Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stories heard and stories told;
blood spilled on page and floor;
I beseech the muses this:
Grant me will to write a fic.

Cells and proteins, beak and fang;
Hydrogen bonds’ sturm und drang ;
O, great evolutionary laws:
Help me manifest these words.

Unreal Engine, spaghetti code;
Randy Pitchford is a chode;
Gearbox will never see this shit:
But not for them, it wouldn’t exist.

(Δ)

It was a bright sunny day on Pandora and two men were walking to their destination, their bodies shrouded in the piercing white light of the star known to some as Prometheus and to others as Flashbang, Great Eyetaker, Pimple-in-the-Sky or similar names.

One of them was burly, wearing a massive shade made of metal, hunched over and towing around a hover-cart full of crates covered by a tarp. The other was dressed somewhat appropriately for the weather, what with the full-on Jakobs-esque safari outfit, but he also was an adventurer who knew a fire-resist shield is always good to have.

They walked and walked across the sand. Walked is the keyword here - ever since the Twin Gods were slain, Pandoran Catch-a-Rides haven’t been doing so well. Especially in these parts, too often did desperate clans tear them down in hopes of finding some sort of useful salvage.

Granted, there were other reasons why they didn’t just take the car. In these times, it’s considered bad form to pull up to Carnivora in a vehicle, as it’s simply no longer the cheery carnival it once was; like showing up to a poor man’s funeral with skulls tied to the shoulders of your $10000 suit, it shows a lack of respect and exposes your arrogance.

“Krieg… are you entirely certain nobody will come along and try to pick us off?” the adventurer told the burly man.

“Yes. That would be dishonorable.” Krieg answered, his inner alter at the forefront, presumably to let the outer one rest before he’s inevitably needed.

“...To be fair, it doesn't seem like there’s anyone around that could do that.”

“That’s why I like setting up the stand early. Peak hours aren’t until after sundown.”

“I see.”

Pandora. What a strange locale. Once almost like any other planet, then conquered and stripped of its wealth, and then conquered and stripped again and again…
which is what happened and happens to a lot of other planets, and yet it always felt different from all those typical ‘borehole worlds’ corporations leave in their wake.
For humanity had clung to its surface, in spite of it all.

Yes, even before it turned out the place was a giant alien prison. But that revelation did make that Pandoran strangeness kinda funny for some and downright religious for others.

After what felt like a long time, they approached the entrance to Carnivora.

The gate certainly has seen better days: a lot of it has been stripped for parts, patches of dunegrass pop out of the ground where it’s firmer.

Most crucially, the offering ramp has been largely simplified. Krieg stopped in front of it, not relinquishing the grip on his cart.

“You see that button, Hammerlock?” he asked the adventurer, pointing towards the button that called whichever member of the Rotblood Carnivalists (formerly the Freshflow Carnivalists) clan was operating the door at the time.

“Yes, I do.”

“That’s the doorbell. Do the honors.”

Hammerlock swallowed his spit and pressed the button.

“PAY YOUR TOLL, ATTENDANTS!” A voice resonated from the half-demolished ‘head’ of the gate. “THE CIRCUS ALSO HAS TO EAT! FREELOADERS MAY NOT ENTER!”

Krieg turned around and reached into the hover-cart to take out a very large (about 5 liters) jar of varkid honey. He placed it on the offering ramp and reached for the conveyor-starting button, but the voice interrupted him.

“NOW START TH- WAIT, IS THAT THE CRIMSON FLAYER?!” The voice paused for a little while. “SAND DAMN IT, I’M A FOOL FOR NOT NOTICING EARLIER!”

“Urgh…” Krieg grumbled. Being a planetary legend has its pros and cons, and he knew he was about to experience one of the latter: endless fearful gushing.

“I SEE AN OUTWORLDER IS WITH YOU!” the voice continued. “SORRY, CRIMSON FLAYER, BUT OUTWORLDERS PAY DOUBLE.”

Krieg paused all of his movements. Then, he took a deep breath, as if his outer self had to be ‘uncorked’ before he could take even a part of the steers. Then, he adjusted his shade and put his hand to the buzz-axe fitted in a loop around his belt.

“The metal-man captain is under OUR abhorrent auspice!” There, that’s ‘Outie’’s fury. Though it was still tempered by ‘Innie’’s reason: sometimes intimidation is enough. “He will PRANCE in like the free, cultured man he i-”

“No, no, they’re right.” Hammerlock interrupted, extending his robotic arm so as to stop his friend’s advance. His expression was oddly awkward. “I’m an outsider who forgot to bring tribute.”

