Handsome Jack: The Hero?

[Mad King Kevin]

Chapter 32: Operation: Tea Party

You ever notice that every "serious military briefing" starts with people pretending they're not hungover? Yeah. We didn't even bother pretending.

The mission board was supposed to be glowing behind me, projecting all kinds of top-secret intel about Atlas troop positions and asset deployments. Instead, it was just flashing Moxxi's drink menu in obnoxious neon because someone—probably me—accidentally synced it to her POS system.

"Alright, Hyperion Task Force!" I slam a hand down on the bar like I'm in charge, which technically I am, but Moxxi's the one behind the counter, which technically means I'm not. "Today's operation is officially titled—uh—'Operation Tea Party.' Because our next target apparently has a weird obsession with porcelain cups and the British Empire, may it rest in capitalism."

Lilith, leaning against the counter with a glass that's half whiskey, half contempt, raises an eyebrow. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was, Lilith. I hate British people." Driving on the wrong side of the road, metric-system using freaks. "But, intel says this so-called lady throws a tea ceremony every day at four p.m. sharp, and if you interrupt it, he considers that an act of war. So guess what time we're attacking?"

"Four?"

"Bingo."

Moxxi, bless her opportunistic little heart, claps her hands. "A toast then! To war, and tips!"

Before I can stop her, she's already lining up shot glasses. A lot of shot glasses. The kind of lineup that'd make a Siren reconsider her liver situation.

"And who's paying for this one?" Mordecai asks with a hopeful grin.

Moxxi smirks, slides the tab across the counter to me, and winks. "Hyperion's covering it, sugar."

I glance down. There are so many zeros that I briefly consider faking my own death. "You mean I'm covering it."

"Same difference, handsome."

Would Scooter be mad at me if I burned down his mother's business? It'd be so easy. So much flammable material…

Lilith chuckles low under her breath, that kind of half-laugh people do when they're enjoying your suffering but don't want to look too obvious about it. "I'm starting to like her."

I shoot her a glare. "You would."

Meanwhile, Brick's already two martinis deep, holding both glasses like he's dual-wielding alcohol. "These taste like feelings!" he shouts, then crushes one of the glasses in his hand. Blood drips between his fingers. He doesn't notice.

Mordecai is trying to share his beer with Bloodwing, who looks like she'd rather dive into a volcano. "C'mon girl, just one sip!"

She screeches and takes off, knocking over two stools.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You know, sometimes I think—just sometimes—that I'm the only adult in this room."

Lilith tilts her glass. "You sure you want to include yourself in that statement?"

"I'm the designated genius, not the designated driver." I raise my own shot glass, filled with something Moxxi assures me is safe for human consumption. The smell alone suggests otherwise. "Alright, people! We're hitting Atlas's tea freak at 1600 hours sharp. The goal is simple: disrupt his operation, capture his data, and—most importantly—don't let Brick eat any of the fine china this time."

Brick pauses mid-drink. "No promises."

"Good. I love a challenge." I toss back my shot, which burns through my throat like someone weaponized regret.

Moxxi leans across the counter, close enough that her perfume's basically a concussion grenade. "Try not to blow up my customers again, sugar. Took me three weeks to rebuild the last bar."

"That wasn't my fault!"

And it really wasn't. Was I a little overzealous when it came to protecting New Haven from an invading army with rockets? Yes. But in my defense, there was an invading army. Feels pretty justified.

Lilith's face went blank. "You threw a grenade because the jukebox skipped, last week."

This was also justified.

"It was off-beat, okay?"

The group bursts into laughter, the kind that's half camaraderie, half chaos. I can't help but grin too — these idiots are my idiots. My unofficial, underfunded, semi-competent strike team. I'd die for them. Probably will.

Moxxi slides me the final receipt just as we're heading out. I glance down. The total's higher than some corporate ransom notes I've written.

"Hey, Mox, can I—"

"No tabs, sugar." She blows me a kiss. "I run a business, not a charity."

I check my wallet. Empty. Not metaphorically. Literally. There's a moth in there, and even it looks disappointed.

