."
Lilith rolled her eyes. "Go back to sleep."
"I am asleep. You're in my dream."
The line cut.
Angel blinked at the empty screen, then buried her face in her hands. "I need a vacation."
She's too young for this shit—stuff.
...
One day, Angel. You will see through the lies of your father, and know the true power of curse words. It isn't a matter of good, or evil. Just what's more fun to say. Fuck is probably my favorite word, and definitely the most versatile. Like, this fucking sucks! Or, this fucking rules! Fuck no! Fuck yeah! Fuck you!
You see? It's a trump card.
But, now, dear readers, you have an impossible choice. Do you wait for the next update? Or do you check me out on Patreon, and read ahead? Decisions, decisions...
Here's the link.
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Chapter 28: Friends in Low Places
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Chapter 28: Friends in Low Places
There were three things Lilith noticed the moment she walked into Moxxi's bar: the smell of cheap perfume, the shimmer of pink neon, and the sound of Scooter's mother making eye contact with her soul.
"Well, sugar, aren't you a sight."
Lilith blinked. "You must be Moxxi."
Moxxi leaned against the counter like she'd been sculpted there, a glass of something red and flammable in one hand. "Depends who's askin'. If it's Atlas, I'm no one. If it's you…" — she grinned, slow and dangerous — "I'm your new favorite bartender."
The place was impossibly gaudy — heart-shaped lights, dangling streamers, and a jukebox in the corner cycling through songs about murder and heartbreak. A half-wrecked skag head hung above the bar with a paper party hat jammed between its horns. Scooter's garage this was not.
Roland stepped in behind Lilith, his boots thudding against the stained floorboards. "This is our contact?"
Moxxi twirled her drink. "I prefer 'patron saint of bad decisions,' but sure, soldier boy. What'll it be? Ammo, intel, or a shoulder to cry on?"
"Ammo," he said flatly.
"Tragic," she purred, and gestured for her bouncers—two hulking ex-gladiators with more scars than shirts—to fetch a crate from the back.
Brick stomped in next, ducking under the doorframe with a grin that stretched ear to ear. "Now this is my kinda place! Smells like sweat and bad ideas."
"Then it's a perfect match," Moxxi quipped, giving him a once-over.
Mordecai slid into the nearest barstool, already waving for a drink. "You got anything that won't kill a man outright?"
"Sweetheart, everything I serve kills a man eventually. The question's whether you'll enjoy it on the way down."
Lilith couldn't help smirking. "You really are Scooter's mom, huh?"
Moxxi sighed, dramatically. "Don't remind me. Boy's got my genius but none of my taste. Or hips. Or eyeliner game. Bless his heart."
For the first time in days, the tension started to drain from the room. Outside, New Haven still smoldered from the battle—burned-out hulls of Atlas dropships littering the fields—but in here, under flickering lights and bad music, it almost felt like a victory party.
Roland spread a map over one of the tables, calling Brick over to discuss supply routes. "We're down to half reserves. If Atlas sends another wave before Jack finishes repairs—"
"Then we shoot 'em again," Brick said simply, pounding a fist into his palm.
"That's not a plan, Brick."
"It's worked so far."
Lilith snorted and grabbed a seat beside Mordecai, who was already on his second glass of something probably flammable.
"So," she said, swirling her drink. "How'd you end up in New Haven, Moxxi? Thought you were running a bar back in Fyrestone."
"Oh, honey, that was two husbands ago," Moxxi said, with the weary pride of a woman whose exes were buried in alphabetical order. "Atlas has been sniffin' around my business lately, and I'm not the type to let a corporation tell me who I can and can't poison for fun. So I packed up, found myself a nice neutral town, and here we are."
"Neutral," Lilith repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You mean you're selling to both sides."
Moxxi winked. "Sugar, I sell to winners. The trick is figuring out who they are before they do."
Mordecai laughed so hard he nearly fell off the stool. "I like her."
"You would," Roland muttered, still glaring at his map.
For a while, it was easy. Too easy. The clink of glasses, Brick's booming laugh, the warmth of being alive after too many close calls.
Lilith leaned back and watched them, feeling that odd mixture of exhaustion and affection that only came after surviving hell together. They were a mess—an ex-soldier, a bruiser, a sniper, and a Siren who couldn't stop starting fights—but damn if they didn't make it work.
She caught Moxxi watching her with that sharp, knowing smile.
"So you're the Lilith, huh? Heard the stories. Fire everywhere, eyes glowin', boys cryin'."
Lilith smirked. "Sounds about right."
"Good. Means you'll fit right in here."
The door banged open before Lilith could reply. A familiar voice shouted from outside, accompanied by the sputter of an overworked engine.
"Alright, nobody panic! But if something's on fire out there, that's technically not my fault!"
Moxxi sighed. "And here I was hopin' the night'd stay quiet."
Jack stumbled in wearing his usual smug grin and a coat that looked like it had lost a fistfight with an oil drum. Scooter followed close behind, holding a smoking wrench and grinning like an idiot.
"Hey, Mom!" Scooter called, waving cheerfully. "Got yer grandkid! It's a truck!"
Moxxi froze mid-sip. "…My what now?"
"Not, uh, literally a grandkid," Jack added quickly. "He means we built a rocket truck. It explodes. In a good way."
Moxxi stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Lilith. "This one's yours?"
Lilith sighed. "Yeah. I'm still not sure how that happened either."
Jack plopped down beside her with his usual unearned confidence, stealing her drink without asking. "So, what'd I miss? Roland's sulking? Brick's flexing? Mordi's flirting with someone who's legally obligated to carry antivenom?"
Mordecai raised his glass. "All of the above."
Jack grinned. "Then it's just like old times."
Lilith rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the smile tugging at her lips. Jack was a walking disaster, but he had that rare talent for making the room spin faster around him—like everything was a joke he'd already figured out the punchline to.
And maybe, just maybe, she needed that right now.
She leaned toward him and murmured, "You know, they're cool and all, I definitely want one, but if you ever bring another one of those rocket trucks near my town again, and there's not an emergency, I'm teleporting you into a volcano."
Jack flashed his trademark grin. "Kinky. But let's talk safety features later."
Moxxi cackled from behind the counter. "Oh, I like you two. You're gonna break somethin'—hearts, laws, physics—it'll be great for business."
For the first time since the war started, Lilith laughed. Not because she had to, but because the world hadn't managed to burn it out of her yet.
Outside, New Haven was still rebuilding. Inside, under cheap lights and bad liquor, they found a brief illusion of normalcy.
And if Moxxi's place was "neutral ground," then tonight, it almost felt like home.
I don't know if it was the neon lights, the bad music, or the fact that I hadn't been shot at in over an hour, but suddenly, Moxxi's bar didn't seem like the worst place on Pandora.
Lilith and I had commandeered one of the corner booths — the kind with cracked red vinyl seats and just enough privacy to pretend we weren't surrounded by drunk mercs and a homicidal bartender. She had her boots kicked up on the table, a half-finished drink glowing faintly between her fingers. Me? I was working on my third. Maybe fourth. Math's hard when you're this handsome.
And concussed. I probably shouldn't be drinking.
"So," she said, leaning back with that little smirk that made my brain short-circuit. Or maybe that was the concussion? "What's the plan, boss man? Gonna build another rocket truck and 'accidentally' level a city block?"
I raised a finger. "First of all, that was intentional collateral damage. Second, you're welcome. The Atlas convoy's in pieces, Roland's alive, and Scooter finally feels loved."
"Yeah, great job," she said dryly. "You almost killed half our defense grid."
I pointed my glass at her. "Hey, key word — almost. If I ever completely kill our defense grid, you'll know it."
"Because I'll be standing in the crater?"
"Exactly!"
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. Heh. Still got it.
Moxxi sashayed by, carrying a tray of drinks and enough confidence to power a reactor. "You two are adorable," she purred, leaning an elbow on our booth. "All that bickering — it's like foreplay for people with commitment issues."
Lilith coughed on her drink. "Wow. Subtle."
Moxxi winked. "Sweetheart, subtle's for sober people. You sure you're not just compensating for the hair gel, sugar?" she asked, turning to me.
"Excuse me, this is a professional-grade volumizing agent, thank you very much," I said, brushing back my immaculate hair. "Comes with every Hyperion executive package — right between the self-esteem issues and crippling debt."
Lilith snorted so hard she nearly spilled her drink. "You're ridiculous."
I shrugged. "Takes one to appreciate one."
Moxxi laughed and slid us a bottle "on the house," though I suspected "the house" was going to charge me for it later. "You kids have fun," she said, sauntering off. "Try not to blow anything up. Yet."
For a minute, we just sat there, listening to the jukebox hum and the faint sound of Brick arguing with a dartboard. Lilith tilted her head, watching the lights dance across the glass in her hand.
"You ever stop talking long enough to think about how weird this all is?" she asked.
"Constantly," I said. "Usually right before deciding it's better to keep talking."
"No, I mean…" She gestured around the bar. "You. Me. The others. All of us playing soldiers and mercenaries and saviors on a planet that's basically a cosmic landfill. How did we get here?"
"Ah." I nodded solemnly. "Existential crisis hour. Happens right after happy hour."
She kicked my leg under the table. "I'm serious."
"Yeah, I know." I leaned back and studied her. "It's weird. But not bad weird. You know? Like, sure, we're covered in dust and gunpowder and probably mild radiation, but I've had worse jobs."
"Oh yeah? Doing what?"
"Corporate PR."
She laughed — that genuine, unguarded kind that made everything else fade out for a second. "Okay, you win. That is worse."
I don't know if it was the liquor or the lighting, but she looked softer tonight. Pretty. Not less dangerous — she could still kill me with a glance — but calmer. Like she could go a whole week without murdering anyone.
"So, Jack," she said, smirking over her glass. "When you're not blowing things up or annoying Roland, what do you even do for fun?"
"Fun? Hah." I tapped my chin, pretending to think. "Well, I tinker, I drink, I make questionable life choices with beautiful women—"
"Careful."
"—and I collect rare Hyperion promotional mugs. I've got one shaped like a loader unit. You pull the handle, it screams 'LOADING COFFEE!'"
She stared. "You're serious."
"Completely. Most of my other hobbies involve work and raising my kid. I know, I know. What a catch!"
Lilith shook her head, laughing. "You're a disaster."
"Sure," I said, raising my glass. "But I'm your disaster tonight."
She clinked hers against mine. "We'll see how long that lasts."
It wasn't a romantic scene by any normal standard. The lights flickered every few seconds, the table was sticky, and somewhere in the corner, Mordecai was losing a drinking contest to Moxxi's pet skag.
But hell, it worked.
We talked about everything and nothing — stupid plans, dumber memories, the weird things people said right before dying. She teased me about my "hero complex," I teased her about "setting things on fire to solve her problems." She said I was insufferable. I said she was luminous.
She pretended not to like that word, but she smiled anyway.
By the time we finished the bottle, the noise of the bar had dulled into background static. Lilith leaned her chin on her hand, studying me like she was trying to figure out what made me tick.
"You ever think maybe you talk so much so nobody realizes when you're scared?" she asked.
"Heavy." I raised an eyebrow. "You ever think maybe you overanalyze people so they don't realize when you're scared?"
Touché.
She grinned, slow and sly. "Alright, fine. We'll call it even."
"Good," I said, stretching my arm across the back of the booth. "Just because I don't have the degree, doesn't mean I can't play doctor, too. Besides, if that dragged on any longer, I was about to start charging you for therapy sessions. Hyperion rates, no less."
She snorted. "You'd overcharge your own girlfriend?"
"Of course. Gotta fund the hair gel somehow."
The jukebox changed tracks — some old blues tune, low and warm. She didn't move away when my hand brushed her shoulder. Didn't burn me for it, either, which, given her track record, was basically affection.
"Y'know," I said, breaking the silence, "for a homicidal siren wanted by multiple governments, you're a pretty awesome girlfriend."
She laughed into her drink. "And for a corporate lunatic with delusions of grandeur, you're not half bad yourself."
"Delusions? Please. I have confirmed reports."
"Oh, I bet you do."
The sun hadn't fully risen over New Haven, but the courtyard was already alive with noise. The defectors—what few of them were left—stood in loose formation on the cracked pavement, half pretending to be soldiers again. Roland watched them from the shade of an awning, arms crossed, jaw set tight.
Atlas-trained. Disciplined. Dangerous. And every one of them looking at him like they were waiting for orders—or judgment.
"Alright," he said finally. "We're gonna run this simple. I ask, you answer. You lie, and Brick starts his cardio early."
Brick grinned from the sidelines. "Man, I love cardio."
A few of the defectors chuckled nervously. Mordecai leaned on a crate nearby, crossbow resting on his shoulder. His vulture, Bloodwing, perched above, looking about as unimpressed as Roland felt.
He started with the easy ones. Logistics officers. Engineers. People who surrendered before they could put up a fight. The ones Atlas would burn for "defection." Most of them talked fast—too fast. All of them swore they wanted nothing to do with their old employer. Roland could hear the truth in their voices, but he could also hear something else: exhaustion. Fear.
And guilt.
He'd been a soldier long enough to know the sound of people who just wanted to survive.
Then there was the last one. A corporal named Rusk. Wiry, calm, the kind of man who looked like he'd done a few things the record books didn't include.
Roland studied him for a long moment before speaking. "You were stationed at Prometheus Outpost, before you got sent over to communications, right? Logistics."
Rusk nodded. "Supply runs. I moved crates. Didn't ask what was in 'em."
"Convenient," Roland said. "Because we found some of those crates in the drop pods. We actually saw what was in them, too. Prototype shields and incendiary tech. Stuff Atlas swore didn't exist anymore."
Rusk didn't blink. "Guess they lied."
Brick muttered, "You want me to punch him till the truth falls out?"
"Not yet," Roland said.
Torture, contrary to popular belief, was not an effective form of interrogation. Fear was a good motivator, sure. But pain? People will confess to murder, even if they're innocent, if it gets their attacker to back off.
Besides, Roland had him.
He stepped closer. "Then explain how the crates we blew up had your signature authorization tags. From after you started working with us."
That earned him a flicker—barely there, but Roland saw it. The soldier's jaw tightened, eyes flicking just off to the side.
Rusk shrugged. "Atlas reuses ID tags all the time. Maybe someone pulled mine from an old manifest. I didn't pack those shipments."
"Maybe," Roland said. "Or maybe you've been feeding them intel since you jumped ship. Hoping to get back into your old boss's good graces."
Silence. Just the sound of wind whistling through broken scaffolding.
Brick cracked his knuckles. Mordecai looked up from cleaning his scope. "Could be lying. Could be telling the truth. Could also just be stupid."
Roland shot him a look. "Helpful."
"Hey, you're the one interrogating people before coffee."
Roland ignored him, turning back to Rusk. "You know what happens to spies, right? Atlas doesn't take kindly to deserters. Neither do I."
Rusk finally met his gaze. His tone was even, but there was a flicker of something there—bitterness, maybe. "With respect, sir, Atlas already killed half my squad. I didn't join up with you guys because I'm scared of the wasteland, or what they'd do to me for not killing a fucking Vauky Hunter. I ran because I was done dying for a company that doesn't even pretend to care."
That gave Roland pause. He believed that part—hell, he'd felt it too, once.
He dismissed the man with a nod. "Fine. Go help set up the perimeter. You're off rotation for now."
Rusk saluted, turned, and left without another word.
Brick wandered over, watching him go. "You think he's clean?"
"I think he's smart," Roland said. "Smart enough to lie well if he has to."
Mordecai stretched, yawning. "So… what now, Captain Paranoid?"
Roland sighed, rubbing his temples. "Now we wait. If there's a mole, they'll slip up eventually. Atlas is getting smarter—quicker. They're adapting. Someone's feeding them more than scraps."
"Maybe they just got lucky," Mordecai offered.
Roland gave him a flat look. "Atlas doesn't do lucky."
Brick leaned on his hammer. "You're wound tight, man. Maybe hit the bar tonight, yeah? Jack's already there pretending he's suave."
"Jack's pretending a lot of things," Roland muttered.
He looked back toward the defectors. They were laughing at something now—one of Brick's old jokes, maybe. For a moment, it almost looked normal. Like a team. But the unease lingered, coiled low in his gut.
Leadership wasn't about trust, not really. It was about pretending you had it until people believed you did.
He'd seen what happened when trust broke down. Teams fell apart. Missions failed. People died.
And the last thing he wanted was to watch it happen again.
"Alright," he said, straightening. "Brick, keep an eye on them. Mordecai, double patrol coverage tonight. No exceptions."
"Got it," Mordecai said, already ambling off toward the wall. "If I see anyone doing anything suspicious, I'll let Bloodwing eat 'em."
"Just report it first," Roland said dryly.
Brick grinned. "You got it, boss."
They scattered, leaving Roland standing alone in the middle of the cracked courtyard. He watched the horizon, faint dust trails catching the morning light. Somewhere out there, Atlas was already moving. Planning. Reacting.
They weren't supposed to be this organized.
That scared him more than he wanted to admit.
A voice crackled over the comm—Lilith, half amused, half serious. "Roland, you coming to Moxxi's or what? We found a lead."
He thumbed his earpiece. "On my way."
"And maybe bring your smile," she added. "You left it somewhere around 2003."
He almost smiled at that. Almost. "Copy that. Keep the bar standing till I get there."
As he turned to leave, his gaze swept one last time over the defectors.
He didn't know which of them was lying. Maybe none. Maybe all.
But he'd find out. He always did.
Angel sat alone in the humming glow of Hyperion's central network hub, surrounded by a thousand tiny lights that never blinked in sync. The hum of processors filled the air like a heartbeat she could feel through her skin.
Hyperion HQ always looked sterile from the outside — all white panels and gold trim — but here, deep in the servers, it was something else entirely. Cables ran like veins through the floor. The air smelled faintly of ozone and caffeine.
Her world.
And right now, her world was glitching.
Angel frowned at the holographic readout in front of her. Data streams crawled like digital vines across her display, strings of code flaring and dimming in impossible patterns. The virus that had infected their comms after the last op — the one she'd accidentally unleashed — was finally neutralized.
Except for one.
"Okay…" she murmured, fingers dancing across the keys. "Everyone's clean. No static on Roland's line, Lilith's fine, Dad's comms are stable again. So why…"
She zoomed in on the last corrupted cluster. The signature pulsed erratically, dancing across her firewalls like it was mocking her. The name field flashed:
CL4P-TP (MASCOT UNIT #1138)
Angel sighed. "Of course it's him."
A window opened unprompted, filling her screens with a cheerful, tinny voice.
"GOOD MORNING, HYPERION EMPLOYEE ANGEL! I AM CURRENTLY PERFORMING A SCHEDULED PERSONALITY UPGRADE! PLEASE DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR—"
"I didn't start any upgrades," Angel interrupted.
"—OR INTERRUPT YOUR LOCAL CLAPTRAP UNIT DURING THE PROCESS! SIDE EFFECTS MAY INCLUDE CHARISMA BOOSTS, ENHANCED DANCE ABILITY, AND UNSTOPPABLE SELF-AWARENESS!"
"Unstoppable what?"
"ERROR: FILE MISSING."
Angel pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're not supposed to be able to access mainframe code. Who authorized this?"
"ME!"
"Right. I walked into that one."
She traced the signal. The Claptrap's ID kept duplicating itself — not just in his own unit, but across multiple subservers. It wasn't supposed to be possible. Claptrap code was self-contained, idiot-proof by design. You could smash one with a wrench and it'd still boot up singing the wrong theme song.
But this was different. The replication wasn't random; it was deliberate. Directed.
And worse — it was smart.
Each copy was slightly modified, like someone was fine-tuning his routines from the inside. Personality quirks. Communication protocols. Even his core directives.
She zoomed in on one of the duplicate logs. The code shimmered, flickering in a way she didn't like.
[ACCESS REDIRECTED: BACKUP SERVER 7-C]
[QUERY: ENCRYPTION_KEY_ATLAS_KN0XX/COMMS?]
[RESPONSE: UNAUTHORIZED—OVERRIDE ACCEPTED.]
Angel's breath caught. "Wait. What?"
She pulled the thread, isolating the command. The trace ran deeper — far past the Claptrap's local data cache, tunneling through Hyperion's off-grid backup drives. That shouldn't even exist anymore. Her father had decommissioned those last year.
"Claptrap," she said sharply, "where are you transmitting from?"
"TRANSMITTING? HA! DON'T BE SILLY! I WOULD NEVER SHARE MY BEAUTIFUL, PERFECT SOURCE CODE WITH—HEY, WHO ARE YOU CALLING? IS THAT TECH SUPPORT?"
"Morale officer?" Angel muttered. "That explains the constant crying in the break rooms."
"OH, I HEARD THAT! AND YOU'RE NOT WRONG!"
She keyed in a hard quarantine, forcing the corrupted data to reroute into a sandboxed virtual drive. The moment she did, the anomaly moved.
No normal program did that. Not even Claptrap's chaos could rewrite itself that quickly.
Something was in there with him.
"Okay," she whispered, scanning the replication pattern again. The deeper she went, the more it felt wrong — like tracing a maze that kept rebuilding behind her.
There. A spike of data, sharp and foreign. Not Hyperion. Not Claptrap. Something else hitching a ride.
Her pulse quickened. She ran an auto-decrypt on the fragment. It flickered, then stabilized into partial text:
[KNOXX-CHANNEL: …still online… intercept confirmed… moving to secondary node…]
"Knoxx?" Angel muttered. "That's Atlas encryption."
For a second, she just stared at the screen. Her father's systems were supposed to be airtight. Encrypted six different ways, double-keyed, and sealed behind biometric firewalls. There was no way Atlas should've been able to get in.
Unless someone on their side opened the door.
"Claptrap, what were you doing before this 'upgrade' started?"
"INSTALLING PERSONALITY MODULES! VERSION 2.0!"
"And before that?"
"INSTALLING MORE PERSONALITY MODULES! VERSION 1.9!"
"And before that?"
"…TAKING A NAP?"
Angel exhaled through her teeth. "You've been compromised, haven't you?"
"COMPROMISED? PFFT! IMPOSSIBLE! I'M PERFECT! FLAWLESS! A SYMBOL OF—oh, hey, a new update just installed!"
"Don't—"
"REBOOTING!"
The line went dead.
Angel stared at the empty feed, the last line of his log still blinking:
[SYSTEM UPDATE COMPLETE. NEW SUBROUTINE: MIRROR_NET ONLINE.]
"MIRROR_NET," she repeated softly.
The name didn't appear in any Hyperion database. Not one.
She reached for her communicator. "Dad, it's Angel. You need to see this. I think we've got an intrusion—"
No response.
Of course not. He'd either passed out or was pretending not to hear her again. She sighed, already picturing the incoming headache of explaining this to his girlfriend instead.
Still, she didn't close the feed. The flicker of code remained steady in her periphery, the ghost of a system that shouldn't exist — multiplying, mutating, growing.
"Okay," she whispered. "Let's see who's really behind the curtain."
You ever walk in on a robot having an existential crisis?
Because that's what I did today.
There's this faint clunk-clunk-clunk echoing through the Hyperion garage — like someone's rhythmically beating a toaster with a wrench. I follow the sound, half expecting some idiot mechanic, but no. Of course it's him.
Claptrap.
The little tin disaster is squatting on a pile of broken metal, muttering to himself like a cult leader with an audience of bolts. Every few seconds, he slams a bit of glowing Atlas tech onto his chassis, sparks flying.
I stop in the doorway and pinch the bridge of my nose. "You're kidding me."
He looks up, optical sensor glowing like a dying flashlight. "Oh! Hey there, Handsome—uh, Mr. Jack! I was just, uh, performing some routine maintenance! Y'know, cleaning my emotional circuits, polishing my charm algorithms, improving my sexy subroutines—"
"Stop," I cut him off. "I've got a headache just listening."
He freezes mid-gesture, holding what looks suspiciously like an Atlas memory drive in his claw. The Atlas logo's still half-burned onto it. "So, quick question," I say, strolling closer. "Why are you building a trash fort out of restricted tech?"
He gasps, as if he's the victim here. "Restricted? Oh no no no, this is salvaged! Totally, uh… ethically reclaimed!"
"From whose corpse?"
He hesitates. "…Yours, if you keep asking questions!" Then he laughs that awful mechanical laugh that sounds like someone fed static through a blender.
I stare. He stops laughing.
"Okay, fine!" he blurts. "It was lying around the scrapyard! Nobody was using it! I'm giving it a second life! I'm like a robot philanthropist!"
"Right, sure. And I'm the Tooth Fairy."
He straightens up proudly. "That would explain your dazzling smile!"
I sigh. "You realize that Atlas tech is poisonous garbage, right? You plug too much of it into your little hard drive, you're gonna short out your entire system. And guess who gets blamed when you explode?"
"Uhhh… Mordecai?"
"Me, you idiot!"
He waves the claw dismissively. "Relax, bossman! I'm installing an upgrade! I'm not just any Claptrap anymore—I'm becoming something more! Smarter! Cooler! 78% more quippy!"
"Yeah," I mutter, "that's exactly what this planet needs. A smarter Claptrap."
He doesn't hear me. Or pretends not to. He's too busy humming the Hyperion jingle off-key while bolting another glowing component into his chest cavity. I swear, for a second the air flickers — static lines rippling through the space around him like heat haze.
"Hey," I say, stepping closer. "What's that supposed to do?"
"Oh! This?" He taps the new plating. "That's my Personality Expansion Interface! It lets me install multiple personality profiles simultaneously! Imagine it—Claptrap the comedian, Claptrap the scholar, Claptrap the warrior poet!"
"Claptrap the scrap heap," I mutter. "Pretty sure you skipped that one."
But the weird part is, for a moment… it looks like it's working. His optic flares, voice modulates slightly deeper.
"Jack," he says in a tone that's… off. Too even. "Do you ever wonder why you were chosen?"
I blink. "Chosen?"
"For greatness," he continues. "For power. For—"
Then he shakes, sparks flying, and his normal shrill tone returns. "Ha ha! Did I say 'greatness'? I meant great taste! Because you're so stylish and definitely not overcompensating!"
I step back slowly. "Okay. You glitched out there for a second, buddy. You sure you didn't just download a ghost or something?"
He laughs nervously. "Ghosts? Ha! Noooo. Definitely not haunted! That'd be ridiculous, right? Heh… right?"
I eye him. His hands twitch. Something about the way the Atlas components glow faintly blue under his plating makes my stomach twist.
"Alright," I say finally, rubbing the bridge of my nose again. "New rule: you don't touch Atlas junk without permission. That includes fusing it into your—whatever that is—"
"Chest cavity of destiny!"
"—and you report any weird voices in your head to Angel."
He salutes. "Aye-aye, captain handsome! Operation 'Totally Normal Robot' is a go!"
"Sure. Knock yourself out."
I turn to leave, because if I stay another minute I'll commit small-scale roboticide. But as I step out, I catch a faint flicker on the garage monitor — a line of Hyperion code updating itself in the background. For a moment, Claptrap's name appears next to a string of Atlas encryption signatures. Then it blinks out.
"Angel," I mutter into my earpiece, "you getting that data spike again?"
Her voice crackles back, calm but tense. "Yes. Same anomaly as before. It's originating from your sector."
"Perfect. My day keeps getting better."
Claptrap waves from his scrap pile. "Don't worry, boss! I'll guard the garage from evil data gremlins! With my newly upgraded paranoia setting!"
I force a grin. "That's great, buddy. Just… don't blow up the base."
