Chapter Text
The liquid of the pool is gone still once more. Any remaining Guardians hover high above, avoiding the carnage in favor of their own hides. Or maybe they are cut off from whatever higher intelligence commanding them and are just floating aimlessly. It's hard to say. The few still-living cowards emerge from their hidey-holes, wiping any gooey, robotic residue, blood and panicked sweat from their brows.
And Jules is left starting dumb where you’d just vanished below the surface.
He hesitates barely a breath before stomping into the pool. Moments before, it had been a liquid, but now his boots barely sink half an inch into the material. You hadn’t been far from the edge, and he drops to a knee, tracing burly fingers through the thin layer that still had some give. This whole situation had been freaky to begin with, but the last thing he’d expected was to be attacked in an abandoned ruin. Goes to show that even in ancient sleep, Pandora and by extension the long dead Eridians, were far more dangerous than their little scouting team.
The butt end of the rifle strikes the purple. Then again. Desperation empowers the blows, and the surface ripples, but does not give. He roars, swinging the gun around and blasts away, explosive rounds glancing off in wild directions. How something could act faster and deadlier than quick sand only to immediately turn harder than stone should be impossible. In his stint on Pandora, Jules had seen skags with corrosive bile that could alter the very landscape surrounding them, a Hyperion loader-bot larger than a house with the fire power to match, and the scattered remains of an ancient alien civilization, long dead to the universe. And of all the horrors on Pandora, the last thing he’d expected to kill his men, his friend, was vengeance from the dead. Being melted by acid or blown apart by raiders was a much more likely fate. That was something he understood. Violence and murder. Quick death's with messy remains. So watching pretty much the only badass (besides himself) vanish under something as simple and horrifying as a spawn point was pushing him past his breaking point.
A whimpering coo comes from behind and Jules whirls. WIth cracked glasses and busted survey drone, the survey team’s scientist smears her tear covered face on her sleeve, raising her round glasses to her brow and let out a sound between relief and exhausted panic. Jules books it back to solid ground, seizing her by lab coat lapels. She squeals as he yanks her to the half destroyed console. “Turn it on.”
“I--
whatI?”
she sputters and jerks in his grasp. “We barely survived the first wave and you want another?”
“Don’t talk back, just do it,” He orders, grip biting into the meat of her arm. Marisol winces, shaking her head. “Get ‘em back. Now. We’re running out of time.”
Jules lets up on her arm, but not before shoving Marisol against the alien technology. “This turns back on, the rest of us will--! Y/N wouldn't want us to die just to--” The barrel of the Torgue assault rifle presses into the small of her back and she winces. The remaining forces hardly held any loyalty to the scientist, and followed Jules’ order. Not one would raise a hand to help her. Not after that pathetic display. Six pairs of eyes bore into her, sharper than the barrel. She worries a lip and bites back her tears. All she wanted was to run screaming back to her home of Aquator. The water planet might be excessive and expensive, but at least there were not any deadly alien monsters to kill her. “It’s broken. I don't know if I even can--” Jules gloved hand grips the back of her neck, slamming her face to the console. Jagged metal riddled with bullet holes bites into her cheek. “I-I’ll try, I’m trying!” She is forced back and his grip lets up as once more the hologram orbital rises above.
Through teary eyes, she sets to reactivate the system. As fast as she can, she sets the rings back into orbit. Warry and panicked, the remaining forces huddle behind her, probably ready to put a bullet in her skull if she unleashed a wave of alien robots. Again. The hologram is strange, flickery and glitched out, but she’s able to navigate back to the previous menu that had powered on the pool in the first place. With a flick of an orbital sphere, the whole room shifts. Stairs begin slotting down from their hold on the ceiling and the pool once more begins to turn. It's not like she’d wanted this to happen. To have the only person who was nice this whole time on Pandora to die because of her careless mistake, but if she pushed that next button, the whole room might be flooded with more freaky robots. Or worse.
Still she flicks the contraption on.
