Chapter 72: Corporate Synergy
Axton kicked a pebble across the pavement, watching it roll smoothly into a gutter. It didn’t get stuck in a pile of sludge. It didn’t hit a severed human foot or a pile of irradiated bones. It just... rolled. Smoothly.
All the way until it tapped against the curb and stopped.
“Okay, I’m calling it.” Axton said, adjusting the heavy strap of his turret matrix across his shoulder. “This place is a simulation. We died on that train, the corporate guy lied to us, and now we’re stuck in some weird, upper-middle-class afterlife.”
Maya was leaning against a pristine white railing nearby, her hands tucked casually into the pockets of her duster. She didn’t look nearly as stressed as he was, but then again, she hadn’t spent the last five years of her life getting shot at by various military corporations who actually bothered to clean their armor.
Her bright blue Siren tattoos caught the morning sunlight, glowing faintly against her pale skin as she watched a shiny yellow loader unit stroll past them.
The robot stopped.
It tilted its bulky upper torso downward, extended a tiny claw attachment, and picked up a crumpled snack wrapper that a civilian had dropped. It popped the plastic into a built-in disposal bin on its hip, gave a little whir of mechanical satisfaction, and kept rolling down the street.
“I don’t think corporate heaven has this much yellow, Axton.” Maya said, her eyes tracking the machine as it turned a corner. “Or this much accuracy. Did you see that? I’ve never seen a claw machine work before.”
“Skill issue.” He scoffed, crossing his arms.
“Excuse me?!” She demanded, popping her hands to her hips. “I’ve got skills, soldier boy. Doesn’t make much of a difference when the game is rigged.”
“This whole place is rigged!” He argued. “With its fancy streets, and street lamps, and street signs, and street crossings!”
“… what do you have against streets?”
“Nothing! All I’m saying is the brochure was very misleading.” Axton walked over to a polished metal pedestal built into the side of a clean brick building, squinting at it like it was an unexploded bomb. “I mean, I was expecting Mad Max. Instead we got, what? Random mysterious buttons?”
He probably shouldn’t press them… why does that make him want to do it more?
Screw it.
He tentatively pressed the silver button. A crisp, clear stream of liquid shot upward in a perfect arch. Oh. It’s a water fountain. Duh. He totally knows what those are. What? Do you think he’s been drinking nothing but flask whiskey for the last four years?
Please. That’d be ridiculous.
It was two and a half years, max.
Axton leaned in closer, sniffing the air right above the stream, his brow furrowing into a tight knot. "Wait a minute. Is this... filtered? It doesn’t even smell like sulfur. Or battery acid. Or skag spit. The fuck?"
“Are you going to drink it or cross-examine it?” Maya asked, crossing her arms. “Because if you’re planning on putting it on trial, I’d like to call for a recess… a mistrial? Something… lawyer-ey, I don’t remember what the setup for this joke was.”
“How are you not freaking out from us weird this all is?!” Axton stepped away from the fountain, shaking his head and wiping a stray drop of water off his sleeve. “I don’t know about you, but I came to this planet to blow stuff up, cash some fat corporate checks, and maybe get my face on a poster or two.”
“… and clean water’s unrelated to that because…?”
“Because I was told Pandora was a lawless, disease-ridden hellhole full of dirt, bandits, and more dirt. And instead of that hellhole, here I am, I’m walking through a pristine, floating neighborhood in the clouds.” Axton complained. “I’m bored! I want to kill stuff! Where are the mutants? Where’s the grit?”
The heavy wood-and-glass doors to the bar across the plaza flew open with a loud, violent crash, answering his question in the loudest way humanly possible.
“AJAJAJA! NOW THAT IS ALCOHOL!”
Salvador stomped out into the sunlight, wiping a thick layer of white foam off his beard with the back of a beefy, scarred sleeve. He was grinning so hard his eyes were practically shut, his short, stocky frame vibrating with pure, unadulterated joy. In his left hand, he was holding a crystal tumbler that looked ridiculously tiny in his massive, calloused grip.
“Tell me you found something to shoot!” Axton called out, desperately hoping for some normal mercenary news.
“Shoot? Why would I shoot anything?” Salvador laughed, marching over to the railing with a heavy, swinging stride. “This place is paradise, compadre! I just walked up to the lady at the counter—the one with the crazy makeup and the nice legs—and I asked for their best stuff. And guess what? She gave it to me! She didn’t even hand me moonshine made out of radiator fluid! It was the really good stuff! The kind that doesn’t melt the skin off the roof of my mouth!”
