Timothy's new hideout was a maintenance area hidden behind a literal waterfall. It was… all kinds of cliche, like the old ECHOcast dramas full of gloating, dastardly villains, but it was also undisturbed. The floors were dusty. The few supplies left over from before the lockdown were stacked neatly and long forgotten. It was hardly a paradise, but it would serve.

His favourite part though was the sound of water. A constant, static hiss that filled the silence he so often festered in.

And so time passed. And he wished he could say that its passing dulled the pain, but life was rarely so fanciful.

Sometimes he felt as if there was a scream that had been building inside him for years, yet died a silent death before it ever clawed its way out his throat. What cry could encompass the entirety of the last several years? The life he'd all but forgotten? The future denied to him by the lingering shadow of a long dead man?

When the anger flared it was vicious, and when it waned it left only numbness in its wake. He was paradoxically exhausted and frantic. Perhaps worst of all, despite everything, that stubborn part of him persisted - the desire to live.

On particularly venomous days he pretended it was an act of defiance. Jack would laugh if Timothy Lawrence croaked it in some quiet corner of his casino. Far better to carry on, and deny his ghost the satisfaction. To escape this all, somehow, and flip the bird at whatever cruel fate the world expected for him.

Other days it felt more like cowardice.

But he continued. Put one foot in front of the other. Each morning, each evening, blending together in a rhythm that he learned to make his peace with. Gave up counting each cycle and instead turned to writing little affirmations for himself, scrawled on the wall when paper would not do.

Sometimes he believed them.

Sometimes, too, he closed his eyes and thought only of the tower, and could do nothing but despair.

There came a day when Pretty Boy stopped asking for a body double. Instead, on every holoscreen and wanted poster plastered across the casino was a name - Timothy Lawrence. It came oozing from his lips as well, tacked onto the list of demands he so frequently broadcast.

Timothy supposed that made him the last. The first, and the last, and possibly the worst, but certainly the only one living.

In some ways it was a relief, in others a tragedy.

But as he watched the bounty on his head tick ever higher he admitted that above all it was an inconvenience. If there had been a target on his back before, now there was a glowing beacon. He knew it was only a matter of time. Still took the days as they came, regardless. Waiting for an inevitability. Dreaming of the impossible. Clinging on by the tips of his fingers, and too frightened to ever let go.

Bullets. In the end it was the lack of bullets that spelled his downfall. Absurd that something so small, something he'd long taken for granted would mean so much. But as he reached for a new clip for his SMG and found only empty space at his belt, he knew he was screwed.

Nisha would have laughed. She'd always counted her bullets, made sure each one hit with perfect precision, never a wasted shot or a careless threat. She would have laughed at him for a lot of reasons, really, and not kindly, but she was years dead on a distant shithole of a planet and reminiscing did him no favours.

He was out of ammunition and surrounded by loaders. So Timothy did the only thing he could, and locked himself away in the nearest available shelter.

It was a temporary measure at best. He knew that. Even if he didn't, he could hear the loaders at the door, systematically cutting their way through layers of steel while he huddled in the semi-darkness with no plan of escape.

So that was it then. He'd be dragged away, and spend the rest of his life as a glorified magic key for some greasy dictator hellbent on bringing the whole casino under his control. He wouldn't even go down in a blaze of glory, but peter out slowly, one miserable day at a time.

And it wasn't fair. It was never fair. But the world did what it liked, and that clearly didn't involve cutting him a break. God forbid anything ever went right for Timothy Lawrence.

He laughed, then, a bitter choked out sound that echoed in the narrow confines of the room before he stifled it.

There was only the whir of sawblades at the door.

Timothy stared at his empty SMG for a few moments before reluctantly tucking it away beneath his jacket. He pulled out his ECHO instead. Rested it against his forehead, and drew a few steadying breaths, in and out, waiting for his hands to stop shaking.

He put out a call on an open channel.