“But-”

“Apologies, but I don’t really have anything of value that I can give up, at the moment!” Hammerlock shouted towards the gate. “Can I return at a later time, after I procure something?”

“YEAH, SURE!” the voice shouted back. “BUT WE’RE TAKING THIS JAR AS COLLATERAL!”

The two of them turned away from Carnivora. Actually, mostly Hammerlock turned away: specifically, he did a 180 and took out a holographic map of the area, already plotting a route in his mind.

“...Hammerlock, why?” Krieg asked, utterly puzzled (indeed, so puzzled Outie tagged out again). “I could have strong-armed us inside very easily.”

“Well, as I said, I am a foreigner in this land.” Hammerlock said, not looking away from the map, as if this was so obvious to him. “It would be a major faux pas on my part to not respect the local customs.”

“I wanted to get in early. And we were going to, until you interrupted me.”

“We will get in earlier than others. Unless something truly terrible happens, this expedition won’t take much time.”

“Expedition? Hammerlock, what are you planning?”

“A hunt, of course!” Hammerlock exclaimed. He stuffed the map back into his pocket, face beaming with joy. Already his mind was racing with thoughts: what quarry shall make the ‘best’ tribute, which spices (stored in the portable spice rack he carries inside his storage deck at all times) would be the most fitting for that quarry, and so on.

But then, he stopped in his tracks as he realized that this was likely an impulse. He turned to face Krieg again.

Krieg’s face didn’t show disapproval, thankfully. But it didn’t exactly show approval either.

“...This is my fault. I didn’t tell you there was a toll.”

“Fault? No, my friend, it’s only natural I took the opportunity for an adventure the moment it reared its head. If you wish, we could-”

“How long has it been since you hunted something Pandoran?”

“Years.”

“We have around 8 standard hours before Flashbang sets and people really start pouring into Carnivora. Think you’re fast enough?”

Hammerlock stood dumbfounded for a while, before he finally understood the implication.

“Depends, but I do tend to work quite well under the pressure of time.” A smile painted itself on his face. “Tell me, is it considered a gaffe to drive away from Carnivora?”

“I- I don’t know, actually.”

“Good.” Hammerlock quipped as he procured an odd-looking device from his storage deck, which he used to digistruct a Jakobs-style hovercycle (thankfully, it had a basket in the back just large enough to contain the cart Krieg was pulling) in front of them. “Allons-y, then.”

(Δ)

Hey fellow adventurers, this is Typhon DeLeon.

Actually, no, I probably shouldn’t be callin’ ya adventurers. Then again, if ya found this, then you’re probably nosy enough to become a skilled adventurer. So even if ya weren’t one before, you are one now.

While we’re at it, I might as well bestow another title upon your keister: jerk! These logs are secret!!!

That is, if I’m still alive - if I kicked the calendar, then feel free to listen. Since, y’know, at that point I won’t be responsible for anythin’ that happens to ya as a result of hearin’ what I have to say. These logs are secret for a reason.

...Or maybe, standin’ near and holdin’ alien artifacts for too long made me totally meshuge, and none of this matters.

[silence on recording]

But not now. Gotta lay out the groundwork first.

I hope ya know what a Vault is. Alien treasure, guardian constructs, the whole twenty-six kilometers. Folks thought it was a mere legend for untold decades.

That’s all true. But it ain’t the whole truth.

[silence on recording]

Vault Hunting also ain’t the glamorous thing folks think it is. It’s dangerous, kinda nasty, and relies on luck more than skill.

You heard me right: I invented it, and I’m tellin’ ya it kinda sucks. Ain’t that funny?

Imagine if the inventor of the ECHOnet stepped into a TeedTalk and said somethin’ like “yeah, I made it big, and here’s how you can do it: you can’t. First of all, my parents owned a highly unethical tiberium mine in the Cain sector, and funneled the profits into a trust fund I could use to easily finance my invention. Second of all, I was chosen for the ‘Merasmus+’ program, and the extra education I got that way really helped, but they could have easily chosen my friend who was just as intelligent”.

They’d be booed off the stage! But they’d be right, and how.

[silence on recording]

Then again, if what I’ve seen wasn’t some hallucination, then callin’ Vault Hunting “kinda nasty” is an understatement.

[silence on recording]

All my years, I’ve tried to do good. And yet it still feels like the universe punished me anyways.

