Chapter Text
That laser is really starting to get on his nerves. It rumbles the ground, shaking the frame of Concordia as he jogs down to Springs’, swinging inside just as the blast tapers off. Winding cracks splinter off from the center hole with blistering violet that burns to look at for too long. He struggles to pull his eyes away.
"There's our favorite Hero! Finally made your way back to me, ay?" she's standing over her desk, looking over some modification prints for her buggy design. Her office, attached to the larger estate-sale esque business, is quaint, two bolted together chairs sat in front of her large, hand crafted desk. Filing cabinets and display cases of different sized wrenches adorn the walls, busied with familial looking pictures of her and groups of people he doesn't recognize. Most of them seem planet-side, the backgrounds filled with lush greenery and bright blue skies. Only a handful of them sport Elpis' signature wasteland.
"Sorry it took so long, some stuff got in the way" he didn't check himself for any remains of the Meriff, so he's hoping he doesn't look too frightening of a sight, "how you settling in?"
"Pretty damn well, considering. Took forever to lug all my stuff back here- but welcome to the official re-opening of 'Springs' Emporium O Stuf'! There was another 'f', but that fell off awhile ago"
"It's nice seeing you in an actual shop" people mingle in the aisles just outside the cracked door, large window opened up to the main stage room blocked with janky, deep green blinds. Each made up of metal fold up tables that are covered with scrap parts, repair kits, guns, and buggy designs designs.
"Well, if you and those friends of yours can stop that big scary laser, I'm hoping to keep it. That boss of yours, Jack? He called ahead and said you were after some military A.I.?"
"Mhm, you know where to score one?"
"Not on me, unfortunately, but I know you're next best bet- he's a mate of mine. Little ankle-biter named Pickle, he lives in the Outlands. Usually, he's near impossible to reach, little guy likes being kept hidden. We're in luck though, he seems to have been held up in the same place for awhile now- here, take this" digging around in her desk, she tugs free another contraption from the depths of the cramped drawer, propping herself happily across the desk as he takes it.
It's long and angular, sharp edges adorned with stark white and black crevices. Definitely doesn't look like it belongs in a place like Concordia, "It's a scrambler- it'll make more sense once you're out there"
"Thanks"
"Anytime!" she waves him off, only stopping momentarily by one of Marcus' machines, he fills up his ammo stock and checks out the new racks of firearms.
None of them catch his eye, except for a better grenade mod, nabbing that he sells his old one before chucking the rest of his findings as well. Yeesh, he had not realized he'd picked up so many scrap guns and equipment.
He might have a problem.
He walks away with heavy pockets and a smile on his face, braving the cold of the moon with much more confidence then he did before. The small, bolded lines of his objective ding across his HUD attached to Springs' voice a moment later, directing him as he digistructs up a buggy.
"You'll need a stingray to get across to Pickle's place, I can help you find one"
"Like, the animal?" he jokes, but he notes a string of familiarity with the word. He's heard it before, but it was awhile ago, even before Pandora.
Farther back, around his Tantalus days when he was more fitted as an arms dealer for blue-collar dads and a gun for fire for politicians. About when he'd sworn off company work for the foreseeable future. Too bad he hadn't seen this far ahead.
Nostalgia nestles in his brain, the bright sun and massive beaches of the planet a nice break from he jungle monster-infested places he was used to. He did enjoy his time there, even if it didn't last long in the approaching, and very much so, devastating war.
Dahl had ruined that too.
"It's old Dahl tech, pretty standard fair for tundra travel- that is until Moxxi mussed with the design, now they jump like a kraggon in heat-" don't say that, "the problem is, they ain't easy to get your meathunks on" don't say that either, "that scrambler I gave you, it'll. . . help you, get one. It'll unlock the digistruct console at the garage I've got you headed too. Once you're in, steal the prints, and you'll be able to cook those babies up wherever you please!" that one doesn't upset him as much but there was definitely a better way to say it.
The garage is startling close, and swarmed with scavs. Ugh, sounds like a disease. Or a really, really bad STD.
His new mod works wonders, leaving him laughing bordering on hysterics as it rolls into the crowd, blowing them to meat chucks that soar in the low-gravity, splattering against the side of the building with a satisfying squelch.
