Nisha pressed the smoking barrel of her revolver into the bandit's forehead and grinned. She didn't often leave her prey alive, but his expression alone was enough to convince her that it might just have its merits. Still, business first, then pleasure.

"I hope you're a little more polite than your friends were 'cause I'm starting to get impatient. And I can get really nasty when I'm impatient."

Several bodies were lying in the street in addition to the countless others that had been piled beside the garage. Definitely her kind of decor, but Nisha couldn't take credit for that. Someone had been here before her, and she had a pretty good idea who – though she was surprised at the body count that Pansy had racked up.

Of course, that Bastard couldn't claim the whole body count. She'd showed up in Oasis expecting to find that Prick and the girl since it was the only place within walking distance they could have expected to reach, but instead Nisha had only found a half-dozen bandits cleaning up a mess. The bandits hadn't exactly been happy to see her, but that had been taken care of easily enough. The only problem now was that she was running out of people to question and they still weren't talking.

The bandit squirmed under the gun. "We told you, ya crazy bitch! There's nobody here!"

Nisha pistol-whipped him across the face and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. "And I guess those bodies over there just fell down dead on their own?"

The bandit spat blood onto her boots. "We don't know what happened! They were dead when we got here!"

"Well, you better know something 'cause my trigger finger is starting to itch," Nisha pulled back the hammer of her revolver for emphasis.

"All I know, is when we got here, everyone was dead. The boys were dead, the boss was dead, and the fucking truck was gone!"

"What truck?" If they had a vehicle, then that changed everything.

The bandit pointed back towards the garage. "The other truck. Some asshole stole it."

That much was obvious. "Where did it go?"

"How should I know – IT'S A FUCKING DESERT."

"Wrong answer," Nisha ground her boot into the bullet hole in his thigh. "Where could it go, smart-ass?"

"Aaah dunno – I dunno – maybe Lynchwood!"

The bandit's cries subsided into pained gasps as Nisha lifted her boot off his thigh. "You see how far a little politeness will get you? You should try it sometime."

"Fuck you," the bandit disagreed.

The crack of her revolver was Nisha's only retort as the top of his head sprayed onto the ground behind him. Without a backwards glance, she stepped over the bodies of the bandit's less cooperative friends and made her way back to her idling runner. Hopping into the vehicle, Nisha took a moment to check the map on her ECHO device. Scanning the map, she confirmed that the dead asshole was probably right: Lynchwood was the only settlement within a reasonable driving distance.

Lynchwood… sounds like my kind of town.

Nigel sat silently in front of the damaged computer as he sifted through the wrecked circuit boards. Mr. Lawrence's parting shot to the machine had blasted through the outer panel and melted a hole through much of the terminal's internal circuity. However, since the shot had been energy based rather than a projectile, the damage was constrained to a narrow space within the machine. A cursory glance at the interior had been enough for him to determine that the memory banks remained undamaged. It was a careless mistake on Mr. Lawrence's part – not that he had given the impression of having a great amount of foresight.

This only made his unlikely escape that much more… annoying. Nigel had not known the full extent of Mr. Lawrence's capabilities before their last meeting. It was a mistake to underestimate him, and one he would not make again. In their subsequent meeting, Mr. Tassiter had made his displeasure in the outcome quite apparent – loudly, and with several choice obscenities. Nigel knew better than to mention that it would have been far easier to kill Mr. Lawrence without Mr. Tassiter's need for dramatic flair. Of course, company policy was company policy: Mr. Lawrence had to die on the job. The superfluous nature of Hyperion's advancement strategies were lost upon Nigel.

The ceaseless pacing of his superior paused for a moment at Nigel's shoulder. "What kind of progress are we making?"

"Things are progressing," Mr. Tassiter's own ECHO device responded.

Nigel knew without having to look that Mr. Tassiter stiffened at the response. They both knew that he was more than capable of answering by himself, but Nigel took a certain sense of satisfaction in knowing how much this method unnerved his superior. There was something uniquely gratifying about watching the unsettling effect his presence had on people around him, and Mr. Tassiter was no different. It was why Nigel had chosen the black helmet he wore, though the suit had been a concession to Mr. Tassiter's wishes. That being said: it was a rather nice suit.

The pacing resumed before stopping abruptly at the far wall. "Would you look at this? The source of all John's secrets and grand designs, and it looks like the wall of a prepubescent teenager."

Nigel turned his head away from the terminal as his hands continued to pry away at the melted silicone that covered the machine's memory module, and couldn't help but agree with the assessment. The scribbles and crude language that adorned the Vault Hunter's posters on the wall did seem surprisingly juvenile for a person of Mr. John's intelligence.

"All these blueprints and datapads are useless – nothing that we don't already have in our systems," Mr. Tassiter continued speaking aloud, as was his habit around Nigel. "He must have stored everything important in that computer."

Nigel listened while only paying minimal attention – as was his habit around Mr. Tassiter. His superior would often converse with himself to think his way through any given problem – much to Nigel's indifference. Mr. Tassiter rarely expected an answer to any of his questions and Nigel was all too happy to remain silent.

"But how did Lawrence get in here, and why would he destroy the computer?" Mr. Tainster mused. "There must have been something important to him on-" the beeping of his ECHO device cut through his monologuing. The sound of shifting clothing could be heard as Mr. Tassiter pulled out his ECHO device and a pained sigh shortly followed. "...Hello, Mother."

Nigel would have sighed as well if it hadn't been a pointless effort to begin with. He was well aware of the kind of conversation that would follow and quickly returned as much of his attention as possible to the task at salvaging the memory module. Thankfully, Mr. Tassiter had chosen not to activate the ECHO device's video feed.