It was nothing more than desperation - a pitiful cry for help, blasted across the airways, like a prayer to an absent god…

But the other option was sitting there and twiddling his thumbs, so fuck it, he'd beg and plead like the coward he was until his voice turned to a dry, haggard croak. Why not?

He never expected anyone to actually answer.

The first thing he noticed about them was that they weren't from the casino. You got a knack for the way the Jackpot's inhabitants dressed - all the old gift shop apparel, patched and re-fashioned shirts, shoes with the soles worn through, panels of old loaders converted into makeshift armour. Even the best dressed amongst them had the telling signs of a seven year lockdown - fabric wearing thin, seams re-sewn for the fifth time.

These people were new.

He didn't recognise anything they were wearing, and in case that wasn't enough of a dead giveaway, one of them was a siren. And also there was a skag for some reason. Timothy was pretty sure he would have noticed if anyone was keeping a live skag on the casino.

The second thing he noticed was that they were all armed.

Staggering out with his arms raised, he managed a faltering, "N-n-no, don't shoot! This is not what it looks like."

The four guns trained on him suggested the strangers thought otherwise.

"I'm not Jack," he insisted. "Not at all."

"Well, you look exactly like all these ridiculous statues, so I'm gonna keep pointing my gun at you just in case," the woman with the helmet said.

Fair point. So, for the first time in years, Timothy explained.

It was strange, really, after so long living amongst people who were familiar with the body doubles as just another part of the scenery. But the rest of the universe had probably cleared out any doublegangers on the outside ages back, seeing his face now must be like a relic from the past… an unpleasant past it was sure it had buried. He didn't blame them.

In fact, he found it hard to harbour any ill-will despite their initial hostility, because the only thing that really mattered to him was that they were new. The first new faces he'd seen on the casino in seven years.

Heck, they might even be vault hunters. The next generation, he supposed. Or the third. Fourth? There was too much to catch up on… he'd been out of the loop long enough he didn't even know where to begin.

But they were new, and… and he couldn't quite shake the excitement thrumming its way through his very soul. Something was finally changing, and he had an idea.

He gave them his caustic SMG. A gesture of goodwill, but honestly… he was kind of glad to be rid of it. Defanged at last. Let them deal with the bullets, and the carnage, and all the ugly things he'd learned out of necessity and clung to out of habit…

If there really was a new group of vault hunters, maybe the right thing to do was step aside and let them do what they did best. And maybe that thing was murder, but hey, there were plenty of deserving targets on the Jackpot.

Back in the safety of his hideout his confidence fled. Upon closer examination there was too much about the situation that seemed too good to be true, a joke, a trap, maybe a fever dream.

He missed the comfort of a weapon at his side.

Here came the questions - all the little doubts his mind wanted to conjure.

Vault hunters didn't work for free. They wouldn't waste their time on a dump like the Jackpot unless someone sent them.

Hyperion, his mind seemed to whisper, and panic seized him for several minutes before he drowned it with a glass of scotch. Jack was dead, and whoever ran the company wouldn't waste their time on a pointless little venture like a failed casino, locked up and falling to pieces in the blackest reaches of space.

Someone cared though. The question was who, and how he fit into all that. He needed to know who they were working for, and whether he could trust them.

He had a whole list of possible answers lined up, but the one they eventually gave him when they finally made it to his hideout was one he'd never entertained.

It was totally unreasonable that his stomach was doing somersaults. It had been years since he'd last seen Moxxi… maybe even edging on a decade by this point. He wasn't so young anymore, wasn't so naive… but she said his name with no hesitation, like she never even doubted it for a second, and all his bravado fled at once. Nearly ten years and she still remembered him… nearly ten years and his stupid crush was as blatant as ever, and he didn't understand how she was able to do that to him.

Buuuut of course she wanted him dead, and he came crashing back to reality like he was plunging into a pool of ice cold water. Given how everything on Elpis had gone he wasn't actually surprised. Moxxi hated Jack, and Timothy had been following Jack's orders. Even if he hadn't, here he was, his last spectre - his face and his voice and everything that people despised.