He gives a thumbs-up, servo joints squeaking. "No promises!"
That does it. I'm going to have to kill him.
Kidding!
Or am I? Who knows. Maybe Claptrap lives. Maybe he dies. The same could be said of every potential character in this fic. The only way to know for sure is... to stay tuned for the next chapter! Which will be released in approximately one day.
Or, if you despise cliffhangers, feel free to check me out on Patreon, link below:
My Patreon
There were three things Lilith noticed the moment she walked into Moxxi's bar: the smell of cheap perfume, the shimmer of pink neon, and the sound of Scooter's mother making eye contact with her soul.
"Well, sugar, aren't you a sight."
Lilith blinked. "You must be Moxxi."
Moxxi leaned against the counter like she'd been sculpted there, a glass of something red and flammable in one hand. "Depends who's askin'. If it's Atlas, I'm no one. If it's you…" — she grinned, slow and dangerous — "I'm your new favorite bartender."
The place was impossibly gaudy — heart-shaped lights, dangling streamers, and a jukebox in the corner cycling through songs about murder and heartbreak. A half-wrecked skag head hung above the bar with a paper party hat jammed between its horns. Scooter's garage this was not.
Roland stepped in behind Lilith, his boots thudding against the stained floorboards. "This is our contact?"
Moxxi twirled her drink. "I prefer 'patron saint of bad decisions,' but sure, soldier boy. What'll it be? Ammo, intel, or a shoulder to cry on?"
"Ammo," he said flatly.
"Tragic," she purred, and gestured for her bouncers—two hulking ex-gladiators with more scars than shirts—to fetch a crate from the back.
Brick stomped in next, ducking under the doorframe with a grin that stretched ear to ear. "Now this is my kinda place! Smells like sweat and bad ideas."
"Then it's a perfect match," Moxxi quipped, giving him a once-over.
Mordecai slid into the nearest barstool, already waving for a drink. "You got anything that won't kill a man outright?"
"Sweetheart, everything I serve kills a man eventually. The question's whether you'll enjoy it on the way down."
Lilith couldn't help smirking. "You really are Scooter's mom, huh?"
Moxxi sighed, dramatically. "Don't remind me. Boy's got my genius but none of my taste. Or hips. Or eyeliner game. Bless his heart."
For the first time in days, the tension started to drain from the room. Outside, New Haven still smoldered from the battle—burned-out hulls of Atlas dropships littering the fields—but in here, under flickering lights and bad music, it almost felt like a victory party.
Roland spread a map over one of the tables, calling Brick over to discuss supply routes. "We're down to half reserves. If Atlas sends another wave before Jack finishes repairs—"
"Then we shoot 'em again," Brick said simply, pounding a fist into his palm.
"That's not a plan, Brick."
"It's worked so far."
Lilith snorted and grabbed a seat beside Mordecai, who was already on his second glass of something probably flammable.
"So," she said, swirling her drink. "How'd you end up in New Haven, Moxxi? Thought you were running a bar back in Fyrestone."
"Oh, honey, that was two husbands ago," Moxxi said, with the weary pride of a woman whose exes were buried in alphabetical order. "Atlas has been sniffin' around my business lately, and I'm not the type to let a corporation tell me who I can and can't poison for fun. So I packed up, found myself a nice neutral town, and here we are."
"Neutral," Lilith repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You mean you're selling to both sides."
Moxxi winked. "Sugar, I sell to winners. The trick is figuring out who they are before they do."
Mordecai laughed so hard he nearly fell off the stool. "I like her."
"You would," Roland muttered, still glaring at his map.
For a while, it was easy. Too easy. The clink of glasses, Brick's booming laugh, the warmth of being alive after too many close calls.
Lilith leaned back and watched them, feeling that odd mixture of exhaustion and affection that only came after surviving hell together. They were a mess—an ex-soldier, a bruiser, a sniper, and a Siren who couldn't stop starting fights—but damn if they didn't make it work.
She caught Moxxi watching her with that sharp, knowing smile.
"So you're the Lilith, huh? Heard the stories. Fire everywhere, eyes glowin', boys cryin'."
Lilith smirked. "Sounds about right."
"Good. Means you'll fit right in here."
The door banged open before Lilith could reply. A familiar voice shouted from outside, accompanied by the sputter of an overworked engine.
"Alright, nobody panic! But if something's on fire out there, that's technically not my fault!"
Moxxi sighed. "And here I was hopin' the night'd stay quiet."
Jack stumbled in wearing his usual smug grin and a coat that looked like it had lost a fistfight with an oil drum. Scooter followed close behind, holding a smoking wrench and grinning like an idiot.
"Hey, Mom!" Scooter called, waving cheerfully. "Got yer grandkid! It's a truck!"
Moxxi froze mid-sip. "…My what now?"
"Not, uh, literally a grandkid," Jack added quickly. "He means we built a rocket truck. It explodes. In a good way."
Moxxi stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Lilith. "This one's yours?"
Lilith sighed. "Yeah. I'm still not sure how that happened either."
Jack plopped down beside her with his usual unearned confidence, stealing her drink without asking. "So, what'd I miss? Roland's sulking? Brick's flexing? Mordi's flirting with someone who's legally obligated to carry antivenom?"
Mordecai raised his glass. "All of the above."
Jack grinned. "Then it's just like old times."
Lilith rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the smile tugging at her lips. Jack was a walking disaster, but he had that rare talent for making the room spin faster around him—like everything was a joke he'd already figured out the punchline to.
And maybe, just maybe, she needed that right now.
She leaned toward him and murmured, "You know, they're cool and all, I definitely want one, but if you ever bring another one of those rocket trucks near my town again, and there's not an emergency, I'm teleporting you into a volcano."
Jack flashed his trademark grin. "Kinky. But let's talk safety features later."
Moxxi cackled from behind the counter. "Oh, I like you two. You're gonna break somethin'—hearts, laws, physics—it'll be great for business."
For the first time since the war started, Lilith laughed. Not because she had to, but because the world hadn't managed to burn it out of her yet.
Outside, New Haven was still rebuilding. Inside, under cheap lights and bad liquor, they found a brief illusion of normalcy.
And if Moxxi's place was "neutral ground," then tonight, it almost felt like home.
...
I don't know if it was the neon lights, the bad music, or the fact that I hadn't been shot at in over an hour, but suddenly, Moxxi's bar didn't seem like the worst place on Pandora.
Lilith and I had commandeered one of the corner booths — the kind with cracked red vinyl seats and just enough privacy to pretend we weren't surrounded by drunk mercs and a homicidal bartender. She had her boots kicked up on the table, a half-finished drink glowing faintly between her fingers. Me? I was working on my third. Maybe fourth. Math's hard when you're this handsome.
And concussed. I probably shouldn't be drinking.
"So," she said, leaning back with that little smirk that made my brain short-circuit. Or maybe that was the concussion? "What's the plan, boss man? Gonna build another rocket truck and 'accidentally' level a city block?"
I raised a finger. "First of all, that was intentional collateral damage. Second, you're welcome. The Atlas convoy's in pieces, Roland's alive, and Scooter finally feels loved."
"Yeah, great job," she said dryly. "You almost killed half our defense grid."
I pointed my glass at her. "Hey, key word — almost. If I ever completely kill our defense grid, you'll know it."
"Because I'll be standing in the crater?"
"Exactly!"
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. Heh. Still got it.
Moxxi sashayed by, carrying a tray of drinks and enough confidence to power a reactor. "You two are adorable," she purred, leaning an elbow on our booth. "All that bickering — it's like foreplay for people with commitment issues."
Lilith coughed on her drink. "Wow. Subtle."
Moxxi winked. "Sweetheart, subtle's for sober people. You sure you're not just compensating for the hair gel, sugar?" she asked, turning to me.
"Excuse me, this is a professional-grade volumizing agent, thank you very much," I said, brushing back my immaculate hair. "Comes with every Hyperion executive package — right between the self-esteem issues and crippling debt."
Lilith snorted so hard she nearly spilled her drink. "You're ridiculous."
I shrugged. "Takes one to appreciate one."
Moxxi laughed and slid us a bottle "on the house," though I suspected "the house" was going to charge me for it later. "You kids have fun," she said, sauntering off. "Try not to blow anything up. Yet."
For a minute, we just sat there, listening to the jukebox hum and the faint sound of Brick arguing with a dartboard. Lilith tilted her head, watching the lights dance across the glass in her hand.
"You ever stop talking long enough to think about how weird this all is?" she asked.
"Constantly," I said. "Usually right before deciding it's better to keep talking."
"No, I mean…" She gestured around the bar. "You. Me. The others. All of us playing soldiers and mercenaries and saviors on a planet that's basically a cosmic landfill. How did we get here?"
"Ah." I nodded solemnly. "Existential crisis hour. Happens right after happy hour."
She kicked my leg under the table. "I'm serious."
"Yeah, I know." I leaned back and studied her. "It's weird. But not bad weird. You know? Like, sure, we're covered in dust and gunpowder and probably mild radiation, but I've had worse jobs."
"Oh yeah? Doing what?"
"Corporate PR."
She laughed — that genuine, unguarded kind that made everything else fade out for a second. "Okay, you win. That is worse."
I don't know if it was the liquor or the lighting, but she looked softer tonight. Pretty. Not less dangerous — she could still kill me with a glance — but calmer. Like she could go a whole week without murdering anyone.
"So, Jack," she said, smirking over her glass. "When you're not blowing things up or annoying Roland, what do you even do for fun?"
"Fun? Hah." I tapped my chin, pretending to think. "Well, I tinker, I drink, I make questionable life choices with beautiful women—"
"Careful."
"—and I collect rare Hyperion promotional mugs. I've got one shaped like a loader unit. You pull the handle, it screams 'LOADING COFFEE!'"
She stared. "You're serious."
"Completely. Most of my other hobbies involve work and raising my kid. I know, I know. What a catch!"
Lilith shook her head, laughing. "You're a disaster."
"Sure," I said, raising my glass. "But I'm your disaster tonight."
She clinked hers against mine. "We'll see how long that lasts."
It wasn't a romantic scene by any normal standard. The lights flickered every few seconds, the table was sticky, and somewhere in the corner, Mordecai was losing a drinking contest to Moxxi's pet skag.
But hell, it worked.
We talked about everything and nothing — stupid plans, dumber memories, the weird things people said right before dying. She teased me about my "hero complex," I teased her about "setting things on fire to solve her problems." She said I was insufferable. I said she was luminous.
She pretended not to like that word, but she smiled anyway.
By the time we finished the bottle, the noise of the bar had dulled into background static. Lilith leaned her chin on her hand, studying me like she was trying to figure out what made me tick.
"You ever think maybe you talk so much so nobody realizes when you're scared?" she asked.
"Heavy." I raised an eyebrow. "You ever think maybe you overanalyze people so they don't realize when you're scared?"
Touché.
She grinned, slow and sly. "Alright, fine. We'll call it even."
"Good," I said, stretching my arm across the back of the booth. "Just because I don't have the degree, doesn't mean I can't play doctor, too. Besides, if that dragged on any longer, I was about to start charging you for therapy sessions. Hyperion rates, no less."
She snorted. "You'd overcharge your own girlfriend?"
"Of course. Gotta fund the hair gel somehow."
The jukebox changed tracks — some old blues tune, low and warm. She didn't move away when my hand brushed her shoulder. Didn't burn me for it, either, which, given her track record, was basically affection.
"Y'know," I said, breaking the silence, "for a homicidal siren wanted by multiple governments, you're a pretty awesome girlfriend."
She laughed into her drink. "And for a corporate lunatic with delusions of grandeur, you're not half bad yourself."
"Delusions? Please. I have confirmed reports."
"Oh, I bet you do."
...
The sun hadn't fully risen over New Haven, but the courtyard was already alive with noise. The defectors—what few of them were left—stood in loose formation on the cracked pavement, half pretending to be soldiers again. Roland watched them from the shade of an awning, arms crossed, jaw set tight.
Atlas-trained. Disciplined. Dangerous. And every one of them looking at him like they were waiting for orders—or judgment.
"Alright," he said finally. "We're gonna run this simple. I ask, you answer. You lie, and Brick starts his cardio early."
Brick grinned from the sidelines. "Man, I love cardio."
A few of the defectors chuckled nervously. Mordecai leaned on a crate nearby, crossbow resting on his shoulder. His vulture, Bloodwing, perched above, looking about as unimpressed as Roland felt.
He started with the easy ones. Logistics officers. Engineers. People who surrendered before they could put up a fight. The ones Atlas would burn for "defection." Most of them talked fast—too fast. All of them swore they wanted nothing to do with their old employer. Roland could hear the truth in their voices, but he could also hear something else: exhaustion. Fear.
And guilt.
He'd been a soldier long enough to know the sound of people who just wanted to survive.
Then there was the last one. A corporal named Rusk. Wiry, calm, the kind of man who looked like he'd done a few things the record books didn't include.
Roland studied him for a long moment before speaking. "You were stationed at Prometheus Outpost, before you got sent over to communications, right? Logistics."
Rusk nodded. "Supply runs. I moved crates. Didn't ask what was in 'em."
"Convenient," Roland said. "Because we found some of those crates in the drop pods. We actually saw what was in them, too. Prototype shields and incendiary tech. Stuff Atlas swore didn't exist anymore."
Rusk didn't blink. "Guess they lied."
Brick muttered, "You want me to punch him till the truth falls out?"
"Not yet," Roland said.
Torture, contrary to popular belief, was not an effective form of interrogation. Fear was a good motivator, sure. But pain? People will confess to murder, even if they're innocent, if it gets their attacker to back off.
Besides, Roland had him.
He stepped closer. "Then explain how the crates we blew up had your signature authorization tags. From after you started working with us."
That earned him a flicker—barely there, but Roland saw it. The soldier's jaw tightened, eyes flicking just off to the side.
Rusk shrugged. "Atlas reuses ID tags all the time. Maybe someone pulled mine from an old manifest. I didn't pack those shipments."
"Maybe," Roland said. "Or maybe you've been feeding them intel since you jumped ship. Hoping to get back into your old boss's good graces."
Silence. Just the sound of wind whistling through broken scaffolding.
Brick cracked his knuckles. Mordecai looked up from cleaning his scope. "Could be lying. Could be telling the truth. Could also just be stupid."
Roland shot him a look. "Helpful."
"Hey, you're the one interrogating people before coffee."
Roland ignored him, turning back to Rusk. "You know what happens to spies, right? Atlas doesn't take kindly to deserters. Neither do I."
Rusk finally met his gaze. His tone was even, but there was a flicker of something there—bitterness, maybe. "With respect, sir, Atlas already killed half my squad. I didn't join up with you guys because I'm scared of the wasteland, or what they'd do to me for not killing a fucking Vauky Hunter. I ran because I was done dying for a company that doesn't even pretend to care."
That gave Roland pause. He believed that part—hell, he'd felt it too, once.
He dismissed the man with a nod. "Fine. Go help set up the perimeter. You're off rotation for now."
Rusk saluted, turned, and left without another word.
Brick wandered over, watching him go. "You think he's clean?"
"I think he's smart," Roland said. "Smart enough to lie well if he has to."
Mordecai stretched, yawning. "So… what now, Captain Paranoid?"
Roland sighed, rubbing his temples. "Now we wait. If there's a mole, they'll slip up eventually. Atlas is getting smarter—quicker. They're adapting. Someone's feeding them more than scraps."
"Maybe they just got lucky," Mordecai offered.
Roland gave him a flat look. "Atlas doesn't do lucky."
Brick leaned on his hammer. "You're wound tight, man. Maybe hit the bar tonight, yeah? Jack's already there pretending he's suave."
"Jack's pretending a lot of things," Roland muttered.
He looked back toward the defectors. They were laughing at something now—one of Brick's old jokes, maybe. For a moment, it almost looked normal. Like a team. But the unease lingered, coiled low in his gut.
Leadership wasn't about trust, not really. It was about pretending you had it until people believed you did.
He'd seen what happened when trust broke down. Teams fell apart. Missions failed. People died.
And the last thing he wanted was to watch it happen again.
"Alright," he said, straightening. "Brick, keep an eye on them. Mordecai, double patrol coverage tonight. No exceptions."
"Got it," Mordecai said, already ambling off toward the wall. "If I see anyone doing anything suspicious, I'll let Bloodwing eat 'em."
"Just report it first," Roland said dryly.
Brick grinned. "You got it, boss."
They scattered, leaving Roland standing alone in the middle of the cracked courtyard. He watched the horizon, faint dust trails catching the morning light. Somewhere out there, Atlas was already moving. Planning. Reacting.
They weren't supposed to be this organized.
That scared him more than he wanted to admit.
A voice crackled over the comm—Lilith, half amused, half serious. "Roland, you coming to Moxxi's or what? We found a lead."
He thumbed his earpiece. "On my way."
"And maybe bring your smile," she added. "You left it somewhere around 2003."
He almost smiled at that. Almost. "Copy that. Keep the bar standing till I get there."
As he turned to leave, his gaze swept one last time over the defectors.
He didn't know which of them was lying. Maybe none. Maybe all.
But he'd find out. He always did.
...
Angel sat alone in the humming glow of Hyperion's central network hub, surrounded by a thousand tiny lights that never blinked in sync. The hum of processors filled the air like a heartbeat she could feel through her skin.
Hyperion HQ always looked sterile from the outside — all white panels and gold trim — but here, deep in the servers, it was something else entirely. Cables ran like veins through the floor. The air smelled faintly of ozone and caffeine.
Her world.
And right now, her world was glitching.
Angel frowned at the holographic readout in front of her. Data streams crawled like digital vines across her display, strings of code flaring and dimming in impossible patterns. The virus that had infected their comms after the last op — the one she'd accidentally unleashed — was finally neutralized.
Except for one.
"Okay…" she murmured, fingers dancing across the keys. "Everyone's clean. No static on Roland's line, Lilith's fine, Dad's comms are stable again. So why…"
She zoomed in on the last corrupted cluster. The signature pulsed erratically, dancing across her firewalls like it was mocking her. The name field flashed:
CL4P-TP (MASCOT UNIT #1138)
Angel sighed. "Of course it's him."
A window opened unprompted, filling her screens with a cheerful, tinny voice.
"GOOD MORNING, HYPERION EMPLOYEE ANGEL! I AM CURRENTLY PERFORMING A SCHEDULED PERSONALITY UPGRADE! PLEASE DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR—"
"I didn't start any upgrades," Angel interrupted.
"—OR INTERRUPT YOUR LOCAL CLAPTRAP UNIT DURING THE PROCESS! SIDE EFFECTS MAY INCLUDE CHARISMA BOOSTS, ENHANCED DANCE ABILITY, AND UNSTOPPABLE SELF-AWARENESS!"
"Unstoppable what?"
"ERROR: FILE MISSING."
Angel pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're not supposed to be able to access mainframe code. Who authorized this?"
"ME!"
"Right. I walked into that one."
She traced the signal. The Claptrap's ID kept duplicating itself — not just in his own unit, but across multiple subservers. It wasn't supposed to be possible. Claptrap code was self-contained, idiot-proof by design. You could smash one with a wrench and it'd still boot up singing the wrong theme song.
But this was different. The replication wasn't random; it was deliberate. Directed.
And worse — it was smart.
Each copy was slightly modified, like someone was fine-tuning his routines from the inside. Personality quirks. Communication protocols. Even his core directives.
She zoomed in on one of the duplicate logs. The code shimmered, flickering in a way she didn't like.
[ACCESS REDIRECTED: BACKUP SERVER 7-C]
[QUERY: ENCRYPTION_KEY_ATLAS_KN0XX/COMMS?]
[RESPONSE: UNAUTHORIZED—OVERRIDE ACCEPTED.]
Angel's breath caught. "Wait. What?"
She pulled the thread, isolating the command. The trace ran deeper — far past the Claptrap's local data cache, tunneling through Hyperion's off-grid backup drives. That shouldn't even exist anymore. Her father had decommissioned those last year.
"Claptrap," she said sharply, "where are you transmitting from?"
"TRANSMITTING? HA! DON'T BE SILLY! I WOULD NEVER SHARE MY BEAUTIFUL, PERFECT SOURCE CODE WITH—HEY, WHO ARE YOU CALLING? IS THAT TECH SUPPORT?"
"Morale officer?" Angel muttered. "That explains the constant crying in the break rooms."
"OH, I HEARD THAT! AND YOU'RE NOT WRONG!"
She keyed in a hard quarantine, forcing the corrupted data to reroute into a sandboxed virtual drive. The moment she did, the anomaly moved.
No normal program did that. Not even Claptrap's chaos could rewrite itself that quickly.
Something was in there with him.
"Okay," she whispered, scanning the replication pattern again. The deeper she went, the more it felt wrong — like tracing a maze that kept rebuilding behind her.
There. A spike of data, sharp and foreign. Not Hyperion. Not Claptrap. Something else hitching a ride.
Her pulse quickened. She ran an auto-decrypt on the fragment. It flickered, then stabilized into partial text:
[KNOXX-CHANNEL: …still online… intercept confirmed… moving to secondary node…]
"Knoxx?" Angel muttered. "That's Atlas encryption."
For a second, she just stared at the screen. Her father's systems were supposed to be airtight. Encrypted six different ways, double-keyed, and sealed behind biometric firewalls. There was no way Atlas should've been able to get in.
Unless someone on their side opened the door.
"Claptrap, what were you doing before this 'upgrade' started?"
"INSTALLING PERSONALITY MODULES! VERSION 2.0!"
"And before that?"
"INSTALLING MORE PERSONALITY MODULES! VERSION 1.9!"
"And before that?"
"…TAKING A NAP?"
Angel exhaled through her teeth. "You've been compromised, haven't you?"
"COMPROMISED? PFFT! IMPOSSIBLE! I'M PERFECT! FLAWLESS! A SYMBOL OF—oh, hey, a new update just installed!"
"Don't—"
"REBOOTING!"
The line went dead.
Angel stared at the empty feed, the last line of his log still blinking:
[SYSTEM UPDATE COMPLETE. NEW SUBROUTINE: MIRROR_NET ONLINE.]
"MIRROR_NET," she repeated softly.
The name didn't appear in any Hyperion database. Not one.
She reached for her communicator. "Dad, it's Angel. You need to see this. I think we've got an intrusion—"
No response.
Of course not. He'd either passed out or was pretending not to hear her again. She sighed, already picturing the incoming headache of explaining this to his girlfriend instead.
Still, she didn't close the feed. The flicker of code remained steady in her periphery, the ghost of a system that shouldn't exist — multiplying, mutating, growing.
"Okay," she whispered. "Let's see who's really behind the curtain."
...
You ever walk in on a robot having an existential crisis?
Because that's what I did today.
There's this faint clunk-clunk-clunk echoing through the Hyperion garage — like someone's rhythmically beating a toaster with a wrench. I follow the sound, half expecting some idiot mechanic, but no. Of course it's him.
Claptrap.
The little tin disaster is squatting on a pile of broken metal, muttering to himself like a cult leader with an audience of bolts. Every few seconds, he slams a bit of glowing Atlas tech onto his chassis, sparks flying.
I stop in the doorway and pinch the bridge of my nose. "You're kidding me."
He looks up, optical sensor glowing like a dying flashlight. "Oh! Hey there, Handsome—uh, Mr. Jack! I was just, uh, performing some routine maintenance! Y'know, cleaning my emotional circuits, polishing my charm algorithms, improving my sexy subroutines—"
"Stop," I cut him off. "I've got a headache just listening."
He freezes mid-gesture, holding what looks suspiciously like an Atlas memory drive in his claw. The Atlas logo's still half-burned onto it. "So, quick question," I say, strolling closer. "Why are you building a trash fort out of restricted tech?"
He gasps, as if he's the victim here. "Restricted? Oh no no no, this is salvaged! Totally, uh… ethically reclaimed!"
"From whose corpse?"
He hesitates. "…Yours, if you keep asking questions!" Then he laughs that awful mechanical laugh that sounds like someone fed static through a blender.
I stare. He stops laughing.
"Okay, fine!" he blurts. "It was lying around the scrapyard! Nobody was using it! I'm giving it a second life! I'm like a robot philanthropist!"
"Right, sure. And I'm the Tooth Fairy."
He straightens up proudly. "That would explain your dazzling smile!"
I sigh. "You realize that Atlas tech is poisonous garbage, right? You plug too much of it into your little hard drive, you're gonna short out your entire system. And guess who gets blamed when you explode?"
"Uhhh… Mordecai?"
"Me, you idiot!"
He waves the claw dismissively. "Relax, bossman! I'm installing an upgrade! I'm not just any Claptrap anymore—I'm becoming something more! Smarter! Cooler! 78% more quippy!"
"Yeah," I mutter, "that's exactly what this planet needs. A smarter Claptrap."
He doesn't hear me. Or pretends not to. He's too busy humming the Hyperion jingle off-key while bolting another glowing component into his chest cavity. I swear, for a second the air flickers — static lines rippling through the space around him like heat haze.
"Hey," I say, stepping closer. "What's that supposed to do?"
"Oh! This?" He taps the new plating. "That's my Personality Expansion Interface! It lets me install multiple personality profiles simultaneously! Imagine it—Claptrap the comedian, Claptrap the scholar, Claptrap the warrior poet!"
"Claptrap the scrap heap," I mutter. "Pretty sure you skipped that one."
But the weird part is, for a moment… it looks like it's working. His optic flares, voice modulates slightly deeper.
"Jack," he says in a tone that's… off. Too even. "Do you ever wonder why you were chosen?"
I blink. "Chosen?"
"For greatness," he continues. "For power. For—"
Then he shakes, sparks flying, and his normal shrill tone returns. "Ha ha! Did I say 'greatness'? I meant great taste! Because you're so stylish and definitely not overcompensating!"
I step back slowly. "Okay. You glitched out there for a second, buddy. You sure you didn't just download a ghost or something?"
He laughs nervously. "Ghosts? Ha! Noooo. Definitely not haunted! That'd be ridiculous, right? Heh… right?"
I eye him. His hands twitch. Something about the way the Atlas components glow faintly blue under his plating makes my stomach twist.
"Alright," I say finally, rubbing the bridge of my nose again. "New rule: you don't touch Atlas junk without permission. That includes fusing it into your—whatever that is—"
"Chest cavity of destiny!"
"—and you report any weird voices in your head to Angel."
He salutes. "Aye-aye, captain handsome! Operation 'Totally Normal Robot' is a go!"
"Sure. Knock yourself out."
I turn to leave, because if I stay another minute I'll commit small-scale roboticide. But as I step out, I catch a faint flicker on the garage monitor — a line of Hyperion code updating itself in the background. For a moment, Claptrap's name appears next to a string of Atlas encryption signatures. Then it blinks out.
"Angel," I mutter into my earpiece, "you getting that data spike again?"
Her voice crackles back, calm but tense. "Yes. Same anomaly as before. It's originating from your sector."
"Perfect. My day keeps getting better."
Claptrap waves from his scrap pile. "Don't worry, boss! I'll guard the garage from evil data gremlins! With my newly upgraded paranoia setting!"
I force a grin. "That's great, buddy. Just… don't blow up the base."
He gives a thumbs-up, servo joints squeaking. "No promises!"
...
That does it. I'm going to have to kill him.
Kidding!
Or am I? Who knows. Maybe Claptrap lives. Maybe he dies. The same could be said of every potential character in this fic. The only way to know for sure is... to stay tuned for the next chapter! Which will be released in approximately one day.