Past their still floating bites, the door is locked. That dampens his fun a bit.
"Hey, rings?" he catches her attention, "got a lock here, code of some kind, any ideas?" he could try and melt the door, corrosive festering in his hands. But the lock is different then the ones on Helios, or Concordia, not the type to unlock when destroyed but rather- glancing at the base of it- explode when tampered with. It's long, cylindrical, made up of four sliding keys and bolted to the wall with a glowing sense of 'I dare you to f*ck with me'. He'd rather not.
"Damn, had forgotten about that, sorry"
"You're good"
"Uh- If I've got my head screwed on right, the code should be eight-zero-zero-eight" he loves it here, no one takes anything seriously this is great, "glad the place still has power!"
"There was the possibility it wouldn't have had power?"
"Yep! But now we don't have to worry about that so don't even think about it" he's gonna consider it. The inside is barren, anything important packed up and taken with them when they turned tail and ran. Only blanked out documents, a few money filled boxes and half-filled ammo crates speak of their existence.
The bike is suspended in the center of the room, a spotlight displaying it to his astonished eye. He whistles a low tone, running a hand over it's side with a purr. It's pretty, the fancy hover tech bringing him back to the cyber planets far away but robust and rough enough to remind him of the jagged hills outside, "a beaut, ain't she? Dahl integrated Moxxi's fixes into the production line, they deny it, of course, but none of them coulda made this"
"Too bad she's so connected to the bar business, she could make one hell of a killing outta sh*t like this"
"Right? That's what I've tried to tell her but, doesn't seem to want to listen"
"Can't blame her, she's got a lot riding on that name of hers" the scrambler sparks into the slot along the side of the build console, scratching down the insides and whining as it turns, definitely not supposed to be there. The machine still whirls to life, the glitching blue only mildly concerning.
It works, which is all he needs, the digistruct fritzing halfway through and giving him a mini heart attack but it works, the bike resting on the digi-pad for him, awaiting command.
He’s only slightly worried it’ll blow up when he gets on it.
"There we go! Now you've got yourself a straight shot up to Pickle! Try not to crash on the way there, absolutely no padding on those babies" he can tell.
It's smooth, gliding over the terrain with little resistance, the bounce in the back thrusters softening his falls from the peaks. Good hover tech is hard to come by, no surprise Moxxi had a hand in it.
The jump tech is a bit janky, controls jostling in his grip, but with a firmer hand you get a better feel for it. He ramps across across the cracked cavern of lava, sliding into the transition station between here and the Outlands Canyon, "I've given him a heads up you're comin', hopefully that means he won't try to shoot you"
"I appreciate it- oh, and uh- thanks. For this" it's hard to hear his own voice over the rumble of the engine, "for helping us out and everything. I know it's a big ask"
"Eh, between dying in a horrific fiery explosion and helping some Hyperion snobs? I'll take the snobs" right inside is a vending platform, and an entrance to a town. Beside that is another massive lake of red with some very unstable looking rocks across it. He races past the vending platform out into the dust.
"Helping a whole hell of a lot more than snobs-" the transmission cuts, Springs' voice snipped off, replaced by the emotionless drivel from the Colonel.
"Vault Hunter, this is Colonel Zarpedon from the Lost Legion-"
"Yeah, I know" who else would be calling? Someone he actually likes? Absurd. He hops off the landing, kicking the thrusters on to soften the fall onto the first rock. It's rickety, wobbling under his weight. He eyes the edge of the nipping lava wearily. He works slowly across the fragmented stepping stones to the next cliff, "only idiot around here with that dumb of a name"
"Do you really find it the time for jokes?"
"Depends on if I can find a good punchline, I guess, but yeah, usually. What, am I not doing it for you?" that's too bad! Guess she'll have to find someone else to pester. How sad.
"I have no time for your childish games. Soon, Elpis will be rubble"
"Spooky" he kicks himself up to the cliff edge, finally out of the sweltering heat, "so, do you, like, get paid extra if you monologue ominously every time we talk or. . .?"
