Author's Note: I'm still playing through Borderlands 2, and I find the setting is a bit too fast-paced for the story I want to write, so I'm setting this back in an indeterminate time, at some point prior to Hyperion making a mess of things. And yes, it is totally all about Mordecai, because I love Mordecai and am being terribly self-indulgent.

The radio was about the only thing that could be heard in the New Haven courtyard, rattling out tinny music punctuated by static. It sat in the driver's seat of a much-abused runner; the vehicle's paint smeared with dried ichor and coated with a fine layer of dust, two of the tires missing and half the metal paneling pried off one side to expose the internals. Two skinny legs protruded from underneath the vehicle, toes pointing to the sky. It was these that Mordecai was considering, standing just far enough that his own feet wouldn't be visible to the man underneath the runner. He jerked his head and the malformed bird on his shoulder was quick to interpret the gesture. Bloodwing fluttered down and seized one of Scooter's ankles and bit hard. An explosive burst of profanity was the result, and Bloodwing scattered back with an irritated screech as the pair of legs began thrashing in blind panic. There was a resounding thunk from underneath the runner and then Scooter went limp.

"Damn," Mordecai muttered, "Didn't mean for that to happen."

And the sniper stooped to haul the dazed and half-unconscious mechanic out from under the runner.

"The hell happened?" Scooter slurred, tentatively raising a hand to touch his brow. There was an ugly mark on the hairline that was already starting to turn an intriguing shade of purplish-red.

"I got a job for you," Mordecai replied.

"And you let me know by siccing your damn bird on me?"

Scooter tried to sit up and Mordecai watched impassively as the mechanic's eyes rolled back a touch and he decided it would be best if he just remained laying there on the ground. After a moment Mordecai leaned over and switched off the radio.

"I figured you'd have the presence of mind to realize you were underneath a runner and not try to leap to your feet."

"It bit me!" Scooter let out a breath. "Damn."

"Focus, Scooter. I have a job."

"It ain't' fixing up another one of my runners that you busted the shit-hell out of, is it?"

In answer, Mordecai walked away to one of Scooter's worktables that sat under the canopy. He cleared off a space with one arm, sending tools and parts dancing perilously close to the edge. Behind him, Scooter painfully rolled to his feet. Bloodwing hissed at him as he did, Scooter hissed back and then limped over to where Mordecai was laying his rifle out on the table.

"Ah ain't a gun person," Scooter said warily, watching the sniper. Mordecai's hands rested over the barrel and stock of the gun possessively, as if he wasn't quite sure he wanted to relinquish it in any way, not even temporarily to the surface of Scooter's table. It was an unconscious gesture, but it was enough to make Scooter wary of approaching. This was Mordecai's gun – not just any gun, but his sniper rifle.

"I ain't taking it to Marcus," Mordecai replied, "And the scope is busted. Gotta get fixed somehow. It's... a good gun."

His voice was low. He could not put into words the trust he had in this piece of metal, the familiarity of its parts and the reassurance of its weight. He had been fighting off bandits and while it had not posed much of a threat one of the psychos had gotten in close and grappled with him. Seeing the grenade in the psycho's left hand, Mordecai had chosen to relinquish the gun rather than remain there when it went off. After he finished dispatching the rest of the bandits with his revolver, he went to reclaim the rifle, and found there was only murky black when he looked through the scope.

"It's beyond my abilities," Mordecai continued, "I was hoping you'd be able to fix it, or maybe send me to someone who can. Someone that isn't Marcus."

"What's wrong with Marcus? He just sell you a new scope or maybe just a new gun-"

He trailed off as Mordecai turned to look at him. The man's eyes were hidden away under the goggles, but there was a set to the jaw that warned him he had best be quiet now.

"-or maybe ah'll just be taking a look at this, right?" Scooter amended, "Might take some time. You come back in a few hours, kay?"

Mordecai nodded and stepped back silently. He turned to go, Bloodwing fluttering to his shoulder, leaving Scooter behind with the rifle.

Precisely two hours later, Mordecai returned. Scooter was back under the runner and this time, Mordecai drew his pistol and put a bullet through the shell of the radio. There was a yelp from Scooter, but the mechanic retained his presence of mind and scrambled out from underneath the vehicle before staggering to his feet.

"The hell was that for?!" he yelled, drawing out the 'ell' as he gestured at the radio with a wrench. Mordecai remained impassive and folded his arms while Scooter continued to carry on in indignation.

"My gun?" Mordecai finally said when Scooter's tirade wound down.

"Ah looked at it."

"And?"

"It done broke somethin' good. And I noticed here that the scope seems to have... melted... and fused with the gun just a bit. Drop a grenade on it or somethin?"

"Yes," Mordecai replied softly.

"I could cut the scope off, but it wouldn't be pretty, and ah'm not sure you'd be able to seat a new one back on. You needs an expert."

"I hope you know one?"

"Ah do."

There was a terse silence. Scooter glanced meaningfully at the broken radio, still spitting sparks, and then back at Mordecai. The man's scowl only deepened and Bloodwing even joined in on the glowering.

"It'll cost yah," Scooter said, holding his ground. After a moment, Mordecai reluctantly pulled out some money and started peeling bills off into Scooter's outstretched palm. Once there was enough to cover the radio – and then some – the mechanic's demeanor brightened considerably.

"Right then," he said, "There's this eng-in-eer on Pandora, see, and she might be able tah fix it for yah. Fixes everything round here, if you can find her."

"Where does she live?"

"Nowhere, that's the trouble. Travels all the time, checkin' the lines that carry electricity and water – think she's even got a hand in keeping ECHO running."

"So how do I find her? Blow up a relay tower and wait for her to show?"

There was a strain of irritation in Mordecai's voice now.

"Woah, no need for that. Just ask around, crack some bandit heads, they'll tell yah where she's at. Tell 'em you're looking for skag-girl."

"Skag-girl." Mordecai's tone was completely flat. He had never heard of such a person, but the nickname alone held the possibility for all sorts of interesting – and possibly terrible – connotations.

"Yeah. Skag-girl. And take that damn gun with yah, it's taken up too much space."

Mordecai complied. He felt crippled, like he only had half a gun. He knew he should be glad the thing functioned at all, that a broken – and slightly melted – scope was the worst of it, but there was a simmering resentment there nonetheless. His rifle was not working. It was a hateful weight on his back now, as if the gun had betrayed him. Or perhaps he had betrayed it, letting it go from his hands. If he'd just fought a bit harder, or perhaps been a bit quicker and pulled his sword, then perhaps he wouldn't have been forced to leave it behind when he ran for cover from the grenade.

Regardless, he had no desire to replace the weapon and it seemed his only option for the time was to find this engineer. With a nickname like that, surely someone around New Haven could point him in the right direction.