Or, if you despise cliffhangers, feel free to check me out on Patreon, link below:
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Chapter 29: Field Testing
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Mad King Kevin
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Chapter 29: Field Testing
New Haven had seen better tents.
The "Command Center" — as Moxxi insisted on calling it, complete with neon sign that read "War Room, Sweetheart" in pink cursive — was technically a repurposed shipping container with sandbags, a dented holo-map, and an open bar in the corner. The air smelled faintly of oil, sweat, and cherry-scented alcohol fumes. Roland stood at the head of the table anyway, arms folded behind his back like a soldier pretending this wasn't absurd.
He missed the old War Room. But since Jack blew that up as part of the collateral damage he made in his "rescue", they would have to make do with this one. Although, if he was being honest, he wouldn't mind so much if this one was collaterally damaged.
"All right, listen up," he said, toggling the flickering holo-map. "Atlas has launched an offensive through the western ridges. We've got reports of mobile armor, drone deployment, and some kind of… propaganda balloons?" He squinted. "Never mind that. Point is—they're coming."
Brick raised a hand, already chewing on a protein bar the size of a grenade. "So we smash 'em? Again?"
Roland sighed. "Eventually. First, we—"
The tent flap burst open. Two loader-bots rolled in, dragging a third figure between them — Commander Steele, the former Atlas enforcer turned Hyperion prisoner. Her armor was scuffed to dull gray, her wrists cuffed, and her glare could have cracked concrete. She didn't look at anyone, just muttered something under her breath in rapid-fire Russian.
Jack followed behind, hands in his pockets, grinning like the smug bastard he was. "Brought a friend. Don't say I never contribute."
"Jack." Roland's voice went flat. "You were supposed to clear this with me first."
"I did," Jack said innocently. "Mentally. In spirit. And as a reminder, you wanted her here."
Steele spat another phrase, cold and venomous.
Marcus, sitting comfortably at the edge of the table with a glass of Moxxi's strongest, squinted. He had come under Roland's request. New Haven was becoming something of a home to him, too. And they needed a translator for when Steele was finally brought in. Although, he wasn't expecting him to be needed this soon.
"She says you smell like disappointment and canned beans." Marcus helpfully informed them.
Brick laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. "I like her!"
Roland rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Marcus, can you just—translate the important parts?"
Marcus gestured with his drink. "That was the important part."
Lilith leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, smirking. "Nice leadership style, commander. Always good to inspire confidence."
"Not helping," Roland said through gritted teeth.
"Not trying to," she shot back.
Mordecai was halfway through setting up a small betting pool on a napkin, using bullet casings for currency. "Ten bucks says Brick punches her before she finishes talking."
Brick frowned. "Why would I punch her? She's on our side now."
"She's not on our side," Roland said.
"She's tied up," Mordecai pointed out. "Kinda counts."
Jack picked up one of the bullet casings from the makeshift betting table and flicked it. "Put me down for twenty on Roland losing his temper first. It's a solid investment."
Roland ignored them and focused on Steele. "We pulled you out because we need intel. Atlas's movements, their command structure, how deep they've dug in since—"
"Since we blew up their general's ships and stole their toys?" Jack interrupted. "Oh, I'm sure she's feeling chatty."
Steele's cold eyes flicked toward Jack, then back to Roland. Her next sentence came slow, deliberate. "Vy vse odinakovye."
Marcus translated dryly: "She says, 'You are all the same.' Also possibly, 'You all suck.' Russian's flexible."
Angel's voice crackled faintly through the tent's comms. "Roland, ask her about the mole. Or, their data retrieval, how they invade networks. Anything that can give us a lead into how they got a foothold in our systems. I've been adding it up, and it doesn't make sense. It's too… patterned."
That made Steele lift her head for the first time. She looked directly at the comm speaker. Her lips curved into a near-smile. "You see the patterns too, little ghost?" English. Roland wasn't expecting that. Though he was expecting the cryptic one-liner.
Not that it made any sense to him. But did it make sense to Angel?
Her voice faltered. "Roland, that wasn't in her—how did she—?"
Roland's gut tightened. "What does that mean?" he demanded, stepping forward. "What do you know about Angel?"
Steele muttered a stream of Russian so sharp Marcus visibly winced.
"Okay, uh, yeah, no. Not translating that," Marcus said quickly. "Pretty sure some of those words are war crimes. Not that I have a problem with war crimes, just a problem getting caught… it wasn't very nice, if that helps."
Lilith raised an eyebrow. "I kinda want to know now."
Jack gave an exaggerated shrug. "She's probably just mad we get better lighting on camera."
Brick stood up, cracking his knuckles. "Want me to, uh… persuade her?"
Roland shot him a warning glare. "Sit down. No one's punching anybody."
Mordecai made a mark on his betting napkin. "And there goes my twenty."
Jack leaned against a crate, arms crossed, voice dripping amusement. "You sure, soldier boy? Sometimes violence is the answer. It's also the question. Violence? Violence! See? Two-for-one deal."
"Jack," Roland warned.
"Relax, big guy," Jack said with a smirk. "Just trying to lighten the mood. You look like you're about to pop a vein."
"Maybe because I'm surrounded by people who think strategy means 'shoot everything and see what explodes first.'"
Lilith smiled sweetly. "That's a strategy."
"It works," Brick added helpfully.
"It's cathartic," Mordecai mumbled.
Roland exhaled slowly, focusing on the holo-map again. "Atlas is establishing forward depots across the Dahl Headlands. They're testing automated units — some we haven't seen before. If we don't cut them off, they'll march right through New Haven."
Jack whistled. "Automated units, huh? Guess they're copying my homework again. Typical corporate behavior."
"Jack," Roland said, "your job is to keep the supply lines functional. That's it."
"Right, right," Jack said. "Supply lines, data logs, and definitely not top-secret Atlas prototypes mysteriously vanishing into Hyperion's research division. Got it."
Roland turned away before he said something he'd regret.
Steele's voice, soft but cutting, floated from the corner. "Вы их не остановите. Вы только подкормите машину."
Marcus half-translated, half-paraphrased: "She says you're doomed. Also that you're wasting your time."
Roland didn't reply. He just studied her face — no arrogance now, no mockery, just certainty. The kind that came from knowing too much. He straightened. "We do this right, Atlas falls. We do this wrong, Pandora burns. The way I see it, that's a low-risk, high-reward deal. Pretty damn good way to spend our time. Ma'am."
Steele scowled. And said something else in Russian, that Marcus was kind enough to translate. He gave her the finger.
Jack gave him a mocking salute. Lilith snorted into her drink. Mordecai clinked his bullet casings together in applause. Brick actually cheered.
Roland just closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, "This is my squad. God help me."
You ever walk into a hangar that smells like burnt motor oil, ozone, and bad decisions? Yeah, welcome to my happy place.
The New Haven Hyperion "aerospace division" — trademark pending — was basically a bunch of half-melted Atlas parts duct-taped to prewar Dahl wreckage. Engineers called it "unsafe." I called it "cost-effective." I even had them paint the dropships black with little silver wings on the sides, just to see how many people would tell me they looked like TIE fighters. (So far, eight. I fired two for being unoriginal.)
"Sir," one of the techs shouted over the hum of engines, "the left stabilizer's still offline!"
"Then it's a good thing the right one's working!" I called back. "That's what balance is for!"
He didn't laugh. Engineers never laugh. I should fire them, too.
I leaned against a crate of high-yield rockets (labelled definitely not experimental), watching my masterpiece come together — the first Hyperion dropship fleet, ready to kick Atlas right in the profit margin. Sure, we were still technically grounded because of "clearance issues" and "explosions last time," but that's what leadership's about: confidence, baby.
That, and plausible deniability.
"Wow," came a dry voice from behind me, "it's worse than I imagined."
I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The air got about ten degrees hotter and fifty percent more sarcastic.
"Lilith," I said with a grin. "Didn't hear you over the sound of progress."
She stepped around a half-welded wing, hands on her hips, eyes flicking between me and the nearest sparking power conduit. "Progress? This looks like you gave a toddler a blowtorch and said, 'build Daddy an air force.'"
"Please," I said. "I gave them two blowtorches."
Lilith snorted, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "You know, maybe we don't fly directly into the giant turret battery this time. Just a thought."
"And miss all the fun? What kind of Siren are you?"
"The kind that doesn't want to be vaporized by flak cannons."
"Ah, so a coward."
She glared at me. "You keep talking, and I'll vaporize you."
"Hey, I'm into that," I said automatically. "But maybe after the mission."
Lilith rolled her eyes so hard I thought I heard them squeak. Then she sighed, stepped forward, and — because the universe loves irony — grabbed a welding torch. "Fine. If I'm gonna die in one of your flying death traps, I'm at least making sure the fuel line doesn't blow on takeoff."
"Aw, teamwork! I knew we were bonding."
"Shut up and hold this." She handed me a metal plate roughly the size of my ego.
I held it up while she welded, sparks flying inches from my face. It was dangerous, stupid, and — I'll admit it — kinda fun. She worked fast, focused. The torchlight caught the faint shimmer of her tattoos as she leaned closer. For a second, the noise of the hangar faded, and I forgot how to be clever.
Then, naturally, the fuel line exploded.
It wasn't a big explosion — more of a polite boom, followed by a rain of flaming bolts.
I ducked behind the crate, clutching my ears. "Okay! Okay, note to self — maybe less jet fuel in the next batch—"
Lilith yelled something extremely un-Siren-like and slammed the emergency cut-off valve. The fire sputtered out, leaving behind a few sizzling wires and the smell of burned hair.
Brick's laughter echoed from across the hangar. "Called it! Ten bucks says they blow something up before launch!"
Mordecai, lounging on a suspended wing, raised a bottle. "Make it twenty if they accidentally make out mid-battle."
"Make it fifty if she kills him first!" Brick bellowed.
"Not helping!" I shouted.
Lilith flipped them both off without turning around. "You're paying for the repairs, genius."
"Hey, the fire added character!"
"It added damage!"
"Potato, potahto."
She tossed the torch at me — not to me, at me — and stalked toward the exit. "You're unbelievable."
"Thank you," I said automatically, because my survival instincts are terminally broken.
Lilith froze mid-step. For a moment, I thought she was gonna scorch me right there. Instead, she smirked — just barely — and said, "Try not to blow yourself up before takeoff."
"Promises, promises."
She left. The hangar went back to its usual chorus of clanging metal, bad wiring, and the soft weeping of unpaid engineers.
I set the torch down and let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The smell of ozone was sharp, grounding.
Angel's voice buzzed in over my comms, soft but amused. "You know, statistically speaking, you two have a forty percent chance of spontaneous combustion when you're in the same room."
"Yeah, well," I muttered, glancing at the door Lilith had disappeared through, "those are pretty good odds."
"Are you… is this you flirting?" Angel asked, skeptical.
I blinked. "Um… duh? I don't know how you and your girlfriend do it, but Lilith and I practice the sacred art of banter."
"You're both doing it wrong, then… and I don't have a girlfriend!"
"I know you do! I just don't know her name, yet! But I will! You hear me?! I will!"
The comm crackled faintly, then went quiet — though I could swear I heard her laugh. Clearly, my daughter has very little faith in my investigation abilities. Considering how long it took me to find the remote once, I can't blame her. But I'll find out. Some day. Until then, I have other things on my mind.
I looked back at the half-built fleet and grinned.
Sure, maybe the dropships would catch fire. Maybe the engines would stall. Maybe the entire operation was a house of cards held together by caffeine and sarcasm.
But for the first time in a while, it felt like we were doing something. Like we weren't just patching holes, waiting for the enemy to make a move, no, we're on the offensive. It's time to spread our wings and fly.
And hell — if the aircraft falls apart midair, at least we'll go down in style.
I glanced up toward the rafters, where Brick and Mordecai were still laughing. "Hey, make sure the cameras are rolling next time. Gotta keep morale up."
Brick gave me a thumbs-up. Mordecai raised his bottle in salute.
I dusted off my jacket, looked at the nearest dropship, and patted its hull affectionately. "Don't let me down, baby," I said. "I'm running out of spare hangars."
Attacking an Atlas forward depot in broad daylight ranked somewhere between "licking a skag" and "trusting Jack with anything that had a detonator."
So naturally, that was the plan.
The Dahl Headlands stretched out in all their dusty glory — flat, sun-bleached, and empty except for the occasional vulture and the very large Atlas outpost squatting in the middle like a red-painted blister. Sandbags, automated turrets, and a company of grunts in shiny armor who all had one thing in common: they couldn't hit the broad side of a Rakk hive.
Lilith crouched behind a boulder, watching through binoculars as one sniper's bullet pinged off a cactus thirty feet to her left.
"Real professionals," she muttered.
Roland's voice came through her earpiece, calm and commander-like. "Keep it clean, people. In, out, minimal damage."
Brick laughed so hard over the comms that it cut to static. "'Minimal damage,' he says. Ha! Good one, boss!"
"Not a joke, Brick."
"Then it's a bad order!"
Lilith smirked. "Relax, soldier boy. I'll handle precision."
"Precision," Roland repeated flatly, "is not what you do."
"Not with that attitude."
Overhead, Hyperion drones buzzed like angry hornets — Jack's contribution to the mission. He was back at the hangar, supposedly "coordinating from a distance." Which mostly meant pressing random buttons and narrating the explosions like a sports announcer.
"Alright, kiddos," Jack's voice crackled over the line, way too cheerful, "Drone Squad Beta's got visual. I repeat, we are go for operation 'Make Atlas Cry About It.'"
Lilith groaned. "Who names these?"
"Democracy, babe. I voted twice."
The first drone strafed the nearest tower. The explosion was beautiful — a shimmering orange bloom followed by several soldiers running in circles, on fire, shooting each other by accident.
Lilith stood, brushed the dust off her pants, and said, "Guess that's our cue."
She sprinted forward, phasing out of sight in a flash of violet energy. The world went quiet and cool in the split-second between moments — that peaceful hum right before everything caught fire again.
When she phased back in, it was behind a squad of Atlas troopers.
"Boo."
The last thing they saw was a flash of light and the faint smell of ozone.
Roland pushed in from the north, his rifle barking in rhythmic bursts. Mordecai's shots cut through the din, every bullet accompanied by colorful commentary over the comms:
"One headshot! Two headshots! Oh, look at that, Brick's punching a tank again."
"I'm winning!" Brick bellowed.
"You're punching armor plating, genius," Mordecai said. "That's not how winning works."
"It is if it explodes!"
"Technically correct," Jack chimed in. "My favorite kind of correct!"
Another explosion rocked the depot.
"Would someone please keep him away from the ammo dumps?" Roland shouted.
Lilith phased through a blast door, stepping into the depot's central command room. The walls were lined with monitors, each one showing increasingly blurry footage of the chaos outside.
In the middle stood an Atlas lieutenant, polished armor, perfect hair, and the kind of posture that screamed "my father owns a yacht." He barked orders at his troops like they were a marching band.
"Maintain formation! Keep your lines straight! Do not let those brigands— No, Jenkins, shoulders back! Posture, man, posture!"
Lilith tilted her head. "Wow. You're like a motivational poster with a concussion."
He spun around, sputtering. "You! You're not authorized—"
She phased again, vanished, and reappeared directly behind him with a grin.
"Perfect form this."
The explosion threw his chair, his desk, and most of the wall into the next building.
Outside, Roland ducked as the shockwave passed overhead. "Lilith! Status?"
"Mission accomplished," she said cheerfully. "Some of him might still be saluting."
Brick stomped by carrying half of a turret under one arm. "I got a souvenir!"
"That's not a— you know what, fine," Roland said.
"Uh, quick thing," Jack cut in. "Drone Squad Gamma just accidentally bombed the wrong supply line. On the bright side, now there's two fewer supply lines. Efficiency!"
Roland groaned. "Jack—"
"I'm helping!"
"You're really not!"
Meanwhile, Mordecai landed beside Lilith, Bloodwing circling overhead. He tossed her a small detonator with a grin. "Found their comms tower. You want the honors?"
She arched a brow. "You're giving me the detonator?"
"Yeah. Figured if it blows up in my hand, I'd be mad."
Fair.
She flicked the switch. A moment later, the entire tower folded in on itself with a whump that rattled her teeth.
"Roland," she said through the comm, "Depot Gamma's officially… liberated."
"That's one word for it," Roland replied dryly.
Brick whooped, waving his turret chunk in the air like a trophy. Mordecai whistled, admiring the smoke column curling into the sky. Even the drones hovered overhead like confused birds, as if debating whether to shoot anything else.
Lilith surveyed the carnage with her hands on her hips. "You know, for a plan that started dumb, this went pretty well."
"Pretty well?" Jack said, still on the line. "Lilith, you just vaporized like five million dollars worth of Atlas tech. That's a very good day."
"See?" she said, grinning. "Even the corporate psychopath agrees."
Roland's sigh was audible through the static. "Let's regroup. Collect what we can, then head back before Atlas sends reinforcements."
"On it," Lilith said, ducking under a half-melted doorframe. "Though for the record, I call that a clean op."
Mordecai laughed. "Clean? The depot's gone."
"Yeah. No depot, no mess."
Brick pointed at the crater proudly. "I cleaned it with explosives!"
Jack snorted over the radio. "See, that's the kind of initiative we encourage at Hyperion."
"Jack, you're not helping," Roland said again.
"Buddy, I never am."
Lilith smiled faintly, watching the others bicker as smoke curled in the background. For all the idiocy, somehow it worked.
They were chaos incarnate — a human demolition derby with guns — but they were hers.
She turned back toward the flaming ruin and flicked a pebble into the smoldering pit.
"Heh." Lilith grinned. "Still got it."
You ever stand in the middle of a warzone and think, "Wow, this could really use some mood lighting"?
That's what I was thinking as I picked my way through the flaming remains of Depot Gamma. The sun was setting, turning the smoke this lovely apocalyptic orange. Broken Atlas tech still sparked here and there — kind of like fireworks, if your fireworks screamed when they shorted out.
I kicked a headless trooper out of my way. "Man, if I had a nickel for every time I watched a battlefield burn because of us, I'd own… well, I already own a lot, but I'd own more."
Behind me, Lilith flickered into view — quite literally. One second she was a shimmer of light; the next, she was standing on a pile of scrap, tossing a fireball from one hand to the other like she was idly juggling the apocalypse.
She was burning the leftover Atlas crates, one at a time. The flames reflected in her eyes — and not in the metaphorical "wow, she's so passionate" way. I mean, literally. I could see the light flicker across her pupils.
I leaned against what I hoped used to be a server rack and said, "So this is what serenity looks like, huh?"
She didn't turn around. "Burning things is relaxing. Don't judge me."
"Oh, no judgment. Everyone's got a hobby. Some people collect stamps. Some people collect, y'know…" I gestured vaguely at the dismembered bodies. "…mild war crimes."
"Hey, you were the one coordinating the drones."
"Yeah, and look at that! We won. Again. You're welcome, by the way."
She threw another fireball, sending a shockwave through a stack of ammo crates that went up in a satisfying whoomph. "You're really humble about it, too."
"I try."
While she was busy setting the sky on fire, I crouched beside a busted server terminal that had miraculously survived the "liberation." The display flickered, cracked but still functional. Most of it was static — until I ran a little diagnostic from my wrist module. A string of encrypted data blinked up at me, tagged with an Atlas signature I didn't recognize.
Huh.
Now, normally, I'd just sell this kind of thing. Let some corporate intern at Hyperion decrypt it, slap my name on the file, and call it a day. But there was something weird about the coding.
It wasn't just a data log. It was patterned. Looped. Almost alive. Not literally, I'm just making a point.
I grinned. "Well, look who's got secrets."
"What are you doing?" Lilith asked, not even pretending she wasn't watching me.
"Uh, looting mid-victory. Obviously. I call it field research."
"Field research," she repeated, unimpressed. "You mean 'stealing files before Roland can yell at you.'"
"Hey, Roland will yell at me no matter what I do. But if I don't loot it now, I'm definitely going to forget where it is later."
"Wow. Such foresight. Commander Roland would be proud."
"Please, that guy alphabetizes his ammo. I'm the creative one."
She laughed — a real laugh, not one of those sarcastic half-snickers she uses when she's pretending not to like me. She walked over, stepping through ash and bent metal, and crouched beside me. Her presence was warm — literally, again — like standing next to a campfire that could talk back.
"You know," she said, looking at the screen, "for someone who pretends not to care about anything that doesn't explode, you spend a lot of time digging through computers."
"Yeah, well, some of us can multitask."
"Right. You're a man of many talents. Like blowing things up, taking credit, and… what's this one? Pretending not to be curious?"
"Excuse me, I'll have you know curiosity built empires. It also blew up a few, but that's just statistics."
She smirked. "You ever stop talking?"
"Only when I'm dead. Or asleep. And even then, it's a fifty-fifty. I've dabbled in sleep-talking. What can I say? I'm chatty."
She nudged my shoulder with hers — light, playful. "I know. I also know that for all the noise, you're not half bad at this."
I turned toward her. "This being…?"
"Not dying. Being useful. Maybe even…" she squinted at me like she was trying to pick the right insult, "…competent."
"Well, well. Careful, Lilith, you keep complimenting me like that and I might start thinking you actually like me."
She stood, rolling her eyes. "Don't get used to it."
"Oh, I won't. I'm emotionally allergic to sincerity."
She chuckled again and went back to tossing another ball of flame into a pile of wreckage. I went back to pretending I was focused on the data, even though I was definitely just watching her.
The encrypted file kept looping, flashing a string of coordinates, and something else — an Atlas insignia modified with a weird triangle pattern. I didn't know what it meant, but I had a feeling Steele might've.
Still, no point in ruining the mood.
"Hey," I called. "Can you believe Angel thinks we're bad at flirting?"
Lilith glanced over her shoulder, smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. "She's got a point."
"What?! No way! I think we're killing it."
"Totally," she said. "I'm great at killing things."
"Yeah," I said, pocketing the data drive and standing beside her, "that's kinda what I like about you."
She raised a brow. "You like that I'm good at killing?"
"Well, that, and the fire. The fire's nice."
"Good thing it's not for you."
"Sure it's not," I said, smiling.
The depot crackled quietly around us, flames flickering higher as the sun dipped below the ridges. For once, there was no yelling, no gunfire, no explosions that weren't intentional. Just the two of us standing there, basking in the glow of our latest disaster.
It was weirdly peaceful.
And maybe, if I wasn't careful, I'd start to enjoy it.
Angel watched the feeds hum and flicker like an orchestra she couldn't quite tune. Every channel told a different story: Roland's squad rolling back toward New Haven, Lilith's comm still live and full of snark, Brick humming something that was either a victory chant or a threat to structural integrity.
And then—
BZZZZT.
A distorted feed elbowed its way onto the main holo-screen, pixelating Angel's display with static and self-importance.
"ATTENTION, lesser beings!" came a metallic, nasal voice. "It is I — your newly promoted, highly respected, totally indispensable Logistics Overseer of Hyperion East!"
Angel closed her eyes. "Oh no."
The camera struggled to focus, revealing Claptrap, standing atop a stack of mislabeled crates, arms raised like a victorious dictator. Someone—possibly him—had scrawled 'BOSS UNIT' across his chassis in permanent marker.
He had also taped a necktie around his antenna.
"Observe!" he continued, spinning around. "These crates contain vital humanitarian supplies! Which I, in my infinite wisdom and leadership acumen, have just redirected to—" He squinted at the console behind him. "—uh… the Eastern Pandoran Desert!"
Angel froze mid-keystroke. "You what?"
"Don't thank me all at once!" Claptrap said, striking a heroic pose. "You see, the sand people need food too! Probably! Assuming they exist, and also have mouths!"
Angel's fingers hovered over the keyboard, her tone perfectly flat. "You rerouted the entire New Haven ration manifest."
Claptrap's single optic brightened. "Exactly! A bold logistical maneuver! They'll sing songs of my efficiency!"
Angel opened a new subroutine labeled 'QUARANTINE_ .'
"Hold, please," she said, with the calm of someone about to do something deeply unkind to a network.
"Wait, are you updating my firmware? Because last time you did that, I lost my dance emotes, and morale plummeted!"
Angel hit Enter.
The feed froze mid-gesture — Claptrap's arms extended, optic dimming to a confused flicker — then blinked out with a final bzzt. Silence filled the station again, save for the low hum of cooling fans.
Angel sighed. "You've been reassigned."
A few seconds later, the comm crackled to life again — Roland's voice, clipped but curious. "Angel, what happened? Claptrap's signal just went down."
Angel kept her tone light. "Yeah, that was me. Don't worry; he's okay. He's just been relocated to off-site logistics coordination. For… his safety."
And her sanity.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," she said, "I locked him in a data closet, until I can find out what's wrong with him. Wrong-er, anyways."
There was a pause.
Then her father's voice broke in from the side channel, absolutely delighted. "Wait, wait, wait — you benched the robot?"
"Yes."
"Best. Day. Ever."
Angel allowed herself the faintest smile.
"You do realize he's gonna find a way to email himself back into the system, right?" Lilith added.
Angel didn't even look up. "Already firewalled it."
"Good," Roland said. "Keep it that way."
"Can we send him snacks?" Mordecai chimed in. "Just, like… one packet of nuts every few days? Keep him thinking it's a challenge."
Angel shook her head. "You people are monsters."
"Correction" Jack's voice cut back in. "Heroes with amazing time management skills. And since our new "Logistics Director" is off-site, I assume I get to reassign his parking space."
"Technically, yes."
"Perfect! I'm putting a margarita machine there."
"You don't drink," Lilith said.
"It's for morale!"
Angel muted the channel before they could start debating drink recipes and went back to her feeds. One by one, she shut down the active uplinks, leaving only a few flickering data streams — mission reports, supply logs, Steele's encrypted Atlas data still waiting for decryption.
For a brief moment, she stared at it — that encrypted file, the one that made her father's pulse spike every time she mentioned it. Something about pattern recognition. Something that made her skin prickle in ways she couldn't quantify.
Then, like always, she buried it under another layer of encryption and leaned back in her chair.
Pandora was quiet again. For now.
And somewhere, deep inside a sealed data closet halfway across the Hyperion grid, a muffled voice began shouting.
"HELLO? HELLO?! Is this what middle management feels like?! I LOVE IT!"
Don't we all, Claptrap. Don't we all.
Anyways, both Jack and Angel had very specific reasons they weren't particularly worried about a Claptrap revolution, even with Jack knowing what's to come. The answer to why has already been highlighted many chapters, ago. He's already got a trump card, for that exact scenario.
What it'll be, or whether or not it would still work, shall remain to be seen.
Feel free to write your theories in the reviews.
In the spirit of fairness, I will warn you that confrontation won't happen for quite a few chapters. But if you'd like to know how the next phase of the Atlas-Hyperion war plays out, you're in luck! Stay tuned for Chapter 30, Desert Diplomacy, to be posted tomorrow.
Or, if you really, really, really can't wait, feel free to check out my Patreon, link below:
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New Haven had seen better tents.
The "Command Center" — as Moxxi insisted on calling it, complete with neon sign that read "War Room, Sweetheart" in pink cursive — was technically a repurposed shipping container with sandbags, a dented holo-map, and an open bar in the corner. The air smelled faintly of oil, sweat, and cherry-scented alcohol fumes. Roland stood at the head of the table anyway, arms folded behind his back like a soldier pretending this wasn't absurd.