Maybe I just didn’t do it enough. Maybe, I didn’t take responsibility when I should’ve, and just kept lyin’ to myself that I did. Or maybe, G-d exists and is cruel.

But it’s too late now.

[silence on recording]

(Δ)

The entrance closes behind me.

I have arrived at my grave.

Here is where my thread will lay tangled, for the rest of time.

Never before have I seen the inside of a Vault. I was told they are all unique. Perfect containers, tailored to what they are meant to contain. This one looks not like a container, but the works of the Eridians rarely had forms perfectly indicative of function.

I look into the vacuous surface above. It reminds me of the sky, dark in its brightness. My aching head lowers as I feel its weight.

My body, my soul coil in pain. It is the same pain I felt when I sealed the Destroyer in its chains. A reverberation of my sin.

At least this suffering will soon end, as will the burdens I carry.

The walk to my designated place is short. I choose to prolong it, and I do not know why.

Perhaps, now that all has been done, a solace took root in me. A paradoxical sort. The Eridians are no more, a primal evil is imprisoned. What is there left to do but die?

And so, I feel calm, though that calm is painful. Perhaps so painful that I’m not truly calm, but numb.

The Vault is silent. The walkway is perfectly level. The fake sky above me, black and white simultaneously, does not flash or move.

I still have so many questions. But it is too late to ask them, for I know all those who could answer me are dead.

I momentarily think of those who remain. My kind; my people. They shunned me, as they did with my sisters and those sisters who came before them. Now that I have given so much of myself to save them, and countless others...

I realize they won’t even have a chance to change their minds, for they will never see me again.

Nobody will.

I deserve that. I deprived so many of their lives.

It is why I am here.

These stones alone shall be witness to my penance...

...unless...

...

...unless there is someone else here.

I look upwards, and I see...

Chapter Text

...a titan.

It unveils its form, scaly and chaotic, wound-covered. It is one of the countless monstrous threats the Eridians warned me of, but I do not remember which.

It does not matter, as surely it will soon consume me in its ravenous rage.

Is this why my sisters told me to lay myself down here?

I doubt ssso.

...Fiend! Vile demon! If that is you speaking-

Calm down, ssscion of the Jailers. I mean you no harm: after all, my kind isss long doomed.

Your kind includes the Destroyer. Countless beings will take solace in that fact.

Cetenkli, indeed, wasss one of our own. But it was not a favored Yaldabaoth. Many vied for hisss throne, many disputed its status, and his legendary star-hunger disrupted the agendas of many.

Regardlesss, now that those you served have destroyed us and themselves, itsss position has been rendered meaningless. My position, too, has lost its value – and that isss why I am not lying to you.

How do you know about what... happened to the Eridians?

May I first introduce myself, o sssapient?

I am Fylaid’vdel – that is, the Serpent, the Custodian, the Anaesthesisss. Once: retainer on the court of the Eater of Hearts; ssspinner of deceit-web and dark-thought. Now: contained, as presumably the rest of my kin; cut off from the vassst dark, scales of trickery dulled.

There is nobody to deceive but the two of usss, and so I shall not deceive, for there is no purpose to it.

That does not answer my question.

Oh, but it doesss. It is through the great data flowsss, which meander like psionic rivers, that the few of us quick enough were able to evade the gaze of those you call the Eridians for a while. The webs I spun, fang-threads, were as knots and sensory organs alike, stronger than any divination ssspell and more permanent.

I warned myssself. And that is how I managed to sssneak into this Vault alive, unnoticed and unharmed.

My penultimate deception, complete.

Penultimate?

Perhaps, for once, I can tell sssomeone the truth. After all, if neither of usss will leave this place, then I can deceive the entire universe by means of obscurity.

Sit down, ssscion of the Jailers. I will tell you of-

Do not mention them again.

(Δ)

Pandora’s sands felt the strange touch of a Jakobs hovercycle’s anti-grav, pushing it – by means of cleverly exploited physical laws – ever forward. Skags peeked at the vehicle from their dens, but did not dare attack: those of them which haven’t been domesticated long since developed a wholly justified fear of humans and their machinations (and an awareness that only the cover of night can let them safely scavenge in their refuse).

“If I recall correctly,” Hammerlock spoke with his hands on the steers, firm in the way a captain’s grip on his ship is firm “the area we’re heading to is home to a variant – that is the plural noun for all non-eusocial spiderants, I believe – of rogue spiderants. Although some of them grow to massive sizes, presumably because their sisters aren’t there to ration their nutrients or cull them in time, with no hive to protect them – and with the precise use of armor-piercing rounds – they will be easy prey.” Already, his mind was swelling with that bloodborne satisfaction of taking something down in one shot; but for now, he had to focus on the road.