"I will be dead from the explosion, along with everyone on Elpis and most of those living on Pandora below"
"Bummer" he swings into a valley of nests, shooting through as many of them as possible, layering the ground with a thick layer of corrosive that drips from the boosters into the insect-infected ground. Goosebumps pinprick over his skin as he watches them crawl from holes, legs skittering across the ground as they scream. He can feel them on himself, even long after they're dead, "if you're so concerned about the lives being put at stake here then why the f*ck are you doing this? Hyperion hasn't done sh*t to you, and even if they have, which, trust me, I'd understand having a grudge over, nothing is enough to justify wiping out a whole planet! Never mind wiping out two! What you're doing is completely insane! Get your head out of your own ass and we can work this out without putting the lives of thousands of people at risk"
"I don't have a choice" his head is thrown back by the force of the groan that rips from his throat, so beyond annoyed that he's circled all the way back around to amused.
"Ohhh my God, of course you don't. Do you know how cliché that is? You know how stupid you sound right now, right? You have to. This isn't a f*cking movie, Zarpedon, real people- innocent people- are going to die because of you all for, what? Exactly? To 'save the universe'? Because-" he barks a laugh, "-I'll be honest, not as cool as it sounds, been there, done that. Not worth it"
"Sl33py-"
"Do not f*cking use my name" he bites at the hand she offers, sinking liquid death into her. Rotting the flesh and ripping it mangled and useless, mouth pulling back filled with infected blood.
"-I have seen you fight" she pulls it back, wraps it up, and presents it again, "seen your work. I respect your skill, your conviction. On any other day, I'd even agree with you, but I know what I must do, and if you agree to leave now, we can provide you with whatever you need to return home. Supplies, money, weaponry; anything. We will not follow you. Our involvement will end here, if you agree to surrender your allegiance to Hyperion. Is their opinion of you so important?"
"Eat me" he severs the connection completely, ripping the arm off and letting it sit in his jaw, corroding on his tongue. It sickens him with it's sweetness.
Cutting himself off from the biting bugs, he leaves the stingray at the base of the hill he stands before, his destination blinking at it's top. The last rumbles roll through his legs as the engine sputters to a stop, the wings curling beneath it's slender body as it powers down. He ducks under a hand-crafted metal sign, welded together with scraps of cars, buildings, and helmets formed crudely into the shape of a doorway into the scav town. He fights through to the other side, channeling the annoyance still stuck to his side into precise aim that crunches through thin skills and straight through the fatty meat of stomachs.
He can feel himself getting better at handling his guns in low-gravity, slowly but surely getting used to the moon's quirks.
He can do without any more surprises from this point, he's happy to get the kid, get what they need, and have the rest of this excursion be smooth sailing-
"Hey, it's Jack, right?" he freezes. Everything dims. The sun vanishes from sight, the weight of the blackened sky pressing in on his shoulders as the still air sucks him in, constricting the few pitiful breathes he attempts to wrench forth.
He feels bottomless, everything falling out from under him, ripped from his fingers rendering them splintered; burst open blood vessels and shattered bones clutched to his chest as he swallows thick, vicious venom, and blinks away what stings in his eyes, "the guy you're working for, his name is Jack? I know we had a bit of a. . .rocky meeting at the bar, but considering- and after Moxxi asked for our help- we agreed it was best to lend a hand. If you don't mind, that is" he's stuck, shin deep in mud that reeks nothing of the pits near his childhood home, instead the stench is of Earth.
Of dirt and rainwater that clogs his sinuses, blocking out his vision with rain clouds that boom with thunder. With the crack of stone breaking around his neck, the roar of something otherworldly shaking him from his thoughts long enough to realize he's teared up. His hands pull away wet from his eyes, soft drizzle in his brain tainted salty.
He wipes them on his pants, frantic. As if it'll help.
She did.
She f*cking did.
She went to them.
The heroes.
Everyone's saviors.
Something wears, pulled taut and frayed. Something he can't pinpoint but something that he's felt wearing thin for the past year, whittled down each and every day just enough to notice but not enough to mention.
He can hear his hands shake, gun rattling in his grip, so- ashamed, embarrassed, enraged or otherwise- he holsters it at his back to stop the sound.