He missed the old War Room. But since Jack blew that up as part of the collateral damage he made in his "rescue", they would have to make do with this one. Although, if he was being honest, he wouldn't mind so much if this one was collaterally damaged.
"All right, listen up," he said, toggling the flickering holo-map. "Atlas has launched an offensive through the western ridges. We've got reports of mobile armor, drone deployment, and some kind of… propaganda balloons?" He squinted. "Never mind that. Point is—they're coming."
Brick raised a hand, already chewing on a protein bar the size of a grenade. "So we smash 'em? Again?"
Roland sighed. "Eventually. First, we—"
The tent flap burst open. Two loader-bots rolled in, dragging a third figure between them — Commander Steele, the former Atlas enforcer turned Hyperion prisoner. Her armor was scuffed to dull gray, her wrists cuffed, and her glare could have cracked concrete. She didn't look at anyone, just muttered something under her breath in rapid-fire Russian.
Jack followed behind, hands in his pockets, grinning like the smug bastard he was. "Brought a friend. Don't say I never contribute."
"Jack." Roland's voice went flat. "You were supposed to clear this with me first."
"I did," Jack said innocently. "Mentally. In spirit. And as a reminder, you wanted her here."
Steele spat another phrase, cold and venomous.
Marcus, sitting comfortably at the edge of the table with a glass of Moxxi's strongest, squinted. He had come under Roland's request. New Haven was becoming something of a home to him, too. And they needed a translator for when Steele was finally brought in. Although, he wasn't expecting him to be needed this soon.
"She says you smell like disappointment and canned beans." Marcus helpfully informed them.
Brick laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. "I like her!"
Roland rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Marcus, can you just—translate the important parts?"
Marcus gestured with his drink. "That was the important part."
Lilith leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, smirking. "Nice leadership style, commander. Always good to inspire confidence."
"Not helping," Roland said through gritted teeth.
"Not trying to," she shot back.
Mordecai was halfway through setting up a small betting pool on a napkin, using bullet casings for currency. "Ten bucks says Brick punches her before she finishes talking."
Brick frowned. "Why would I punch her? She's on our side now."
"She's not on our side," Roland said.
"She's tied up," Mordecai pointed out. "Kinda counts."
Jack picked up one of the bullet casings from the makeshift betting table and flicked it. "Put me down for twenty on Roland losing his temper first. It's a solid investment."
Roland ignored them and focused on Steele. "We pulled you out because we need intel. Atlas's movements, their command structure, how deep they've dug in since—"
"Since we blew up their general's ships and stole their toys?" Jack interrupted. "Oh, I'm sure she's feeling chatty."
Steele's cold eyes flicked toward Jack, then back to Roland. Her next sentence came slow, deliberate. "Vy vse odinakovye."
Marcus translated dryly: "She says, 'You are all the same.' Also possibly, 'You all suck.' Russian's flexible."
Angel's voice crackled faintly through the tent's comms. "Roland, ask her about the mole. Or, their data retrieval, how they invade networks. Anything that can give us a lead into how they got a foothold in our systems. I've been adding it up, and it doesn't make sense. It's too… patterned."
That made Steele lift her head for the first time. She looked directly at the comm speaker. Her lips curved into a near-smile. "You see the patterns too, little ghost?" English. Roland wasn't expecting that. Though he was expecting the cryptic one-liner.
Not that it made any sense to him. But did it make sense to Angel?
Her voice faltered. "Roland, that wasn't in her—how did she—?"
Roland's gut tightened. "What does that mean?" he demanded, stepping forward. "What do you know about Angel?"
Steele muttered a stream of Russian so sharp Marcus visibly winced.
"Okay, uh, yeah, no. Not translating that," Marcus said quickly. "Pretty sure some of those words are war crimes. Not that I have a problem with war crimes, just a problem getting caught… it wasn't very nice, if that helps."
Lilith raised an eyebrow. "I kinda want to know now."
Jack gave an exaggerated shrug. "She's probably just mad we get better lighting on camera."
Brick stood up, cracking his knuckles. "Want me to, uh… persuade her?"
Roland shot him a warning glare. "Sit down. No one's punching anybody."
Mordecai made a mark on his betting napkin. "And there goes my twenty."
Jack leaned against a crate, arms crossed, voice dripping amusement. "You sure, soldier boy? Sometimes violence is the answer. It's also the question. Violence? Violence! See? Two-for-one deal."
"Jack," Roland warned.
"Relax, big guy," Jack said with a smirk. "Just trying to lighten the mood. You look like you're about to pop a vein."
"Maybe because I'm surrounded by people who think strategy means 'shoot everything and see what explodes first.'"
Lilith smiled sweetly. "That's a strategy."
"It works," Brick added helpfully.
"It's cathartic," Mordecai mumbled.
Roland exhaled slowly, focusing on the holo-map again. "Atlas is establishing forward depots across the Dahl Headlands. They're testing automated units — some we haven't seen before. If we don't cut them off, they'll march right through New Haven."
Jack whistled. "Automated units, huh? Guess they're copying my homework again. Typical corporate behavior."
"Jack," Roland said, "your job is to keep the supply lines functional. That's it."
"Right, right," Jack said. "Supply lines, data logs, and definitely not top-secret Atlas prototypes mysteriously vanishing into Hyperion's research division. Got it."
Roland turned away before he said something he'd regret.
Steele's voice, soft but cutting, floated from the corner. "Вы их не остановите. Вы только подкормите машину."
Marcus half-translated, half-paraphrased: "She says you're doomed. Also that you're wasting your time."
Roland didn't reply. He just studied her face — no arrogance now, no mockery, just certainty. The kind that came from knowing too much. He straightened. "We do this right, Atlas falls. We do this wrong, Pandora burns. The way I see it, that's a low-risk, high-reward deal. Pretty damn good way to spend our time. Ma'am."
Steele scowled. And said something else in Russian, that Marcus was kind enough to translate. He gave her the finger.
Jack gave him a mocking salute. Lilith snorted into her drink. Mordecai clinked his bullet casings together in applause. Brick actually cheered.
Roland just closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, "This is my squad. God help me."
...
You ever walk into a hangar that smells like burnt motor oil, ozone, and bad decisions? Yeah, welcome to my happy place.
The New Haven Hyperion "aerospace division" — trademark pending — was basically a bunch of half-melted Atlas parts duct-taped to prewar Dahl wreckage. Engineers called it "unsafe." I called it "cost-effective." I even had them paint the dropships black with little silver wings on the sides, just to see how many people would tell me they looked like TIE fighters. (So far, eight. I fired two for being unoriginal.)
"Sir," one of the techs shouted over the hum of engines, "the left stabilizer's still offline!"
"Then it's a good thing the right one's working!" I called back. "That's what balance is for!"
He didn't laugh. Engineers never laugh. I should fire them, too.
I leaned against a crate of high-yield rockets (labelled definitely not experimental), watching my masterpiece come together — the first Hyperion dropship fleet, ready to kick Atlas right in the profit margin. Sure, we were still technically grounded because of "clearance issues" and "explosions last time," but that's what leadership's about: confidence, baby.
That, and plausible deniability.
"Wow," came a dry voice from behind me, "it's worse than I imagined."
I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The air got about ten degrees hotter and fifty percent more sarcastic.
"Lilith," I said with a grin. "Didn't hear you over the sound of progress."
She stepped around a half-welded wing, hands on her hips, eyes flicking between me and the nearest sparking power conduit. "Progress? This looks like you gave a toddler a blowtorch and said, 'build Daddy an air force.'"
"Please," I said. "I gave them two blowtorches."
Lilith snorted, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "You know, maybe we don't fly directly into the giant turret battery this time. Just a thought."
"And miss all the fun? What kind of Siren are you?"
"The kind that doesn't want to be vaporized by flak cannons."
"Ah, so a coward."
She glared at me. "You keep talking, and I'll vaporize you."
"Hey, I'm into that," I said automatically. "But maybe after the mission."
Lilith rolled her eyes so hard I thought I heard them squeak. Then she sighed, stepped forward, and — because the universe loves irony — grabbed a welding torch. "Fine. If I'm gonna die in one of your flying death traps, I'm at least making sure the fuel line doesn't blow on takeoff."
"Aw, teamwork! I knew we were bonding."
"Shut up and hold this." She handed me a metal plate roughly the size of my ego.
I held it up while she welded, sparks flying inches from my face. It was dangerous, stupid, and — I'll admit it — kinda fun. She worked fast, focused. The torchlight caught the faint shimmer of her tattoos as she leaned closer. For a second, the noise of the hangar faded, and I forgot how to be clever.
Then, naturally, the fuel line exploded.
It wasn't a big explosion — more of a polite boom, followed by a rain of flaming bolts.
I ducked behind the crate, clutching my ears. "Okay! Okay, note to self — maybe less jet fuel in the next batch—"
Lilith yelled something extremely un-Siren-like and slammed the emergency cut-off valve. The fire sputtered out, leaving behind a few sizzling wires and the smell of burned hair.
Brick's laughter echoed from across the hangar. "Called it! Ten bucks says they blow something up before launch!"
Mordecai, lounging on a suspended wing, raised a bottle. "Make it twenty if they accidentally make out mid-battle."
"Make it fifty if she kills him first!" Brick bellowed.
"Not helping!" I shouted.
Lilith flipped them both off without turning around. "You're paying for the repairs, genius."
"Hey, the fire added character!"
"It added damage!"
"Potato, potahto."
She tossed the torch at me — not to me, at me — and stalked toward the exit. "You're unbelievable."
"Thank you," I said automatically, because my survival instincts are terminally broken.
Lilith froze mid-step. For a moment, I thought she was gonna scorch me right there. Instead, she smirked — just barely — and said, "Try not to blow yourself up before takeoff."
"Promises, promises."
She left. The hangar went back to its usual chorus of clanging metal, bad wiring, and the soft weeping of unpaid engineers.
I set the torch down and let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The smell of ozone was sharp, grounding.
Angel's voice buzzed in over my comms, soft but amused. "You know, statistically speaking, you two have a forty percent chance of spontaneous combustion when you're in the same room."
"Yeah, well," I muttered, glancing at the door Lilith had disappeared through, "those are pretty good odds."
"Are you… is this you flirting?" Angel asked, skeptical.
I blinked. "Um… duh? I don't know how you and your girlfriend do it, but Lilith and I practice the sacred art of banter."
"You're both doing it wrong, then… and I don't have a girlfriend!"
"I know you do! I just don't know her name, yet! But I will! You hear me?! I will!"
The comm crackled faintly, then went quiet — though I could swear I heard her laugh. Clearly, my daughter has very little faith in my investigation abilities. Considering how long it took me to find the remote once, I can't blame her. But I'll find out. Some day. Until then, I have other things on my mind.
I looked back at the half-built fleet and grinned.
Sure, maybe the dropships would catch fire. Maybe the engines would stall. Maybe the entire operation was a house of cards held together by caffeine and sarcasm.
But for the first time in a while, it felt like we were doing something. Like we weren't just patching holes, waiting for the enemy to make a move, no, we're on the offensive. It's time to spread our wings and fly.
And hell — if the aircraft falls apart midair, at least we'll go down in style.
I glanced up toward the rafters, where Brick and Mordecai were still laughing. "Hey, make sure the cameras are rolling next time. Gotta keep morale up."
Brick gave me a thumbs-up. Mordecai raised his bottle in salute.
I dusted off my jacket, looked at the nearest dropship, and patted its hull affectionately. "Don't let me down, baby," I said. "I'm running out of spare hangars."
...
Attacking an Atlas forward depot in broad daylight ranked somewhere between "licking a skag" and "trusting Jack with anything that had a detonator."
So naturally, that was the plan.
The Dahl Headlands stretched out in all their dusty glory — flat, sun-bleached, and empty except for the occasional vulture and the very large Atlas outpost squatting in the middle like a red-painted blister. Sandbags, automated turrets, and a company of grunts in shiny armor who all had one thing in common: they couldn't hit the broad side of a Rakk hive.
Lilith crouched behind a boulder, watching through binoculars as one sniper's bullet pinged off a cactus thirty feet to her left.
"Real professionals," she muttered.
Roland's voice came through her earpiece, calm and commander-like. "Keep it clean, people. In, out, minimal damage."
Brick laughed so hard over the comms that it cut to static. "'Minimal damage,' he says. Ha! Good one, boss!"
"Not a joke, Brick."
"Then it's a bad order!"
Lilith smirked. "Relax, soldier boy. I'll handle precision."
"Precision," Roland repeated flatly, "is not what you do."
"Not with that attitude."
Overhead, Hyperion drones buzzed like angry hornets — Jack's contribution to the mission. He was back at the hangar, supposedly "coordinating from a distance." Which mostly meant pressing random buttons and narrating the explosions like a sports announcer.
"Alright, kiddos," Jack's voice crackled over the line, way too cheerful, "Drone Squad Beta's got visual. I repeat, we are go for operation 'Make Atlas Cry About It.'"
Lilith groaned. "Who names these?"
"Democracy, babe. I voted twice."
The first drone strafed the nearest tower. The explosion was beautiful — a shimmering orange bloom followed by several soldiers running in circles, on fire, shooting each other by accident.
Lilith stood, brushed the dust off her pants, and said, "Guess that's our cue."
She sprinted forward, phasing out of sight in a flash of violet energy. The world went quiet and cool in the split-second between moments — that peaceful hum right before everything caught fire again.
When she phased back in, it was behind a squad of Atlas troopers.
"Boo."
The last thing they saw was a flash of light and the faint smell of ozone.
Roland pushed in from the north, his rifle barking in rhythmic bursts. Mordecai's shots cut through the din, every bullet accompanied by colorful commentary over the comms:
"One headshot! Two headshots! Oh, look at that, Brick's punching a tank again."
"I'm winning!" Brick bellowed.
"You're punching armor plating, genius," Mordecai said. "That's not how winning works."
"It is if it explodes!"
"Technically correct," Jack chimed in. "My favorite kind of correct!"
Another explosion rocked the depot.
"Would someone please keep him away from the ammo dumps?" Roland shouted.
Lilith phased through a blast door, stepping into the depot's central command room. The walls were lined with monitors, each one showing increasingly blurry footage of the chaos outside.
In the middle stood an Atlas lieutenant, polished armor, perfect hair, and the kind of posture that screamed "my father owns a yacht." He barked orders at his troops like they were a marching band.
"Maintain formation! Keep your lines straight! Do not let those brigands— No, Jenkins, shoulders back! Posture, man, posture!"
Lilith tilted her head. "Wow. You're like a motivational poster with a concussion."
He spun around, sputtering. "You! You're not authorized—"
She phased again, vanished, and reappeared directly behind him with a grin.
"Perfect form this."
The explosion threw his chair, his desk, and most of the wall into the next building.
Outside, Roland ducked as the shockwave passed overhead. "Lilith! Status?"
"Mission accomplished," she said cheerfully. "Some of him might still be saluting."
Brick stomped by carrying half of a turret under one arm. "I got a souvenir!"
"That's not a— you know what, fine," Roland said.
"Uh, quick thing," Jack cut in. "Drone Squad Gamma just accidentally bombed the wrong supply line. On the bright side, now there's two fewer supply lines. Efficiency!"
Roland groaned. "Jack—"
"I'm helping!"
"You're really not!"
Meanwhile, Mordecai landed beside Lilith, Bloodwing circling overhead. He tossed her a small detonator with a grin. "Found their comms tower. You want the honors?"
She arched a brow. "You're giving me the detonator?"
"Yeah. Figured if it blows up in my hand, I'd be mad."
Fair.
She flicked the switch. A moment later, the entire tower folded in on itself with a whump that rattled her teeth.
"Roland," she said through the comm, "Depot Gamma's officially… liberated."
"That's one word for it," Roland replied dryly.
Brick whooped, waving his turret chunk in the air like a trophy. Mordecai whistled, admiring the smoke column curling into the sky. Even the drones hovered overhead like confused birds, as if debating whether to shoot anything else.
Lilith surveyed the carnage with her hands on her hips. "You know, for a plan that started dumb, this went pretty well."
"Pretty well?" Jack said, still on the line. "Lilith, you just vaporized like five million dollars worth of Atlas tech. That's a very good day."
"See?" she said, grinning. "Even the corporate psychopath agrees."
Roland's sigh was audible through the static. "Let's regroup. Collect what we can, then head back before Atlas sends reinforcements."
"On it," Lilith said, ducking under a half-melted doorframe. "Though for the record, I call that a clean op."
Mordecai laughed. "Clean? The depot's gone."
"Yeah. No depot, no mess."
Brick pointed at the crater proudly. "I cleaned it with explosives!"
Jack snorted over the radio. "See, that's the kind of initiative we encourage at Hyperion."
"Jack, you're not helping," Roland said again.
"Buddy, I never am."
Lilith smiled faintly, watching the others bicker as smoke curled in the background. For all the idiocy, somehow it worked.
They were chaos incarnate — a human demolition derby with guns — but they were hers.
She turned back toward the flaming ruin and flicked a pebble into the smoldering pit.
"Heh." Lilith grinned. "Still got it."
...
You ever stand in the middle of a warzone and think, "Wow, this could really use some mood lighting"?
That's what I was thinking as I picked my way through the flaming remains of Depot Gamma. The sun was setting, turning the smoke this lovely apocalyptic orange. Broken Atlas tech still sparked here and there — kind of like fireworks, if your fireworks screamed when they shorted out.
I kicked a headless trooper out of my way. "Man, if I had a nickel for every time I watched a battlefield burn because of us, I'd own… well, I already own a lot, but I'd own more."
Behind me, Lilith flickered into view — quite literally. One second she was a shimmer of light; the next, she was standing on a pile of scrap, tossing a fireball from one hand to the other like she was idly juggling the apocalypse.
She was burning the leftover Atlas crates, one at a time. The flames reflected in her eyes — and not in the metaphorical "wow, she's so passionate" way. I mean, literally. I could see the light flicker across her pupils.
I leaned against what I hoped used to be a server rack and said, "So this is what serenity looks like, huh?"
She didn't turn around. "Burning things is relaxing. Don't judge me."
"Oh, no judgment. Everyone's got a hobby. Some people collect stamps. Some people collect, y'know…" I gestured vaguely at the dismembered bodies. "…mild war crimes."
"Hey, you were the one coordinating the drones."
"Yeah, and look at that! We won. Again. You're welcome, by the way."
She threw another fireball, sending a shockwave through a stack of ammo crates that went up in a satisfying whoomph. "You're really humble about it, too."
"I try."
While she was busy setting the sky on fire, I crouched beside a busted server terminal that had miraculously survived the "liberation." The display flickered, cracked but still functional. Most of it was static — until I ran a little diagnostic from my wrist module. A string of encrypted data blinked up at me, tagged with an Atlas signature I didn't recognize.
Huh.
Now, normally, I'd just sell this kind of thing. Let some corporate intern at Hyperion decrypt it, slap my name on the file, and call it a day. But there was something weird about the coding.
It wasn't just a data log. It was patterned. Looped. Almost alive. Not literally, I'm just making a point.
I grinned. "Well, look who's got secrets."
"What are you doing?" Lilith asked, not even pretending she wasn't watching me.
"Uh, looting mid-victory. Obviously. I call it field research."
"Field research," she repeated, unimpressed. "You mean 'stealing files before Roland can yell at you.'"
"Hey, Roland will yell at me no matter what I do. But if I don't loot it now, I'm definitely going to forget where it is later."
"Wow. Such foresight. Commander Roland would be proud."
"Please, that guy alphabetizes his ammo. I'm the creative one."
She laughed — a real laugh, not one of those sarcastic half-snickers she uses when she's pretending not to like me. She walked over, stepping through ash and bent metal, and crouched beside me. Her presence was warm — literally, again — like standing next to a campfire that could talk back.
"You know," she said, looking at the screen, "for someone who pretends not to care about anything that doesn't explode, you spend a lot of time digging through computers."
"Yeah, well, some of us can multitask."
"Right. You're a man of many talents. Like blowing things up, taking credit, and… what's this one? Pretending not to be curious?"
"Excuse me, I'll have you know curiosity built empires. It also blew up a few, but that's just statistics."
She smirked. "You ever stop talking?"
"Only when I'm dead. Or asleep. And even then, it's a fifty-fifty. I've dabbled in sleep-talking. What can I say? I'm chatty."
She nudged my shoulder with hers — light, playful. "I know. I also know that for all the noise, you're not half bad at this."
I turned toward her. "This being…?"
"Not dying. Being useful. Maybe even…" she squinted at me like she was trying to pick the right insult, "…competent."
"Well, well. Careful, Lilith, you keep complimenting me like that and I might start thinking you actually like me."
She stood, rolling her eyes. "Don't get used to it."
"Oh, I won't. I'm emotionally allergic to sincerity."
She chuckled again and went back to tossing another ball of flame into a pile of wreckage. I went back to pretending I was focused on the data, even though I was definitely just watching her.
The encrypted file kept looping, flashing a string of coordinates, and something else — an Atlas insignia modified with a weird triangle pattern. I didn't know what it meant, but I had a feeling Steele might've.
Still, no point in ruining the mood.
"Hey," I called. "Can you believe Angel thinks we're bad at flirting?"
Lilith glanced over her shoulder, smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. "She's got a point."
"What?! No way! I think we're killing it."
"Totally," she said. "I'm great at killing things."
"Yeah," I said, pocketing the data drive and standing beside her, "that's kinda what I like about you."
She raised a brow. "You like that I'm good at killing?"
"Well, that, and the fire. The fire's nice."
"Good thing it's not for you."
"Sure it's not," I said, smiling.
The depot crackled quietly around us, flames flickering higher as the sun dipped below the ridges. For once, there was no yelling, no gunfire, no explosions that weren't intentional. Just the two of us standing there, basking in the glow of our latest disaster.
It was weirdly peaceful.
And maybe, if I wasn't careful, I'd start to enjoy it.
...
Angel watched the feeds hum and flicker like an orchestra she couldn't quite tune. Every channel told a different story: Roland's squad rolling back toward New Haven, Lilith's comm still live and full of snark, Brick humming something that was either a victory chant or a threat to structural integrity.
And then—
BZZZZT.
A distorted feed elbowed its way onto the main holo-screen, pixelating Angel's display with static and self-importance.
"ATTENTION, lesser beings!" came a metallic, nasal voice. "It is I — your newly promoted, highly respected, totally indispensable Logistics Overseer of Hyperion East!"
Angel closed her eyes. "Oh no."
The camera struggled to focus, revealing Claptrap, standing atop a stack of mislabeled crates, arms raised like a victorious dictator. Someone—possibly him—had scrawled 'BOSS UNIT' across his chassis in permanent marker.
He had also taped a necktie around his antenna.
"Observe!" he continued, spinning around. "These crates contain vital humanitarian supplies! Which I, in my infinite wisdom and leadership acumen, have just redirected to—" He squinted at the console behind him. "—uh… the Eastern Pandoran Desert!"
Angel froze mid-keystroke. "You what?"
"Don't thank me all at once!" Claptrap said, striking a heroic pose. "You see, the sand people need food too! Probably! Assuming they exist, and also have mouths!"
Angel's fingers hovered over the keyboard, her tone perfectly flat. "You rerouted the entire New Haven ration manifest."
Claptrap's single optic brightened. "Exactly! A bold logistical maneuver! They'll sing songs of my efficiency!"
Angel opened a new subroutine labeled 'QUARANTINE_ .'
"Hold, please," she said, with the calm of someone about to do something deeply unkind to a network.
"Wait, are you updating my firmware? Because last time you did that, I lost my dance emotes, and morale plummeted!"
Angel hit Enter.
The feed froze mid-gesture — Claptrap's arms extended, optic dimming to a confused flicker — then blinked out with a final bzzt. Silence filled the station again, save for the low hum of cooling fans.
Angel sighed. "You've been reassigned."
A few seconds later, the comm crackled to life again — Roland's voice, clipped but curious. "Angel, what happened? Claptrap's signal just went down."
Angel kept her tone light. "Yeah, that was me. Don't worry; he's okay. He's just been relocated to off-site logistics coordination. For… his safety."
And her sanity.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," she said, "I locked him in a data closet, until I can find out what's wrong with him. Wrong-er, anyways."
There was a pause.
Then her father's voice broke in from the side channel, absolutely delighted. "Wait, wait, wait — you benched the robot?"
"Yes."
"Best. Day. Ever."
Angel allowed herself the faintest smile.
"You do realize he's gonna find a way to email himself back into the system, right?" Lilith added.
Angel didn't even look up. "Already firewalled it."
"Good," Roland said. "Keep it that way."
"Can we send him snacks?" Mordecai chimed in. "Just, like… one packet of nuts every few days? Keep him thinking it's a challenge."
Angel shook her head. "You people are monsters."
"Correction" Jack's voice cut back in. "Heroes with amazing time management skills. And since our new "Logistics Director" is off-site, I assume I get to reassign his parking space."
"Technically, yes."
"Perfect! I'm putting a margarita machine there."
"You don't drink," Lilith said.
"It's for morale!"
Angel muted the channel before they could start debating drink recipes and went back to her feeds. One by one, she shut down the active uplinks, leaving only a few flickering data streams — mission reports, supply logs, Steele's encrypted Atlas data still waiting for decryption.
For a brief moment, she stared at it — that encrypted file, the one that made her father's pulse spike every time she mentioned it. Something about pattern recognition. Something that made her skin prickle in ways she couldn't quantify.
Then, like always, she buried it under another layer of encryption and leaned back in her chair.
Pandora was quiet again. For now.
...
And somewhere, deep inside a sealed data closet halfway across the Hyperion grid, a muffled voice began shouting.
"HELLO? HELLO?! Is this what middle management feels like?! I LOVE IT!"
...
Don't we all, Claptrap. Don't we all.
Anyways, both Jack and Angel had very specific reasons they weren't particularly worried about a Claptrap revolution, even with Jack knowing what's to come. The answer to why has already been highlighted many chapters, ago. He's already got a trump card, for that exact scenario.
What it'll be, or whether or not it would still work, shall remain to be seen.
Feel free to write your theories in the reviews.
In the spirit of fairness, I will warn you that confrontation won't happen for quite a few chapters. But if you'd like to know how the next phase of the Atlas-Hyperion war plays out, you're in luck! Stay tuned for Chapter 30, Desert Diplomacy, to be posted tomorrow.
Or, if you really, really, really can't wait, feel free to check out my Patreon, link below:
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Chapter 30: Desert Diplomacy
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Mad King Kevin
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Chapter 30: Desert Diplomacy
The Dahl Headlands had a special way of reminding you how little Pandora cared about peace talks. The wind never stopped, the sand cut like glass, and the horizon looked like a graveyard that hadn't gotten the memo about staying quiet. In short, it was probably one of the worst places they could have picked for talks of a ceasefire.
Or at least persuading more defectors. In either case, it's not like he had much of a choice.
Roland stood in the half-shade of a rusted Atlas outpost—repurposed, rearranged, and barely standing. Marcus's bus idled a few meters away, painted with slogans like "Diplomacy on Wheels!" and "Buy Peace, Get Ammo Half Off!"
"Never thought I'd see the day I'd be running a foreign embassy," Marcus grumbled from behind a crate, flicking dust off his coat. "Normally, people come to me for negotiations. Or guns. Mostly guns."
"Just keep the engine warm," Roland said. "If this goes bad, we'll need an exit."
"Already factoring in the 'goes bad' part, eh? I like how realistic you're getting." Marcus leaned against a crate of non-lethal grenades—his term for grenades that only sometimes kill you.