“Easy thing for you to say.” Krieg scoffed. “The other guy and I fought some big ones in our glory days, and they didn't ever die in just one armor-piercing round. Hell, some of them can shrug off a Tediore launcher – back when they still made those – to the face.”

“My friend, are you doubting my skill or my equipment?”

“I dunno, maybe a bit of both. You never know with this planet.”

“Hm, well...” Alistair remembered his own encounters with the local fauna, especially the one he’d rather not. “I suppose it’s healthy not to overestimate your capabilities. Excess confidence is quite the insidious killer. Still, I suggest you keep your chin up.”

When the two arrived at their destination, they saw something they didn’t expect: the alleged spiderant habitat was already occupied. To be specific, someone had already built an entire compound on top of it; rusty steel sprawling across the drylands as if pie filling poured into a shell.

Alistair was not happy, to say the least. He stopped the hovercycle in front of the compound, confusion painting itself on his face – then, he sighed as the realization hit him.

“You sure it’s here? Seems like someone set up shop." - his passenger remarked.

“Yes, it’s just that I remembered I’m an absolute fool. My information about this planet is years out of date.”

The hunter got off the hovercycle, worry painting itself on his face.

“Well, if they set up in prime spiderant habitat, perhaps they know something about where I can find the creatures now?” He took out a bronze-adorned curved horn out of his storage deck and, after taking a deep breath, gave it a mighty blow.

The bellowing sound echoed through the Pandoran lands, scaring some rakk away – but the compound stayed silent as stone.

“Hm. Well.” Alistair hid the horn pensively. “Either they somehow do not recognize the universal hunter’s sign, or this place is already abandoned.”

“So.. we’re going in?”

“Wh- my friend, I was going to suggest that myself!”

“I was being sarcastic .”

“Too late now, I’ve decided I shall explore this ominous complex, and you will help me. Perhaps the spiderants have already repopulated this rightful territory of theirs?”

Krieg sighed, relinquishing himself to the hunter’s will; not because he was scared or anything, but because -- to be entirely honest with himself – he was happy for this opportunity to adventure with an old friend. He got off the hovercycle – which Alistair quickly digistructed away with Krieg’s cargo still inside so it’s kept safe – and the two entered the compound at last.

The compound consisted of a bunch of buildings close together with sun-shielding tarps hung between their roofs, a wall with a gate which the men opened with no difficulty, and what appeared to be farm plots laying fallow. Wind gently whistled through the corrugated metal to the classic Pandoran tunes of death and survival in spite of everything; solar panels gathered starlight as patiently as ever. There was not a living soul to be seen.

“Seems I was right.” Alistair reasoned, his eyes quite enjoying the shade the tarps provided. In a way, he found this inspirational: that even such ‘hostile’ planets can still host functional settlements. If only the greedy forces that rule the galaxies didn’t try to constantly make it worse, then paint its inhabitants as the ones at fault.

“Maybe. Maybe you were.” Krieg sighed. The constants of Pandora are few, and the security of one’s base is never one of them.

Perhaps whoever lived here deserved whatever it is they got handed to them. Perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps the true answer lies somewhere between these two extremes, but now that this place’s tale has been lost to the sands, none will be able to decide where; this compound, like many others, might forever be maligned as a “bandit base” which nourished in its stomach those “subhuman beasts” somehow both feared and ignored on countless worlds.

But, at least for now, ochre symbols grimace from skagskin banners. They are fresh, not yet bleached by the sun and sand, proudly displaying the iconography of a powerful clan, or a small huddle, or maybe even a seer-mosque that moved on from this place like they move on from all other earthly comforts.

“Hm. If this place is abandoned, then they must’ve left somewhat recently. Probably was of their own accord – else this compound would be a pile of rubble.” Krieg remarked. Voluntary nomadism was not unheard of on Pandora - involuntary too, and the lines between the two blurred often. Especially after the most recent Pandoran winter ended, many of the clans which enjoyed prosperity “of the calm years” had to move north, towards colder regions where the infamous wildlife is sparser, and some found that the traveling life suited them better than trying to find a home amongst the tundra and ice. “Or at least a little more... uh, nicked than it is.”

“Quite, my friend. Your understanding of the local culture is impressive, if I do say so myself.” Alistair said, pep still in his step despite the eerie silence of the compound creeping into the creases of his brain - like a slime mold in some lab, crawling towards the next scrumptious oat flake.