Lilith catches the look on my face as we head for the door. "How broke are you, exactly?"

"I'm not broke," I say defensively. "I'm just… aggressively solvent in negative space."

Not a lot of ATMs on Pandora, and I only keep so much cash on hand. It's just not safe to keep more than a small-business's worth! You could be robbed! Or forced to pay for another round of drinks!

She laughs, pushing open the door. Sunlight pours in, harsh and hot, cutting through the smell of gun oil and cheap liquor. "You know, for a guy who owns a corporation, you sure act like you're one missed paycheck away from robbing a vending machine."

"I already did rob a vending machine." I holster my pistol with an exaggerated spin. "For morale purposes."

Brick bursts through the door behind us, roaring, "TO MORAL!" and punches the frame so hard the whole building shakes.

"Close enough," I mutter.

As the crew loads up onto the buggy convoy outside — Mordecai half-asleep in the gunner seat, Brick wrestling a crate of grenades labeled "CUP BREAKERS," and Lilith sliding into the passenger seat next to me — I glance back at the bar.

Moxxi's leaning against the doorway, smiling that smile that says she's already won.

"Don't get yourselves killed," she calls. "I don't refund funerals."

"Noted!" I call back. "Hyperion's a proud supporter of posthumous debt collection!"

She laughs, waves, and disappears back inside.

I sigh, slide into the driver's seat, and slap my empty wallet onto the dash. "Nonprofit leadership's overrated," I mutter.

Lilith smirks. "You say that every time."

"Yeah, and it keeps getting truer." I hit the ignition, and the engine growls like a drunk skag waking up from a nap. "Alright, people! Let's go civilize a tea party."

The convoy roars to life — dust, laughter, and the faint sound of Moxxi's jukebox fading behind us. And for one perfect, stupid moment, everything feels right.

… Oh, shit. I hope I didn't just jinx it.

...​

There were a lot of stupid things Lilith had seen built on Pandora—guns that screamed, vending machines that insulted you, an entire cult devoted to a refrigerator once—but this was the first time she'd assaulted a fortress shaped like a teapot.

Steam hissed from vents that looked like decorative spouts. Porcelain-white plating gleamed under the sun. A huge handle curved off one side, doubling as a watchtower. Someone had even painted little blue flowers around the rim.

Lilith stared through her scope. "Please tell me that's not our target."

Roland, crouched beside her, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Intel says Lieutenant Beatrix Charrington converted an Atlas base to her 'aesthetic.' "

"Her aesthetic?"

"Tea," Roland said flatly. "Remeber? Apparently she's royalty. Or thinks she is."

Over comms, Jack's voice crackled, far too chipper. "See, this is what happens when you privatize monarchy. Just let me be a prince already, damn you!"

Lilith groaned. "Jack, focus."

"I am focusing. I'm also coordinating three Hyperion drones to raid her pantry. Once we steal her tea, I'm dumping it in the nearest harbor... As soon as I find a harbor on this waterless planet. History repeats itself, baby!"

Mordecai snorted. "You're gonna start a revolution over caffeine?"

"Over taxation without intoxication."

Brick flexed beside them, wearing something frilly and white around his neck. "This thing itches."

Lilith glanced over. "Why are you wearing a cravat?"

Roland's expression suggested deep internal suffering. "Rule Number Three of 'Queen's Law.' Beatrix's broadcast said, and I quote, 'All combatants shall be properly attired for afternoon conflict.' "

"Brick volunteered," Mordecai added helpfully.

"I thought it was a choking weapon," Brick said, sullenly.

Lilith sighed. "Fine. Let's get this over with before I lose brain cells from secondhand pretension."

...​

They moved out, boots crunching over sand and shattered saucers. Automated turrets sculpted like sugar spoons rotated toward them, their barrels gleaming gold.

The first round of gunfire erupted—except nothing hit. A deep GONG! rang from somewhere inside the fortress, and the turrets instantly powered down.

A woman's voice echoed through loudspeakers, crisp and offended.

"Excuse me! Rule Number One clearly states: no shooting before the Gong of Etiquette! How dreadfully uncouth!"