Yet… she'd said yes to dinner that night. He'd had years to contemplate the matter and he still couldn't wrap his head around it. Couldn't forget it, either. But he couldn't exactly ask about it out of the blue while she was busy threatening his life, he needed to get his priorities in order and handle this like the mature adult he was.

So he bargained for his life and counted himself fortunate that their goals happened to align.

If she ended up not hating him that would be nice, but Timothy just really, really wanted to get off of the casino. For the first time in years the impossible was beginning to look like an almost obtainable goal, and he couldn't allow himself to be distracted by something as pathetic as a crush on the ex-girlfriend of his psychotic former boss. He was better than that.

Okay no, he really wasn't, but he could be pragmatic.

He sent the little gang of vault hunters off in Ember's direction. It had been a hasty decision - at the time he'd only known that he needed them to be gone, needed the space and the quietude he'd grown accustomed to.

It was after that he began to question the choice - acknowledge the cruelty of it. That after so long he couldn't even do her the courtesy of asking her in person. Not even by ECHO. No, he sent a happy-go-lucky band of killers to beg on his behalf, when by all rights she would want nothing to do with him.

But there were precious few people left on the casino who would see him as more than an appetising bounty, and Timothy… needed her. Needed her skills. And maybe she would set him on fire for the insult, and maybe she'd look at his little plan with the same pitying expression she'd worn when he first started speaking of the tower, but maybe she would still be there…

He still barely believed it when they told him she was on board.

When the vault hunters weren't busy fighting their way through the casino, they holed up in Timothy's hideout, because apparently personal space was a foreign concept to them and they took his invitation inside to mean this was also where they lived now.

At least it gave him the opportunity to get to know them.

The siren was called Amara. Apparently she was famous (she certainly loved to remind everyone of it every five minutes), and had made a name for herself fighting crime in the slums of Patali until the allure of the fabled vaults drove her off-planet.

She reeked a little too strongly of ego for Timothy'd liking. Confidence he could get behind, but he'd had his fill of egocentric killers.

At least she put her money where her mouth was. Or… her fist, as was often the case. Stood for what she believed was right, and never hesitated to take a hit for her friends when the fighting got rough. That he could respect. She still terrified him a little.

Flak on the other hand was an enigma. It was easy to take them at face value - a tall, ominous machine with a fascination for hunting down any target that presented a challenge. Timothy might even have gone as far as to describe them as cold blooded (except that technically they didn't have any blood, and wouldn't thank him for it). Beyond that, though, it was impossible to disguise the absolute adoration they held for their pet. A bonafide monster of a creature in its own right - named Mr. Chew - and god help anyone who didn't concede their bedding to the thing if that's where it decided to sleep.

The woman with the mech was someone he felt more at home with. She reminded him a little of Athena, except maybe with a better sense of humour. Perhaps it was just how unphased she seemed by everything. The soldier in her. The veteran. Someone a little weathered by the world, even if they were good at hiding it.

Moze would kick up her feet and give him a run down of their day's work like it was a de-briefing, before popping a piece of gum in her mouth and asking some mundane question about the casino - like who was keeping the hedges in the spendopticom trimmed? (Bots, Timothy guessed).

And she would nod, accept this answer, then go check over her weapons with military efficiency because apparently keeping a conversation going was too much of a task.

If there was one of the four Timothy spent the most time with though, it was the oldest of them, a former assassin by the name of Zane. The man had made swift friends with his liquor cabinet. He had a thirst that rivalled Timothy's early days on the casino, and Timothy had to bite his tongue to stop himself from pointing out how difficult fine spirits were to come by this far into their sentence. Most people had been brewing their own booze for years, which, put charitably, tasted like boiled feet.

He consoled himself with the fact that soon, it wouldn't matter.

At least Zane made a decent drinking buddy. All enthusiasm and wild tales of his escapades across the galaxy, each more unlikely than the last. Timothy understood only half of what he said, but he liked to listen. He made the universe seem vast. A place of adventure and fortune rather than a gaping uncertainty he still had yet to grapple with. Tipsy off the last of his vercuvian scotch he could almost believe it was real.