---
Flashes of an alien past threaten to overload the remaining circuits of your neurons as they continue to darken with each passing second. Images of a tropical planet, teaming with chaotic life, make you wonder what Pandora looked like thousands of years ago. You don't recognize any skags or rakks, so this must be somewhere else entirely. Or before the evolution of the modern biome of Pandora. Then it flashes Guardians escorting a hooded figure to the arching entrance of an open Vault. Her left arm is lanky with four fingers and decorated in blue tattoos, her long fingers clasped before them in some sort of prayer, they leave the hooded one, letting her step through the vast archway all alone--
Fingers click and your focus shifts back to the dead-ceo currently floating through your grey matter. “First alien mind fuck’s a doozy, eh?” he smirks like this was some common occurrence, “Hard to look away, I know, but, cupcake, you need to focus on the now, kay? There’ll be plenty of time to process the freaky shit later.”
You blink, the vision swimming with a hybrid of the alien fauna and a purple lake. Best you can manage, you nod and shake away the alien memories. “Tell me what I need to do.”
“Good. You’re a better listener than my last meat puppet,” Jack’s glee bleeds into you like overly sweet, spoiled pineapple juice, “Now listen close cupcake, cause this part, heh, not gonna lie, it's gonna hurt .”
---
Tell me how
(tell me how)
And show me how
(show me how)
To understand
(understand)
What makes a Good Ma--
Your face scrunches against the scratchy sheets as you turn away from the bright light lights above and try to block out the music of the radio. Every molecule in your body is sore and each movement felt like it took an eternity of effort. The cot you're on is tiny, even with your knees bent, your feet still dangle off a few inches. From above, a voice drawls over the music. It's mumbling something about “Eridium poisoning” and “bicarbonate to radiation levels in the blood” but it's mixing with the lyrics and you are really, really trying to not wake up.
“ Dah , Doctor,” a deep female voice approaches you. Something tightens around your upper arm and the woman slaps your bicep. Jerking to semi-awakeness, you blink and exhausted blink up at the hulking form of your nurse. She’s the biggest woman you’ve ever seen, towering and broader than any with a strong jaw... and... Princess Leia buns(?) wound tightly on either side of her head. “You wake! Good. Now steady.” Before you can protest, the Nurse has produced a large needle attached to some tubing and plunged it into your Antecubital vein. The needle’s prick stung like a varkid bite, but it hardly registered; the ache in your bones hurt worse. First the nurse attached a vial with a green cap, then a blue and finally one with a pink cap. Blood flowed from your body, filling each tube. Now, you’re hardly a medical expert, but your blood is dark, even as the Nurse holds each vial to the bright lamp above. If anything it looked congealed and the color was off.
It looked magenta in the light.
Ain’t nothin’ wrong with this chemistry
Ain’t nothing wrong with this blasphemy
“Doctor!” the nurse calls. “Patient is awake! Ready to see you.”
That makes you sit up, even as your bones feel ready to splinter, “Wait! M-ma’am...” She stops and looks back, the curtain to your room partly drawn. Her brown gaze is intense and lined face makes your mouth go dry. “What happened? How did- how am I, well, here ?”
A great grin splits her mouth, “Friends pull you from danger, bring you here! Doctor and I treat. You get lucky!” It's good to know that someone made it out alive but your memory is in shambles. You remember the necropolis, the attack, then kicking robot alien ass with Jules, Jack being even remotely helpful... and then something happened but... there's flashes, but pain like a knife cuts through your brain as you try to remember. Before you can ask another question, she returns to your side, strips off her latex gloves and claps you on the shoulder. “I Nurse Nina. We run mobile clinic across Pandora.” Tears prick your eyes as she gives what should be a comforting squeeze. “You in good hands. Doctor has history with Eridium.”
“Can,” you suck in a sharp breath, “Can I have something for pain?”
At that, Nina’s face falls. “Net, not yet, lapushka.” Once again, she tried to touch your shoulder but you wince away. “You speak with Doctor. He help.” She tries to give a reassuring smile, but it fails. You turn away, pulling the blankets to your chin.
‘Cause lines get drawn and lines get kicked and blurred
Indelible is what I need to spread the word
And tell me now
(tell me now)
“Nina,” you mutter, “Turn off the radio before you go?”
She gives you a funny look, then her face lights up, “Oh, that not radio.” She points to a bag of what must be your belongings. The Jakobs coach gun had seen better days, it's still coated in purple gunk, and your clothes were beyond ruined. But right on top of the stuff is that garish, top of the line, Hyperion SMG, with not a speck of alien filth left on it, is blaring music. “Could not find off switch.” She scowled at the device, “Annoying tune.”