Lilith blinked. "Did… did she just scold us mid-fight?"

Roland muttered, "Welcome to my personal hell."

The fortress doors opened, and out strode Beatrix Charrington herself—Atlas insignia polished, posture flawless, pinky finger extended even while holding a pistol. She wore gleaming crimson armor trimmed in lace and a hat large enough to shade a small moon.

"My dear intruders," she announced, "if you insist on hostilities, we shall proceed under Queen's Law! Tea service shall accompany every duel!"

Behind her, soldiers rolled out silver trays piled with porcelain cups and tiny sandwiches.

Lilith stared. "Is this a joke?"

Beatrix leveled her pistol, nose high. "Civilization demands decorum, Miss Lilith. Now, one lump or two?"

Brick roared and charged. "THREE!"

He barreled straight through a table, scattering teacups like shrapnel. Beatrix gasped as if he'd punched the Queen herself.

"Scandalous!" she shrieked. "Someone fetch the cravat enforcer!"

Gunfire erupted again—half bullets, half teapots hurled like grenades. Lilith phased out, blinking across the courtyard in a flare of flame. She reappeared behind a barricade, levitating a tea tray as a makeshift shield. Cups orbited her like satellites, clinking gently as she redirected sniper shots.

"Roland, tell me we're getting hazard pay for this," she said, vaporizing a turret.

"Hyperion doesn't do hazard pay," he grunted, returning fire. "They call it 'character development.' "

"Figures."

"Don't diss the perks, people! Think of all the character you're building!" Over the comm, Jack's voice chimed again. "Oh! Quick update! My drones are in position, and I'm 90 percent sure we've liberated her Earl Grey. You guys doing okay down there?"

Roland ducked as a saucer exploded over his head. "Define 'okay.' "

"Cool, cool. Also, Brick? Try not to destroy too much infrastructure, we might be able to salvage—"

BOOM.

A massive plume of steam erupted where the teapot's spout used to be. Brick stood in the middle of it, laughing maniacally, holding the smoking remains of a cannon.

"DECAF THIS!" he bellowed.

Lilith winced as shards of porcelain rained around them. "He's learning new catchphrases. That's never good."

Beatrix staggered back, hair frizzed from the explosion. "Barbarians! You've desecrated afternoon tea!"

"Lady," Lilith said, lighting her palms with fire, "you're lucky I haven't started on brunch."

Roland finally stood, dusting off his armor, eyes twitching. "That's it. No more rules, no more etiquette, no more tea."

He pulled the pin on a grenade and lobbed it neatly into the massive spout hole.

Beatrix gasped, horrified. "Scandalous!"

The explosion answered for them—steam vented in every direction, the handle-tower collapsing like a kicked kettle. Soldiers dove for cover as boiling water and smoke filled the air.

When the noise died down, the courtyard was littered with half-melted saucers and the smell of burnt chamomile.

Lilith coughed through the haze, stepping over a puddle that was suspiciously bergamot-scented. "Well. That's one way to steep victory."

Roland gave her a look. "Did you just make a tea pun?"

"Blame proximity exposure." Lilith sighed, watched the fortress crumble, steam curling into the bright Pandora sky, and muttered, "Next time, can we raid something normal? Like a bandit den or a skag pit?"

Roland shook his head. "With Jack in charge? Not a chance."

Jack, who was still listening over the comms, apparently, defended himself. "Hey! I'll have you know Part 1 of Operation Tea Party was totally successful! God save the Queen, and long live corporate synergy!"

Lilith frowned. "I'm sorry, did you say 'Part 1?'"

"Uh… well, we still kinda have to breach the lower levels, and all. So…"

Well. Looks like Tea Time's back on.

...​

There were many things Brick didn't understand.

Quantum mechanics. Subtlety. The dichotomy between good and evil.

But there was one thing he did understand—sugar.

Sweet, crunchy, energy-making sugar. And the moment he stumbled into the lower decks of the teapot fortress and saw the mountain of it stacked floor to ceiling in neat Atlas crates labeled "RAFFINED CAFFEINATED SWEETENER (DO NOT INGEST RAW)," Brick knew he had found paradise.