“Glad to see you’ve got your priorities straight.” Maya said dryly.
“Always!” Salvador slammed the tiny glass onto the metal railing, nearly cracking the crystal. “Real corporate scotch! Smooth like silk, burns like an incendiary grenade right in your belly! I like this Jack guy already. He knows how to run a town.”
“He’s an ex-corporate suit who crashed his own orbital space station.” Axton pointed out, leaning his back against the brick wall and folding his arms. “Let’s not start printing up the fan club t-shirts just yet. Guys like him always have a catch.”
“He has a bar with imported liquor, and he has robots that clean the floor instead of shooting lasers at my shins.” Salvador shrugged, pulling a thick, unlit cigar from his pocket and biting off the end. “That is already fifty times better than the last three warlords I worked for. Combined. One of them tried to pay me in used teeth, Axton. Used teeth. I can’t chew anything with those!”
“Okay, fair point.” Axton admitted. “But still. The guy’s running a whole army of loaders. You really trust a corporate defector who brought his own automated infantry along with him?”
“If the infantry keeps the beer cold and the streets swept, I do not care what logo is painted on their chests.” Salvador grunted, searching his pockets for a lighter.
Before Salvador could find a match, a sudden, dark blur dropped from the roof awning directly above them. It didn’t make a single sound. No fabric rustled, no boots clicked against the pavement. The figure just materialized out of thin air, landing in a perfect, low crouch right between Salvador and Maya.
Zer0 rose slowly to his full height, his slender, segmented armor catching the glare of the sun. The digital screen on his faceplate cycled through a brief, glowing sequence of red lines before settling on a soft, neon-blue zero.
“Pristine atmosphere.” Zer0 said, his synthesized electronic voice completely flat and even. “No mud upon the pavement. A clean blade remains.”
Axton threw his hands up in mild exasperation, looking up at the sky like he was asking the universe for strength. “Oh, great. Fantastic. Even the mysterious, cold-blooded assassin is writing poetry about the lack of mud. Does anyone here want to talk about the fact that we’re supposed to be fighting a massive corporate war against Hyperion HQ, or are we just going to keep reviewing the city’s housekeeping services?”
“The cleanliness makes it easier to track target footprints." Zer0 replied. A small holographic thumbs-up flashed on his faceplate. “Less ambient clutter.”
“Yeah, well, I like a little clutter.” Axton muttered, tapping his fingers against the hilt of his combat knife. “Clutter means you can hide a claymore under a pile of trash. Here, if I drop a mine, a yellow robot is probably going to come by, apologize to me, and sweep it into a dustpan.”
“Then don’t drop a mine… for obvious reasons.” Maya said, leaning her head back against the railing and catching the breeze. “Just enjoy the fact that you can walk down the street without a swarm of mutated insects trying to lay eggs in your ears. I spent my whole life in a sterile temple, Axton. Trust me, a little running water isn’t going to kill your mercenary reputation.”
A heavy, dragging sound echoed from the tiled pathway behind them, followed by a loud, metallic thud that vibrated right through the soles of their boots.
Krieg wandered past the group, completely ignoring their existence.
He was hunched over, his massive, heavily muscled frame covered in scarred leather straps and a blood-splattered white mask. In his left hand, he was clutching a dripping, raw, thoroughly unidentifiable chunk of wasteland meat that looked like it had been hacked off a skag about three days ago.
He stopped right in front of a sleek, silver, automated recycling bin. He stared at the mechanical lid for a long, tense moment, breathing heavily through his mask, before carefully, almost delicately pushing the raw meat into the organic waste slot. The machine gave a polite, cheerful electronic beep of acceptance as the lid slid shut.
“THANK YOU FOR THE HOUSING OF MY MEAT SCRAPS!” Krieg roared at the recycling bin, his voice a gravelly, terrifying boom that caused a group of nearby civilians to instantly drop their shopping bags and scatter down an alleyway. “THE SHINY BOX IS POLITE! IT DOES NOT SCREAM WHEN I TOUCH THE LID! IT ACCEPTS THE MARROW OF THE DAMNED!”
The psycho gave the automated bin a firm, respectful pat on its metallic side, nearly denting the casing, then turned and wandered off toward the residential quarter. As he walked, he began loudly and violently arguing with himself about whether a bicycle made entirely of human ribcages would require a leather seat.