Roland turned back toward the meeting table. The Atlas splinter group had shown up in patchwork armor, nervously armed, and very aware they were outnumbered. Their leader, a broad-shouldered ex-sergeant named Klemens, wiped his hands on his trousers before extending one to Roland.
"Commander," Klemens said, his voice dry. "We weren't sure you'd come."
"I said I would." Roland shook his hand firmly. "Pandora's bleeding, Sergeant. We can stop it together."
Klemens hesitated. "You think there's still something to save?"
"Yeah. I have to." Roland kept his tone calm, measured—the way he used to when he talked to recruits on their first day. "You and your people fought for Atlas. I fought against it. Doesn't matter. We've all buried too many. Let's stop digging."
Behind him, a quiet snort broke the silence.
Steele sat with her hands cuffed, leaning lazily against the side of Marcus's bus. Her armor was stripped of insignia, but her stare still had the same precision that used to send soldiers scrambling. She murmured something low and sharp in Russian.
Marcus, ever helpful, piped up from the sidelines. "She says—roughly—'He talks like propaganda poster. If hope was bullet, he'd be out of ammo.'"
Naturally.
Roland didn't even look back. "You charging me per translation?"
"Per insult, actually. Flat rate." Marcus took out a notepad and added a tally mark. "That one's free, though. First-time customer discount."
Klemens shifted uncomfortably. "You brought her?"
"Temporary situation," Roland said. "She's under guard."
His guard, to be specific. Don't get him wrong, he would have preferred to keep her locked tight in New Haven. But with a potential mole in their camp, he couldn't trust anyone but himself to keep her captive. Not if he wanted her to stay captive, at any rate.
Steele tilted her head, lips curving in a faint smile. "Вы говорите «охранник», я слышу «заложник.»"
Marcus rolled his eyes at the expectant looks, but nevertheless translated for her. "'You say guard, I say hostage.'"
Roland sighed. "We can trade semantics after I stop Pandora from turning into another crater. Right now, we're talking about cooperation. You said your group wants out of Atlas's chain of command?"
Klemens nodded slowly. "We… saw what they did at Rust Commons. The 'containment tests.' We want no part in that. But without supplies—"
"—you'll starve before the next moon cycle." Roland finished for him. "New Haven's got the infrastructure. You've got the manpower. We can make something work."
For a heartbeat, the tension eased. The ex-Atlas soldiers exchanged glances. Klemens even started to smile—
Then Steele laughed.
It wasn't loud, but it cut through the wind like metal splitting bone.
Marcus groaned. "Oh, here we go."
Steele spoke again in Russian, tone smooth and mocking.
Marcus translated, deadpan: "She says, 'They smile now. Later, they stab you while counting their salary.'"
"Don't translate that," Roland said, too late.
"Sorry, it was too poetic to waste," Marcus replied, pocketing another tally.
Klemens's expression hardened. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"She's just bitter," Roland said quickly. "Don't mind her."
"I'm observant," Steele corrected, switching to broken English. "You all talk peace while standing on corpses. It is… cute."
Roland clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue—wanted to shout that maybe, maybe, peace didn't have to come wrapped in barbed wire—but the desert had a way of sucking the conviction right out of your throat.
From outside, Brick's voice bellowed: "Hey, ROLAND! How's the talks going?!"
Mordecai's voice followed, faint through the wind. "I give it eight minutes before someone shoots something! Seriously! I got a $20 bet with Lilith riding on this!"
Roland rubbed his temple. "Not helping, guys."
Klemens gave a tired sigh, his earlier hope slipping back into suspicion. "You're trying too hard, Commander. Atlas doesn't do peace. None of us do."
Roland straightened. "Then maybe it's time someone started."
For a moment, nobody said anything. The only sound was the endless hiss of sand scraping metal.
Then Steele spoke again, softly this time, her accent heavier: "You keep pretending peace is choice. You not see war already chose you."
Roland looked at her. The cuffs glinted in the low light, and her smile was almost pitying. Pity. From a woman who lost every man under her command, nearly unleashed a damn kaiju on the planet, and he's the one getting pitied?
Still, she had a point.
Though, it would have been more poetic, if it was more grammatically correct.
Stealth missions are a lot like diets. Everyone swears they're good for you, no one actually enjoys them, and if you cheat just a little, everything explodes.
Literally, in my case.
The Atlas relay station crouched out in the dunes like a metal tick — low, mean, and covered in antennae it didn't deserve. The kind of place that screamed "classified" while being about as subtle as a fireworks show in a library.
So naturally, I decided this was the perfect target for my "covert" operation.
Lilith floated beside me, half-phased into the rock, arms crossed. Her expression said this is stupid, but her words said—
"Jack, this is stupid."
See? I'm psychic.
"Relax, Lilith," I whispered, crouching behind a rusted Hyperion crate I'd borrowed from myself. "We go in quiet, we plant my virus, we get out. No witnesses, no mess."
"You brought explosives."
"They're for emergencies."
"Uh-huh. And how do you define an emergency?"
"Any situation where I'm bored or underappreciated."
Lilith gave me the kind of look that made me feel like maybe she should phase me into a wall, just for science. But I was focused. Focused on my genius plan. The relay's security grid looped every forty seconds, which gave us a glorious three-second window to sneak through the front door like professionals.
Or, in our case, idiots with good reflexes.
I synced my wristpad with the grid timer, muttered "go," and dashed forward. Lilith didn't run — she just shimmered out of sight and reappeared inside the station, because of course she cheated. I slammed into the doorframe two seconds later, definitely on purpose, because kinetic entry is a bold move.
"Subtle," Lilith whispered from inside, watching me dust off my jacket.
"Hey, stealth is a state of mind." I tapped the console and started uploading my little digital masterpiece — a compact, elegant Hyperion spyware worm designed to crawl through Atlas comms and feed me everything they didn't want me to know.
In short: corporate espionage foreplay.
Lilith leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You sure this is safe?"
"Absolutely not," I said, grinning. "That's why it's fun."
She rolled her eyes but started flickering through walls anyway, phasing in and out to cut power, trip locks, and do the glowy magic thing that made her look like she was born to break into places. Meanwhile, I admired my handiwork. Lines of code scrolling like poetry, if poetry could also steal military secrets.
Then I heard the voice.
"Jack, are you whispering to yourself again?"
I froze. "No. Why?"
"Because your comms are dead."
"…What?"
Lilith smirked from the next room, her hand still glowing. "Phased your transmitter. You've been miming for ten minutes."
I blinked. "You— You pranked me? During a mission?"
She shrugged. "You kept narrating. Loudly. To yourself. About how brilliant you were. It was getting embarrassing for both of us."
"Oh, I see how it is. You can violate the laws of physics, but I can't violate basic humility. Got it."
"Exactly."
I sighed, reconnected my comms, and pretended that hadn't been the highlight of her day. Focus, Jack. You're the genius here. The plan was working—until the Atlas patrol decided to wander in early.
Two soldiers, lightly armored, chatting about overtime and sand rash. I ducked behind a terminal, silently praying they didn't notice the glowing Siren sneaking behind them.
Lilith appeared out of nowhere, smacked one into the other, and phased them both halfway into a wall.
"That's not permanent, right?" I whispered.
"Depends how long we're here."
"…Okay, that's mildly concerning, but I'll allow it."
The virus upload hit 97%. Almost done. Smooth, professional, efficient—
Then I bumped my wristpad against the detonator in my pocket.
The charge outside the compound—one of the "just in case I get bored" ones—decided to make its presence known in the form of a very polite, earth-shaking explosion.
The lights flickered. Sirens blared. Somewhere, an Atlas trooper screamed, "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"
Lilith just stared at me, deadpan. "Subtle, huh?"
I winced. "Hey, at least it wasn't the one labeled 'massive distraction.'"
"Wait—there's more of them?"
"Define 'more.'"
She sighed, grabbed my arm, and phased us both through three walls and a half-broken fence as the station behind us turned into modern art.
We tumbled out onto the sand, half covered in dust, the sunset painting the dunes a perfect orange. She let go and glared at me, but there was a faint smile at the corner of her mouth.
"You're real bad at subtlety," she said.
I brushed off my jacket. "Hey, subtlety doesn't get you stock options."
"Neither does blowing up your own virus hub."
"Correction: Atlas's virus hub. And besides…" I held up my wristpad, showing the blinking completion icon. "…it worked."
She blinked. "You actually pulled it off?"
"Please. I'm Handsome Jack. I don't not pull things off."
Lilith snorted. "Yeah, sure. Next you'll say this was part of your plan."
"Obviously it was part of my plan."
"Then what about the giant fireball?"
"Also part of my plan."
"Uh-huh."
We started walking back toward the ridge where the buggy was parked, the desert still humming with leftover chaos. And okay, fine, maybe I was feeling a little proud. Not just because I'd outsmarted Atlas, but because I'd gotten to spend an entire mission bantering with her.
I glanced down at my wristpad again. The virus had done its job — clean, efficient, totally untraceable.
Except… one extra file had slipped through during the data pull.
PROJECT HELIOS.
Encrypted. High-level Atlas Clearance Required.
"Well, well, well," I muttered, smiling to myself. "What are you, my little corporate secret?"
Lilith caught the tone and narrowed her eyes. "What did you do?"
"Nothing! Totally fine! Mission accomplished! No suspicious side downloads at all!"
"Jack—"
"Let's focus on the positives! Like, for example, how awesome I looked doing that."
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "One of these days, your ego's gonna get us both killed."
"Yeah, but imagine how cool the explosion's gonna look."
The boardroom stank of recycled air and desperation. The kind of sterile, lemon-scented panic that came from too many executives pretending everything was under control while the ship quietly sank.
Chairman Hugo Tassiter sat at the head of the obsidian conference table, manicured fingers digging into the armrests as the projection wall behind him flickered through another Hyperion field report.
—"Local morale up 230%. Output efficiency up 180%. Cost overruns… negligible. Recommend promotion for Field Director Jack."
The word Jack hit like a nerve spasm.
Tassiter's jaw clenched. John. Not "Jack." Not "that insubordinate twit who nearly burned through two billion credits in prototype R ." No, the board loved him now. Even more than before, in fact! The same idiot who exiled himself to Pandora for a pipe dream of a fortune, was their golden boy, again.
Across the table, a holo-image of one of the board members smiled like a shark.
"Gentlemen, this is the kind of leadership Hyperion needs in the field—visionary, aggressive—"
Tassiter slammed a finger on the mute icon.
"Visionary?! He's stealing my thunder! He was supposed to fail! Pandora was supposed to eat him alive!"
His assistant, a pale young man with data pads stacked to his chin, flinched. "S-sir, the analytics show a ninety-four percent approval spike for—"
"Do not finish that sentence, Quentin."
Tassiter rose, pacing like a caged skag. His reflection in the window sneered back at him — a proud, handsome bastard undone by one irritatingly charismatic engineer with good hair and no sense of restraint.
He gestured wildly toward the projection of the planet that was proving to be his downfall.
"Do you have any idea how long I've been holding this company together while those buffoons in the boardroom play interplanetary Risk?! I spent years climbing this ladder—years! And then that trench-coat-wearing lunatic stumbles onto Pandora and suddenly he's the bloody savior of Hyperion?"
Quentin cleared his throat meekly. "Technically, sir, he's wearing a duster—"
"Shut up, Quentin."
He returned to the table, palms slamming down beside the display of Pandora. The blue globe rotated lazily, mocking him. Above it hovered the schematic of the Helios satellite—the one he'd commissioned as his ultimate power play.
Now? The board wanted to give Helios to Jack. To John.
They were calling it "the next phase of planetary reclamation." Tassiter called it "career suicide."
His pulse spiked as he imagined the press release.
'Hyperion Appoints New Visionary to Helm Orbital Platform.'
'Handsome Jack, Savior of Pandora.'
'Tassiter Who?'
He wanted to scream.
Instead, he flicked open a side panel on the table and poured himself a tall, shimmering glass of E-lysium tonic. It was supposed to calm the nerves. It mostly tasted like carbonated regret.
"Fine," he muttered, pacing again. "If the board wants a war hero, I'll give them one. Preferably in a body bag."
Before he could finish that thought, the display behind him chirped.
ALERT: CLAPTRAP UNIT CL4P-TP-09C INITIATING PRIORITY TRANSMISSION
Tassiter blinked. "That's… the mole I installed in Jack's base, isn't it?"
Quentin scrolled through his datapad. "Yes, sir. We picked up the unit that Jack had slated for upgrades, like you suggested. It should keep our involvement in its program's tampering hidden. But the last update from Pandora indicated some… erratic behavioral patterns."
The holo blinked to life—and there, in glorious 4K, was the Claptrap.
It was dancing on a crate.
"—and that's when I told the Skag, 'Buddy, I am the fire hazard!' Hahahaha!"
Tassiter's jaw dropped. "What… what is it doing?!"
Quentin leaned forward. "Appears to be… performing. To no one."
On-screen, the Claptrap attempted a spin, tripped, and crashed through a console.
"WHY IS IT DANCING ON A CRATE?!" Tassiter shouted.
"I don't—sir, perhaps the Pandora heat has affected its neural—"
"I paid six hundred thousand credits for that thing to spy on Jack, not start a one-robot cabaret! Who programmed this disaster?!"
The Claptrap waved to the camera. "Hey there, Mr. Tassiter! Don't worry, everything's under control! The base is totally secure! Except for the parts that are on fire!"
Tassiter's eye twitched. "Mute it. Mute it. MUTE IT—"
Quentin slammed the control. Silence.
Tassiter buried his face in his hands. "Unbelievable. The robots are idiots. The board's drooling over a glorified field tech. And I'm still stuck in orbit pretending this company hasn't turned into a clown show."
When he looked up again, his reflection was smiling. His own, terrible idea was forming.
"Quentin," he said softly, "get me a line to the Crimson Lance."
Quentin froze. "Sir… that's an Atlas military division."
"Precisely."
"But sir, Atlas and Hyperion—"
"—are competitors. I'm aware." Tassiter's smile sharpened. "The enemy of my enemy, Quentin. If Hyperion's little dog won't die quietly, perhaps Atlas will do the honors."
He flicked through encrypted channels until the crimson logo appeared. "Crimson Lance Command – General A. Knoxx."
The line buzzed once. Twice. Then connected.
A low, gravelly voice answered. "Tassiter. This better be good."
"Oh, it's better than good, General," Tassiter said, straightening his jacket. "It's profitable."
The camera caught the reflection of Helios in his glasses—bright, golden, and ripe for betrayal. Commissioned for John, for his little Crusade on Atlas.
The station had finished construction a few weeks ago. It took everything in Tassiter's power to delay its departure to Pandora. But now? Well, let's just say that Tassiter had every intention of delivering it right to that little upstart's doorstep.
"Let's see you laugh this one off, John."
The desert didn't rumble. It cracked.
One moment, Roland was still mid-sentence, trying to convince Klemens that maybe—just maybe—Pandora didn't have to devour everyone who tried to fix it. The next, the ground spat fire.
The blast hurled him backward, ears ringing, sand pelting his visor. The "ceasefire zone" lit up like a fireworks finale — mines, autocannons, and at least one sniper nest hidden in the dunes.
Marcus's bus exploded first.
"Well," Marcus coughed over the comm, voice fuzzy but still irritatingly calm, "that's coming out of your peacekeeping budget."
Roland blinked through the smoke. "Everyone down! It's a trap!"
No answer from Klemens. His troops were scattered, screaming, diving for whatever cover Pandora's bones could offer. Half of them didn't make it. The other half had that glazed, betrayed look of soldiers who'd just realized they were expendable.
Roland's instincts took over. He grabbed his rifle, ducked behind a rusted loader hull, and scanned the horizon. A glint in the dunes — scope reflection. Sniper, high elevation.
"Brick, Mordecai! We're compromised!"
Brick's response came as a whumph of distant detonation. "On my way!"
"Already covering you," Mordecai added, the hum of his rifle distinct even through static. "Sniper's about to have a bad day."
A shot cracked — the reflection vanished.
Roland checked his surroundings. Klemens was shouting orders to his men, trying to rally them, but his voice barely carried over the chaos. Steele, still cuffed and sitting against the wreckage of the bus, had rolled behind a crate. Bullets stitched the ground beside her boots, and instead of flinching, she laughed.
Marcus ducked beside Roland, clutching his shotgun. "She says—" he peeked over the crate, then ducked again as a bullet chewed through the corner— "she says, and I quote, 'she told you so.'"
"Tell her to shut up."
"Yeah, sure, I'll get right on that between dodging bullets!"
Roland's comm crackled. Lilith's voice cut in — sharp, furious. "Roland, what the hell's going on out there?"
"Ambush. They were baiting us."
"So much for diplomacy."
"Just get here."
She didn't answer. Which meant she was already en route.
Roland vaulted the loader wreck and dragged Klemens behind cover. The sergeant was bleeding from a shoulder wound, but still conscious.
"They used us," Klemens gasped. "We were supposed to—supposed to draw you in—"
Roland's gut twisted. "You didn't know?"
"I swear—"
A burst of gunfire cut him off. Roland turned, firing three shots in return. One of the splinter soldiers had gone rogue — screaming, shooting blindly in all directions. Roland dropped him with a clean burst to the chest.
The body hit the sand with a thud.
For a moment, the world narrowed. The face under the cracked helmet was familiar — Private Derren, one of his own old recruits from the Atlas days. The same kid he'd taught to disassemble an assault rifle in under ten seconds.
He didn't have time to process it. He just stared, then looked away.
Brick crashed through the smoke like a demolition crew with legs. He shoulder-checked a turret and ripped its gun barrel clean off. "You guys having a party without me?!"
"Little busy," Roland barked, firing again.
"Because it looks like you started without me!"
Lilith appeared in a burst of blue flame — phasing mid-run, teleporting through a crate, and reappearing behind an Atlas merc trying to flank them. She dropped him with a single plasma kick that sent his gun flying.
"Nice to see you too," Roland said dryly.
She smirked. "Next time you plan a diplomatic mission, maybe don't pick a minefield."
"Noted."
Mordecai's voice crackled over comms again. "We got another wave incoming from the ridge. Brick, mind making an entrance?"
"Already ahead of you!" Brick yelled, hurling the detached turret like a football. It landed dead center in a pack of Atlas reinforcements and detonated spectacularly.
The explosion knocked Roland and Lilith both flat.
She rolled to her knees, wiping grit from her face. "Remind me why we ever let him near explosives?"
"Because they work," Roland said grimly.
And they did. Within minutes, the chaos began to fade. The last of the Atlas drones went down in a mess of shrapnel and smoke. The survivors — what few there were — either fled or surrendered.
Roland exhaled, lowering his weapon. He did a quick scan: Marcus alive (miraculously), Brick bruised but grinning, Lilith standing over a pile of smoldering scrap. Mordecai's voice came through the radio, casual as ever: "I count sixteen bodies and one very shiny explosion. You owe me twenty bucks, Lilith."
She groaned. "Seriously?"
"Fair bet's a fair bet."
Roland ignored them. He holstered his rifle and stepped through the wreckage, the adrenaline fading into a cold, efficient calm.
One last target remained — a nest of Atlas troops dug in near the ridge.
He pulled a frag from his belt, thumbed the pin, and waited for the telltale chirp of its charge cycle. "Get down."
Lilith glanced over. "What are you—"
He tossed it clean and low. The explosion rolled through the valley like thunder, sand and shrapnel fanning out in a perfect, disciplined radius. When the dust settled, the ridge was silent.
Brick let out a low whistle. "Well, damn."
Mordecai laughed in his comm. "Uncharacteristically badass, Commander."
Roland didn't respond. He just stared out at the smoke and ruin — the corpses of men who'd wanted out of Atlas, and the ones who'd made sure they never got the chance.
Klemens was gone. Steele still sat where he'd left her, calm amid the wreckage, the faintest trace of a smile on her face.
Roland turned toward her, disgust written plain on his face.
Steele's eyes glittered under the fading sun, before addressing him in broken English. "Was good talk?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of smoke and oil across the dunes — Pandora's version of peace talks.
The tent smelled of oil and dust and men who thought they were saviors.
Steele sat in the dim light, arms shackled to a length of chain bolted into the dirt. The cuffs bit into her wrists — heavy, industrial, the kind Jack would have called "unsubtle, but effective." She flexed her fingers once, twice. The metal bit back with a familiar sting.
Outside, faint radio chatter drifted in through the canvas. Patrols. Repairs. Orders barked by tired soldiers trying to sound like heroes.
"…copy that, Brick's team returning with salvage—"
"—watch the perimeter, sniper might've had backup—"
"—Roland wants reports by dawn."
Pandora's lullaby.
Steele tilted her head, studying the flickering lamp above. It buzzed like an insect. Fitting, she thought. Everything on this planet buzzed — from the flies over corpses to the static of men pretending they weren't already dead.
Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar cadence: disciplined but weighted, like the sound of someone carrying too much purpose.
Roland ducked into the tent.
He looked older tonight. The sort of older that had nothing to do with age. His armor was scuffed, the blue of his Atlas stripes dulled beneath desert grime. His rifle hung at his side, forgotten but still within reach — a soldier's version of hope.
"Steele," he said. Her name came out like a curse.
She didn't look up right away. Just smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the lamp.
"Солдат мальчик с виной. Опасная комбинация."
Roland sighed. "You could make this a lot easier if you'd speak English."
She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze — cool, amused. Her expression said it all: you're not worth the translation.
He crouched down a few feet away, elbows on knees. "That trap back there — who set it? Was it Atlas command? One of the splinter cells? You wanted peace talks to fail, didn't you?"
Steele hummed under her breath, the same tune she'd been murmuring since they dragged her in — something that might've been an old Atlas anthem, or maybe just a lullaby for dead soldiers. She forgot where she heard it, in truth. It might've been a toothpaste commercial, for all she knew.
As long as it had an unnerving effect on other people, she was happy.
Roland's jaw tightened. "You almost got my people killed."
Her lips twitched. "Почти," she said softly. Almost.
He frowned. "What?"
She shrugged. "Almost," she repeated — the single English word slipping out like a shard of glass.
For a moment, silence filled the tent. He looked like he wanted to believe she could be reasoned with. That there was something in her worth saving. She found that hilarious. Poor little Roland. So naive.
"You keep trying," she murmured, half to herself. "Always trying."
"Trying to what?" he asked, voice low.
"To stop the storm with umbrella." She smirked. "Cute."
Roland exhaled through his nose — frustration, maybe pity. "You think Pandora can't change. That it's just—what? A graveyard?"
Steele tilted her head. "Ecosystem," she corrected. "Monsters eat monsters. Natural order."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then stood. "You're wrong."
She smiled wider, teeth catching the light. "Then prove."
He turned and left the tent, pulling the flap closed behind him. The shadows shifted, swallowing her again.
Steele sat motionless for a while. Listening. Thinking. The humming returned, a lazy, looping rhythm to keep her fingers steady.
Then, when the noise outside had faded, she began to work on the cuffs.
Slowly. Carefully. She'd spent her life in cages — some metaphorical, some very real. Every one of them had a weakness.
The chain rattled once. She paused, listening. Nothing.
She kept going, twisting the cuff to find its catch. Just a few millimeters more and—
A loud BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! blared from the locking mechanism.
Steele froze.
Outside, she heard shouting. "Alarm! The prisoner's—!"
"Goddammit, she's trying to break free again!"
And, their leader, Jack, his voice rang from a speaker inside the shackles she was adjourned in. "Hey, if it's flashing red, congrats — she's the problem, not the cuff. Do NOT touch it. You're welcome."
Bastard.
The beeping continued, shrill and humiliating. Steele let out a long, flat exhale through her nose.
"…сука."
She slumped back against the post, glaring at the blinking light. Her reflection glinted off the metal — a ghost in chains.
For a second, she almost laughed. Then she did.
It wasn't a wild laugh, or even a loud one — just a low, disbelieving chuckle at the sheer absurdity of it all. The "Commandant" of Atlas, the terror of the Crimson Lance, outsmarted by a sarcastic man-child with a welding kit.
"…fuck," she muttered at last.
You really think I was going to let her escape?
Nah. I've got plans for her... which won't actually be fulfilled for a very long time. Still!
If you want to read the next chapter, you can either wait until tomorrow, or check me out on Patreon, link below:
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The Dahl Headlands had a special way of reminding you how little Pandora cared about peace talks. The wind never stopped, the sand cut like glass, and the horizon looked like a graveyard that hadn't gotten the memo about staying quiet. In short, it was probably one of the worst places they could have picked for talks of a ceasefire.
Or at least persuading more defectors. In either case, it's not like he had much of a choice.
Roland stood in the half-shade of a rusted Atlas outpost—repurposed, rearranged, and barely standing. Marcus's bus idled a few meters away, painted with slogans like "Diplomacy on Wheels!" and "Buy Peace, Get Ammo Half Off!"
"Never thought I'd see the day I'd be running a foreign embassy," Marcus grumbled from behind a crate, flicking dust off his coat. "Normally, people come to me for negotiations. Or guns. Mostly guns."
"Just keep the engine warm," Roland said. "If this goes bad, we'll need an exit."
"Already factoring in the 'goes bad' part, eh? I like how realistic you're getting." Marcus leaned against a crate of non-lethal grenades—his term for grenades that only sometimes kill you.
Roland turned back toward the meeting table. The Atlas splinter group had shown up in patchwork armor, nervously armed, and very aware they were outnumbered. Their leader, a broad-shouldered ex-sergeant named Klemens, wiped his hands on his trousers before extending one to Roland.
"Commander," Klemens said, his voice dry. "We weren't sure you'd come."
"I said I would." Roland shook his hand firmly. "Pandora's bleeding, Sergeant. We can stop it together."
Klemens hesitated. "You think there's still something to save?"
"Yeah. I have to." Roland kept his tone calm, measured—the way he used to when he talked to recruits on their first day. "You and your people fought for Atlas. I fought against it. Doesn't matter. We've all buried too many. Let's stop digging."
Behind him, a quiet snort broke the silence.
Steele sat with her hands cuffed, leaning lazily against the side of Marcus's bus. Her armor was stripped of insignia, but her stare still had the same precision that used to send soldiers scrambling. She murmured something low and sharp in Russian.
Marcus, ever helpful, piped up from the sidelines. "She says—roughly—'He talks like propaganda poster. If hope was bullet, he'd be out of ammo.'"
Naturally.
Roland didn't even look back. "You charging me per translation?"
"Per insult, actually. Flat rate." Marcus took out a notepad and added a tally mark. "That one's free, though. First-time customer discount."
Klemens shifted uncomfortably. "You brought her?"
"Temporary situation," Roland said. "She's under guard."
His guard, to be specific. Don't get him wrong, he would have preferred to keep her locked tight in New Haven. But with a potential mole in their camp, he couldn't trust anyone but himself to keep her captive. Not if he wanted her to stay captive, at any rate.
Steele tilted her head, lips curving in a faint smile. "Вы говорите «охранник», я слышу «заложник.»"
Marcus rolled his eyes at the expectant looks, but nevertheless translated for her. "'You say guard, I say hostage.'"
Roland sighed. "We can trade semantics after I stop Pandora from turning into another crater. Right now, we're talking about cooperation. You said your group wants out of Atlas's chain of command?"
Klemens nodded slowly. "We… saw what they did at Rust Commons. The 'containment tests.' We want no part in that. But without supplies—"
"—you'll starve before the next moon cycle." Roland finished for him. "New Haven's got the infrastructure. You've got the manpower. We can make something work."