He blinked slowly, eyes widening. "Candy cubes."

He grabbed a handful. Then another. Then another. Somewhere between "handful" and "industrial scoop," his brain decided this counted as lunch.

By the time Lilith's voice crackled faintly over the comm—"Brick? You're supposed to be clearing out the south wing, not—whatever you're doing down there"—he was sitting cross-legged in the sugar pile, both hands buried to the elbows, face white with powder like some deranged pastry ghost.

"Busy," he mumbled through a mouthful. "Science."

Then he felt it.

The rush.

His heart rate tripled. His veins hummed like jump cables. His pupils shrank to pinpricks, then expanded to the size of dinner plates. His thoughts dissolved into a single, glorious truth:

EVERYTHING WAS POSSIBLE.

...​

"Uh, Mordy?" Lilith said from her perch above the courtyard. "You feel that tremor?"

Mordecai adjusted his goggles. "Yeah. Kinda rhythmic. Like an earthquake with biceps."

A section of the fortress wall below exploded outward in a plume of dust and ceramic shards. Brick burst through it, sugar-white and grinning like a man possessed.

"DEEEEECAF THIIIIIIS!" he roared, punching another wall before anyone could ask questions.

The wall obeyed by ceasing to exist.

Lilith stared. "He's not supposed to glow like that, right?"

Mordecai whistled. "Look at him go. That's five points for wall penetration!"

Brick spun in a perfect circle and uppercut an unfortunate Hyperion loader that had wandered too close. "PARDON?" it chirped politely before detonating into confetti and boiling tea.

Brick laughed. "HE SAID PARDON!"

Lilith blinked through the settling steam. "You sure you didn't give him actual explosives?"

Mordecai shrugged. "Eh, Brick is an explosive."

...​

Yes…

Yes, he is.

Jack chose that exact moment to stroll into the chaos, wearing sunglasses, coat flaring, and looking way too proud of himself for someone standing inside an imploding fortress.

"See that?" he shouted over the carnage, firing a lazy wrist-mounted laser that neatly disintegrated a turret. "That's leadership! Pure, raw, marketable energy!"

Lilith shouted back, "He just drank his own body weight in caffeine!"

Jack grinned. "Exactly! I'm gonna bottle that and sell it as a motivational drink! 'BRICK ENERGY: PUNCH YOUR LIMITS!' I'll make billions!"

Brick didn't hear him. Brick was one with the sugar.

He tore through a line of Atlas droids, grabbed a metal beam, and swung it like a cricket bat. The droids went flying. "FOUR! SIX! I DON'T KNOW SPORTS!"

Lilith ducked as a flaming gear wheel sailed over her head. "Roland's gonna kill him."

Mordecai sipped from a half-cracked teacup. "Nah, he'll lecture first. Then kill him."

"Brick doesn't listen to lectures."

"Exactly."

...​

Inside the fortress, things had devolved into a caffeine-induced opera. Brick barreled through the halls, shouting war cries that were, generously, only about half words.

"TEA IS JUST HOT LEAF SOUP!"

"COFFEE IS FOR COWARDS!"

"SUGAR IS THE FUTURE!"

Each declaration came with the sound of a fist hitting something that shouldn't have been hit.

At one point, he burst through a storeroom full of tea barrels and started drinking them directly from the spout. When that proved inefficient, he picked up the entire barrel and hurled it at the ceiling.

It came down in pieces. Brick cheered. "GRAVITY WORKS!"

Over comms, Jack was cackling. "I'm serious, people, this is inspirational. We need a theme song. Someone record him. Mordy, you recording?"

"Already am," Mordecai said, adjusting a small camera drone on his shoulder. "Gonna edit it into a highlight reel later. Slow motion. Add sparkles."

Lilith groaned. "We're supposed to be professionals."

Mordecai blinked. "We are?"

...​

The sugar rush reached critical mass around the time Brick discovered the tea silo.

It was a colossal storage chamber, easily fifty feet tall, filled with powdered leaves and labeled "RESERVE SUPPLY – DO NOT DESTROY."