The four Vault Hunters stood in absolute, dead silence for a solid five seconds, watching the giant psycho disappear around the corner of a high-end clothing boutique.
Axton slowly turned his head to look at Maya. He kept his eyes locked on her while slowly raising his arm to point a thumb over his shoulder at the retreating trail of blood droplets Krieg had left on the pristine sidewalk.
“Okay, never mind.” Axton said, his voice dropping into a dry, flat monotone. “There’s the Pandora I was expecting. I feel much better now.”
“That’s the spirit.” Maya smiled slightly, a small, amused smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Don’t worry. We’ll find you something to shoot soon.”
“Yeah, I sure fucking hope so. I have some fine ladies that are feeling very neglected right now.” Axton sighed, finally letting the tension drain from his shoulders. He looked down at his boots, then back toward Moxxi’s establishment. “Alright, fine. If the short guy is right and the liquor doesn’t double as paint stripper, I’m buying a round. We’ve got a war to plan, and I am not doing it while soberly contemplating the socioeconomic benefits of automated garbage disposal.”
“Now you are talking like a leader!” Salvador barked, giving Axton a slap on the thigh that nearly rattled his kneecaps out of alignment. “To the lady with the nice legs! Let’s go!”
Salvador turned and marched back toward the bar, his empty glass hoisted high in the air like a battle standard. Zer0 gave a brief, digital nod, his faceplate flashing a brief exclamation point before he vanished back into the shadows of the roofline above.
Maya stepped off the railing, brushing a stray strand of blue hair out of her eyes as she fell into step beside Axton. “Admit it. You’re actually starting to like this place.”
Axton glided his hand over the polished metal of his turret matrix, looking around the bright, humming plaza one last time before stepping toward the tavern doors.
“I’ll admit it when I find out if the beds in the barracks have actual pillows." Axton said, cracking a grin. "Until then, I’m maintaining a strict, highly professional level of military skepticism.”
“Didn’t you get kicked out of the military?”
“Yes. And it was highly professional.”
…
Gaige shoved her welding goggles up onto her forehead, wiping a streak of grease across her cheek with the back of her flesh-and-blood hand. Deathtrap floated a few inches off the metal deck of Sanctuary’s lower vehicle bay, a low, comforting hum vibrating through his chassis while his left shoulder joint hissed with fresh coolant.
She loved this smell. Smelled like science. Smelled like sticking it to the science fair judges back on Eden-5 who didn’t appreciate a security robot that accidentally disintegrated a school rival.
“Okay, DT, wiggle the claws for me,” Gaige muttered, tapping a wrench against his digistruct housing.
Deathtrap clicked his massive, blade-tipped fingers obediently. He looked majestic. Perfect. A floating, hover-capable engine of pure, unadulterated anti-establishment destruction.
“Not bad for a high school science project,” a smug voice echoed from the bay entrance. “A little top-heavy, though. If a bandit loops an explosive package under those hover pads, your center of gravity is going to take a permanent vacation.”
Gaige spun around, her wrench gripped tightly enough to white-knuckle her knuckles. Axton was leaning against a stack of weapon crates, chewing on a toothpick with a look of insufferable, military-grade confidence. He was tossing a compact, blocky Dahl matrix module up and down in his palm like he owned the place.
This was apparently Jack’s brilliant “get-to-know-each-other” tactical assessment. A vetting process. Which, as far as Gaige was concerned, was just an excuse for old guys in camo pants to criticize her life choices.
“Excuse me?!” Gaige snapped, dropping her wrench into her tool belt with a loud, metallic clink. “Top-heavy? Deathtrap is a masterpiece of kinetic equilibrium, old man! He flies! He slashes! He has a laser beam that shoots out of his face! What does your little metal lunchbox do besides sit on the dirt and beg for a battery recharge?”
“She’s a Dahl Sabre Turret,” Axton said, catching the module and patting it like a favorite hound dog. “Military grade, kid. Never misses. My girl drops into the field, deploys an energy barrier, and lays down a wall of lead that makes entire battalions rethink their career paths. It’s called tactical reliability. Look it up, buttercup.”
“Oh, wow! A gun on a stick that stays in one place!” Gaige scoffed, throwing her hands in the air and pacing a circle around Deathtrap. “How twentieth-century of you! What happens if the bad guys walk ten feet to the left, Axton? Do you have to politely ask them to step back into your little cone of safety? ‘Oh, excuse me, Mr. Psycho, could you please stand still while my stationary garbage can tries to calculate your velocity?’ Please. It’s pathetic.”