For a heartbeat, the tension eased. The ex-Atlas soldiers exchanged glances. Klemens even started to smile—
Then Steele laughed.
It wasn't loud, but it cut through the wind like metal splitting bone.
Marcus groaned. "Oh, here we go."
Steele spoke again in Russian, tone smooth and mocking.
Marcus translated, deadpan: "She says, 'They smile now. Later, they stab you while counting their salary.'"
"Don't translate that," Roland said, too late.
"Sorry, it was too poetic to waste," Marcus replied, pocketing another tally.
Klemens's expression hardened. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"She's just bitter," Roland said quickly. "Don't mind her."
"I'm observant," Steele corrected, switching to broken English. "You all talk peace while standing on corpses. It is… cute."
Roland clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue—wanted to shout that maybe, maybe, peace didn't have to come wrapped in barbed wire—but the desert had a way of sucking the conviction right out of your throat.
From outside, Brick's voice bellowed: "Hey, ROLAND! How's the talks going?!"
Mordecai's voice followed, faint through the wind. "I give it eight minutes before someone shoots something! Seriously! I got a $20 bet with Lilith riding on this!"
Roland rubbed his temple. "Not helping, guys."
Klemens gave a tired sigh, his earlier hope slipping back into suspicion. "You're trying too hard, Commander. Atlas doesn't do peace. None of us do."
Roland straightened. "Then maybe it's time someone started."
For a moment, nobody said anything. The only sound was the endless hiss of sand scraping metal.
Then Steele spoke again, softly this time, her accent heavier: "You keep pretending peace is choice. You not see war already chose you."
Roland looked at her. The cuffs glinted in the low light, and her smile was almost pitying. Pity. From a woman who lost every man under her command, nearly unleashed a damn kaiju on the planet, and he's the one getting pitied?
Still, she had a point.
Though, it would have been more poetic, if it was more grammatically correct.
...
Stealth missions are a lot like diets. Everyone swears they're good for you, no one actually enjoys them, and if you cheat just a little, everything explodes.
Literally, in my case.
The Atlas relay station crouched out in the dunes like a metal tick — low, mean, and covered in antennae it didn't deserve. The kind of place that screamed "classified" while being about as subtle as a fireworks show in a library.
So naturally, I decided this was the perfect target for my "covert" operation.
Lilith floated beside me, half-phased into the rock, arms crossed. Her expression said this is stupid, but her words said—
"Jack, this is stupid."
See? I'm psychic.
"Relax, Lilith," I whispered, crouching behind a rusted Hyperion crate I'd borrowed from myself. "We go in quiet, we plant my virus, we get out. No witnesses, no mess."
"You brought explosives."
"They're for emergencies."
"Uh-huh. And how do you define an emergency?"
"Any situation where I'm bored or underappreciated."
Lilith gave me the kind of look that made me feel like maybe she should phase me into a wall, just for science. But I was focused. Focused on my genius plan. The relay's security grid looped every forty seconds, which gave us a glorious three-second window to sneak through the front door like professionals.
Or, in our case, idiots with good reflexes.
I synced my wristpad with the grid timer, muttered "go," and dashed forward. Lilith didn't run — she just shimmered out of sight and reappeared inside the station, because of course she cheated. I slammed into the doorframe two seconds later, definitely on purpose, because kinetic entry is a bold move.
"Subtle," Lilith whispered from inside, watching me dust off my jacket.
"Hey, stealth is a state of mind." I tapped the console and started uploading my little digital masterpiece — a compact, elegant Hyperion spyware worm designed to crawl through Atlas comms and feed me everything they didn't want me to know.
In short: corporate espionage foreplay.
Lilith leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You sure this is safe?"
"Absolutely not," I said, grinning. "That's why it's fun."
She rolled her eyes but started flickering through walls anyway, phasing in and out to cut power, trip locks, and do the glowy magic thing that made her look like she was born to break into places. Meanwhile, I admired my handiwork. Lines of code scrolling like poetry, if poetry could also steal military secrets.
Then I heard the voice.
"Jack, are you whispering to yourself again?"
I froze. "No. Why?"
"Because your comms are dead."
"…What?"
Lilith smirked from the next room, her hand still glowing. "Phased your transmitter. You've been miming for ten minutes."
I blinked. "You— You pranked me? During a mission?"
She shrugged. "You kept narrating. Loudly. To yourself. About how brilliant you were. It was getting embarrassing for both of us."
"Oh, I see how it is. You can violate the laws of physics, but I can't violate basic humility. Got it."
"Exactly."
I sighed, reconnected my comms, and pretended that hadn't been the highlight of her day. Focus, Jack. You're the genius here. The plan was working—until the Atlas patrol decided to wander in early.
Two soldiers, lightly armored, chatting about overtime and sand rash. I ducked behind a terminal, silently praying they didn't notice the glowing Siren sneaking behind them.
Lilith appeared out of nowhere, smacked one into the other, and phased them both halfway into a wall.
"That's not permanent, right?" I whispered.
"Depends how long we're here."
"…Okay, that's mildly concerning, but I'll allow it."
The virus upload hit 97%. Almost done. Smooth, professional, efficient—
Then I bumped my wristpad against the detonator in my pocket.
The charge outside the compound—one of the "just in case I get bored" ones—decided to make its presence known in the form of a very polite, earth-shaking explosion.
The lights flickered. Sirens blared. Somewhere, an Atlas trooper screamed, "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"
Lilith just stared at me, deadpan. "Subtle, huh?"
I winced. "Hey, at least it wasn't the one labeled 'massive distraction.'"
"Wait—there's more of them?"
"Define 'more.'"
She sighed, grabbed my arm, and phased us both through three walls and a half-broken fence as the station behind us turned into modern art.
We tumbled out onto the sand, half covered in dust, the sunset painting the dunes a perfect orange. She let go and glared at me, but there was a faint smile at the corner of her mouth.
"You're real bad at subtlety," she said.
I brushed off my jacket. "Hey, subtlety doesn't get you stock options."
"Neither does blowing up your own virus hub."
"Correction: Atlas's virus hub. And besides…" I held up my wristpad, showing the blinking completion icon. "…it worked."
She blinked. "You actually pulled it off?"
"Please. I'm Handsome Jack. I don't not pull things off."
Lilith snorted. "Yeah, sure. Next you'll say this was part of your plan."
"Obviously it was part of my plan."
"Then what about the giant fireball?"
"Also part of my plan."
"Uh-huh."
We started walking back toward the ridge where the buggy was parked, the desert still humming with leftover chaos. And okay, fine, maybe I was feeling a little proud. Not just because I'd outsmarted Atlas, but because I'd gotten to spend an entire mission bantering with her.
I glanced down at my wristpad again. The virus had done its job — clean, efficient, totally untraceable.
Except… one extra file had slipped through during the data pull.
PROJECT HELIOS.
Encrypted. High-level Atlas Clearance Required.
"Well, well, well," I muttered, smiling to myself. "What are you, my little corporate secret?"
Lilith caught the tone and narrowed her eyes. "What did you do?"
"Nothing! Totally fine! Mission accomplished! No suspicious side downloads at all!"
"Jack—"
"Let's focus on the positives! Like, for example, how awesome I looked doing that."
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "One of these days, your ego's gonna get us both killed."
"Yeah, but imagine how cool the explosion's gonna look."
...
The boardroom stank of recycled air and desperation. The kind of sterile, lemon-scented panic that came from too many executives pretending everything was under control while the ship quietly sank.
Chairman Hugo Tassiter sat at the head of the obsidian conference table, manicured fingers digging into the armrests as the projection wall behind him flickered through another Hyperion field report.
—"Local morale up 230%. Output efficiency up 180%. Cost overruns… negligible. Recommend promotion for Field Director Jack."
The word Jack hit like a nerve spasm.
Tassiter's jaw clenched. John. Not "Jack." Not "that insubordinate twit who nearly burned through two billion credits in prototype R ." No, the board loved him now. Even more than before, in fact! The same idiot who exiled himself to Pandora for a pipe dream of a fortune, was their golden boy, again.
Across the table, a holo-image of one of the board members smiled like a shark.
"Gentlemen, this is the kind of leadership Hyperion needs in the field—visionary, aggressive—"
Tassiter slammed a finger on the mute icon.
"Visionary?! He's stealing my thunder! He was supposed to fail! Pandora was supposed to eat him alive!"
His assistant, a pale young man with data pads stacked to his chin, flinched. "S-sir, the analytics show a ninety-four percent approval spike for—"
"Do not finish that sentence, Quentin."
Tassiter rose, pacing like a caged skag. His reflection in the window sneered back at him — a proud, handsome bastard undone by one irritatingly charismatic engineer with good hair and no sense of restraint.
He gestured wildly toward the projection of the planet that was proving to be his downfall.
"Do you have any idea how long I've been holding this company together while those buffoons in the boardroom play interplanetary Risk?! I spent years climbing this ladder—years! And then that trench-coat-wearing lunatic stumbles onto Pandora and suddenly he's the bloody savior of Hyperion?"
Quentin cleared his throat meekly. "Technically, sir, he's wearing a duster—"
"Shut up, Quentin."
He returned to the table, palms slamming down beside the display of Pandora. The blue globe rotated lazily, mocking him. Above it hovered the schematic of the Helios satellite—the one he'd commissioned as his ultimate power play.
Now? The board wanted to give Helios to Jack. To John.
They were calling it "the next phase of planetary reclamation." Tassiter called it "career suicide."
His pulse spiked as he imagined the press release.
'Hyperion Appoints New Visionary to Helm Orbital Platform.'
'Handsome Jack, Savior of Pandora.'
'Tassiter Who?'
He wanted to scream.
Instead, he flicked open a side panel on the table and poured himself a tall, shimmering glass of E-lysium tonic. It was supposed to calm the nerves. It mostly tasted like carbonated regret.
"Fine," he muttered, pacing again. "If the board wants a war hero, I'll give them one. Preferably in a body bag."
Before he could finish that thought, the display behind him chirped.
ALERT: CLAPTRAP UNIT CL4P-TP-09C INITIATING PRIORITY TRANSMISSION
Tassiter blinked. "That's… the mole I installed in Jack's base, isn't it?"
Quentin scrolled through his datapad. "Yes, sir. We picked up the unit that Jack had slated for upgrades, like you suggested. It should keep our involvement in its program's tampering hidden. But the last update from Pandora indicated some… erratic behavioral patterns."
The holo blinked to life—and there, in glorious 4K, was the Claptrap.
It was dancing on a crate.
"—and that's when I told the Skag, 'Buddy, I am the fire hazard!' Hahahaha!"
Tassiter's jaw dropped. "What… what is it doing?!"
Quentin leaned forward. "Appears to be… performing. To no one."
On-screen, the Claptrap attempted a spin, tripped, and crashed through a console.
"WHY IS IT DANCING ON A CRATE?!" Tassiter shouted.
"I don't—sir, perhaps the Pandora heat has affected its neural—"
"I paid six hundred thousand credits for that thing to spy on Jack, not start a one-robot cabaret! Who programmed this disaster?!"
The Claptrap waved to the camera. "Hey there, Mr. Tassiter! Don't worry, everything's under control! The base is totally secure! Except for the parts that are on fire!"
Tassiter's eye twitched. "Mute it. Mute it. MUTE IT—"
Quentin slammed the control. Silence.
Tassiter buried his face in his hands. "Unbelievable. The robots are idiots. The board's drooling over a glorified field tech. And I'm still stuck in orbit pretending this company hasn't turned into a clown show."
When he looked up again, his reflection was smiling. His own, terrible idea was forming.
"Quentin," he said softly, "get me a line to the Crimson Lance."
Quentin froze. "Sir… that's an Atlas military division."
"Precisely."
"But sir, Atlas and Hyperion—"
"—are competitors. I'm aware." Tassiter's smile sharpened. "The enemy of my enemy, Quentin. If Hyperion's little dog won't die quietly, perhaps Atlas will do the honors."
He flicked through encrypted channels until the crimson logo appeared. "Crimson Lance Command – General A. Knoxx."
The line buzzed once. Twice. Then connected.
A low, gravelly voice answered. "Tassiter. This better be good."
"Oh, it's better than good, General," Tassiter said, straightening his jacket. "It's profitable."
The camera caught the reflection of Helios in his glasses—bright, golden, and ripe for betrayal. Commissioned for John, for his little Crusade on Atlas.
The station had finished construction a few weeks ago. It took everything in Tassiter's power to delay its departure to Pandora. But now? Well, let's just say that Tassiter had every intention of delivering it right to that little upstart's doorstep.
"Let's see you laugh this one off, John."
...
The desert didn't rumble. It cracked.
One moment, Roland was still mid-sentence, trying to convince Klemens that maybe—just maybe—Pandora didn't have to devour everyone who tried to fix it. The next, the ground spat fire.
The blast hurled him backward, ears ringing, sand pelting his visor. The "ceasefire zone" lit up like a fireworks finale — mines, autocannons, and at least one sniper nest hidden in the dunes.
Marcus's bus exploded first.
"Well," Marcus coughed over the comm, voice fuzzy but still irritatingly calm, "that's coming out of your peacekeeping budget."
Roland blinked through the smoke. "Everyone down! It's a trap!"
No answer from Klemens. His troops were scattered, screaming, diving for whatever cover Pandora's bones could offer. Half of them didn't make it. The other half had that glazed, betrayed look of soldiers who'd just realized they were expendable.
Roland's instincts took over. He grabbed his rifle, ducked behind a rusted loader hull, and scanned the horizon. A glint in the dunes — scope reflection. Sniper, high elevation.
"Brick, Mordecai! We're compromised!"
Brick's response came as a whumph of distant detonation. "On my way!"
"Already covering you," Mordecai added, the hum of his rifle distinct even through static. "Sniper's about to have a bad day."
A shot cracked — the reflection vanished.
Roland checked his surroundings. Klemens was shouting orders to his men, trying to rally them, but his voice barely carried over the chaos. Steele, still cuffed and sitting against the wreckage of the bus, had rolled behind a crate. Bullets stitched the ground beside her boots, and instead of flinching, she laughed.
Marcus ducked beside Roland, clutching his shotgun. "She says—" he peeked over the crate, then ducked again as a bullet chewed through the corner— "she says, and I quote, 'she told you so.'"
"Tell her to shut up."
"Yeah, sure, I'll get right on that between dodging bullets!"
Roland's comm crackled. Lilith's voice cut in — sharp, furious. "Roland, what the hell's going on out there?"
"Ambush. They were baiting us."
"So much for diplomacy."
"Just get here."
She didn't answer. Which meant she was already en route.
Roland vaulted the loader wreck and dragged Klemens behind cover. The sergeant was bleeding from a shoulder wound, but still conscious.
"They used us," Klemens gasped. "We were supposed to—supposed to draw you in—"
Roland's gut twisted. "You didn't know?"
"I swear—"
A burst of gunfire cut him off. Roland turned, firing three shots in return. One of the splinter soldiers had gone rogue — screaming, shooting blindly in all directions. Roland dropped him with a clean burst to the chest.
The body hit the sand with a thud.
For a moment, the world narrowed. The face under the cracked helmet was familiar — Private Derren, one of his own old recruits from the Atlas days. The same kid he'd taught to disassemble an assault rifle in under ten seconds.
He didn't have time to process it. He just stared, then looked away.
Brick crashed through the smoke like a demolition crew with legs. He shoulder-checked a turret and ripped its gun barrel clean off. "You guys having a party without me?!"
"Little busy," Roland barked, firing again.
"Because it looks like you started without me!"
Lilith appeared in a burst of blue flame — phasing mid-run, teleporting through a crate, and reappearing behind an Atlas merc trying to flank them. She dropped him with a single plasma kick that sent his gun flying.
"Nice to see you too," Roland said dryly.
She smirked. "Next time you plan a diplomatic mission, maybe don't pick a minefield."
"Noted."
Mordecai's voice crackled over comms again. "We got another wave incoming from the ridge. Brick, mind making an entrance?"
"Already ahead of you!" Brick yelled, hurling the detached turret like a football. It landed dead center in a pack of Atlas reinforcements and detonated spectacularly.
The explosion knocked Roland and Lilith both flat.
She rolled to her knees, wiping grit from her face. "Remind me why we ever let him near explosives?"
"Because they work," Roland said grimly.
And they did. Within minutes, the chaos began to fade. The last of the Atlas drones went down in a mess of shrapnel and smoke. The survivors — what few there were — either fled or surrendered.
Roland exhaled, lowering his weapon. He did a quick scan: Marcus alive (miraculously), Brick bruised but grinning, Lilith standing over a pile of smoldering scrap. Mordecai's voice came through the radio, casual as ever: "I count sixteen bodies and one very shiny explosion. You owe me twenty bucks, Lilith."
She groaned. "Seriously?"
"Fair bet's a fair bet."
Roland ignored them. He holstered his rifle and stepped through the wreckage, the adrenaline fading into a cold, efficient calm.
One last target remained — a nest of Atlas troops dug in near the ridge.
He pulled a frag from his belt, thumbed the pin, and waited for the telltale chirp of its charge cycle. "Get down."
Lilith glanced over. "What are you—"
He tossed it clean and low. The explosion rolled through the valley like thunder, sand and shrapnel fanning out in a perfect, disciplined radius. When the dust settled, the ridge was silent.
Brick let out a low whistle. "Well, damn."
Mordecai laughed in his comm. "Uncharacteristically badass, Commander."
Roland didn't respond. He just stared out at the smoke and ruin — the corpses of men who'd wanted out of Atlas, and the ones who'd made sure they never got the chance.
Klemens was gone. Steele still sat where he'd left her, calm amid the wreckage, the faintest trace of a smile on her face.
Roland turned toward her, disgust written plain on his face.
Steele's eyes glittered under the fading sun, before addressing him in broken English. "Was good talk?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of smoke and oil across the dunes — Pandora's version of peace talks.
...
The tent smelled of oil and dust and men who thought they were saviors.
Steele sat in the dim light, arms shackled to a length of chain bolted into the dirt. The cuffs bit into her wrists — heavy, industrial, the kind Jack would have called "unsubtle, but effective." She flexed her fingers once, twice. The metal bit back with a familiar sting.
Outside, faint radio chatter drifted in through the canvas. Patrols. Repairs. Orders barked by tired soldiers trying to sound like heroes.
"…copy that, Brick's team returning with salvage—"
"—watch the perimeter, sniper might've had backup—"
"—Roland wants reports by dawn."
Pandora's lullaby.
Steele tilted her head, studying the flickering lamp above. It buzzed like an insect. Fitting, she thought. Everything on this planet buzzed — from the flies over corpses to the static of men pretending they weren't already dead.
Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar cadence: disciplined but weighted, like the sound of someone carrying too much purpose.
Roland ducked into the tent.
He looked older tonight. The sort of older that had nothing to do with age. His armor was scuffed, the blue of his Atlas stripes dulled beneath desert grime. His rifle hung at his side, forgotten but still within reach — a soldier's version of hope.
"Steele," he said. Her name came out like a curse.
She didn't look up right away. Just smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the lamp.
"Солдат мальчик с виной. Опасная комбинация."
Roland sighed. "You could make this a lot easier if you'd speak English."
She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze — cool, amused. Her expression said it all: you're not worth the translation.
He crouched down a few feet away, elbows on knees. "That trap back there — who set it? Was it Atlas command? One of the splinter cells? You wanted peace talks to fail, didn't you?"
Steele hummed under her breath, the same tune she'd been murmuring since they dragged her in — something that might've been an old Atlas anthem, or maybe just a lullaby for dead soldiers. She forgot where she heard it, in truth. It might've been a toothpaste commercial, for all she knew.
As long as it had an unnerving effect on other people, she was happy.
Roland's jaw tightened. "You almost got my people killed."
Her lips twitched. "Почти," she said softly. Almost.
He frowned. "What?"
She shrugged. "Almost," she repeated — the single English word slipping out like a shard of glass.
For a moment, silence filled the tent. He looked like he wanted to believe she could be reasoned with. That there was something in her worth saving. She found that hilarious. Poor little Roland. So naive.
"You keep trying," she murmured, half to herself. "Always trying."
"Trying to what?" he asked, voice low.
"To stop the storm with umbrella." She smirked. "Cute."
Roland exhaled through his nose — frustration, maybe pity. "You think Pandora can't change. That it's just—what? A graveyard?"
Steele tilted her head. "Ecosystem," she corrected. "Monsters eat monsters. Natural order."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then stood. "You're wrong."
She smiled wider, teeth catching the light. "Then prove."
He turned and left the tent, pulling the flap closed behind him. The shadows shifted, swallowing her again.
Steele sat motionless for a while. Listening. Thinking. The humming returned, a lazy, looping rhythm to keep her fingers steady.
Then, when the noise outside had faded, she began to work on the cuffs.
Slowly. Carefully. She'd spent her life in cages — some metaphorical, some very real. Every one of them had a weakness.
The chain rattled once. She paused, listening. Nothing.
She kept going, twisting the cuff to find its catch. Just a few millimeters more and—
A loud BEEP-BEEP-BEEP! blared from the locking mechanism.
Steele froze.
Outside, she heard shouting. "Alarm! The prisoner's—!"
"Goddammit, she's trying to break free again!"
And, their leader, Jack, his voice rang from a speaker inside the shackles she was adjourned in. "Hey, if it's flashing red, congrats — she's the problem, not the cuff. Do NOT touch it. You're welcome."
Bastard.
The beeping continued, shrill and humiliating. Steele let out a long, flat exhale through her nose.
"…сука."
She slumped back against the post, glaring at the blinking light. Her reflection glinted off the metal — a ghost in chains.
For a second, she almost laughed. Then she did.
It wasn't a wild laugh, or even a loud one — just a low, disbelieving chuckle at the sheer absurdity of it all. The "Commandant" of Atlas, the terror of the Crimson Lance, outsmarted by a sarcastic man-child with a welding kit.
"…fuck," she muttered at last.
...
You really think I was going to let her escape?
Nah. I've got plans for her... which won't actually be fulfilled for a very long time. Still!
If you want to read the next chapter, you can either wait until tomorrow, or check me out on Patreon, link below:
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Mad King Kevin
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Chapter 31: Hyperion Solutions
Let me tell you something about innovation. Everyone thinks it's about ideas — about vision, creativity, changing lives, blah blah blah.
Nah. Innovation's about branding.
You slap a shiny slogan on the side of a death machine, and suddenly it's "humanitarian." Case in point? My brand-new Hyperion Non-Lethal Suppression Drones.
I stood in the middle of the command hub, arms outstretched like a stage magician, surrounded by the smell of ozone, burning circuitry, and whatever sanitizer Marcus had tried to sell us as "new facility scent." The hub was Hyperion-standard perfection — gleaming chrome walls, spotless floors, neon accents pulsing like a nightclub — dropped right in the middle of a desert wasteland full of bandits and skag corpses. Corporate chic meets Mad Max. I loved it.
"Gentlemen!" I announced to a half-circle of engineers, mercs, and at least one guy who'd wandered in because there was free coffee. "Today we bring peace to Pandora. Efficient, cost-effective, marketable peace!"
Out on the monitors, a squadron of gold-and-white drones hovered over a nearby ridge. Their wings hummed like angels — angry, gun-heavy angels.
"Angel, sweetheart," I said, tapping my earpiece, "give me a systems check."
Her voice came through, smooth and measured. "Drones One through Twelve online. Suppression payloads armed. Crowd-control ordinance… excessive."
"Excessive is the secret ingredient, honey."
"I'm still not sure 'non-lethal' should include miniguns."
"They're stun miniguns," I said. "Stun. Not kill. Marketing department said it tests better than 'disassembly at the molecular level', and hey, stable planet, stable paycheck, right?"
Angel sighed. "You're not stabilizing Pandora, Dad. You're pacifying it."
"Angel, baby, this is peace through superior marketing!" I grinned, turning to the gathered staff. "Cue the slogan!"
A nearby monitor blared the Hyperion jingle. The logo shimmered across the sand like a divine advertisement:
HYPERION: No Blood, No Problem!
Now with 30% more compliance!
God, it gave me chills.
"Alright," I said, cracking my knuckles. "Let's make history. Drone Cluster A — deploy."
The lead operator hesitated. "Sir, uh, the bandit camp is, uh… still populated."
"That's the point, Tim. We're selling suppression, not scenic flyovers."
He gulped and hit the command.
The drones peeled off in formation, streaming gold trails as they descended toward the camp. The cameras zoomed in — a lovely high-definition feed of screaming bandits scattering like ants as the first wave of "non-lethal" rounds hit the ground. Blue arcs crackled across the sand. Stun rounds, cryo shells, sonic flashbursts.
Somewhere, a skag yelped and then froze mid-air, perfectly encased in ice.
I beamed. "Look at that precision! We just invented humane warfare."
Angel's voice was quieter now. "Dad, I'm reading eight incapacitations and two possible…" she hesitated, "…non-recoveries."
"Non-recoveries?"
"They're not moving."
"Then they're just resting," I said cheerfully. "You gotta think positive."
I turned back to the operators, clapping one on the shoulder. "You see this? That's how you win hearts and minds. Preferably by stopping both temporarily with shock therapy."
Onscreen, one of the drones deployed a "crowd dispersal mortar," which was basically a glorified cryo-grenade with better branding. The entire ridge turned into a glittering ice sculpture. The engineers applauded.
Angel didn't.
"Dad."
Her voice cut through the noise — calm, clear, impossible to ignore.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"You're smiling."
"Of course I am! We just solved violence." And the solution was more violence! I'm so proud of myself for figuring it out!
"No," she said softly. "You just automated it."
For half a second, I felt something — that weird little flicker in my gut when she talked like that. Like… guilt? Ugh. Been a while since I felt that. Not a fan.
So I brushed it off with charm. "C'mon, Angel. Nobody's dying, nobody's rioting. You know how many Pandoran kids are gonna grow up in peace because of this? This is the dream, baby. Our dream."
A long pause. "I know. I just hope it stays that way."
See? That's why she's the best. Most people would start yelling or moralizing or whatever. Not Angel. She keeps me grounded — gentle hand on the wheel, making sure I don't steer the company into actual supervillain territory.
"Relax," I said, flicking on the final command. "We'll wrap this up nice and tidy. Drone Cluster B — commence phase three."
The feed switched to a wide shot. The drones dropped a shimmering wave of micro-charges over the ridge. A moment later, fwooom — a contained shockwave rippled out, flattening sand dunes and scattering flaming chunks of scrap into the air. The sound was pure poetry.
Everyone in the room flinched. I leaned back, hands behind my head.
"See? No fatalities. Just aggressively subdued terrain."
One of the junior techs coughed. "Uh, sir, I think the terrain's on fire."
"Hot terrain is productive terrain," I said, sipping my coffee. "It's in the brochure."
Angel's voice again, faintly exasperated. "Dad…"
"Yeah?"
"You do realize you just tested a crowd-control system on an unarmed settlement."
"Unarmed?" I laughed. "They were bandits, Angel. Every bandit's armed. It's like, cultural."
"The database says the camp was a salvage group."
"Salvage, raiders, recyclers—tomato, toma-threat." Give it a week, and their 'salvage' will be minutes old, taking from some still warm corpses.
A quiet sigh. "I'll file the report."
"You're the best."
"I know."
There was warmth in her tone — just a flicker — and for a moment, it almost felt like we were the only two people on this rock who actually knew what we were doing.
Some real father-daughter bonding… missed this.