Brick read the sign. Then he smiled, slow and terrible.

"Challenge accepted."

He ran full tilt at the silo, shoulder-first. It wobbled, groaned, and then—because Pandora obeyed no physics except comedic timing—it collapsed like a waterfall of tea.

The dust cloud that followed could've been seen from orbit.

When it finally settled, the floor was coated in a thick layer of damp leaves, and Brick was buried up to his neck, still grinning, still humming a tune that might've been the Hyperion jingle.

...​

Above, Lilith leaned on the parapet, staring at the devastation. "So… we won, right?"

Roland's voice came through the comms, tired beyond reason. "Define 'won.'"

"Brick's alive. The base isn't."

"Then yes," Roland sighed, "we won."

Jack was laughing like a man at a casino. "Perfection! You can't buy this kind of morale boost! …Well, actually, you can, and I will! This is gold! Hyperion's going to love this footage!"

Lilith pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're insane."

"Correction," Jack said, "I'm a visionary."

Mordecai clapped Brick's shoulder as they dug him out of the tea sludge. "You good, buddy?"

Brick blinked. "Never better. Need nap. Or fight. Or nap-fight."

Lilith smirked. "That tracks."

Jack sauntered up, brushing tea dust off his coat. "Alright, team! Operation Tea Party: complete success! Brick, you've officially earned the first Hyperion Medal of Caffeinated Valor. Redeemable for one complimentary donut and half a health pack."

Brick frowned. "Can I punch the donut?"

Jack paused. "…You know what? Sure."

Brick grinned wide. "BEST. DAY. EVER."

...​

By the time they hauled him out completely, the once-pristine fortress was nothing but rubble and herbal carnage. The air smelled like scorched mint and victory.

Brick staggered toward the exit, humming, "Sugar, sugar, dun-dun-dun-duuuun," while Lilith and Mordecai trailed behind like tired babysitters.

Lilith muttered, "If he crashes on the way back, you're carrying him."

Mordecai took a sip from the tea she'd salvaged. "Nah, I'll just tape an energy drink to his face."

Behind them, Jack was already dictating notes into his Echo recorder.

"Brick Energy™—Guaranteed to make your heart explode from success. Slogan pending. Market test with focus group: kids, psychos, and psychotic kids."

Lilith looked back at the still-smoking crater. "Pandora's doomed."

Jack grinned. "Yeah. Isn't it great?"

...​

The air in New Haven still smelled like burnt tea and rocket fuel.

Roland really wished Jack had managed to find that harbor he was looking for, instead of dumping all that tea in their backyard. On the bright side, New Haven had a lake now. Down side, said lake tasted like a blend of earl grey, oolong, chamomile… frankly, too many flavors to count.

At least Dr. Tannis seemed happy. She'd called it a "hydrothermal herbal infusion of unprecedented scale."

He called it pollution.

The wreckage from the Atlas teapot fortress had been hauled back for salvage. Crates of half-melted porcelain sat beside the smoldering hull of a troop transport, forming the world's most awkward tea set. The whole thing felt like a fever dream — which, to be fair, had been most of his recent life.

Roland checked his Echo watch. Prisoner transfer was late. Again.

He turned as Marcus waddled toward him, dragging a crate of confiscated sugar with one hand and holding a cigar in the other. Behind him, two mechs escorted Lieutenant Beatrix Charrington, still somehow managing to look regal in cuffs, followed by Commandant Steele — looking, as always, like she'd rather chew her own gun than speak to anyone.

"Ah, the heroes of Pandora," Marcus said, voice dripping with mock ceremony. "You break it, I sell it, the circle of life continues."

Roland pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me you got her to talk this time."

Marcus shrugged. "Define 'talk.' She made noises."

Steele stopped in front of him, posture stiff. Her armor was scuffed and dulled, Hyperion insignia patched over the old Atlas red. She didn't look defeated so much as… bored.

"I'm still not sure why Jack thought you'd be useful," Roland said, folding his arms. Or why Roland did for that matter. The Commandant of Atlas, herself. Strong, powerful, pulsing with authority.