“It’s not a stick, it’s a mag-lock tripod base,” Axton shot back, his smug smile faltering just a tiny bit as he stepped up to her workbench. “And it handles flanks perfectly fine because I’m the one covering the blind spots. It’s about teamwork. Synchronization. You can’t synchronize with a floating blender that just flies off wherever it wants because it saw a shiny piece of scrap metal.”
“He doesn’t get distracted by scrap metal!” Gaige yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “He gets distracted by anarchy! Which is a recognized, highly effective combat methodology! Look it up!”
“Actually, she has a point about the cooling vent on your turret, Axton,” a soft, familiar voice interrupted.
Angel stepped into the mechanical bay, her arms cradling a sleek Hyperion data pad against her chest. She looked completely calm, her eyes darting over to Gaige with a subtle, affectionate little glimmer that made Gaige’s stomach do a happy, chaotic flip. Angel stepped right between them, tapping the data pad with a slender finger before pointing at the schematics Axton had left open on a nearby terminal screen.
“The secondary exhaust port on the Sabre’s shield generator is positioned directly beneath the primary ammunition feed,” Angel explained, her voice carrying that effortless, undeniable authority that came from literally being a Siren who used to live inside a computer network. “If Gaige orders Deathtrap to utilize his Discord subroutine, the thermal bloom alone would cook your reload mechanism in under four seconds. It would leave you standing there with an empty gun and a very hot piece of scrap metal.”
Axton blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish trying to breathe Pandoran atmosphere. He looked at the terminal, then at Angel, then back at Gaige, who was currently grinning so hard her face was starting to ache.
“I… it has a backup heat sink,” Axton stammered, his face turning a very un-military shade of bright red as he violently shoved his hands into his pockets. “The manual says the heat sink handles up to five hundred degrees.”
“The manual was written by Dahl engineers who wanted to get paid before the contract expired,” Gaige jeered, crossing her arms and leaning her hip against her workbench. “Listen to the lady, soldier boy. She knows her hardware. You just got scienced.”
Before Axton could salvage what was left of his bruised military ego, a massive, wall-shaking explosion rocked the adjacent live-fire range. The thick, reinforced blast doors separating the two areas rattled on their hinges, followed by a chorus of deep, echoing laughter that sounded like several trucks grinding their gears together.
“WHOA! DO IT AGAIN! DO IT AGAIN WITH THE SHOTGUN!”
Brick’s booming voice carried right through the metal walls. Intrigued, and incredibly glad for a distraction from Axton’s face, Gaige marched over to the observation window, with Angel and a grumbling Axton following close behind.
On the other side of the glass, the live-fire range was an absolute disaster zone. It was a beautiful, unadulterated symphony of pure muscle-head bonding. Brick was standing in the center of the concrete floor, his massive fists planted on his hips, wearing a proud, paternal smile that looked completely ridiculous on a man who could crush a man's skull with his bare hands.
Standing next to him were Salvador and Krieg, both of them staring at a severely dented, smoking Hyperion test chassis like it was a priceless piece of art.
“See, the mistake most rookies make,” Brick said, his voice echoing through the intercom system as he gestured toward the ruined metal torso, “is they just swing wild. They think it’s about the arms. It’s not about the arms. It’s about the hips, Salvador. You gotta put the whole weight of the Slab empire into the knuckle-to-jaw interface. That’s how you get that nice, clean, shattering sound.”
“Ah, yes! The pop!” Salvador shouted, bouncing on the balls of his boots like a hyperactive boxer. He hoisted a shotgun in one hand and a massive, lead-pipe bludgeon in the other. “Like a ripe melon under a truck tire! I tried to tell the guys back in my village, but they kept complaining about the mess!”
“Mess is just the paint for the battlefield!” Brick laughed, giving Salvador a heavy pat on the back that would have driven a lesser man directly into the floorplates. “You’re alright, shorty. You get it.”
Krieg suddenly sprinted forward, his buzzaxe revving with a terrifying, mechanical shriek as he slammed his face right against the reinforced viewing glass. His masked eyes widened as he stared at Brick, then turned back toward the test chassis, his body shaking with manic energy.