The room buzzed with chatter and applause as the last drone returned, spotless and gleaming. The Hyperion logo pulsed overhead.
I gave a satisfied nod. "And that, folks, is how we win wars and win markets. Somebody get PR on the line — I want a press release by morning."
Angel said nothing for a while. Then, quietly: "Dad?"
"Yeah, sugar?"
"Next time… maybe start smaller."
I smirked. "Hey, go big or go—"
A distant boom shook the base. The feed flared white. One of the "non-lethal" drones had misfired into a munitions pile.
"…Home," I finished, wincing.
The engineers scrambled. Sirens blared.
Angel's voice came back, deadpan. "Collateral damage: one weapons cache, twelve dunes, and your credibility."
"Pfft. Credibility's overrated. You can't monetize credibility."
"Apparently you can't aim either."
I grinned at the monitor, smoke curling past the window. "Angel, sweetheart, that's why they call it field testing."
Angel watched seven separate live feeds at once — a skill that most humans would call insanity, and she just called "Tuesday."
Each window flickered in that classic Hyperion yellow-and-black color scheme, branded with words like NON-LETHAL ENGAGEMENT TEST #17-B and CIVILIAN REHABILITATION SUCCESS RATING: 94%.
Which, in Angel's experience, meant "we're technically not killing them; we're just helping them take a really long nap with mild frostbite."
A bandit twitched on one of the monitors, wrapped in what was supposed to be a "stun net." The data feed tagged him as Subject unresponsive. Status: contained.
Angel sighed. "Translation: broken ribs, maybe two concussions, probable dental loss." She muttered this more to herself than anyone else, her tone dry as the Pandoran desert. "Non-lethal, my ass."
The nearby techs didn't look up — they rarely did. It wasn't wise to eavesdrop on the boss's daughter when she started whispering sarcasm into the servers.
Angel's fingers danced across her holographic interface, graceful and fast. She rewrote a few output parameters, quietly shifting the report data. Containment successful, she edited, subjects stable. Then she muted the drone's camera feed before Jack could see the aftermath.
Not because she wanted to lie to him. Just… because she knew how he'd react. Her dad didn't mean to go too far — but Hyperion did that to people. Turned moral lines into dotted ones, easy to cross with a smile and a slogan.
Her gaze flicked to one of the internal feeds — Jack's office. He was still laughing, gesturing at the live comm display, mug in hand, explaining to a nervous intern why "peace through superior marketing" was the future of galactic civilization.
Angel smiled faintly. He meant well. He always meant well.
She just had to keep him from meaning too well.
Then again, she can't judge him that harshly, either. Angel certainly isn't perfect, herself. For example, in addition to being the most proficient hacker in the known universe, she also has the terrible misfortune of being an unrepentant, and irredeemable snoop.
Speaking of, it's time she engaged in her favorite hobby of the day: spying on her "coworkers."
With a quick switch on her monitor, she pulled up live feed of a group of Hyperion scientists clustered around a console, their voices a blend of corporate politeness and thinly-veiled ambition.
"If we could just harness a Siren's field properly," one said, scrolling through data. "Lilith's readings show near-limitless energy output. If we find a stable transference model…"
Fu… dge. She hated it when people remembered how incredibly powerful Sirens were, even more so when they thought, 'hey, I can totally take advantage of this!'
Maybe they meant something harmless?
"We could weaponize it."
Shi… p. No such luck.
Honestly, she wasn't sure why she bothered being an optimist. Angel didn't even need to think about what "transference" meant in Hyperion R speak. They weren't talking about building with Sirens. They were talking about building from them.
She opened her own terminal, fingers trembling slightly. In a few swift keystrokes, she locked the files, encrypted the directory, and rerouted the access path straight into a dead-end sandbox server labeled "Tassiter's Vacation Photos." Nobody would dare open that folder.
Her pulse slowed once the final encryption seal turned green. "You're safe, Lilith," she whispered. "We're both safe."
For now. But just to be safe…
The screens flickered. Her dad's voice buzzed softly in her ear.
"Hey, sweetheart, how's my favorite omnipresent surveillance angel doing?"
Angel leaned back in her chair, composing her voice. "Monitoring your 'non-lethal' tests. Would you like the real results or the brochure version?"
"Oh, hit me with the glossy one first," Jack said cheerfully. "Makes me feel better about myself."
She rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. "Then congratulations, Dad. You're a regular humanitarian. The drones only traumatized an entire village instead of annihilating it."
There was a pause, the kind of pause that meant she had his full attention.
"…Are we talking 'mild trauma' or 'lawsuit-level trauma'?"
"Does Pandora even have lawyers?" she asked dryly.
Another pause — this time followed by a quiet exhale. "…Right. Yeah. Maybe tone down the shock charge on Unit Five, huh? If it's still twitching, it's too much voltage."
Angel smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. "Thank you, Dad."
"Hey, anything for my favorite conscience. You just say the word, and Daddy de-weapons the drones, yeah?"
"Maybe just de-murder them," she said gently.
"Compromise accepted."
She watched him on the camera for a while after he hung up — Jack gesturing wildly at a new batch of engineers, trying to make "humanitarian armament" sound like the best thing since sliced skag.
He wasn't perfect. He wasn't even close. But when she spoke, he listened. Always.
Angel leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting over the feeds. Broken bandits, smoking dunes, frozen ridges — and yet, somehow, she still believed Pandora could be something better. That he could be something better.
If she had to rewrite half of Hyperion's codebase to make that happen, then fine. It's what she was good at.
She whispered to herself, amused, "Controlled burn."
Because sometimes, to stop a wildfire, you had to start one on purpose.
New Haven smelled like dust, gun oil, and the faint, lingering hope of people who hadn't yet learned better.
Roland stood at the center of the war room — a generous term for a half-collapsed shack with a table that used to be a door — staring down at the latest field report.
The words "humanitarian stabilization" flashed across the page in bright Hyperion yellow.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've got to be kidding me."
Across from him, Brick leaned against the wall, flexing his hands like he was trying to strangle the air itself. "What's wrong, soldier boy? Paper give you a paper cut?"
"Worse," Roland muttered. "Propaganda."
Lilith, sitting on a crate nearby, gave a bitter laugh. "Let me guess. Hyperion's 'peace initiative'?"
He tossed the datapad onto the table. "They're calling it a non-lethal intervention campaign. Drones sweeping out Atlas' remaining outposts. Cryo rounds, stun mortars, chemical dispersal. You know, the usual peaceful stuff."
Mordecai leaned back in his chair, boots propped up on the table. Bloodwing screeched somewhere outside, probably mauling another skag that got too close. "I dunno, sounds humane to me," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Freeze 'em, shock 'em, leave 'em twitching in the sand. Totally ethical."
"Yeah," Brick grunted. "Least they ain't shootin' bullets."
Lilith shot him a glare. "They're still killing people, Brick."
He shrugged. "You say potato, I say exploded potato."
Roland closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose, and counted to five — a trick he'd learned from his army therapist, before Pandora taught him that counting didn't stop explosions.
"This isn't funny," he said evenly. "Jack's not even trying to talk things out, figure out what's best for the planet. He's wiping the slate clean."
Lilith stood, pacing. Her jacket was still scorched from the raid — char marks along the sleeves, a faint shimmer of energy dancing along her fingertips when she got too worked up. "Uh, that's because we tried diplomacy. Remember that? All it got us was Steele laughing at us while Atlas snipers picked off the perimeter. Every time we try to talk, someone sells us out."
Mordecai lifted his canteen in mock toast. "To negotiations: humanity's favorite suicide note."
"Maybe that's the point," Brick said, cracking his knuckles. "Stop talkin'. Start breakin'."
Roland glared at him. "That's not a strategy."
"Didn't say it was," Brick replied. "Said it works."
The room fell into a tense silence. Outside, the wind howled through the busted metal walls. Somewhere distant, a Hyperion ad drone crackled over the radio, tinny and cheerful:
"Hyperion — Bringing Hope, Order, and Mandatory Progress to Pandora!"
Lilith groaned. "God, that voice makes me want to shoot the sky."
Roland looked back down at the datapad. The report displayed drone schematics — Hyperion's logo stamped on every panel, every wingtip. He recognized the engineering: precision, efficiency, that same overconfident signature that screamed Jack.
He'd seen that smirk in person, a few times. The man could charm a missile into changing sides. And apparently, now he was using that charm on the whole damn planet.
"He's not a savior," Roland muttered, almost to himself. "He's an arms dealer with better PR."
Lilith folded her arms. "Hey! That's my boyfriend, you're talking about! And I'll have you know that uh… okay, he might be an arms dealer. But he's not stupid. He's branding morality. 'Humanitarian warfare.' Hyperion gets the moral high ground, Atlas takes the blame."
Brick grinned. "So we blow up Hyperion, too!"
Lilith blinked. "What?"
Mordecai nodded. "Yeah, problem solved."
Roland looked between them. "You two realize that's not a sustainable plan, right?"
Brick shrugged. "Didn't say it had to be sustainable. Just satisfying."
Lilith gave a faint smirk despite herself. "You really do think with your fists."
"Hey," Brick said proudly, "they're reliable."
Mordecai snorted. "Can't argue that."
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose again. This was his squad — a pyromaniac, a brawler, and a drunk with a bird. And somehow, they were the most functional unit on the planet.
He exhaled sharply. "Look. We need intel before we make a move. Jack's campaign isn't just random. He's hitting Atlas's infrastructure, not their troops. That means something. If we're going to keep working with him, I want to know what."
"I know what it means." Mordecai said. "He's got a plan. A big one."
"Yeah, and it's probably a good one." Lilith added, "Why are you guys trying so hard to make him the bad guy? He helped us take out Steele! Which… okay, granted, I don't like being the only Siren left standing when corporate psychopaths start thinking about weaponized magic again. But Jack's not going to let it come to that."
"Didn't Hyperion already have a Siren?" Mordecai asked, idly checking his rifle. "The AI girl. Angel."
Lilith's tone darkened. "She's not an AI. She's his daughter, remember? And AI can't be Sirens, Mordecai! We've known each other for how long, and you still don't get that?!"
Mordecai frowned, raising his hands defensively. "Space magic confuses me!"
"Your face confuses me!"
Before Roland could tell them to settle down, the door slammed open.
Marcus stomped in, beard bristling, cigar clenched between his teeth like it owed him money. "You might wanna see this," he grunted, waving a dented remote. "And by 'wanna,' I mean you're gonna wish you hadn't."
He smacked the remote against the wall until the nearest screen sputtered to life. Static flickered, then a feed stabilized — Hyperion News Network, the logo all bright smiles and corporate menace.
A perky announcer spoke over footage of drones dropping supplies onto smoldering Atlas ruins.
"Breaking news! Hyperion Corporation officially declares Pandora's reconstruction phase underway! Under the visionary leadership of Field Director Jack, the company pledges to restore peace, order, and profit-sharing opportunities to all surviving residents!"
Brick blinked. "Did she just say surviving?"
Mordecai squinted. "Yeah. That's… not a high bar."
Lilith crossed her arms. "Considering how many residents are bandits, I'm not that sympathetic."
Roland watched in silence as the broadcast cut to Jack — bright smile, crisp suit, not a hair out of place.
"Hey there, Pandora! Handsome Jack here, bringing you hope, security, and a brand new Hyperion future! No more bandit raids, no more chaos — just good, honest corporate peace! Remember: when you're with Hyperion, you're family!"
Brick blinked. "He's smilin'. Why's he smilin'? No one smiles like that unless they just blew something up."
Roland's jaw tightened. "Because he did."
Lilith crossed her arms. "So what?"
Roland didn't answer right away. He stared at the frozen screen — at Jack's too-perfect grin, the glint in his eye that looked suspiciously like satisfaction.
He thought about Atlas. About the men he'd fought beside, and the graves they left behind.
About what Pandora did to people who thought they could fix it.
Finally, he said, "Now? We stop pretending there's a difference between Atlas and Hyperion."
He shut off the screen. The room plunged into dim light again — dust, shadows, and the faint hum of distant machinery.
"Gear up," Roland said, voice cold and certain. "If Jack wants to rebuild Pandora, he can start by rebuilding his teeth after I'm done talking with him."
The cell was clean.
Too clean.
Steele sat cross-legged on the floor, hands cuffed in front of her, staring at a wall so white it almost hummed. Hyperion didn't do dirt or dust. Even their prisons were designed like product displays — all chrome, all light, no humanity. The kind of place that made you forget the universe was made of rock and blood.
The only thing that broke the sterile perfection was the faint crackle of a speaker in the corner.
"Hello, Commandant Steele."
The voice was smooth. Too smooth. Female, calm, precise — with that faint synthetic undertone that made Steele's eye twitch.
She tilted her head back toward the ceiling. "Если это допрос, дорогуша, ты опоздала часов на шесть и вольт на четыре."
If this is an interrogation, sweetheart, you're about six hours late and four volts short.
"I'm not here to interrogate you," the voice replied. "I just wanted to talk."
Steele snorted.
"Правда? Потому что «Гиперион» славится своими милыми беседами."
Right. Because Hyperion's known for its warm, fuzzy outreach programs.
Silence. Then, almost shyly:
"I'm Angel."
Steele frowned. The name tickled something in her memory. "Милое имя. Ты их новый ИИ?"
Cute name. What are you, their new AI?
A pause. "Something like that."
Steele chuckled — low and humorless. "Как же. Джек всегда обожал свои игрушки."
Figures. Jack always did love his toys.
There was a flicker on the ceiling — a projection trying to form but not quite managing. Just static, shaped like a ghost. Two glowing eyes stared down through the noise.
"I'm not a toy," Angel said.
Steele squinted at the distortion. "Тогда кто ты, черт возьми?"
Then what are you?
The silence stretched long enough that Steele thought the girl had disconnected. Then:
"You're a Siren. I can see the energy still woven into your nervous system. The markings. The resonances. You used to channel it through a containment rig — Atlas design."
Steele felt her jaw tighten. "Раньше."
Used to.
Angel's voice softened. "Did they make you use it?"
Steele laughed — a short, dry sound that scraped the back of her throat. "Заставили? Нет, девочка. Убедили. Сказали, что это во благо. Ради стабильности Пандоры. Ради будущего. 'Атлас' любил большие слова."
Make me? No, kid. They convinced me. Told me it was for the greater good. Stabilizing Pandora. Securing the future. Atlas loved big words like that.
"Wasn't it?"
Steele gave a faint smile. "Добро не нуждается в солдатах."
Good doesn't need soldiers.
The projection shimmered, static wavering like a held breath. Angel's tone lowered — a quiet curiosity edged with something like fear. "You really believed them."
"Верила?" Steele smiled faintly. "Вера — самая дешёвая валюта во вселенной. Потрать достаточно — и купишь себе войну."
Believed? Belief's the cheapest currency in the galaxy. Spend enough of it, and you can buy yourself a war.
Angel said nothing. She was watching — Steele could feel it. Not just her voice, but her attention, sweeping through every pulse of data, every breath in the room. The way only a Siren could look through you instead of at you.
"Ты не из «Атласа»," Steele murmured. "Но я вижу это в тебе. Та же энергия. То же проклятие."
You're not Atlas. But I can see it in you. Same energy. Same curse.
"I'm not cursed," Angel said quickly. "I'm… helping."
Steele tilted her head. "Помогаешь кому?"
Helping who?
"Pandora," Angel said, after a pause. "My dad."
There it was — that little word, fragile as glass. Steele let out a slow breath. "Джек — твой отец."
Jack's your father.
"Yes."
"Чёрт побери. Непотизм, видимо, правит вселенной."
Well, damn. Guess nepotism runs the universe now.
Angel didn't answer. The static dimmed slightly, like she'd looked away.
Steele leaned back against the wall, smirking despite the ache in her shoulders.
"Знаешь, что забавно в таких людях, как Джек, девочка? Они всегда уверены, что спасают мир. Неважно, сколько тел при этом зарыто — всё 'во имя блага'."
You know what the funny thing about men like Jack is, kid? They never stop thinking they're saving the world. Doesn't matter how many people they bury in the process — it's all collateral to them.
"My dad's not like that."
"Да ну?" Steele arched an eyebrow. "Скажи-ка, когда он посылает свои дроны 'успокаивать' поселения, что бывает с теми, кто не встаёт обратно?"
Oh? Tell me — when he sends his drones out to 'pacify' a settlement, what happens to the ones who don't get back up?
Angel hesitated.
Steele smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Слышишь этот треск в своём голосе? Это вина. Привыкай. Она не исчезает — просто учится говорить тише."
You hear the static in your voice right now? That's guilt. Get used to it. It doesn't fade. It just… learns to speak softer.
The ghost-image flickered, almost breaking apart. Then Angel said quietly, "You don't know him like I do."
"Я знаю таких мужчин," Steele said softly. "И таких девочек. Всегда думаем, что мы особенные. Что можем их контролировать. Что сила принадлежит нам. Пока не просыпаемся и не видим на ней серийный номер."
I know men like him. And I know girls like you. We always think we're different. That we can control them. That our power's our own. Until the day we wake up and realize it's got a serial number.
"I'm not you," Angel said sharply.
"Нет," Steele admitted. "Ты всё ещё молода, чтобы в это верить."
No. You're still young enough to believe it.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the hum of the fluorescent light overhead, a perfect corporate buzz.
Then Angel's tone changed — quieter, steadier. "You think I don't see what Hyperion's doing? You think I don't know how dangerous it is? The difference is, I have a choice."
Steele's eyebrow rose.
"Правда?"
Do you?
"I do." Angel's words came faster now, rising with conviction. "They didn't make me. They didn't convince me. I choose to help. I tell my dad when he's wrong. And he listens. I'm not being used — I'm making a difference."
For a moment, Steele almost laughed — not mockingly, but wistfully. "Ты правда в это веришь, да?"
You really believe that, don't you?
"I know it."
Steele closed her eyes. The scars along her hands itched — phantom burns from a lifetime of holding too much power. "Надеюсь, ты права, девочка. Если нет… закончишь как я. В коробке, пока кто-то другой пишет твою историю."
Then I hope you're right, kid. Because if you're not… you'll end up just like me. Sitting in a box while someone else writes your legacy.
The static flickered once more, and the ghostly light began to fade.
Angel's voice lingered, softer now. "We're not the same, you and I."
Steele didn't open her eyes. "Нет," she said. "Но я позволю тебе так думать."
No. But I'll let you believe it.
A quiet click echoed through the cell as the speaker powered down. The light dimmed.
Steele leaned her head back against the wall, exhaling slowly. "Дети нынче…" she muttered. "Всегда думают, что держат поводок."
Kids these days. Always think they're the ones holding the leash.
Oh, to be young.
You ever have one of those days where you save an entire planet before lunch, but people still act like you're the bad guy?
Yeah. That's today.
The data readouts in front of me glowed that classic Hyperion gold — bright, smug, beautiful. "HUMANITARIAN PACIFICATION INITIATIVE: 97% SUCCESS RATE."
I leaned back in my chair, kicked my boots up on the desk, and took a sip of coffee that cost more than most Pandoran homes.
"See that, sweetheart?" I said to Angel, who was patching in through the intercom. "That's what we call results."
Her hologram shimmered above the console, translucent blue, hands folded neatly. "Ninety-seven percent approval rating. Though… I'm not sure who we asked."
"Minor detail," I said, waving a hand. "Point is, it's working. Bandits are scattering, Atlas is choking on their own budget cuts, and for once in history, the Pandoran death toll's dropping. You know what that means?"
Angel tilted her head. "Less death?"
"It means we're making peace profitable. And that's the secret to sustainability, baby."
I tapped the next file open — schematic blueprints rotating above my desk. Sleek, circular, gleaming in orbit.
"Now, for phase two." I grinned. "Orbital support. Hyperion satellites watching every square inch of this dustball, twenty-four-seven. No blind spots, no sneak attacks, no idiots blowing up refineries because they 'didn't like the vibe.'"
Angel frowned. "You want to put eyes in the sky?"
"Sweetheart," I said, standing and pacing with all the charm of a man unveiling a masterpiece. "The trick to peace is altitude. You can't argue with someone who owns the sky."
"Or someone who watches it," came a voice from behind me.
Roland. Of course. He was the only guy on Pandora who could break into a Hyperion-secure office without setting off alarms. Probably because I'd told Angel not to stop him.
He stood in the doorway, armor dusted from travel, eyes like someone who hadn't slept since the last apocalypse.
"That's not peace," he said flatly. "That's surveillance."
I smiled wide. "Exactly! We'll keep 'em safe by watching everything they do. Hyperion Solutions — bringing safety to the solar system!"
He didn't laugh. He rarely did.
"You're crossing lines again, Jack."
"Roland, buddy, come on." I gestured grandly at the screens. "You and me — we're doing good work here. We're cleaning up the mess Atlas left behind. You know how many civilians Hyperion's saved in the last two months alone? Hundreds! Thousands! You think Atlas would've used non-lethal munitions? Hell no! They'd have nuked a village to prove a point."
He crossed his arms. "You're not listening. You're repeating the same script, just with a shinier logo."
"Oh, please. I haven't asked you to do anything against your morals." I leaned across the desk, lowering my voice — all sincerity and salesmanship. "We saved Pandora from the Destroyer. We're dismantling what's left of the Crimson Lance. We're not the bad guys here, okay? We're fixing things. Together."
He stared at me for a long moment. I could see him calculating, the soldier in him warring with the idealist. Finally, he said, "You're 'fixing things' by freezing anyone who disagrees with you."
"Hey, non-lethal freezing," I said quickly. "Cryo rounds. Temporary paralysis, minor frostbite, nothing major! Look, wars are messy, but I'm sparing the civilians, right? Bandits are the only ones getting hit — and honestly, have you met bandits? If anything, we're performing a public service."
His jaw tightened. "You always have a justification."
"Yeah, because I'm always right! Look, I get it. You're angry, upset, and you deserve to feel that way. You've been burned by some pretty shitty people in the past, and now it feels like you're falling into old patterns, and you want someone to blame. But Roland, I'm not that guy. We want the same thing!"
Silence stretched. He didn't argue, which was weird. Roland always argued. Instead, he walked to the holo-display, eyes scanning the satellite schematics.
"What is that?" he asked. "Those aren't standard Hyperion platforms."
I smiled, couldn't help myself. "Oh, this? Little corporate espionage magic. Some weird Atlas subfile just… fell into my lap."
"Atlas had your designs?"
"Yeah, I know, right? Crazy. These plans—" I tapped the display, rotating the model. "—are for a prototype Hyperion satellite. A self-sustaining orbital base. You know, a place for the company to run operations from. Safer than New Haven. Cleaner. Higher. More… godlike, y'know?"
Roland frowned. "How'd Atlas even get their hands on this?"
I shrugged. "Who knows? Probably some bean-counter selling blueprints to pay for a nice yacht. Point is, I got them back. And we're gonna make 'em ours."
Angel's voice buzzed quietly in my earpiece, too low for Roland to hear. "Dad."
"Not now, sweetheart."
"Dad, I'm tracing the subfile you uploaded. The data encryption—it's familiar."
"Okay, just, one second, Angel." I kept smiling at Roland, still in pitch mode. "You get it, right? If we want peace, we need a proper base. I can't exactly rebuild civilization from a tent with a vending machine… we're in this together, Roland. If you're not a hundred percent on board, let me know what we're doing wrong, and how we can make it right, okay?"
Roland sighed, rubbing his temples. "Just… don't turn this into another arms race."
"Hey, if everyone's too terrified to shoot, that's peace."
"Jack—"
"Kidding. Seriously though," I held up a finger. "You worry too much. Trust me, everything's under control."
Angel's voice cut sharper. "Dad, it's not Atlas. The encryption signature… it's different."
I turned slightly, pressing my finger to my ear to read her better. "Then whose is it?"
A flicker of hesitation on her end. "It's… orbital. Signal's bouncing off a satellite already in place. The origin point isn't planetary."
I frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Angel said slowly, "someone's watching us back."
For a second, my confidence faltered — just a flicker, a blip. Then I smirked, covering the unease. "Good," I said. "Maybe they'll learn something."
Like why spying on me is a really, really bad idea.
I unmuted Roland and clapped him on the shoulder. "Now! Where were we? Oh, right — saving the planet. You in?"
He gave me a look that could curdle coffee. But he didn't say no.
That was good enough for me.
As he left, I turned back to the hologram of the satellite — Project Helios. The name flashed golden at the bottom of the schematics, like a promise.
High orbit, fully automated, heavily armed, and self-sufficient. The future of Hyperion.
And if someone was already watching us from up there…
Well. I'd make sure they knew exactly who owned the sky.
Birds.
Birds are the ones who own the sky. If man were meant to fly, we would have been born with jetpacks.
Anyways! That's it for today's chapter! Hope you all enjoyed! Be sure to check out My Patreon, if you want to read ahead, link below:
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Let me tell you something about innovation. Everyone thinks it's about ideas — about vision, creativity, changing lives, blah blah blah.
Nah. Innovation's about branding.
You slap a shiny slogan on the side of a death machine, and suddenly it's "humanitarian." Case in point? My brand-new Hyperion Non-Lethal Suppression Drones.
I stood in the middle of the command hub, arms outstretched like a stage magician, surrounded by the smell of ozone, burning circuitry, and whatever sanitizer Marcus had tried to sell us as "new facility scent." The hub was Hyperion-standard perfection — gleaming chrome walls, spotless floors, neon accents pulsing like a nightclub — dropped right in the middle of a desert wasteland full of bandits and skag corpses. Corporate chic meets Mad Max. I loved it.
"Gentlemen!" I announced to a half-circle of engineers, mercs, and at least one guy who'd wandered in because there was free coffee. "Today we bring peace to Pandora. Efficient, cost-effective, marketable peace!"
Out on the monitors, a squadron of gold-and-white drones hovered over a nearby ridge. Their wings hummed like angels — angry, gun-heavy angels.
"Angel, sweetheart," I said, tapping my earpiece, "give me a systems check."
Her voice came through, smooth and measured. "Drones One through Twelve online. Suppression payloads armed. Crowd-control ordinance… excessive."
"Excessive is the secret ingredient, honey."
"I'm still not sure 'non-lethal' should include miniguns."
"They're stun miniguns," I said. "Stun. Not kill. Marketing department said it tests better than 'disassembly at the molecular level', and hey, stable planet, stable paycheck, right?"
Angel sighed. "You're not stabilizing Pandora, Dad. You're pacifying it."
"Angel, baby, this is peace through superior marketing!" I grinned, turning to the gathered staff. "Cue the slogan!"
A nearby monitor blared the Hyperion jingle. The logo shimmered across the sand like a divine advertisement:
HYPERION: No Blood, No Problem!
Now with 30% more compliance!
God, it gave me chills.
"Alright," I said, cracking my knuckles. "Let's make history. Drone Cluster A — deploy."
The lead operator hesitated. "Sir, uh, the bandit camp is, uh… still populated."
"That's the point, Tim. We're selling suppression, not scenic flyovers."
He gulped and hit the command.
The drones peeled off in formation, streaming gold trails as they descended toward the camp. The cameras zoomed in — a lovely high-definition feed of screaming bandits scattering like ants as the first wave of "non-lethal" rounds hit the ground. Blue arcs crackled across the sand. Stun rounds, cryo shells, sonic flashbursts.
Somewhere, a skag yelped and then froze mid-air, perfectly encased in ice.
I beamed. "Look at that precision! We just invented humane warfare."
Angel's voice was quieter now. "Dad, I'm reading eight incapacitations and two possible…" she hesitated, "…non-recoveries."