Turned overgrown teenager. Cynical, grim, moody, and loathe as he was to use the word, downright emo. No wonder Jack couldn't get a peep out of her. No one could. Roland reverts merely trying, if only because he was dreading the 'I told you so' he was bound to get from his boss, later.

"Because I was," she replied flatly. "You just weren't listening."

Marcus interjected in his rough accent, translating unnecessarily. "She say, you are dumb man who does not listen."

Roland gave him a look. "She spoke English that time, Marcus."

"I know," Marcus said, puffing smoke. "But it sounds funnier this way."

Beatrix sniffed behind them. "This entire planet is barbaric. I demand tea service before interrogation."

Marcus glanced at her cuffs. "You can drink from puddle, yes? It's mostly tea now."

Roland ignored the exchange and turned back to Steele. "You've seen what's left of Atlas. The teapot base, the command outposts, everything. I'm not asking for secrets anymore. I just want to know — can Atlas still be saved?"

Steele's eyes flickered with something — contempt, nostalgia, maybe both. She answered in rapid Russian, voice low and steady. Marcus translated, his expression unusually serious.

"Atlas never dies. It just changes faces."

Roland let out a slow exhale. "That supposed to be comforting?"

"Not really," Marcus said. "But it's good slogan. Maybe I use it."

Roland looked past the prisoners to the horizon — to where Jack's ship had just vanished into the clouds, taking the rest of the crew with it. "Guess we'll see whose logo it wears next," he murmured.

Marcus shrugged. "Who cares? Business is business."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Roland muttered, half to himself.

He signed the transfer pad as Steele and Beatrix were led onto a transport. The engines whined to life, lifting the prisoners skyward toward Hyperion HQ — where Jack would undoubtedly make an even bigger mess of things.

The wind kicked up around him, carrying the faint smell of burnt sugar. From somewhere nearby, Brick could be heard snoring in the ruins, still covered in powdered caffeine dust. Mordecai was trying to convince Bloodwing not to steal Beatrix's hat.

And Lilith—

Roland spotted her across the square, hands on her hips, laughing at something Jack must've said over comms before leaving. For a second, he felt something like relief. They'd won this one. Barely.

He checked his watch again, sighed, and finally allowed himself a half-smile.

"Maybe this planet's not completely cursed," he said.

Marcus flicked his cigar into the tea lake. It hissed, releasing an oddly floral scent. "Give it time."

...​

You'd think after a full day of tea-based warfare, caffeine overdoses, and Brick literally screaming "DECAF THIS" while punching a mech in half, I'd have earned a break.

You'd be wrong.

Because somehow, I let Lilith convince me to spend my evening back at Moxxi's — the only bar in Pandora where the drinks are overpriced, the floor's sticky, and the owner winks at you like she's charging by the glance.

"C'mon, Jack," Lilith said, tossing herself onto the stool across from me. "You promised to teach me poker."

"I also promised to pay off the tab from last time," I muttered, eyeing the 'Credit Due: Handsome Jack – 2,341$' written in lipstick on the wall. "I make a lot of bad promises."

Moxxi slinked past with a tray of neon cocktails. "You make it worth my while, sugar."

Lilith smirked at her retreating form. "I'm starting to like her."

"Of course you are," I said, dealing out cards with the confidence of a man pretending not to be broke. "Alright, rules are simple. Poker's about probability, psychology, and most importantly—"

She flipped her first card. "Luck?"

I scowled. "Cheating. You've got to cheat smart."

She grinned. "Oh, I can do that."

We started small — two drinks in, and I was already explaining the concept of a straight for the fourth time. She nodded like she was learning something, all innocent smiles and glowing tattoos.

Then she cleaned me out in five hands.

"Wait—hold on," I said, counting the pile of chips that used to be mine. "You said you didn't know how to play!"

"I said I didn't play fair."

I pointed at her cards. "You're literally cheating!"

"You're literally part of the one percent," she fired back, downing the rest of her drink. "I think you can afford to lose a couple hundred." She leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "Maybe a couple thousand. We'll see where the night takes us."