“THE SPLIT-PEA SOUP OF THE SOUL FLIES FROM THE CRANIUM!” Krieg screamed, spitting through the breathing grille of his mask as he gestured wildly with his weapon. “WE STRING THE INTESTINES LIKE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS FOR THE REINDEER OF THE DAMNED! THE MARROW IS THE ICING ON THE BIRTHDAY CAKE OF PAIN!”
Brick stood there for a second, nodding slowly as he digested the pure, unhinged poetry of the psycho’s mind. He raised a beefy hand, wiping a genuine, proud tear from the corner of his eye.
“Beautiful,” Brick whispered, his voice dripping with emotion. “Just beautiful. I don’t know what a reindeer is, but the Christmas lights thing? That’s tactical genius. It really sets the mood for a siege.”
Inside the observation room, Axton rubbed his temples, staring at the trio through the glass. “Are we really going to drop into a live combat zone with them? They’re going to eat the enemy instead of shooting them.”
“They’re highly motivated,” Angel noted, a small smile playing on her lips.
“They’re perfect,” Gaige corrected, pulling her welding goggles back down over her eyes with a snap. “They don’t care about cooling vents or stationary tripods, Axton. They just get things done. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go upgrade Deathtrap’s claws so he can help Krieg with the decorations.”
…
Salvador tightened his grip on his favorite Vladof assault rifles, feeling the beautiful, heavy weight of the steel balancing perfectly in his hands. He was standing dead center in a massive Fast-Travel matrix ring on Sanctuary’s hangar deck, his short legs spread wide, practically vibrating with anticipation. He absolutely loved the Fast-Travel pop. Some people complained about the nausea, or the weird sensation of their atoms being violently disassembled and shot across a planet like cosmic buckshot, but to Salvador? It was better than a morning espresso. That sharp, electrical POP meant the talking was officially over. It meant that in approximately three seconds, someone was going to get very, very shot.
The emergency broadcast from Jack’s command bridge had been music to his ears. That old corporate bastard Tassiter had locked down the Washburne Eridium Plant on the surface, sending a bunch of heavily armored Hyperion shock troops to freeze the pipeline and choke off Sanctuary’s fuel supply. Choking off the liquor supply was one thing, but messing with the flying city’s gas tank? That was a personal insult.
“Everyone checked their shields?” Axton called out from the adjacent ring, adjusting the strap on his mag-lock tripod. “It’s a frozen hellscape down there. Keep your eyes open.”
“If my ears freeze, I will use them as throwing knives!” Krieg roared, already hacking his buzzaxe into the empty air, leaving glowing trails of friction sparks near Maya’s duster.
“Please don’t,” Maya sighed, shifting her weight as the blue matrix rings began to hum with absolute power. “Just target anything wearing yellow corporate armor.”
The world vanished in a brilliant, blinding flash of digital blue light.
POP.
The tropical warmth of Sanctuary’s bay was instantly replaced by a howling, horizontal blizzard that hit Salvador square in the chest. He dug his heavy boots into the permafrost, blinking through the swirling ice crystals as the snowy perimeter of the Washburne plant materialized around them. They were sitting right outside the refinery’s massive, heavily reinforced blast walls. And Hyperion was definitely expecting guests.
“Ambush!” Axton yelled, diving behind a jagged chunk of frozen slag as a massive volley of incoming corporate rocket fire illuminated the storm in a deadly arc of flashing red streaks.
Salvador didn’t dive. He let out a deep, manic laugh that started in his boots and rattled right out of his throat, raising both of his assault rifles to greet the onslaught. He was fully prepared to eat a rocket or two just to get the adrenaline flowing, but before the first explosive could shred the snowbanks in front of him, the sky violently split open.
A squadron of specialized Hyperion drop-pods plummeted through the blizzard like iron meteors, slamming into the frozen dirt right in front of the Vault Hunters with a synchronized, heavy thud. The pods burst open, but instead of the mindless, screaming corporate murder-bots Salvador had spent his youth destroying, a clean line of Felicity’s voluntary Vanguard Loaders stepped into the fray.
“Shield protocols engaged! Stay behind us, friends!” one of the Vanguard loaders shouted, its blue-trimmed chassis pivoting with fluid grace.
With flawless, automated precision, the loaders raised their left arms, projecting an overlapping, massive wall of bright blue holographic energy barriers. The incoming corporate rockets slammed into the energy shields, detonating in a harmless, spectacular display of orange fire and dissipating smoke. The loaders didn’t flinch. They just held the line, absorbing the entire frontline meat grinder without a single casualty.