A bit dumbfounded, you reach for the SMG, gripping the rails of the bed for support. Your fingers can barely bush the stock so you move to stand. Nina grabs it and places it on the cot between your legs. “Doctor has you on bed rest. No walking or standing. We make use of these for rowdy patients.” She gestures to the straps hanging off the metal bed frame then gives you one last nod before disappearing behind the curtain.
For a moment you don't say anything, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. It's a bit difficult with sound of:
Hey, walk the line
(walk the line)
Hey understand
(understand)
What makes a Good Man?
filling the room.
“Jack,” you bring the gun close so it's resting on a pillow and whisper, “Mind keeping it down a bit?”
The music cuts out with a Pop! and you sigh in blissful silence. You nearly drift back to the realm of unconsciousness. The pillow is flat yet somehow lumpy, but for a moment, it's your one way ticket to sleep town. Breaths fall gently, and all the sudden you aren't as sore. It's all too short lived though as the gun’s speaker blares back to life. “Hey kiddo,” Jack's voice is loud but there is an air of sympathy about his words. It should sound out of character, but it doesn't, “Welcome back to the living.”
“Mmm’hmm,” you settle more into the bed. The sheets might be scratchy and thin but the exhaustion in your body was calling you back to sleep.
When you don't offer more of a response, Jack speaks up again, “Warned you it was gonna hurt.”
Really, why of all guns did Hyperion not install a mute button? Even those corporate shills would get fed up by this thing, right? Right? After a moment you croak out, “You did?”
“Yup,” he says with confidence, “We did pretty good back there, huh? Saved the people, killed the baddies. Feels good,” Jack's trying to get you to talk, maybe decompress, but even moving your jaw felt daunting and stiff.“ Gonna admit, you got a good head on your shoulders. Good listener, keep the other scrubs in line for the most part. A-and I’m not just saying that cause I got a backstage pass earlier. You’d make quite the mercenary up on Helios. Kick bandit and alien ass, look good covered in blood, don't ask too many questions. A few pointers here, maybe some target practice, and you’d be killin’ like nobody’s business.”
That gives you pause. “What?”
“The best tech, and I mean the best. No more of that lowbrow Jakobs crap. You’d look super hot in yellow, ya know, holding ‘The Conference Call.’ Ever heard of it? Helped design that shotgun myself. Super badass. You’d blow apart all thoes ass clowns in Sanctuary for me, wouldn’t ya, pumpkin?” Jack muses, stroking his own ego, thinking back to his glory days. “I’d keep you well fed, stacked with cash, hell, maybe I'd even invite you back to my private sweet for a little TLC after. Eh? You'd love it.”
“No, Jack-” you mutter and he cuts you off.
“Aw, come on,” his tone turns bitter, “I’m paying you a compliment here. You know how few people alive have even gotten that?”
“Jack. What did you mean by ‘backstage pass’?” You finally get in a word.
“..Huh? Back at that freaky alien place when you were about to kick the bucket. That purple shit, remember? And why not mention you have an Echo Port! Gotta keep me in the loop with that. This opens up a whoooole new world for you and me.”
It takes a moment to focus on the past, you slip towards blissful sleep but it comes to you in parts. The pain in your eye returns as your mind moves back. Flashes of an alien planet, a sea of purple, an ominous figure with freaky blue tattoos being sealed in an ancient vault, and Handsome fuck ing Jack helping you all the way back to reality. Then... boom. It hurts too much to think back and you jerk up, sitting straight, nevermind the body aches. Your hand darts to the port behind your ear. The little metal circle is caked with a plastic-y substance.
That purple shit.
Grimacing, you work a nail under the material until it's peeling away from the Echo Port. There's awful slurping near your skull's center as the matter slides off the inner circuits. 2 inches of Eridian gunk drop into your palm. The stuff is tacky, a bit dry and mushy. You stare a moment before bending a finger and flicking it across the room. “Yuck.” Relief washes over and you drop back to bed. It does not help with the pain, but you take comfort in the fact that your brain was a bit more free of the alien intruder. For a long moment, you don't say anything, and try to avoid thinking about the past few hours, or had it been days? Exactly how long have you been in the clinic? You shift, the gun’s hull is cold in your arms as you pull it close. It might contain the brain of a monster, but said monster had some sort of hand in your continued breathing. “Who else made it out?”