It's whole and consuming, the way Roland's words brutalize him, the way they rake over him, leaving him raw and pouring ungrateful scarlet. His throat aches. Everything aches. His joints feel sore, his body tired and mind eerily silent. He feels awkward, words fading as they fail to pry themselves from his mouth, drifting into the air uselessly. He cracks his knuckles, hands wrung together painfully, rubbed red and pressed white. Chipped, painted black blunt nails dig into his skin, leaving crescent indents. He focuses on them.
'Forget 'em, they're not worth your time' Jack's voice a tether that keeps him to the moment, 'it's gonna be you and me'. The stale air that he drinks in hurts his lungs, pushing them to capacity and pressing at his stomach before he lets it out in a large huff that leaves him suffocating, the urge to drawn stronger than the urge to swim.
He does both.
"Any help is good, sorta in over our heads here. Anything you two can do will be appreciated and, yeah, it's Jack. Moxxi's ex, actually. Already had that awkward conversation, don't worry"
The second breath in doesn't hurt as bad.
It feels like stomach acid coming back up.
Roland's amused huff doesn't calm the same nerves it used to. It pets along his back in the wrong direction, pulling all his senses against their growth.
"Sorry we didn't listen to you earlier, didn't realize how big of an issue it was" of course they didn't.
"Don't blame you, I probably wouldn't have either" but he did.
"Lilith and I spotted some old Dahl industrial complexes dotted around the area, a scout around there could help with your hardware problem. We'll let you know what we find"
"Thanks" he feels disgusting, "I'll get Jack on the line. Keep me updated"
"As always, soldier" the silence stretches, sitting at the edge of the Zoomy station platform, staring out over the white, endless rock.
It stretches until his legs hurt, cramped and uncomfortable on the harsh ground. An oxygen bubble surrounds him with warmth, soft light from the top illuminating him against the harsh black sky of space.
Jack picks up quicker than anyone else. This time, he notices.
"Doesn't this usually go the other way around?" the smug smile accenting his word does little for his spirits. He tries, he wants it to- so desperately. More than anything he wants it to do something, eyes slipping closed imagining that he's next to him.
But he's still here.
And Jack's still there.
"Not today" even he can hear the exhaustion in his voice. Bite long gone, replaced with an airy sound of despondency that he cringes at.
"Whoa-whoa-whoa, who took the wind out of my alley cat's sails? What's going on down there? Something didn't go wrong, did it?"
"Not. . .technically" he fiddles with the buttons of his ECHO, brows pinched with his cheek stuck between his teeth. This is pathetic. He knows. He can see that. He shouldn't be brought to literal shaking tears because someone called him.
But he's terrified.
And he doesn't know why.
All he knows is that Jack helps.
Jack shouldn't help.
He isn't supposed to be doing this.
He's supposed to be the hero.
The strong one.
The scary one who loves his job.
Jack's best Vault Hunter who inspires terror not- not this.
Not the one that got hurt.
The one that got left behind.
Again.
And again.
The one that couldn't finish a job without stumbling, failing, coughing up blood or screaming himself raw with nightmares. That's not who he is. Not here. Not with Jack. Why does it have to be with Jack? "Roland and Lilith agreed to help"
". . .Oh" the strained, prolonged silence that follows shreds him. Rips him in twain and spills his guts, staining the ground a putrid green. He can hear the question in Jack's voice, what he wants to ask? He isn't sure, but he can hear it.
He starts and stops a few times, the gentle hum under his tongue alongside the squeak of his stolen chair filling the air for him. Maybe he doesn't know what he wants to ask either. He settles on one thing, though, ". . .did you ask them too?"
"No, Moxxi did" that one he has an answer for. He doesn't know if he would have had one for anything else.
"And they just? Agreed? Simple as that?"
"The giant laser sorta forced their hand a bit, but yeah" he strangles a laugh, "guess she's just that irresistible" he doesn't know who that's a dig at. Jack, for dating her, for himself, for being foolish enough to think he was family.
Both take it personally, no matter how he meant it, "said they found some old Dahl buildings they were gonna raid for bot parts, told 'em to keep me updated and that I'd get a hold of you so that's. . .what I'm doing. They'll probably call you sooner or later-" his head is in his hands, resting against the cool metal of his ECHO turned hot against his cheek.