And Timothy would stagger his way off to his own narrow bedroll before he managed to drink himself into a stupor, and lie awake staring at the ceiling while listening to rhythmic breathing of three other strangers and a pet skag.

It reminded him a little of his time on Elpis. Of how they would hole up in some abandoned outpost, and Nisha would sleep with her hat dipped down over her eyes, and Wilhelm would snore like an earthquake… Aurelia, obviously, got the cleanest spot to rest in, while Claptrap parked himself in everyone's way and retracted his wheel before powering down.

Then there would be Athena, staring out into the darkness… No one ever asked her to take first watch but she always did.

And Timothy would settle in his own quiet corner and write words no one else would ever see. There was a familiarity to the routine.

Some days he actually missed being kicked awake by Nisha's sharp toed boots and scrambling to pull his jacket on and snatch his share of morning rations. Then they would sit around in a circle and sip tea because Aurelia always carried a stash and insisted on attempting to 'civilise' them…

All dead or gone now… He hoped Athena was still alive at least. If anyone deserved to make it out, it was her.

But these days Timothy would wake and sleepily stumble his way into what passed for his lounge and find Amara doing one handed push ups with Moze sitting cross legged on her back eating a bagel, while Zane lost a round of darts to his own digi-clone, and Flak tied a fresh bandana on their pet skag…

And it wasn't a normal he was accustomed to, but it was… something. Less empty, perhaps. The right shape, even if he couldn't figure out what to do with it.

Which wasn't to say that the situation didn't come with its challenges. He'd just about burst a blood vessel when he discovered the skag happily munching on a pair of his socks, the rest of which had been torn to ribbons.

Flak seemed entirely nonplussed. "He is showing his appreciation for your hospitality. He does not often eat socks - you should be honoured."

"Could your pet maybe, you know, show his appreciation in some way that doesn't involve chewing up all my things?"

"His name is Mr. Chew," the robot said, in the same deadly tone they always used.

"Sure," he agreed. "My point still stands."

"Do you have a problem with how he expresses himself?"

Timothy stared into the towering robot's single gleaming green eye and decided that, actually, this was very much a non-issue.

Then Moze went and upended a whole pail of neon paint all over his floor while she was digging through his shelves looking for something she could use to patch up Iron Bear.

"Actually, I think it looks better this way," Amara said, while Zane cackled with laughter.

"My bad," Moze offered, "I'll find something to clear it up with."

Timothy sighed, dragging a hand across his face. "No, it's fine, kiddo," he mumbled, "not like this place isn't already a dump. I'll be glad to be out of here."

"That's the spirit!" Zane said. "Ya got any more? I reckon I'd be grand at redecorating."

"No."

He didn't sulk - because Timothy refused to engage in something so childish, but he may have retreated to the quietest corner of his hideout and pretend that none of them existed for a while.

It was ridiculous. At times he couldn't stand them - the noise, the chaos, the laughter - it was too much, and he felt impossibly claustrophobic in a space that was supposed to be his own.

Then they would leave, and the sudden vacuum they left in their absence picked and chewed at his nerves while he sat alone and contemplated why he even had two couches.

But… Ember called, sometimes. Filled the time with something other than his own thoughts. She never mentioned his departure, and Timothy didn't either, and he was glad that they didn't have to start with accusations.
She would tell him of the latest 'gifts' she had prepared for Pretty Boy and his thugs, and Timothy would complain about the smell of wet Skag, and it was easy to forget how much had changed.

And when the vault hunters returned, he was often in a more amicable disposition. He would appreciate, again, the little things. How Moze saved a portion of some deep fried concoction from the Vice district for him, or how Amara tightened up one of the loose valves he'd never had the strength to fix, or how Zane always knew exactly the right amount to pour when Timothy asked for another glass…

And sometimes, when Mr. Chew was lying on his back, with his tongue lolling out and his legs kicking playfully while Flak scratched his belly, he could almost be described as cute.