“Culture. Hah.” Krieg sighed wistfully. “Culture...”

“Is something wrong?” Alistair raised his voice, sensing a sort of melancholy stir in the Vault Hunter, though what sort he could not quite guess.

“No, nothing, just... living here amongst these people – and the other guy – has given us a lot of time to think. I vowed not to hurt the innocent. But these days I realize that maybe, just maybe, innocence is less of an absolute and more of a point of view. If you look at the world with a crooked enough lens, it seems like nobody is innocent and everyone is doomed.”

“Indeed. Though I’m not quite sure what that has to do with what I said.”

“I’ll tell you some other day. Not because I’m mad, or the other guy is – you’re one of the most open-minded and kind people we know – we just need some... time.”

“I understand. ‘ An open mind is an open trade route, its paths brimmeth with wealth.’ ”

As soon as Alistair finished that quote, something clanked in the depths of the compound. Krieg shivered at the sound, as if it somehow rattled the metaphysical steers in his brain-ship; then he put his hand to his trusty buzz-axe, still in a loop clipped to his belt, ready to take it out at a moment’s notice.

“Shh. Keep your wits about you, metal captain.”

“There is not a moment when I am not keeping my wits about me.”

Another clank resonated, like a bell-toll. Then, a series of shuffles, as if someone wearing stilts was trying to wade through the sand on stilts. The two men stepped closer to one another, retreating back into the shade the tarps afforded them.

Alistair took out his rifle, adrenaline already beginning to suffuse him. Krieg took a very deep breath. And then...

...a singular spiderant crawled out to meet them. She was a pawn, clearly not a rogue one judging by her size. Seeing the two men, she stretched her forelimbs and shook her abdomen, which Alistair recognized (thanks to his friendship with a certain robotic beastmaster) as a gesture of relaxation and/or assurance.

“Oh.” He lowered his rifle. Perhaps there wasn’t anything to be afraid of, after all.

The pawn shrieked, knocking her left hindlimb on the corrugated metal walls three times.

 “Krieg, my friend, would you look at that! The spiderants are still here! Just not the rogues, which is a little strange-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because the pawn was actually a sentry. Now, her masters - a group of bandits, armed to the teeth - and sisters had heard her alert and began emerging from the buildings and even the ground (by means of a hatch).

And they were about to show their guests some Pandoran hospitality.

(Δ)

What is the worth of a person?

Maybe in ancient times, they’d say that it’s intrinsic. That means, a person has worth because they are alive, and that’s enough!

But this ain’t the ancient times. No, this’s the time of corporations and interstellar existence. Worth is basically synonymous with money, and you can’t just say someone’s worth money because they exist. That’d break the CEOs’ brains into a zillion pieces!

...For which they’d probably sue you. And ask for a zillion dollars in damages. Which they’d win, because corporations have more lawyers then I have Vercuvian ham.

The difference is, corporate lawyers sure ain’t kosher! Hah! Geddit? Classic “evil lawyer” joke!

[silence on recording]

...Anyways.

[sigh]

You could say that a person’s worth is equal to their achievements. Which’s fine and dandy, ‘til someone asks WHICH achievements?!

How can you be sure that a hundred years from now, what they did won’t be considered a grand crime? Or if they have skeletons in the closet that’ll stain their glory forever once they come out?

...Or if what they claim are their achievements really is their work at all?

Were they even right to want greatness? If you ask me, it seems like most evil actions start with someone wantin’ something! Money, power, attention...

Even after doing all of that, they’re still gonna die, ‘cause everyone dies, eventually. And I doubt money slash power slash attention matters in whatever afterlife is out there.

Sure, they might build a legacy. But there’s no guarantee it will last!

[silence on recording]

So... why? Why did I do this? Why did I choose to go look for mythical alien treasure?

[silence on recording]

Because back then, I would’ve never asked myself this. No, young fool Typhon just carried on as if nothing was wrong, and he didn’t need no self-reflection.

He thought of himself as eternal, in a way. Not as the simple animal, the servant of G-d he actually is, no. He ignored the fleetin’ but also cooperatin’ nature of man; he was blind to the truth: that there ain’t such a thing as a “self”, only a set of things we call a “self” ‘cause it’s easier that way. That existence can only really be found in connections: person to person, person to environment, environment to time.

[silence on recording]

Yes, yes, I’m spouting utter bupkis. That’s what you think, don’t ya? Well, ya OPENED this tape, so it’s what ya deserve!

[silence on recording]