Meat Bicycles or Whatever
Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with the Borderlands series or properties. All credit for this story goes the the folks at Gearbox.
Song Credit: The majority of this chapter was written while listening to In One Ear by Cage The Elephant. God Bless Cage The Elephant.
Lot of corpses on Pandora, a lot of corpses. Piles of them, really. More bodies than should be considered acceptable for a planet of such... renown, but there it is. Pandora is a graveyard for nearly everybody that sets foot on its surface. The lucky ones die of natural causes and those are few in number. The majority, the unlucky folks, get killed by pretty much anything and left to rot. Meat for the skags, the rakks, the Rats. Just another corpse under the blazing desert sun. God knows the bodies nearby are prime examples.
The first is hanging from his arm, tied to a rope, which is tied to the rusted rib of some great metal thing that nobody cares about anymore. The second is the guy is a fresher corpse, seeing as he's still alive. The bandit in question is cradling a minigun rifle, still blissfully unaware of the fact that death is sitting on a rock not thirty feet away. A vulture waiting for the chance to swoop in. A big, crazy vulture with a buzz axe.
I don't know either of them. The hanging guy probably didn't deserve what he got. Doesn't make him special though. All kinds of people die out here. The innocent... and the not-so-innocent.
The combat rifle guy is milling around, wearing some scrap armor and a crap blast-visor helmet. His red jacket sticks out like a bloody thumb. An easy target, like most bandits. We roll off the rock, buzz axe in hand, the blade ready and sharp. We're lucky. He hasn't noticed us yet.
We flip the buzz axe into the air, clumsy fingers only knocking against the handle before the weapon hits the sand. Maybe the soft clump of sound will be enough. Nope. This guy's really in his own world. We spot him again, our insanity focused now, the rage building up as the muscles in our face twitch. God help this bandit, because there's nothing I can do for him.
I wanna warn him. I want to tell him to run, to hide, to get out of sight so we won't have to kill him. That's what I want to say. What actually comes out of our mouth is-
"I have the shiniest MEAT BICYCLE!"
Meat bicycle, huh? Close enough.
The sun is hotter than hell today and really wants us to know. It beats down on our head, our arms, our back. The sand kicks up with every step we take. Sweat beads all over us in this blistering heat and we run, sand crunching beneath our feet. We jump, we vault over some scrap fencing, we raise the buzz axe overhead-
"SCREAM FOR ME!"
The blade whirs, spinning serrated edges that have been so abused it's a wonder they can still spin. Our arm is a swinging tree-trunk, powerful and clumsy and fast, faster than the poor bastard who's about to get his head ripped apart. He yells, too slow even as he tries to bring up his gun. We can't see his face under the blast-visor he's wearing, but maybe he's surprised. Maybe he's afraid. Maybe he's as crazy as we are, and doesn't feel anything but hate and pain.
Doesn't matter.
Our buzz axe rips into him, through him, out of him. We kill him so quickly that the blood seems to hang in the air for a moment before splattering across our mask, our arms, our bare chest. It's hot, hotter than the sun baking down, so damned hot that it lights that fire in us, that fire that I desperately want to put out even as he continues to feed it.
"So HOT! So GOOD! Give us MORE!"
There's no more, moron. He's the only one, and we killed him. Congrats. Job well done. Clean us up. Please. The smell still offends one of us, after all.
"It loves the spill, the THRILL!"
Uh-huh. Sure it does. Nice rhyme. Good on us for being creative for a change. Now loot the dead guy and find us some water before we die of dehydration.
This is me. Us. Krieger and Kreig. Us. We. Same damn thing. We're Krieg, we were Krieger Dawson. A long time ago. Another lifetime. All I remember is the name. I've forgotten what we were before the pain.
Poor bandit bastard. Hardly had a cent to his name. Just a few bucks, a crappy Bandit-make gatling-rifle and a canteen. We can use the money and the canteen, at least.
Drink up, big guy. Push the mask up first, this time and don't spill. We'll need as much water as we can get our hands on. Day's not getting any colder.
"Drip, drip goes the blood with a thud, goes the meat in the street! MEAT STREET!"
Yeah... meat street. That's totally a place. If I didn't know better, I'd say we were stupid as hell. But I do know better, and we're only half stupid. Hallelujah.