In uncharacteristically buoyant moments he thought that perhaps, life like this wasn't so bad after all…

The Mayor was the last of their crew. Timothy had met the man briefly. He was an idealist, a dreamer - a perfect opposite to someone like Timothy himself. He'd run into Trashlantis by accident, touring the casino for a place no one would think to look for him, and after being greeted by a warm welcome and an offer of shelter had immediately turned tail and vowed never to return.

He'd seen what happened to good natured, peaceable societies when Pretty Boy took notice. And if that wasn't enough, there was also the constant terror of living in a literal trash compactor with only a single steel beam between yourself and a very squishy, miserable death. And the smell.

But the Mayor was once one of Jack's personal tailors, and the only person Timothy could think of that might still have what he needed to complete a disguise. So, he accepted that he would probably have to listen to several long winded rants on the evils of the material world, and sent the Vault hunters off to recruit him.

Timothy couldn't remember the last time he'd been surrounded by so many people. It seemed impossible that they were even able to cram into the modest space of his hideout. There was his ex-girlfriend, a hologram of his boss's ex-girlfriend, a crazy tech guy with a mullet, the mayor of a secret garbage society, a murder robot, an assassin, a mech pilot, a siren, and a skag.

It took more effort than he liked to admit not to run to the nearest teleporter.

But he swallowed down the panic, tried not to think too hard about all the eyes following him about the room, and took his place at the table.

"Okay, the gang's all here! Sorry, the hideout's not… really designed for event hosting, but we're gonna make it work. Let's talk tower!"

No one appeared suitably enthused by this opener, but at least none of them walked away.

"So, let's hear the plan then," Zane said.

Timothy nodded, drew a breath, and decided he was a coward after all. "Uh - this is Moxxi's job, I'll let her do the talking."

Her hologram favoured him with a smile, hip cocked to the side and her long lashes lowered to make her gaze almost sultry. "Why don't you take us through it, Timothy?"

And okay. Yep. He was still putty in her hands, nothing new there. Running his fingers through his hair he collected his thoughts for a few seconds before he began.

The culmination of seven long years suffering - the plan that would end it all. A way off of the casino. Freedom. A dream once out of reach now tangibly close, and the people he needed to see it come to fruition listening attentively to his every word.

It was really happening. But for some reason he couldn't shake the desire for a strong drink and an hour of solitary contemplation…

Moxxi focused on practical things, establishing suitable payment for their accomplices while Timothy wrestled with the contradictory nature of his own brain.

Then suddenly she was turning to him. "And you, Timothy? What do you want?"

He told himself it was just the abruptness of the question - the unexpectedness of it - that had him tripping over his own tongue and mumbling out, "Well, you know, you and I could…"

And what the hell was he doing? Trying to ask her out to dinner in front of seven other people (and a skag) while they were in the middle of planning a heist? After she'd threatened his life, and told him to his face she didn't trust him? Because he still couldn't get one night almost a decade ago out of his head?

Had he completely lost his mind?

Get your priorities straight, Tim, he scolded himself, it's not like she'd ever say yes anyway.

"Y'know what?" he said. "Just… get me the hell outta this place."

She made a small sound, like the answer wasn't quite what she expected but was something she could take in her stride. "If that's all you want I can arrange a ship to take you as far away as you can dream."

"Yeah, good. That's… all I want," he said.

Moxxi seemed to accept this, and turned to address the whole table. "Alright then," she told them, "what the hell are we waiting for? Let's take the Jackpot."

The vault hunters were the first to depart, eager to grab the last few pieces they needed to get the plan underway. Moxxi's hologram disappeared. The Mayor slipped away to grab some of his old kit, anticipating repairs on Jack's suit given the hectic lifestyle of the casino's residence.

Freddy didn't even offer an excuse, but Timothy was glad to have him gone. The man kind of gave him the creeps, and not because of his habit of talking in third person. It was the way he kept eying people like he was considering how he'd reprogram them if the technology was only there…

He'd expected Ember to make a similar exit. She lingered, though, trailing the edges of his hideout like she was mapping it out.

