Mordecai sat in the top of his chilly fortress atop one of the mountains in Tundra Express contemplating what his rifle meant. He had come to the conclusion that the only thing that meant more to him than his rifle was Bloodwing, the two being the only constants in his life since he came to Pandora. He had decided that so long as his rifle didn't fail him, he wouldn't fail her. He'd keep her clean and pretty, oiled and sleek, ready at a moment's notice to make the all too natural slide from waiting to raining death on whatever he so chose from a thousand meters.
"Yup," he thought "with this in my hand and calm in my mind, I am become death." It was true; for who could touch him when he was up here but one as skilled as himself? The only person he'd met who could almost rival his marksmanship was that Vault Hunter, what was his name again? Zip? Zeek? Zer0! It was Zer0; creepy as hell that guy was, what with the weird computer face mask thing that kept flashing exclamation points at him and the weird way he talked, seriously, who woulda thunk that he'd meet an assassin that spoke in haiku? "Eh whatever keeps you sane." He mused. His way was to drink himself into a stupor and then kill things with a sniper, some felt poetry was the way; and he certainly wasn't about to blame them.
He looked back to the beautiful weapon in his hand, a Maliwan rifle painted red with orange LED lighting in the scope. He'd made his own adjustments of course, upped the magnification, here he snorted in derision, the makers didn't think their product could be improved upon and so made it impossible to remove the sighting and outfit the gun with one of his own, but he'd deal. The thing truly was gorgeous, a system for raining fire (literally) on his enemies with a bullet that was super-heated as it passed down the barrel until it exited as little more than a ball of lava travelling several times the speed of sound. The bullet speed and muzzle velocity was another thing he had changed, made faster, it could cause problems if he ever missed, but he had won an intergalactic sharpshooting competition at age 17…with a revolver. Could you blame him for doubting he'd ever miss?
He chuckled to himself as he started cleaning the rifle once more; he remembered the look on a bandit's face when the guy combusted spontaneously without even hearing the distinctive report from the gun that rang out a split second later. They never saw it coming. None of them did. The vast majority of humans had left the area when they started dropping dead without having the chance to scream first. Now all he got to do was babysit the Vault Hunters as they passed through to talk to Tiny Tina. The wildlife wasn't nearly as fun to shoot at. It didn't seek cover, it didn't hide, it didn't become fearful when it saw its buddies dropping like flies. He'd read a story once…" The Most Dangerous Game" in which a man hunted people rather than animals because humans could reason, could think. He supposed that he could be compared to the psychopath from the story, although he did live on Pandora, and in order to do that you had to be a little unbalanced.
He went back to cleaning the lenses on the scope, dusty business in the cave. His thoughts wandered to why he was out here in freaking No Man's Land. Roland, the beloved leader or the Crimson Raiders, had sent him out here to do reconnaissance. On what though? The train? Stupid thing passed through twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening. It was always moving too fast for him to pick off any of the loaders keeping guard on top of it. Didn't stop him from trying though. He glanced out over the frozen wasteland that was Tundra Express; he saw a few varkids scavenging at the base of his mountain, a couple stalkers hunting in the distance, a rakk here and there. But there were no people. The isolation never got to him, although he hardly considered himself alone, with Bloodwing at his side and his guns explosive response to the question "Who will die next?" he had all the company and conversation he needed. He supposed it did affect him though. Whenever he went into Sanctuary to stock up on booze and ammo he felt…crowded, cramped, and more than a little annoyed at all the background noise. He was used to this, the quiet of the wilderness, the chaos of the world far away and the natural order still in the forefront of every living creatures mind. This was his domain, his turf, and his stomping ground. Nobody messed with him here because nobody was here.
He was nearly done cleaning her now. A little polish and he'd start shooting. He was excited, almost giddy. This is what he was waiting for; the moment he'd put eye to sight and finger to trigger. The moment that he would play the angel of death, deciding who and what dies and the order in which they do. That moment he pulled the trigger and felt the reduced recoil on his shoulder, felt the heat from the bullet for a millisecond, and heard the *CRACK* a moment later. Some would call him sick for the power these things brought him, he'd laugh at them just before he pulled the trigger the next time they came meandering into the Express, thinking they were safe. He laughed to himself picturing the scene playing out.
He set his rag down, she was ready, dressed and looking purty, gleaming a bit in the light of the newly risen sun. He hoisted his gun a pulled the stock into his shoulder with the care and grace one would usually show a lover or the closest of friends. He grasped the handle, worn down from months of use; it was cool to the touch. He put his eye to the sight and realized he'd damn near already sighted a bandit convoy in the distance; he grinned to himself. This was gonna be fun, he'd start with the tires, make them realize they were under attack, then he'd show them who's territory they'd just invaded. He was Mordecai, age 39, greatest damn sniper in the galaxy, and he could use a new gun.
"No rest for the wicked indeed." Was all he said before he started the assault.