Don't know how much you know about Eridium, but getting injected with the stuff hurts. It hurts beyond anything you can imagine, before or after. You try to think back on that kind of pain, even if you don't want to, and all you remember is blindness and fear. That's it. Blindness where your memory stops working and fear that you'll have to relive any of the nightmare that you just barely lived through. Pain like that, it's enough to kill anybody. Didn't kill me. No idea why, but it didn't kill me. Just broke me, broke my mind. Broke us in two. Made us what we are.
Made us into a monster.
I've had a lot of time to think, trapped in our body as we amble around the desert, even as I struggle to get control again. Maybe this was always me, always this primal killing nightmare that screams incoherencies into the lifeless air. Maybe it was a defense mechanism; bottle up all that hate, all that rage, all that pain, and find a way to get back at a galaxy that would allow us to suffer so much. Can't be sure of the why, only know the how. Doesn't matter.
"Look at that sky! Just wanna poke its eyes out!"
That was almost coherent. Way to express ourself, buddy. Keep walking.
All we want to do is eat, fuck and kill. It's not that I don't try and stop us, you have no idea how long I've struggled to get control back, but he's got everything except our higher brain functions. Anything more than a snarky suggestion goes in one ear and right out the other. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Can't be the voice in somebody's head and be an outside verbal stimulus. And guess what? Skag-for-brains couldn't come up with a thought that complex in a thousand years. I've got all the smart parts. It's like being trapped in a supercomputer run by a hamster. And the hamster is insane and wants to kill people. And the computer is on fire.
I'm the only thing that keeps us in check. I don't pretend it's not a part of me that's murdering pretty much everything we come across, because he's me and I'm him and we're us. And we are a butcher, a killer, a psycho. But we're not a murderer. And as long as I'm around, even if I'm trapped in our head forever, we won't become one. Because no matter what, no matter how much blood we bathe in or how many bleached skulls we jerk off into or all the times we scream SALT THE WOUND at the top of our lungs, I'm always watching. The moment our axe touches the flesh of the undeserving, the minute we start shooting at the innocent, the second we become like those other psychos, I'll be in control. Maybe not for long, but I won't need more than a moment. Wouldn't take much effort to put a gun barrel to the side of our head and pull the trigger.
God, if I was in control of our salivation glands I'd be drooling at the prospect. But I'm still here and we haven't slipped yet. Killed a lot of people, yeah, but we haven't killed anyone that didn't deserve to die. A lot of bandits in the Dead Sands have embraced the lay of the land because of us. Bandits and madmen that killed bounty hunters for sport, kept the Crimson Guard at bay for months, brought down by a man who can hardly go three minutes without yelling something about his junk.
Speaking of which...
"I'm the BIGGEST ANACONDA! FREE SAMPLES!"
Yep, sounds about right. Keep on walking, Mr. Anaconda. You've got some distance to cover yet. Follow the tracks. The train tracks. You keep stumbling after our own footprints and we'll both be dead before the day's out.
Don't know what I looked like before, can't remember. Doesn't matter. What we are now is muscle, lanky and powerful, all the wrong proportions. Thin at the waist, the torso, the legs. A stooped posture with those tree-trunk arms I mentioned earlier, the left arm a little bit longer than the right. But we're all muscle, all stupid strong and stupid fast and god damned we can take a lot of punishment, even without armor. I've lost track of how many times we've been gutshot and bounced back, how often we just charge into the fray and the weapons of other psychos can hardly get through our skin. Kinda miraculous, really. Well, it would be if we weren't so fucking insane.
Clothes... the less said about our outfit the better. Some hideous orange worker's pants, uncomfortable construction boots that don't really fit and a whole lot of metal studs that we've added for... no reason whatsoever. A combat harness, something designed to be worn over a decent suit of armor, yet it's all we've got on our torso. We've got this hunk of metal strapped to our left forearm, like a buckler or a crossguard, along with a matching plate over the top of our left hand. Good for punching people, protection against bullets, blocking blades, that sort of thing. Not that the other guy gets it, though. It's just part of our décor now. Right arm is wrapped in old bandages and packing tape. Ugh, smells like psycho spirit.
We wear a mask because of course we wear a mask. Wouldn't be a psycho without the mask, right? God help us. At least the rebreather still works, even if he forgets to change the filter too often for my liking. An old slag-mining mask, classic whites, reds and yellows held in place by worn skag-leather straps that wrap around our head. We've made some alterations and wear the thing damn-near constantly. Been a long time since I've seen our face. Can't even remember what we look like anymore. Just the mask, and the hateful eye.