This was the first time they'd been alone since the day he'd walked out of her life without so much as a wave. The first day he'd seen her in person, not just an icon on his ECHO screen…

He was probably supposed to say something. Apologies felt hollow though. He'd done what he'd done because that was who he was, because he was always better at running than holding his ground. He wasn't sorry for leaving her. Not really. Not when she was standing before him, alive and as vibrant as ever, untainted by the mountain of baggage and danger Timothy dragged around like a second shadow.

But he couldn't say nothing. So he cleared his throat, jammed his hands into his pockets to keep them from fidgeting, and said, "Thank you. For helping."

Ember raised an eyebrow. "You thought I would turn my back on you?"

"I honestly wasn't sure. I did kinda leave without saying anything…"

"You were rude," she agreed. "But… perhaps it was for the best. You were not happy with me."

I wasn't happy anywhere, he thought. It was a useless thing to voice though, so he settled for something safer. "Still, thank you."

Plucking the darts from the board on the wall, she twirled them in her hands, examining each of them like they were something new. The third had a bend in one the wings, and she flicked it with her fingers.

"I was glad, you know," she said, "when I heard you were still alive."

"You thought I was dead?"

She shrugged. "I did not know. It would not have been a surprise."

"Look, Ember-"

Whatever he'd been about to say she cut him off, holding one of the darts out to him. "Your shot, mon chéri," she said, with a teasing smile. "And what is it you're playing for now?"

Timothy stared at the dart. Cautiously, he took it from her, watching her expression questioningly.

The weight was different from that of a gun, lighter. The board hung across the room, peppered with the numerous holes he'd inflicted on the sketch of Jack's grinning face.

He looked back at Ember.

"How about a friend?" he asked.

Her smile widened. "Mmmm. I was thinking something similar."

He felt absolutely disgusting dressed in Jack's old outfit. The thing that struck him most though - the thing he'd almost forgotten - was how much he hated the layers. Who in their right mind wore a shirt, a button up, a waistcoat, and a jacket all together? And everything was so tight, not the loose hoodies or oversized pullovers he'd taken to wearing while on the casino…

He wanted nothing more than to claw it off and take a cold shower in the water flowing through his hideout. And then possibly burn it. Or maybe that was just Ember's influence…

He squirmed, enduring the Mayor's final checks with gritted teeth and monosyllabic answers.

It was a necessity, he reminded himself. Only a costume. Only a role he'd pull on for one last time before it was put to rest for good.

The ghost of Handsome Jack on its final journey.

He was glad he never kept any mirrors at his place.

"You're up, Timothy," Moxxi said.

Squaring his shoulders he tapped into the teleporter and let it whisk him away.

Turrets? Dealt with. Door? No problem. Deactivating the forcefield? Timothy had it covered. Everything was going perfectly to plan, until, of course, it wasn't.

He could laugh at the absurdity of it - to have his one goal so palpably close, only to yet again find himself betrayed. Because of course. Because fuck him for ever thinking there was a way out. The universe knew exactly what he deserved, and apparently that was eternal imprisonment at the hands of men who thought power was the only metric of worth.

He missed his gun. He really missed his gun.

It wasn't the pain that broke him. No. He'd endured pain far greater than whatever Pretty Boy could dish out. Could scream until his throat was raw and still not touch upon the exquisite agony that Jack had inflicted. Oh, he could weather pain, could bare his teeth at it, could stare it in the face and know it as an old acquaintance now reunited.

Nor was it the threat of losing the hand - a threat he'd scoffed at. Pretty Boy needed a winning hand that worked, and even if he hadn't, so what? It wasn't even his real hand. Just another piece that had already been taken. Replaced. Another part of the canvas on which Jack had laboured so lovingly. He was an amalgamation of someone else's ego and the fragments of the man under which it had been buried, there was nothing left of him that hadn't already been stolen.