Jack sighs, annoyed you were dodging his remark, “Pretty much anyone that mattered. That big guy, scientist chick, a few of the other fodder. C-can I just say, you need better brain power on the bookworm side of things. That incompetence nearly drowned both our asses. Were it up to me, she’d be on the first train to strangulation-vill. Could fit my whole hand around that narrow throat, it wouldn't be hard. Those big eyes would look sooo good all blood shot on the verge of--”
“I am not doing that,” you snap, wishing you felt disgust at the thought. If anything, Jack had a point. If Marisol had just listened or been a little careful or did something in the fight beyond panic, maybe you could have kept your head out of the alien soup. Instead, you could be throwing back brewskis with the guys, celebrating a victorious find with a hefty bonus. No pain in your body or potential poison in your blood.
A flash of the alien home world zip painfully through your brain, making you wince, before shifting to the grinning face of Jack as his consciousness had brushed against yours. You shiver at the memory. Anxiety mounts in your chest, as you worry over how much this mistake has affected your mind. The alien data dump was enough to put anyone on edge, worrying for the future of their sanity. But who knew what kind of havoc Handsome Jack could reap on your cerebellum. How much he already had. At best he could fumble, maybe mess up your motor functions and leave you a drooling vegetable, at worst... you shudder at the thought of Jack overwriting or altering aspects of your personality, your moral code to make you more pliable.
Of course, that’s all a paranoid hypothetical.
“Okay, no asphyxiation, but its not like we have an airlock available,” Jack continues, oblivious of your internal plight. “A bullet works just as well in a pinch. Way less satisfying, though.”
“Remember when I said I don't like killing?” You wish he’d just shut up. Even him playing crappy rock music was more tolerable than playing theoretical amicicide with the SMG, “That applies to my friends . You said I could get better at this, why not Marisol?”
The frustration in Jack’s voice is palpable as it jumps an octave “Oh come on! You can't be this naive. If it’s not betrayal, its ineptitude. All the instruction in the galaxy won’t mean shit when she cracks. Next time her fuck up is gonna cost more than a handful of untrained idiots. Now I get it, gotta work with what you have, but trim the fat to keep the operation functioning smoothly.” He pauses before lowering his tone, “If you won't end her sad little existence, then kick her off this project. Send her crying back to mommy or something. So long as she’s off this planet and far from backstabbing distance. How do you think I kept Hyperion afloat for so long? I kept the right people near me. Not the ones who I got along with best, or the hottest ones around, but the best for the job. Friends don't get you there. Do that and you’ll go far kid--” he (thankfully) breaks off mid rant, “Someone’s coming.”
The curtain being pulled back yanks you back from the hypothetical and back to the pain of the present. For the first time since you’d woken, Jack shuts up. The doctor, well you assume it's the doctor, is a man of medium build, dressed in greenish scrubs with a white apron across his middle, stained with blood and viscera. On his chest is a handwritten name tag reading ‘Dr. ZED.’ The lower half of his face is covered with a N95 respirator mask and there’s a rusty looking buzz ax at his side, equally coated in blood like the rest of the attire. You hope that isn't for medical practice, but this is Pandora so who the hell knows. He scrolls through an EchoComm, reviewing results. You swallow and ball your fists in the blanket as the Doctor takes a seat on the little stool and slides closer to your bedside. “Name’s Zed.”
“Nice to meet you Dr. Zed.” Medical professionals in general rubbed you the wrong way.
He tosses the Comm unit to the bed and rests his hands on his knees. “I ain’t one for sugar coating, son. Things are lookin’ a bit... off,” you bite the inside of your cheek and nod. “The Eridium levels in your blood are dangerously high, its a wonder you aren’t glowing purple just sitting there. Though, for some reason, you aren't too irradiated so you won’t need any Potassium Iodine. Now, Eridium is irradiated as all hell. Get shot with even a slag gun, most folks develop a tumor pretty quick. It's small, usually benign. Say, ever work on building up a tolerance for radiation? Off world training to work on nuclear plants? Maybe had a body weave installed to absorb the emission?”