Right eye's blind, don't know if that was pre-or-post us, got a patch over that dead orb. The other eye is an angry, bloodshot mess that might've been brown at some point, but is perpetually red and on the prowl for victims. I should be a lousy shot with just the one eye, but somehow I still... I can feel my surroundings. I know where the bad guys are (yes I am also a bad guy I get it what more do you want from me). I understand what kind of depth of field I'm working with, where to place my shots. It's weird, sure, but not the weirdest thing I deal with.
"FUCK THE PROSTATE, SANTA!"
See what I mean? Least there was a comma in that last bit. God, I hope there was a comma. Don't want to know what a Prostate Santa is. A shudder of revulsion would do us a world of good. Instead this clumsy fuck keeps tossing our buzz axe in the air with half-assed chances of catching the thing. Hasn't dropped it yet, though. Maybe that's progress, I dunno.
"I'm ready for a SPINE TINGER!"
Yeah, great. Listen, remember back when we were sane?
"She can taste the BLOODY HATRED!"
Guess not. Still trying to ignore me, huh? The little voice in our head trying to remind us of the time when we could go hours, days even, without screaming about our desire to ride bicycles made of meat. I don't even-
TRAIN!
We throw ourselves out of the way, more him than me, just in time to get clipped on a side railing from the goddamn Hyperion Express, apparently the stealthiest train in fucking existence. The pain is harsh, might've cracked a rib or two, but it's puppy-kisses compared to the Eridium. Seriously, I can't stress enough that-
And then we see her.
Vision's blurred a bit because of the pain, but that doesn't make that first sight any less awe-inspiring. Actually shuts him up, though I'm so caught up in the moment I don't even understand what's happening. She's about twenty feet away, waiting at the meager excuse of welding that is the rail-station. How did we not see her before? How? Waiting for the train with a hand on her hip, a posture that makes it seem like the train showing up is somehow an insult to her person.
I can only see the back of her, but its enough. A body like a goddess, all fit and curves and hips and ready for some serious worship. A cut bob of dark blue hair that screams in defiance against the dull browns of the desert. Cargo pants, combat boots and a single-sleeved, form-fitting yellow top. We start to drool. For once, I'm in full agreement with the other guy.
Then we see the swirl of blue tattoos on her left arm, her porcelain skin, and it all becomes clear.
Our good eye goes wide as we struggle to rise, buzz axe still in hand. Oh god, she's armed with a Maliwan SMG. She's a Vault Hunter, a Siren warrior who could kill me with her brain.
She turns to us, hard silver eyes squinting as her vision adjusts. It's like she's been carved from alabaster, a stunning sculpture of woman and death that stands in stark contrast to the ugliness of the world around her. We can see a pair of blue dots beneath her left eye. Gang markings? Birthmarks. Doesn't matter. She's the most beautiful woman we've ever seen.
Her exclamation is cautious, incredulous. "What the hell, is that a psycho?"
She sounds normal. She can't be real. Nothing so perfect in this hell can be real.
We rise from the sand, buzz axe in hand, trudging forward. Our pain is forgotten in the face of such beauty. She hefts her SMG ready for a fight and yet she approaches anyway, curious, her expression softening as she descends the rickety metal stairs.
Quick, you moron. Tell her she's as gorgeous as a thousand sunsets. Tell her you need her help. Tell her to rescue you, to care for you. And whatever you do, do not scream the word 'poop' at the top of your lungs!
We point into the air wildly with our free hand, gesturing angrily with the buzz axe in the other.
"I'm the conductor of the POOP TRAIN!"
Her eyes narrow, her body recoiling in distaste. She drops into the sand and raises her SMG, ready for combat. Bullets of electric blue pain whizz past us.
Our shoulders slump in defeat just before we go scrambling for cover. Yeah, now you realize how stupid that was. Too late now, though. It's over, idiot. We're gonna die here and now the last words out of our mouth will have been 'poop train'. I hope you're proud. I'm not. Not even a little.
An outcropping of low rocks serves as decent cover and we slump against it, one of the Siren's shots having just grazed our shoulder. Even near-miss is enough to leave a stinging burn. Had that been a headshot, I'm pretty sure it would have killed us. We don't have a shield.
The firing stops. She's reloading and we take a moment to look out from behind cover.
Great, now the Rats are arriving. We see them, the thin, wasted figures that scramble like vermin atop the roofs. They're prancing about, their stealthy movements made silent by the litany of gunfire that spits from the Siren's weapon.
The Rats are after her, not us. They've had psycho before. Bastards probably think a Siren a much tastier meal than us. And they're closing in. Fast. And she doesn't see them.