No, the thing that broke him was the sickening realisation that Pretty Boy never had to break him at all.

To make him compliant all he needed to do was dope him up on the strongest drugs available until he was a drooling mess, with synapses so fried they'd never stitch themselves back together. Or maybe settle for a good old fashioned lobotomy.

And he would live, yes, even keep the hand, but that would be the end of Timothy Lawrence. There would be no rescue after that. No escape. No dignity. The vault hunters could kill Pretty Boy, but they couldn't save a vegetable.

And what would his defiance mean then?

So he caved, if only because the thought of losing the one thing Jack had never managed to take from him was more terrifying than a blade could ever be.

Pretty Boy bored quickly when he found Timothy compliant. He settled for locking him up like a prized bird - a trophy, on display for anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in his control room.

There he had nothing but time. And every minute that passed, he felt more certain than the last, that they would not be coming.

That would have been too easy. Too kind. He didn't get lucky like that. Why would anyone waste their time saving Timothy Lawrence, anyhow? He couldn't pay them. The vault hunters weren't even friends, really, just people who'd inserted themselves into his life and he'd accepted, because he was stupid enough to think they might actually be his ticket out…

He shouldn't have been so desperate. Should know better than to fall for something as foolish as optimism.

But here he was, with no one to blame but himself.

If he had only stayed hidden…

No. That was only another kind of prison. At least he'd tried, at least he hadn't given up entirely…

He was tired, now. Tired of hoping. Of all the energy his pathetic scrabble to live demanded, when it was just one cruel joke after the next. All these years and where had it got him… all these years and it only kept on getting worse.

And then… and then, four pairs of boots hit the ground, and there was no sound that would have caused his heart to stutter quite like that.

His voice was almost a gasp. "You actually came."

"Not out of the woods yet, boyo," Zane called. "Hang tight."

Timothy couldn't think of anything to say. Nothing that would encompass the overwhelming surge of relief, the gratitude, the inadequacy of a mere thank you at a moment like that. So, like the smooth talker he was, he told them, "Don't die."

The end of Pretty Boy should have come with cheers and celebration. Instead, it came with the whoop of sirens and ominous red flash of the command consoles.

Jack never could let anyone else win. Of course he would have some protocol to launch the entire fucking casino into the nearest black hole. Seven years in the grave, and still, there he was, finding yet another way to ruin Timothy's life.

He couldn't deactivate the protocol without reaching the command console, which he couldn't reach because of Pretty Boy's stupid frickin' lazer cage, and he couldn't deactivate the cage either because, again, he couldn't reach the command console, and it was so… unbelievably unfair.

"Approaching event horizon," the computer chimed pleasantly.

Slumped on his knees with nothing left to give he supposed if nothing else he could appreciate the irony of the situation. He'd sold his life over to Jack, and in the end that was exactly what he took. Every last piece of him.

"Okay, uh… just go, I guess," he told the vault hunters. "I-I… this place was never gonna let me leave anyway, right? So… uh…"

And he closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe it was just the sudden freeing relief of staring his own impending death down - in knowing that nothing he said now had any weight - but he found himself saying, "I'm really sorry, Moxxi. Guess this means no second date."

He wasn't sure what he expected. Maybe he'd hoped she would take pity on him. Lie. Say that she was sorry too, or that she'd pour a glass out for him in his honour. Something to ease him through his last moments.

He certainly didn't anticipate the utter vehemence with which she rejected his farewell.

"NO! No. Timothy, I shouldn't have written you off. We're not leaving you behind. I'm not letting Jack win."

He'd never heard her speak like that. Any reply he might have made choked before it made its way out his throat, as he sat in stunned silence trying to make sense of it all. That she would speak that way about him. That… and he was still testing the thought, like a flavour that was unknown to him… she might actually care? That this wasn't a delusion.

"Moxxi's right, you're coming with us," Moze said.

"We're in this together," Amara promised.

And… and screw it. Screw Jack. He was going to live.

Staggering upright he stared at his hand for a few terrible moments as the answer dawned.