"Whoa- hold on- slow your roll there, pumpkin, do you want them working with us?"
"Does that matter?"
"To me? Yeah"
"Why?" he doesn't mean to bite him. He really doesn't. The taste stuck to his teeth rancid and thoughtless. It smears against the roof of his mouth.
"Because you're my friend" it hurts, to hear him say it, punches through his chest leaving him winded, "-hopefully something more once this is over" he tacks on, "and if they're gonna be dicks to you, or get in your head, I don't want 'em. They weren't that concerned when Dahl was on our ass so why the hell should I want their help now? They left us as good as dead back there, they only care because they're at stake- who does that? I am asking your opinion, babe, you know them infinitely more than I do. So, do you think it's a good idea?"
He doesn't know.
He knows ash. He knows silence and nightmares. An ache that wastes away at his mind, rotting it in the dark of his home as the wind whistles outside. Beer heavy on his lips that tremble around tears.
He knows solitude and pain. Agony that festers under his skin, digging into scar tissue that chokes him. Hesitant words and whispered shouts outside hospital rooms he clawed his way out of before they were healed. His cuticles still bleeding as they dug into the Earth dragging him back to his bed.
He doesn't know them.
Not like how he thought he did.
Not how they were on the bus, hands outstretched towards him as a life-raft in the choppy waters that engulfed his life.
He knows one thing. A couple, if he's generous. He knows the sound of Moxxi's singing voice, the photos that fill Zed's scrapbook, the sound of Marcus' voice and the feeling of Scooter's couch. He knows greasy food and the crisp night air that entangled them on the walks home.
He knows Fyrestone. Pandora. His friends he longs to see again, the friends he can't put in danger because of shaking hands that he can't rub raw.
"No" he knows Jack. He knows that he helps, "but maybe that shouldn't matter. If they're willing to help, then they're willing to help. They're offering to take a bit of the load off my shoulders, I'm not gonna lie and say that doesn't sound nice" he shrugs, to no one, lemon-lime eyes catching on the reflecting metal of Helios' crown, watching the way the hidden sun frames it an idol worthy of worship, "Zarpedon isn't going to stop just because my old team are a bunch of assholes. Elpis, Pandora, Helios- you- are more important than some sh*t I should already be over. The job takes priority whether I like it or not so, no, I don't want to work with them, but I'd rather save the moon than my own feelings" he'd rather die knowing he tried, even if they didn't.
They can help. They can be the other guys. The ones who pick up the sh*t jobs and the errands, picking up rusted metal scraps out of bullet-ridden corpses and insect nests.
And he gets his Vault.
"God, you are being so hot right now" yeah, okay. It startles him so bad he bursts out laughing, remnants of his fear bouncing off of his shoulders as they shake with the force behind it, "I'm so serious!" Jack joins him, the light, fluttering sound clogging up the line, "this- this is what makes you a hero. What made me call you for this, made me positive you were the guy for the job. What made me like you so much in the first place" his heart skips, as cliché and overplayed as that is, it does. Jack's shield's hold still strong, protecting him more intimately than was intended, crowding him with the feeling of the other man.
A feeling he's been deprived of for longer than he's been on the moon. A feeling he's starting to crave, "if they wanna help, let 'em, but they better not think even for a second that they're getting a hand in our Vault. That baby is outs, after we get out army, we'll show 'em the door and that'll be the end of it"
"Deal"
"Good, and if they give you any trouble-"
"I'll take care of it"
"See? That- willing to do whatever is needed for the job. Initiate. Scary as all hell initiative- it's going on the list"
"You're ridiculous" he stands, brushing himself off. His hands aren't shaking.
A figure, small in stature and erratically waving, calls his attention up the winding metal path to the top. Pickle, "I gotta go, about to meet up with the guy who's gonna get us that A.I. but- uh. . .thanks. For distracting me. I needed that" he adjusts his bag, wiping at anything still stuck to his face as he grows closer and closer to the smaller man, who stands with a hand on his hip; impatient.
Jack sighs, ending in a smile. He can hear it. Feel it in the sun rays that rest across his mind, breaking through the storm.
"Anything for you, alley cat" the click of their call ending is softer then the rest. He holds onto it for as long as he can.