“AJAJAJA! NO WAY!” Salvador bellowed, his eyes widening in pure delight as he watched the corporate shock troops on the ridge completely panic at the sight of their own tech turning against them. “Jack! Your tin cans actually know how to throw a party!”
“Told you!” Gaige’s voice echoed over the roaring wind as she skidded past him, her mechanical arm swinging wildly. “Anarchy is universal, boys! Deathtrap, go show those corporate suits what real engineering looks like!”
With an anarchic, metallic shriek that pierced right through the howling blizzard, Deathtrap soared over the top of the Vanguard shield wall. His hover pads kicked up a massive cloud of powdered snow as he flew directly toward the enemy barricades, his razor-sharp claws clapping together with an ominous, magnetic hum before he buried them directly into a Hyperion engineer’s chest plate.
Axton scrambled up from his snowbank, staring at the perfectly maintained loader shield wall in sheer disbelief. He sprinted forward, unlatching his Sabre Turret matrix from his shoulder and hurling it directly into a small gap between two Vanguard units. “Alright, alright! I admit it! The automated coverage is... actually pretty damn good!”
The Sabre Turret digistructed into existence with a sharp hiss, instantly deploying its own localized barrier and unleashing a relentless, twin-barrel wall of lead into a squad of approaching corporate snipers. The Vanguard loader next to Axton’s turret actually tilted its optical sensor downward, giving the little Dahl machine a brief, approving mechanical nod.
“See? Teamwork!” Maya called out, her blue tattoos flaring to life as she stepped around the side of the shield. She hoisted her hand into the air, creating a swirling vortex of purple Siren energy that caught a descending Hyperion mortar shell mid-flight, holding it suspended in the freezing air before violently hurling it back into the enemy’s own bunker.
“MORE SOUP FOR THE ICEBOX!” Krieg screamed, leaping entirely over the loader wall with his buzzaxe revving at maximum speed, disappearing into a crowd of screaming shock troops like a localized, blood-soaked hurricane.
Salvador couldn’t take it anymore. The smell of burning gunpowder, the crackle of the holographic shields, and the sight of corporate engineers running for their lives was simply too beautiful to watch from the sidelines. He squeezed both triggers, his Vladof rifles spitting a continuous, roaring stream of lead that chewed through the snow and shattered the heavy armor of a Hyperion centurion twenty yards away.
“Do not kill them all yet!” Salvador yelled, his short legs churning through the snowbanks as he sprinted past the shield line, right alongside a firing Vanguard loader. “Save some of the crunchy parts for me!”
…
I am completely in my element right now.
There is absolutely nothing better than sitting back on the high-tech, glowing holographic command bridge of Sanctuary, watching a beautifully executed plan unfold on a giant screen. Through my cybernetic link, my consciousness is partially projected directly into a customized Surveyor Drone hovering high above the Washburne battlefield.
The real-time, high-definition telemetry grid mapping out the refinery is gorgeous. And the new kids? Oh, man, they are absolutely tearing Tassiter’s corporate security forces to pieces.
The Siren girl is pulling heavy mechs into swirling gravitational wells like she’s tossing crumpled paper into a bin. The short, bearded guy is a literal walking war crime, laughing maniacally while chewing through a frontline.
And the military defector, Axton? The guy actually knows how to hold a defensive line without crying about his contract benefits. It’s magnificent. It is a flawless, beautiful display of corporate synergy. I’m basically a god looking down on an ant farm, orchestrating a masterpiece.
The tactical comms channel is wide open, buzzing smoothly over my headset. The entire squad on the ground can hear my smooth, confident voice guiding them through the chaos.
“Alright, team, we’re looking good,” I said, leaning back in my plush command chair, propping my boots up on the console. “Zer0, you’ve got a cluster of sniper nests on the north ridge. Take a hard left past the frozen slag and flank them from behind. Gaige, keep Deathtrap covering the— Wait.”
A massive, wet, catastrophic sound echoed from the physical room right behind my chair. It sounded like someone violently squeezing a wet sponge inside a leather glove. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated anatomical betrayal.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
I slowly turned my head, my eyes wide with a creeping, cosmic dread. Sitting in her high-tech, digistructed playpen near the bridge terminal, little Diana was staring right back at me. Her big, innocent eyes blinked once. Then, a massive, gummy grin spread across her face, accompanied by a tiny, cheerful gurgle.