"Wow," I said, pressing a hand to my chest. "That's the most romantic threat I've heard all week."

She flicked her fingers idly, and the edge of my next card turned to ash before I could flip it.

I stared. "Did you just—?"

"Accidentally," she said, not even pretending to hide her smirk.

"Uh-huh. You 'accidentally' incinerated the one card that would've given me a full house."

"You should've played faster."

"Unbelievable," I muttered. "You are literally setting fire to the rules."

"That's my brand," she said.

...​

By the time Moxxi switched the lights to "romantic low-glow" (aka "power bill unpaid"), we were the only ones left. Mordecai had stumbled out after losing a drinking contest to himself. Brick was snoring in a corner booth, face buried in an empty sugar crate.

The jukebox sputtered to life on its own, playing something tinny and vaguely jazzy.

Lilith leaned back, watching me shuffle another hand. "You always like this after a win?"

"I didn't win," I said automatically.

"Really?" she asked, arching a brow. "Because I just watched you spend three hours pretending to teach me poker when your only goal was to stare at me across the table."

"Excuse me," I said, very professionally. "It's called multitasking."

Her grin softened, though her eyes still sparkled with that mischievous glow.

"You ever not perform?" she asked.

"What, me?" I laughed. "I'm a leader. Everything I do is performance." To be clear, my performance is au natural, no enhancements or supplements required.

She reached across the table and flicked my wrist, just lightly. "You're allowed to drop the act once in a while, y'know."

For a moment, I didn't say anything. The lights buzzed overhead. Moxxi's neon sign outside painted everything pink.

And through the cracked window, Pandora's night sky glittered — distant stars, satellites, probably some lost rockets still orbiting. The kind of view that made you forget, briefly, that this planet was a disaster zone.

"You know…" I said, voice quieter than I expected. "Maybe we really can fix this place."

She tilted her head, curious.

"Pandora," I said. "The corps, the bandits, the whole psychotic ecosystem. Maybe if we keep pushing… if we actually work together…"

Lilith's smile was faint, but genuine. "One tea party at a time?"

I laughed. "Yeah. Something like that."

...​

The silence that followed wasn't awkward — just… calm.

For once, there weren't alarms blaring or explosions going off in the distance. Just her, me, and the low hum of the bar lights.

She idly drew shapes in the condensation on her glass — little arcs that flared faintly orange. I watched her hand move, thinking about how bizarrely normal this felt.

"How's Angel?" she asked suddenly.

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Your daughter," she said. "She's been patching your comms all day. I figured she'd tell you to get some rest."

Almost on cue, Angel's voice buzzed through my earpiece, deadpan as ever.

"Yeah, no. I heard you guys flirting… for hours. I was being polite, but just in case this goes um… further, I'm muting this channel for the safety of my own innocence."

The line clicked off.

Lilith snorted. "She's got you pegged."

"Don't start," I said, pouring the last of the whiskey between us. "You were totally flirting first."

"I was winning first," she corrected.

"Yeah, well…" I gathered up the cards, shuffling them lazily. "Still counts as my win if my opponent's hot enough."

She leaned forward, eyes half-lidded, voice low. "Careful, Jack. Keep talking like that, and you'll start sounding almost human."

"Don't threaten me with personal growth," I said.

Her laugh — real, unguarded — echoed through the empty bar.

We played one more round. I lost again. Didn't care.

Outside, the stars shimmered faintly through the haze, and for the first time all day, the world didn't seem like such a bad place to rebuild.

...​

(The following author's note if brought to you by Christmas! Which was when I wrote this author's note)

'Twas the season of cheer and late-night reads,

Of plot twists, bad choices, and narrative needs.

If waiting a week makes you grumble and sigh,

There is a small shortcut I won't quite deny.

A dollar a month gets one chapter ahead,

Five bucks gets you five (yes, that's what I said).

No pressure, no paywall — it's all free in time,

Just earlier peeks for a modest coin climb.

So whether you lurk, or decide to partake,

Thanks for the reads — and the time that you take.

Happy Holidays, and whatever you do…

May your faves update often — and cliffhangers be few.

— Mad King Kevin

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