Gunfire smacks against the rocks in front of us, keeping our head down. God damn it, I want to warn her. I want to warn her so she doesn't get killed by these freaks.
Turn around, Siren! Turn around or you're dead!
Fear, indecision, rage, they cloud our brain. I try a command. Tell her to look back, now!
"STRIP THE FLESH!"
No! Listen to me-
"SALT THE WOUND!"
Yeah, great, we'll salt all the wounds later, but right now if you don't listen to me, she's going to die, and it's going to be YOUR fault.
And in that moment, a miracle.
He gives me control. All of it, all of us. It's like being electrocuted back into life. I can feel everything again, every scrap of being and fiber and muscle that is Krieg, the thing formerly known as Krieger Dawson. It's being a person again, if only for an instant.
I stand, pull my buzz axe back into a throw and yell, "TURN AROUND, PRETTY LADY!" My voice is a guttural snarl, far removed from the way I sound in our head, but it does the trick. She turns to dodge the buzz axe and I've got myself a clear target.
The moment my axe leaves my fingertips, I'm already being pushed back into my mental cage. He's in control again, using us however he sees fit. And as our buzz axe rips its way into the head of the Rat that was about to kill the Siren, he and I utter a short laugh in the same moment.
God help me, a good kill feels fantastic when all the pieces come together just right. For the first time since us became a thing, I actually feel like stepping in tandem with the other guy.
Alright, now let's go to work.
His reply is an enthusiastic snarl and a rush from cover, leaping onto the Rat's shoulders in a single bound and pulling the buzz axe out of its head. It gibbers a moment, dies and falls to the ground. I can feel the surprise on the Siren's face even though I can't see it. That was probably the last thing she was expecting. Well, you can't predict a psycho, after all. I briefly wonder if she's gonna shoot us in the back. When the bullets don't come we move on. Still plenty of rats to deal with, after all.
The other guy's lost to the bloodlust, cackling like a madman (no surprises there) as we rip through the rush of bodies. The blade tears them to shreds. Guts are spilled, limbs are rent and skulls are split.
He's having the time of his life.
"Hehe, that's the STUFF!"
Hey big guy, lemme try something.
We wheel on the last Rat, the skinny mutant bastard cowering in fear before us. We can see the fear this time. It's practically oozing out of its hideously pinched face.
I give him the words, he screams them. "I'M GONNA PUT MY PAIN INTO YOUR SOUL!"
The stricken Rat collapses into a heap. Might've fainted, but I'm pretty sure it just had a heart attack.
Looks like that was all of them, now-
Something screeches at us before jumping down from the rooftop above. Stupid, stupid him stupid me. We turn, not quick enough. This is gonna hurt-
Something dark and pulsing and pure energy catches the Rat in mid-air. An orb, a slice from another dimension, holding the freak in place. The rat starts to scream, confused, afraid. It has no idea what's happening.
But we do.
We turn and there she is, a flash of that same energy dissipating from her bare arm. The other hand grips the Maliwan but it's not pointed at us anymore. We look at her a moment, still breathing hard, understanding what she's done for us.
We leap into the air, buzz axe in hand, and the Rat utters one last shriek before it dies.
We're pulling the axe out of the body and I'm finding it hard to find the words. She's the first person to help us... ever. Literally as far back as I can remember it's just been us. Me and him. Nobody else.
Now tell her 'thank-you'. Tell the Siren that because of her, we might actually, one day, be able to act like a normal person again.
What actually comes out of our mouth is-
"I powdered my cockatiel for the RIBCAGE SLAUGHTER!"
Great... just great... fucking wonderful. After all that progress we just made you can't keep it together for five seconds-
She smiles. And her smile is the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Huh. Close enough.
LM here,
So this is a little love-letter to Borderlands, one of my favorite modern game series. Say what you want about Gearbox and their business practices (and I encourage vehemence in regards to their assitry), but their signature title has always been a fun, well-developed romp through a fantastic world with great characters and awesome baddies. I love self-aware humor, tons of loot, anything Mad Max-esque and the satisfaction of the utterly ridiculous and totally unashamed. Borderlands fits that bill in all the best ways. Best of all, it makes me laugh. Like, every time I play it. Which is awesome. Also Krieg is awesome and my favorite besides Gaige and Mordecai and Mr. Torgue and Tiny Tina and maybe there will be more of this we'll see. No promises, no guarantees. But this was a lot of fun. Hope you enjoyed too.
Thanks for reading,
Levi Matthews