"Okay. Wait - wait, wait, wait - I… have an idea, just… give me a second?"

He wavered like that far longer than he should have. He recalled the scent of scorched flesh all too vividly, a searing heat that burned for days, and haunted his nightmares relentlessly. Cold sweat trickled down his back. He had to grip his arm to keep it steady.

"This is really, really gonna suck," he said with as much bravado as he could muster, "so you… might want to plug your ears, kiddos."

His first attempt failed - flinching away at the last instance. Timothy swallowed. Bit his lip, steeled his nerves, and tried to pull his wrist through the lazer in one smooth motion.

It was agony. He didn't know what he said, but he was fairly sure he screamed something as the red hot beam of light cut through fabric, and skin, and flesh, and bone, melting everything in its path until at last his winning hand dropped to the ground.

He collapsed. Lay there like a fish out of water - gasping, and yet unable to breathe. The urge to retch was overwhelming. The smell was worse.

You just keep reeeal still, alright, Jack whispered in his ear, and he clutched his wrist to his chest and shuddered.

Jack was dead. He knew that. This was fine. He was fine with this. He'd had worse. It would pass, it would pass, it would pass…

"Yyyeah, that'll do the trick," he managed. "Just… get it over to the console."

He didn't even know which of them did it. Couldn't remember much, except the pain. Then the sirens cut out and left his ears ringing in the abrupt silence.

He blinked. Realised that the consoles had stopped flashing red. Put things together a few belated seconds after.

"Oh yeah, that's great," he mumbled to the floor. "I'm just… I'm just gonna go ahead and… pass out now."

And he did. But only briefly.

"Need a hand?"

Timothy didn't think he'd ever seen a more beautiful sight. Moxxi, not in the translucent blue of a holo projection, but in the flesh. Almost a decade and she'd barely changed… Perhaps there was a hint of age in the subtle lines around her eyes, well hidden beneath the pale paint she lathered her face in, but she could have just as easily stepped right out of his memory without missing a beat.

And more than that… more than that, she was real. And standing before him. And the whys, and the hows, and all the other little doubts didn't seem to matter in that moment, only that she was there.

He murmured her name without thinking. Forgot the throbbing pain of his so recently dismembered hand long enough to haul himself to his feet.

The air was awash with stars, swaying and refusing to settle. Timothy couldn't care less. And maybe he was still in shock (almost certainly still in shock), but he found himself saying, of all things, "Y'know… I've been wondering… why did you say yes to dinner that night?"

Moxxi just shrugged. "I was hungry."

Like it was the most casual thing in the world. Like they were old friends, sitting across the bar from one another and reminiscing about old times.

"Yeah but Jack…" Timothy persisted, "he was the worst."

Somehow she was right before him, and he realised he must have closed the distance between them without noticing. Moxxi didn't back away though. If anything she moved closer, only inches apart with her hand on his chest.

Could she feel how fast his heart was beating? Did she know what she did to him?

He could write a sonnet about the colour of her eyes - a gentle blue-green, like the ocean after a storm - and lose himself to their depths.

"Oh honey," she crooned, with the same smile he'd fallen for the very day they'd met, "If I thought you were Jack I'd have shot you the moment you stepped up to my bar."

"So… I didn't even fool you a little?" he asked.

Her hand stretched up, tracing the edges of his mask. "Not even a little," she said, and left him standing there like a love struck fool as she strolled away.

And on that day the seven year lockdown lifted. All debts were wiped clean. The security systems powered down, Jack's holograms cut out, the impound lot opened its doors wide and people walked the halls with an air of confusion and delight.

Timothy barely noticed. He was busy running those words through his head, again and again, echoed on repeat.

Not even a little. Not even a little… not even a little…

He was almost all the way out the tower before it finally hit him.

Not even a little!

((Aaaand that should catch us up to the present day. One more chapter to go, which should wrap everything up and reunite us with a couple of old faces. If you've been reading along so far and want to let me know your thoughts I'd always love to hear.))