The kid calls out for him.
"Oy! You the one Springs warned about?"
"And only" he hopes. He's young, frighteningly so, twelve at the absolute oldest. He holds back an inquiry about why he's here. Judging by the state of the place, it's no reason good.
Any identifying features are concealed by a thick helmet, the black void of his visor blocking anyone from getting a close look at him. Smart. He's wearing a standard issued space suit, outfitted with thick booster boots and an attached bag on his hip, stuffed full with stolen bites and pieces from the ships around. The suit's been dyed, looks like, to a muted black that bleeds gray where the stark white fabric didn't take. He leads him deeper into his encampment, misspelled signs littering the entrance.
Definitely not a good reason.
Maybe nine. At the youngest.
"Glad to meet ya! Name's Pickle, though I'm assuming our acquaintance already filled you in on all that"
"Sl33py"
"That's an odd name, don't ya think?"
"Your name is a food"
"Fair point-" he tosses him some spare sniper rounds that sat on his desk. He's living in a busted open Dahl research building, the side blown open either from wayward explosions or decades old erosion. A large, hand-crafted ramp takes them up to a secondary platform that houses his bedroom- small mattress, a handful of ratty old blankets, and a pile of clothes make up any sort of personal possessions.
The room is tucked away to the right of the building, shoved in with a duct-taped to be functional fridge and dozens of dirty take out boxes; all sporting the same name. He'd seen it in Concordia, stomach catching scent of it when leaving the Meriff's office, "heard you were sniffin' around for some military A.I.? That's some pretty expensive taste, mister"
"Got expensive clients" Pickle hums, hopping up onto his desk, crossing his legs at the ankle. Reaching up, he disconnects his helmet from his suit, pulling it off and shaking his hair. He runs a thick gloved hand through it, shaggy cut black hair sticking out in all directions. He leans on the huge helmet, now resting in his lap, looking the hit-man over with a judgement. Fair.
A nasty scar snares across his cheek, knotting the tissue. Kraggon, most likely, jagged knife if he's feeling more morbid. He narrows his eyes at him.
"Hyperion lot, are you?"
"For today" Jack can't hear him, right?
"The big ones that are shootin' up the moon right now?"
"Dahl, actually, Helios was breached a few hours ago. I'm here to find something strong enough to stop them, preferably killing as many of them as possible while doing so" he's not gonna lie to the kid.
"Hmph- alright. But I ain't got one here" see? Sometimes honestyis the best policy. When dealing with homicidal kids on the moon, that is, "Talk around town is you can half-inch one from the old Drakensburg-" he juts his thumb to the window behind him. On the horizon line sits a half-sunken behemoth of a ship, ripped right down the center. It's ghostly corpse rests in the purple fog emanating from the crack in the moon, dusting it's far away lights a poltergeist's lilac, "place is run by a pair named the Bosun and the Skipper, real tough types, they won't let it go easy- same with all the other rare and nifty intelligences they've got stowed away in there"
"How do I make it out there?"
"You can't just walk up there and ask 'em for it"
"I'm sure I could convince them" he crosses his arms, as if he has to impress a child.
"co*cky, eh?" he grins, more feline than his own, a whimsy in his eyes that he finds amusing, "I'll toss your ECHO the most direct cords, but don't get our feelin's hurt if they don't let ya aboard" he probably won't. He softens, a smidge, looking drastically more his age as he tosses his attention towards the wrecked ship in the distance, "truth is, I've 'ad my eye on that ship for ages, and sending you out there might finally be my ticket in"
"I'll make sure to leave something for you"
"You'd better- hate to have to side with Dahl on this one" he hops down from the desk, showing him the way to the attached elevator. It's more of a glorified dumbwaiter.
It's a solid compartment, small in size and attached only to a thick wire bolted to the side of his house. It trails down the mountain to a plateau below where an awaiting docking bay sits. It looks like the single more dangerous thing he's ever stepped foot into. And he got moon-shotted here.
Pickle gives him an enthusiast goodbye and with a hefty pull, accompanied by a grunt, he wrenches down a lever screwed to the side, the elevator beginning it's decent.
The metal wobbles below him.
He feels unsteady.
For more than one reason.