"Non-recoveries?"
"They're not moving."
"Then they're just resting," I said cheerfully. "You gotta think positive."
I turned back to the operators, clapping one on the shoulder. "You see this? That's how you win hearts and minds. Preferably by stopping both temporarily with shock therapy."
Onscreen, one of the drones deployed a "crowd dispersal mortar," which was basically a glorified cryo-grenade with better branding. The entire ridge turned into a glittering ice sculpture. The engineers applauded.
Angel didn't.
"Dad."
Her voice cut through the noise — calm, clear, impossible to ignore.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"You're smiling."
"Of course I am! We just solved violence." And the solution was more violence! I'm so proud of myself for figuring it out!
"No," she said softly. "You just automated it."
For half a second, I felt something — that weird little flicker in my gut when she talked like that. Like… guilt? Ugh. Been a while since I felt that. Not a fan.
So I brushed it off with charm. "C'mon, Angel. Nobody's dying, nobody's rioting. You know how many Pandoran kids are gonna grow up in peace because of this? This is the dream, baby. Our dream."
A long pause. "I know. I just hope it stays that way."
See? That's why she's the best. Most people would start yelling or moralizing or whatever. Not Angel. She keeps me grounded — gentle hand on the wheel, making sure I don't steer the company into actual supervillain territory.
"Relax," I said, flicking on the final command. "We'll wrap this up nice and tidy. Drone Cluster B — commence phase three."
The feed switched to a wide shot. The drones dropped a shimmering wave of micro-charges over the ridge. A moment later, fwooom — a contained shockwave rippled out, flattening sand dunes and scattering flaming chunks of scrap into the air. The sound was pure poetry.
Everyone in the room flinched. I leaned back, hands behind my head.
"See? No fatalities. Just aggressively subdued terrain."
One of the junior techs coughed. "Uh, sir, I think the terrain's on fire."
"Hot terrain is productive terrain," I said, sipping my coffee. "It's in the brochure."
Angel's voice again, faintly exasperated. "Dad…"
"Yeah?"
"You do realize you just tested a crowd-control system on an unarmed settlement."
"Unarmed?" I laughed. "They were bandits, Angel. Every bandit's armed. It's like, cultural."
"The database says the camp was a salvage group."
"Salvage, raiders, recyclers—tomato, toma-threat." Give it a week, and their 'salvage' will be minutes old, taking from some still warm corpses.
A quiet sigh. "I'll file the report."
"You're the best."
"I know."
There was warmth in her tone — just a flicker — and for a moment, it almost felt like we were the only two people on this rock who actually knew what we were doing.
Some real father-daughter bonding… missed this.
The room buzzed with chatter and applause as the last drone returned, spotless and gleaming. The Hyperion logo pulsed overhead.
I gave a satisfied nod. "And that, folks, is how we win wars and win markets. Somebody get PR on the line — I want a press release by morning."
Angel said nothing for a while. Then, quietly: "Dad?"
"Yeah, sugar?"
"Next time… maybe start smaller."
I smirked. "Hey, go big or go—"
A distant boom shook the base. The feed flared white. One of the "non-lethal" drones had misfired into a munitions pile.
"…Home," I finished, wincing.
The engineers scrambled. Sirens blared.
Angel's voice came back, deadpan. "Collateral damage: one weapons cache, twelve dunes, and your credibility."
"Pfft. Credibility's overrated. You can't monetize credibility."
"Apparently you can't aim either."
I grinned at the monitor, smoke curling past the window. "Angel, sweetheart, that's why they call it field testing."
...
Angel watched seven separate live feeds at once — a skill that most humans would call insanity, and she just called "Tuesday."
Each window flickered in that classic Hyperion yellow-and-black color scheme, branded with words like NON-LETHAL ENGAGEMENT TEST #17-B and CIVILIAN REHABILITATION SUCCESS RATING: 94%.
Which, in Angel's experience, meant "we're technically not killing them; we're just helping them take a really long nap with mild frostbite."
A bandit twitched on one of the monitors, wrapped in what was supposed to be a "stun net." The data feed tagged him as Subject unresponsive. Status: contained.
Angel sighed. "Translation: broken ribs, maybe two concussions, probable dental loss." She muttered this more to herself than anyone else, her tone dry as the Pandoran desert. "Non-lethal, my ass."
The nearby techs didn't look up — they rarely did. It wasn't wise to eavesdrop on the boss's daughter when she started whispering sarcasm into the servers.
Angel's fingers danced across her holographic interface, graceful and fast. She rewrote a few output parameters, quietly shifting the report data. Containment successful, she edited, subjects stable. Then she muted the drone's camera feed before Jack could see the aftermath.
Not because she wanted to lie to him. Just… because she knew how he'd react. Her dad didn't mean to go too far — but Hyperion did that to people. Turned moral lines into dotted ones, easy to cross with a smile and a slogan.
Her gaze flicked to one of the internal feeds — Jack's office. He was still laughing, gesturing at the live comm display, mug in hand, explaining to a nervous intern why "peace through superior marketing" was the future of galactic civilization.
Angel smiled faintly. He meant well. He always meant well.
She just had to keep him from meaning too well.
Then again, she can't judge him that harshly, either. Angel certainly isn't perfect, herself. For example, in addition to being the most proficient hacker in the known universe, she also has the terrible misfortune of being an unrepentant, and irredeemable snoop.
Speaking of, it's time she engaged in her favorite hobby of the day: spying on her "coworkers."
With a quick switch on her monitor, she pulled up live feed of a group of Hyperion scientists clustered around a console, their voices a blend of corporate politeness and thinly-veiled ambition.
"If we could just harness a Siren's field properly," one said, scrolling through data. "Lilith's readings show near-limitless energy output. If we find a stable transference model…"
Fu… dge. She hated it when people remembered how incredibly powerful Sirens were, even more so when they thought, 'hey, I can totally take advantage of this!'
Maybe they meant something harmless?
"We could weaponize it."
Shi… p. No such luck.
Honestly, she wasn't sure why she bothered being an optimist. Angel didn't even need to think about what "transference" meant in Hyperion R speak. They weren't talking about building with Sirens. They were talking about building from them.
She opened her own terminal, fingers trembling slightly. In a few swift keystrokes, she locked the files, encrypted the directory, and rerouted the access path straight into a dead-end sandbox server labeled "Tassiter's Vacation Photos." Nobody would dare open that folder.
Her pulse slowed once the final encryption seal turned green. "You're safe, Lilith," she whispered. "We're both safe."
For now. But just to be safe…
The screens flickered. Her dad's voice buzzed softly in her ear.
"Hey, sweetheart, how's my favorite omnipresent surveillance angel doing?"
Angel leaned back in her chair, composing her voice. "Monitoring your 'non-lethal' tests. Would you like the real results or the brochure version?"
"Oh, hit me with the glossy one first," Jack said cheerfully. "Makes me feel better about myself."
She rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. "Then congratulations, Dad. You're a regular humanitarian. The drones only traumatized an entire village instead of annihilating it."
There was a pause, the kind of pause that meant she had his full attention.
"…Are we talking 'mild trauma' or 'lawsuit-level trauma'?"
"Does Pandora even have lawyers?" she asked dryly.
Another pause — this time followed by a quiet exhale. "…Right. Yeah. Maybe tone down the shock charge on Unit Five, huh? If it's still twitching, it's too much voltage."
Angel smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. "Thank you, Dad."
"Hey, anything for my favorite conscience. You just say the word, and Daddy de-weapons the drones, yeah?"
"Maybe just de-murder them," she said gently.
"Compromise accepted."
She watched him on the camera for a while after he hung up — Jack gesturing wildly at a new batch of engineers, trying to make "humanitarian armament" sound like the best thing since sliced skag.
He wasn't perfect. He wasn't even close. But when she spoke, he listened. Always.
Angel leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting over the feeds. Broken bandits, smoking dunes, frozen ridges — and yet, somehow, she still believed Pandora could be something better. That he could be something better.
If she had to rewrite half of Hyperion's codebase to make that happen, then fine. It's what she was good at.
She whispered to herself, amused, "Controlled burn."
Because sometimes, to stop a wildfire, you had to start one on purpose.
...
New Haven smelled like dust, gun oil, and the faint, lingering hope of people who hadn't yet learned better.
Roland stood at the center of the war room — a generous term for a half-collapsed shack with a table that used to be a door — staring down at the latest field report.
The words "humanitarian stabilization" flashed across the page in bright Hyperion yellow.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've got to be kidding me."
Across from him, Brick leaned against the wall, flexing his hands like he was trying to strangle the air itself. "What's wrong, soldier boy? Paper give you a paper cut?"
"Worse," Roland muttered. "Propaganda."
Lilith, sitting on a crate nearby, gave a bitter laugh. "Let me guess. Hyperion's 'peace initiative'?"
He tossed the datapad onto the table. "They're calling it a non-lethal intervention campaign. Drones sweeping out Atlas' remaining outposts. Cryo rounds, stun mortars, chemical dispersal. You know, the usual peaceful stuff."
Mordecai leaned back in his chair, boots propped up on the table. Bloodwing screeched somewhere outside, probably mauling another skag that got too close. "I dunno, sounds humane to me," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Freeze 'em, shock 'em, leave 'em twitching in the sand. Totally ethical."
"Yeah," Brick grunted. "Least they ain't shootin' bullets."
Lilith shot him a glare. "They're still killing people, Brick."
He shrugged. "You say potato, I say exploded potato."
Roland closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose, and counted to five — a trick he'd learned from his army therapist, before Pandora taught him that counting didn't stop explosions.
"This isn't funny," he said evenly. "Jack's not even trying to talk things out, figure out what's best for the planet. He's wiping the slate clean."
Lilith stood, pacing. Her jacket was still scorched from the raid — char marks along the sleeves, a faint shimmer of energy dancing along her fingertips when she got too worked up. "Uh, that's because we tried diplomacy. Remember that? All it got us was Steele laughing at us while Atlas snipers picked off the perimeter. Every time we try to talk, someone sells us out."
Mordecai lifted his canteen in mock toast. "To negotiations: humanity's favorite suicide note."
"Maybe that's the point," Brick said, cracking his knuckles. "Stop talkin'. Start breakin'."
Roland glared at him. "That's not a strategy."
"Didn't say it was," Brick replied. "Said it works."
The room fell into a tense silence. Outside, the wind howled through the busted metal walls. Somewhere distant, a Hyperion ad drone crackled over the radio, tinny and cheerful:
"Hyperion — Bringing Hope, Order, and Mandatory Progress to Pandora!"
Lilith groaned. "God, that voice makes me want to shoot the sky."
Roland looked back down at the datapad. The report displayed drone schematics — Hyperion's logo stamped on every panel, every wingtip. He recognized the engineering: precision, efficiency, that same overconfident signature that screamed Jack.
He'd seen that smirk in person, a few times. The man could charm a missile into changing sides. And apparently, now he was using that charm on the whole damn planet.
"He's not a savior," Roland muttered, almost to himself. "He's an arms dealer with better PR."
Lilith folded her arms. "Hey! That's my boyfriend, you're talking about! And I'll have you know that uh… okay, he might be an arms dealer. But he's not stupid. He's branding morality. 'Humanitarian warfare.' Hyperion gets the moral high ground, Atlas takes the blame."
Brick grinned. "So we blow up Hyperion, too!"
Lilith blinked. "What?"
Mordecai nodded. "Yeah, problem solved."
Roland looked between them. "You two realize that's not a sustainable plan, right?"
Brick shrugged. "Didn't say it had to be sustainable. Just satisfying."
Lilith gave a faint smirk despite herself. "You really do think with your fists."
"Hey," Brick said proudly, "they're reliable."
Mordecai snorted. "Can't argue that."
Roland pinched the bridge of his nose again. This was his squad — a pyromaniac, a brawler, and a drunk with a bird. And somehow, they were the most functional unit on the planet.
He exhaled sharply. "Look. We need intel before we make a move. Jack's campaign isn't just random. He's hitting Atlas's infrastructure, not their troops. That means something. If we're going to keep working with him, I want to know what."
"I know what it means." Mordecai said. "He's got a plan. A big one."
"Yeah, and it's probably a good one." Lilith added, "Why are you guys trying so hard to make him the bad guy? He helped us take out Steele! Which… okay, granted, I don't like being the only Siren left standing when corporate psychopaths start thinking about weaponized magic again. But Jack's not going to let it come to that."
"Didn't Hyperion already have a Siren?" Mordecai asked, idly checking his rifle. "The AI girl. Angel."
Lilith's tone darkened. "She's not an AI. She's his daughter, remember? And AI can't be Sirens, Mordecai! We've known each other for how long, and you still don't get that?!"
Mordecai frowned, raising his hands defensively. "Space magic confuses me!"
"Your face confuses me!"
Before Roland could tell them to settle down, the door slammed open.
Marcus stomped in, beard bristling, cigar clenched between his teeth like it owed him money. "You might wanna see this," he grunted, waving a dented remote. "And by 'wanna,' I mean you're gonna wish you hadn't."
He smacked the remote against the wall until the nearest screen sputtered to life. Static flickered, then a feed stabilized — Hyperion News Network, the logo all bright smiles and corporate menace.
A perky announcer spoke over footage of drones dropping supplies onto smoldering Atlas ruins.
"Breaking news! Hyperion Corporation officially declares Pandora's reconstruction phase underway! Under the visionary leadership of Field Director Jack, the company pledges to restore peace, order, and profit-sharing opportunities to all surviving residents!"
Brick blinked. "Did she just say surviving?"
Mordecai squinted. "Yeah. That's… not a high bar."
Lilith crossed her arms. "Considering how many residents are bandits, I'm not that sympathetic."
Roland watched in silence as the broadcast cut to Jack — bright smile, crisp suit, not a hair out of place.
"Hey there, Pandora! Handsome Jack here, bringing you hope, security, and a brand new Hyperion future! No more bandit raids, no more chaos — just good, honest corporate peace! Remember: when you're with Hyperion, you're family!"
Brick blinked. "He's smilin'. Why's he smilin'? No one smiles like that unless they just blew something up."
Roland's jaw tightened. "Because he did."
Lilith crossed her arms. "So what?"
Roland didn't answer right away. He stared at the frozen screen — at Jack's too-perfect grin, the glint in his eye that looked suspiciously like satisfaction.
He thought about Atlas. About the men he'd fought beside, and the graves they left behind.
About what Pandora did to people who thought they could fix it.
Finally, he said, "Now? We stop pretending there's a difference between Atlas and Hyperion."
He shut off the screen. The room plunged into dim light again — dust, shadows, and the faint hum of distant machinery.
"Gear up," Roland said, voice cold and certain. "If Jack wants to rebuild Pandora, he can start by rebuilding his teeth after I'm done talking with him."
...
The cell was clean.
Too clean.
Steele sat cross-legged on the floor, hands cuffed in front of her, staring at a wall so white it almost hummed. Hyperion didn't do dirt or dust. Even their prisons were designed like product displays — all chrome, all light, no humanity. The kind of place that made you forget the universe was made of rock and blood.
The only thing that broke the sterile perfection was the faint crackle of a speaker in the corner.
"Hello, Commandant Steele."
The voice was smooth. Too smooth. Female, calm, precise — with that faint synthetic undertone that made Steele's eye twitch.
She tilted her head back toward the ceiling. "Если это допрос, дорогуша, ты опоздала часов на шесть и вольт на четыре."
If this is an interrogation, sweetheart, you're about six hours late and four volts short.
"I'm not here to interrogate you," the voice replied. "I just wanted to talk."
Steele snorted.
"Правда? Потому что «Гиперион» славится своими милыми беседами."
Right. Because Hyperion's known for its warm, fuzzy outreach programs.
Silence. Then, almost shyly:
"I'm Angel."
Steele frowned. The name tickled something in her memory. "Милое имя. Ты их новый ИИ?"
Cute name. What are you, their new AI?
A pause. "Something like that."
Steele chuckled — low and humorless. "Как же. Джек всегда обожал свои игрушки."
Figures. Jack always did love his toys.
There was a flicker on the ceiling — a projection trying to form but not quite managing. Just static, shaped like a ghost. Two glowing eyes stared down through the noise.
"I'm not a toy," Angel said.
Steele squinted at the distortion. "Тогда кто ты, черт возьми?"
Then what are you?
The silence stretched long enough that Steele thought the girl had disconnected. Then:
"You're a Siren. I can see the energy still woven into your nervous system. The markings. The resonances. You used to channel it through a containment rig — Atlas design."
Steele felt her jaw tighten. "Раньше."
Used to.
Angel's voice softened. "Did they make you use it?"
Steele laughed — a short, dry sound that scraped the back of her throat. "Заставили? Нет, девочка. Убедили. Сказали, что это во благо. Ради стабильности Пандоры. Ради будущего. 'Атлас' любил большие слова."
Make me? No, kid. They convinced me. Told me it was for the greater good. Stabilizing Pandora. Securing the future. Atlas loved big words like that.
"Wasn't it?"
Steele gave a faint smile. "Добро не нуждается в солдатах."
Good doesn't need soldiers.
The projection shimmered, static wavering like a held breath. Angel's tone lowered — a quiet curiosity edged with something like fear. "You really believed them."
"Верила?" Steele smiled faintly. "Вера — самая дешёвая валюта во вселенной. Потрать достаточно — и купишь себе войну."
Believed? Belief's the cheapest currency in the galaxy. Spend enough of it, and you can buy yourself a war.
Angel said nothing. She was watching — Steele could feel it. Not just her voice, but her attention, sweeping through every pulse of data, every breath in the room. The way only a Siren could look through you instead of at you.
"Ты не из «Атласа»," Steele murmured. "Но я вижу это в тебе. Та же энергия. То же проклятие."
You're not Atlas. But I can see it in you. Same energy. Same curse.
"I'm not cursed," Angel said quickly. "I'm… helping."
Steele tilted her head. "Помогаешь кому?"
Helping who?
"Pandora," Angel said, after a pause. "My dad."
There it was — that little word, fragile as glass. Steele let out a slow breath. "Джек — твой отец."
Jack's your father.
"Yes."
"Чёрт побери. Непотизм, видимо, правит вселенной."
Well, damn. Guess nepotism runs the universe now.
Angel didn't answer. The static dimmed slightly, like she'd looked away.
Steele leaned back against the wall, smirking despite the ache in her shoulders.
"Знаешь, что забавно в таких людях, как Джек, девочка? Они всегда уверены, что спасают мир. Неважно, сколько тел при этом зарыто — всё 'во имя блага'."
You know what the funny thing about men like Jack is, kid? They never stop thinking they're saving the world. Doesn't matter how many people they bury in the process — it's all collateral to them.
"My dad's not like that."
"Да ну?" Steele arched an eyebrow. "Скажи-ка, когда он посылает свои дроны 'успокаивать' поселения, что бывает с теми, кто не встаёт обратно?"
Oh? Tell me — when he sends his drones out to 'pacify' a settlement, what happens to the ones who don't get back up?
Angel hesitated.
Steele smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Слышишь этот треск в своём голосе? Это вина. Привыкай. Она не исчезает — просто учится говорить тише."
You hear the static in your voice right now? That's guilt. Get used to it. It doesn't fade. It just… learns to speak softer.
The ghost-image flickered, almost breaking apart. Then Angel said quietly, "You don't know him like I do."
"Я знаю таких мужчин," Steele said softly. "И таких девочек. Всегда думаем, что мы особенные. Что можем их контролировать. Что сила принадлежит нам. Пока не просыпаемся и не видим на ней серийный номер."
I know men like him. And I know girls like you. We always think we're different. That we can control them. That our power's our own. Until the day we wake up and realize it's got a serial number.
"I'm not you," Angel said sharply.
"Нет," Steele admitted. "Ты всё ещё молода, чтобы в это верить."
No. You're still young enough to believe it.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the hum of the fluorescent light overhead, a perfect corporate buzz.
Then Angel's tone changed — quieter, steadier. "You think I don't see what Hyperion's doing? You think I don't know how dangerous it is? The difference is, I have a choice."
Steele's eyebrow rose.
"Правда?"
Do you?
"I do." Angel's words came faster now, rising with conviction. "They didn't make me. They didn't convince me. I choose to help. I tell my dad when he's wrong. And he listens. I'm not being used — I'm making a difference."
For a moment, Steele almost laughed — not mockingly, but wistfully. "Ты правда в это веришь, да?"
You really believe that, don't you?
"I know it."
Steele closed her eyes. The scars along her hands itched — phantom burns from a lifetime of holding too much power. "Надеюсь, ты права, девочка. Если нет… закончишь как я. В коробке, пока кто-то другой пишет твою историю."
Then I hope you're right, kid. Because if you're not… you'll end up just like me. Sitting in a box while someone else writes your legacy.
The static flickered once more, and the ghostly light began to fade.
Angel's voice lingered, softer now. "We're not the same, you and I."
Steele didn't open her eyes. "Нет," she said. "Но я позволю тебе так думать."
No. But I'll let you believe it.
A quiet click echoed through the cell as the speaker powered down. The light dimmed.
Steele leaned her head back against the wall, exhaling slowly. "Дети нынче…" she muttered. "Всегда думают, что держат поводок."
Kids these days. Always think they're the ones holding the leash.
Oh, to be young.
...
You ever have one of those days where you save an entire planet before lunch, but people still act like you're the bad guy?
Yeah. That's today.
The data readouts in front of me glowed that classic Hyperion gold — bright, smug, beautiful. "HUMANITARIAN PACIFICATION INITIATIVE: 97% SUCCESS RATE."
I leaned back in my chair, kicked my boots up on the desk, and took a sip of coffee that cost more than most Pandoran homes.
"See that, sweetheart?" I said to Angel, who was patching in through the intercom. "That's what we call results."
Her hologram shimmered above the console, translucent blue, hands folded neatly. "Ninety-seven percent approval rating. Though… I'm not sure who we asked."
"Minor detail," I said, waving a hand. "Point is, it's working. Bandits are scattering, Atlas is choking on their own budget cuts, and for once in history, the Pandoran death toll's dropping. You know what that means?"
Angel tilted her head. "Less death?"
"It means we're making peace profitable. And that's the secret to sustainability, baby."
I tapped the next file open — schematic blueprints rotating above my desk. Sleek, circular, gleaming in orbit.
"Now, for phase two." I grinned. "Orbital support. Hyperion satellites watching every square inch of this dustball, twenty-four-seven. No blind spots, no sneak attacks, no idiots blowing up refineries because they 'didn't like the vibe.'"
Angel frowned. "You want to put eyes in the sky?"
"Sweetheart," I said, standing and pacing with all the charm of a man unveiling a masterpiece. "The trick to peace is altitude. You can't argue with someone who owns the sky."
"Or someone who watches it," came a voice from behind me.
Roland. Of course. He was the only guy on Pandora who could break into a Hyperion-secure office without setting off alarms. Probably because I'd told Angel not to stop him.
He stood in the doorway, armor dusted from travel, eyes like someone who hadn't slept since the last apocalypse.
"That's not peace," he said flatly. "That's surveillance."
I smiled wide. "Exactly! We'll keep 'em safe by watching everything they do. Hyperion Solutions — bringing safety to the solar system!"
He didn't laugh. He rarely did.
"You're crossing lines again, Jack."
"Roland, buddy, come on." I gestured grandly at the screens. "You and me — we're doing good work here. We're cleaning up the mess Atlas left behind. You know how many civilians Hyperion's saved in the last two months alone? Hundreds! Thousands! You think Atlas would've used non-lethal munitions? Hell no! They'd have nuked a village to prove a point."
He crossed his arms. "You're not listening. You're repeating the same script, just with a shinier logo."
"Oh, please. I haven't asked you to do anything against your morals." I leaned across the desk, lowering my voice — all sincerity and salesmanship. "We saved Pandora from the Destroyer. We're dismantling what's left of the Crimson Lance. We're not the bad guys here, okay? We're fixing things. Together."
He stared at me for a long moment. I could see him calculating, the soldier in him warring with the idealist. Finally, he said, "You're 'fixing things' by freezing anyone who disagrees with you."
"Hey, non-lethal freezing," I said quickly. "Cryo rounds. Temporary paralysis, minor frostbite, nothing major! Look, wars are messy, but I'm sparing the civilians, right? Bandits are the only ones getting hit — and honestly, have you met bandits? If anything, we're performing a public service."
His jaw tightened. "You always have a justification."
"Yeah, because I'm always right! Look, I get it. You're angry, upset, and you deserve to feel that way. You've been burned by some pretty shitty people in the past, and now it feels like you're falling into old patterns, and you want someone to blame. But Roland, I'm not that guy. We want the same thing!"
Silence stretched. He didn't argue, which was weird. Roland always argued. Instead, he walked to the holo-display, eyes scanning the satellite schematics.
"What is that?" he asked. "Those aren't standard Hyperion platforms."
I smiled, couldn't help myself. "Oh, this? Little corporate espionage magic. Some weird Atlas subfile just… fell into my lap."
"Atlas had your designs?"
"Yeah, I know, right? Crazy. These plans—" I tapped the display, rotating the model. "—are for a prototype Hyperion satellite. A self-sustaining orbital base. You know, a place for the company to run operations from. Safer than New Haven. Cleaner. Higher. More… godlike, y'know?"
Roland frowned. "How'd Atlas even get their hands on this?"
I shrugged. "Who knows? Probably some bean-counter selling blueprints to pay for a nice yacht. Point is, I got them back. And we're gonna make 'em ours."
Angel's voice buzzed quietly in my earpiece, too low for Roland to hear. "Dad."
"Not now, sweetheart."
"Dad, I'm tracing the subfile you uploaded. The data encryption—it's familiar."
"Okay, just, one second, Angel." I kept smiling at Roland, still in pitch mode. "You get it, right? If we want peace, we need a proper base. I can't exactly rebuild civilization from a tent with a vending machine… we're in this together, Roland. If you're not a hundred percent on board, let me know what we're doing wrong, and how we can make it right, okay?"
Roland sighed, rubbing his temples. "Just… don't turn this into another arms race."
"Hey, if everyone's too terrified to shoot, that's peace."
"Jack—"
"Kidding. Seriously though," I held up a finger. "You worry too much. Trust me, everything's under control."
Angel's voice cut sharper. "Dad, it's not Atlas. The encryption signature… it's different."
I turned slightly, pressing my finger to my ear to read her better. "Then whose is it?"
A flicker of hesitation on her end. "It's… orbital. Signal's bouncing off a satellite already in place. The origin point isn't planetary."
I frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Angel said slowly, "someone's watching us back."
For a second, my confidence faltered — just a flicker, a blip. Then I smirked, covering the unease. "Good," I said. "Maybe they'll learn something."
Like why spying on me is a really, really bad idea.
I unmuted Roland and clapped him on the shoulder. "Now! Where were we? Oh, right — saving the planet. You in?"
He gave me a look that could curdle coffee. But he didn't say no.
That was good enough for me.
As he left, I turned back to the hologram of the satellite — Project Helios. The name flashed golden at the bottom of the schematics, like a promise.
High orbit, fully automated, heavily armed, and self-sufficient. The future of Hyperion.
And if someone was already watching us from up there…
Well. I'd make sure they knew exactly who owned the sky.
...
Birds.
Birds are the ones who own the sky. If man were meant to fly, we would have been born with jetpacks.
Anyways! That's it for today's chapter! Hope you all enjoyed! Be sure to check out My Patreon, if you want to read ahead, link below:
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