You shake your head.
“Didn't think so,” Zed drawls. “Results would have reflected that much. You must have a natural affinity for Eridium, or something. That's not unheard of, ‘course. But I don't see any weird tattoos.”
“Nope,” you agree, “nothing so cool,” and swallow. Zed's acting is sharp and it's making you on edge. You've barely been awake fifteen minutes, after all, “I don’t have radiation poisoning, but I have Eridium poisoning. How does that work? Will my organs start turning to soup? Or, maybe my lifespan has been cut in two?”
He crosses his arms. For being an older guy who probably spent most of his time on the other side of an operating table, Zed has nice arms. It's probably all that buzz-ax swinging. “Well, I can't say for sure. Oh, I should’a mentioned, I ain’t a real doctor.” You blink, but he continues, “But don’t let that trouble you, I’ve helped my fair share of people ‘round here. Just feels better to start out on an honest footing, I figure. So, maybe start by telling me how there's all that Eridium coursing through you?”
That makes your mouth go dry. This doctor/not-a-doctor seems a bit volatile. But who isn't around here? His questions are a bit probing, but playing nice is your best way out of here. “Well... I’m contracted at this dig site--” the SMG makes a noise like it was clearing its throat. “--and a few months back we found this underground--” Again, Jack interrupts with the same noise and you fight down the urge to tell him to zip it.
“Pollygrog caught in your throat?” Zed asks.
You lean into the bit and cough into a fist. “Y-yeah * cough.* Could I have something to drink? Sorry, it's been awhile *cough* its been since *cough cough* I’ve had water.”
“Where is my bedside manner?” Zed smiles. You can't see his mouth, but the corners of his eyes raise and he closes the curtain behind.
In a hushed voice, you snarl, “ What ?”
“Don't tell him a damn thing,” Jack says, “He’s part of the Crimson Raiders. If they find out where this place is, it’ll be swarming with bandits faster than you can toss a grenade.”
“The Crimson Raider’s aren’t bandits,” you insist. “If anything, they might help secure this place from bandits. And bring some actual fire power.”
Something angry rumbles low in the SMG’s speaker, “Look. Unless you wanna have this find ripped out from under your little ‘science group’, keep your trap shut .” That... is a possibility. The Crimson Raiders might enact some sort of justice across the planet and were not the type to shoot on site, but they did have a history of moving in on a territory and keeping the resources for themselves. But at this point, was it even safe enough to return to the Necropolis without the help of the Raiders? “Look, just, just keep the location under wraps at least. Then we can follow up with your buddies, get a better idea of what’s actually going on out there.”
Yeah...Where exactly is the rest of the team? it's not like you were running off to solo kill some bandits. If everything was really okay, Jules and crew should be chilling nearby or at minimum Marisol would be waiting on stand to make sure you were alright. Ready to jump in with hugs and a strong firemelon stout. If they weren't here... That should be your first concern. Their safety, the mission. But dang it, you just can't pass this moment up.
“Say please.”
“...Repeat that for me.”
“Say please , Jack,” you can’t help the cheshire cat smile that spreads over your lips.
“Oh-ho-ho, for the love of...” he grows, “I’m actually giving you good advice here and you are gonna act like a stuck up bitch? Ya know what? I take back everythingI said earlier. You really do belong down here with the low life, scum--”
“Zed’s gonna be back any second,” you tap the SMG’s scope, making him pipe down.
There's the slow tread of approaching footsteps, “Fine, fine-fine!” He takes a breath. “ Please. ” It's the tiniest sound you’ve ever heard out of the gun. Like saying the word any louder would burn his mouth.
“Okay,” you agree before tucking SMG between your side and the bed railing so it's out of sight. “Keep it down.” It's not a moment too soon. Zed returns with not only a glass of ice water but slices of fresh drake fruit too. You take a tentative sip of the water before taking two more loud gulps. Water, let alone ice water was nigh unheard of here in the badlands. The drake fruit is set down with a clunk. “Thanks.”
“That should hold you over,” Zed takes his seat once more, “I believe there was a digsite mentioned?”