But the smell? The smell hit me a microsecond later. It was an environmental hazard. It was a war crime. Diana had just suffered a diaper blowout of absolute, apocalyptic proportions.
The open combat frequency instantly became a frantic, multi-tasking nightmare. On the big screen, the Vault Hunters were trying to execute a high-stakes refinery capture, and on my end, I was violently thrust into a world of panic and baby logistics.
“Alright, Maya, Phaselock that heavy mech on the left—oh, gross, oh god, it’s up her back!” I yelled into the comms, violently ripping my boots off the console and spinning my chair around. “Lilith! Lilith, help me, it’s a biological hazard! We need an evacuation protocol! Wait, no, she’s asleep on the couch, don’t wake the Firehawk! If she wakes up and sees this, she’ll incinerate the whole room out of reflex! Axton! Axton, drop your turret on the left catwalk right now!”
“Uh, copy that, boss!” Axton’s voice crackled through the static, mixed with the sound of roaring gunfire and exploding mortars. “Turret’s down! But why are you breathing like you just ran a marathon?”
“Because the blast radius is expanding, Axton!” I panicked, frantically tossing couch cushions aside in a desperate search for the diaper bag. “Does anyone on the ground know if standard-issue Hyperion baby wipes can dissolve organic material off a custom silk suit? Because it’s on my sleeve! It’s on my custom sleeve, guys! Diana, please stop laughing, this isn’t funny! Daddy’s outfit is ruined, and Tassiter is winning the psychological warfare!”
“Just wipe it on the carpet, man!” Salvador’s voice barked over the comms, followed by the deafening, continuous roar of his twin Vladof rifles. “Meat is temporary, clean clothes are a lie! Krieg just threw a guy into a generator! We’re almost at the core!”
“I am not wiping it on the carpet, Salvador, I paid three million credits for this rug!” I screeched, finally grabbing a wet wipe and aggressively scrubbing at my forearm while hovering over the playpen with my arms extended like I was defusing a nuclear warhead. “Krieg, stop throwing people into the machinery, you’re going to dent the infrastructure! Gaige, check the pressure valves on the main line while I figure out how a human being this small can generate this much kinetic force!”
“I’m on it!” Gaige yelled back, her voice competing with the anarchic screeching of Deathtrap. “Pressure is holding! Also, Angel says you’re using the wrong tabs on the diaper! The blue ones go in the front, you idiot!”
“I’m a visionary CEO, not an engineer of infant underwear!” I yelled, sweat dripping down my brow as I managed to lift Diana by her ankles, keeping her at a strict arm’s length. “Alright, the target is secure! Slide the new diaper under! Slide it under—no, don’t kick! Diana, do not kick your legs, that is a direct violation of corporate policy!”
Despite the absolute domestic chaos happening on the bridge, the squad on the ground successfully punched their way through the final wave of shock troops and breached the core control room. On my main display, the master terminal flashed a brilliant, glowing green. The refinery was officially ours. Washburne was locked down, securing a massive, permanent Eridium surplus for Sanctuary.
The flying city wasn’t going to run out of gas anytime soon.
I let out a massive, exhausted sigh, collapsing back into my command chair. Diana was finally clean, freshly swaddled, and happily chewing on a plastic toy like she hadn't just brought a billionaire to his knees. I wiped my brow with a clean cloth, exhaling heavily as I pulled the master terminal’s data feed onto my primary cybernetic eye display to run a routine sweep of the plant's network.
My smirk completely vanished.
Right as the terminal synced with Sanctuary's database, my cybernetic vision caught a massive, sweeping data migration file. The corporate telemetry hidden beneath the encryption keys was clear, undeniable, and chilling.
Tassiter wasn’t trying to fight us for the surface anymore.
He wasn’t planning a counter-offensive on the outposts. The old bastard was completely cutting his losses. He was abandoning the outposts, shutting down the peripheral stations, and pulling every single remaining Hyperion asset, every automated loader factory, and every elite battalion back into a single, heavily fortified, impenetrable hyper-city on the horizon.
Opportunity.
I stared at the blinking coordinates on the map, my eyes narrowing as the full weight of the data settled in. The corporate gauntlet had officially been thrown. Tassiter was turning his golden city into an absolute fortress, digging in for the final, bloody stretch of this war. The next stop wasn't a skirmish in the snow. We were heading straight into the heart of the corporate beast.