"Yes, Mother, I'm doing fine on the station. I know-"

"Yes, well, things have been very busy lately."

"No, Mother, everything is fine... I'm sure the news is blowing everything out of proportion..."

Mr. Tassiter waved aside anything she might have said. "Well, I wasn't here when that happened. I'm just here to get everything back on track."

"Yes, Mother, the station is beautiful..." he sighed. "No, I'm not here to 'make friends' - I'm President of the company: you know I can't get close to anyone."

Another long pause followed before Mr. Tassiter practically stamped his foot in frustration. "Yes, that includes dating." Mr. Tassiter took a moment to collect himself. "Yes, I'm aware there are plenty of available people at Hyperion…."

Another pause followed. "Well, my secretary is quite attractive…"

"...No, I won't ask out my own secretary. That is grossly inappropriate and reeks of desperation..."

Tassiter's palm made a hollow slapping sound against his forehead. "NO, I AM NOT 'PITCHING FOR THE OTHER TEAM.'"

Another lengthy silence followed before Mr. Tassiter spoke again. "Yes, Mother, I know you only want what's best for me..."

"Of course, you take care of yourself too..." His hand came up to muffle the whisper that Nigel still caught regardless. "...I love you too."

Mr. Tassiter disconnected the call with a relieved sigh and crossed the room to stand over Nigel's shoulder once more. "How are things progressing?"

Nigel felt no need to alter his response, "Things are progressing."

Timothy slowly pulled the truck into Lynchwood Station and mopped the sweat from his forehead. The drive had been rather uneventful, except for the point where a pack of skags had chased along behind the truck for about a mile. Apparently, some behaviors were universal no matter the planet. Turning off the ignition, he worked out the stiffness in his back and glanced over at Angel curled up in the passenger seat. She had fallen asleep sometime in the last hour or so, and Timothy couldn't fathom how anyone could sleep over the engine's roar.

For that matter, he was also annoyed at how fast she had beaten Dragon Slayer 4. Timothy had considered himself a pretty good Dragon Slayer player back in the day, but somehow Angel had managed to beat his fastest speed-run time by almost two hours. She hadn't even used the controls, she just played the thing with her mind. It just isn't fair – that's totally cheating. Timothy reached over to shake Angel awake, slightly less gentle than he probably should have.

"Hey, wake up. We're at Lynchwood,"

"Ahh-already?" Angel yawned awake as she stretched out in the seat. "That wasn't such a bad drive."

Timothy's backside begged to differ. "For you, maybe. How about next time we go on a road trip, I can sleep and you can drive."

Angel shrugged, "Well, I can't drive; so I suppose you're going to have to make the best of it."

"Just one more thing on our list of 'Stuff Angel Needs to Learn.'" During the ride, Timothy had tried to impress upon Angel that there were certain skills she was going to need to learn if she wanted to survive on Pandora… a few of which she was definitely less than enthusiastic about.

"You mean like killing people," Angel said flatly. Nope, still not warming up to it yet.

"No, I meant learning how to shoot. Killing people is just a side-effect."

Angel began to push herself out of her seat. "Whatever, let's just get out of this sun."

"Woah, hey there – hold on a sec," Timothy stopped her before she could hop out of the truck. "Let's make a game plan here. This isn't like a bandit camp, these are people we're gonna have to deal with and some of them might recognize me."

"Why is that a bad thing? Wouldn't people thinking you're my dad help us?"

"Look, if this was Hyperion, you'd be right," Timothy waved her point away. "But these people aren't Hyperion; this is Pandora. If they think you're someone important, they're more likely to kidnap you than help you. On top of that, I don't know if Tassiter has anyone looking for me, and the last thing we want is someone after us for a bounty."

Angel nodded. "So why don't you go invisible with the watch?"

Huh. That… was actually a good idea. Timothy was so used to Jack being the one with the watch that he hadn't really thought about it. Come to think of it, why the hell didn't I use it at the bandit camp? Resolving not to make that mistake again, Timothy fired up the watch, but rather than going invisible, his body only flickered in and out of existence. What the hell?

"What's going on?" Angel frowned.

"I-I don't know," he jammed the button hopelessly. "Maybe the crash or the uh... the grenade at Oasis could have fried it – not sure. Can't you use those deus ex machina powers to fix it up for me?"

"I can manipulate software. If it's damaged, that's a hardware problem. I can't do anything about that," she explained in such a way that made Timothy feel as if she was deliberately insulting him.

Timothy pushed the watch into her hand anyway. "Well, I don't know! Just look at it when you get a chance. Maybe you can figure out what's wrong with it."

"Fine, but no promises," she relented. "So what are we going to do now?"

"Okay, plan B: we find something to hide my face. Take a look in the back of the truck while I check up here."

"Seriously. That's your plan."

"That's all we got."

With a dubious expression, Angel hopped over the seat as Timothy popped open the glovebox. His search of the glovebox yielded only a pistol and a copy of Gun-Ho. Well, that's an interesting combination. All things considered, the cover girl was pretty hot.

"Are you looking at porn?" Angel caught Timothy before he was tempted to take a better look.

Timothy couldn't help the flush creeping up his neck. "NO, I was checking the glovebox." Shoving the magazine in question under his seat, he coughed away his embarrassment. "Did you find anything?"

Angel tossed him what looked like a mechanic's oil rag. Or at least, he hoped those stains were oil. "Will this work?"

Shaking it out, Timothy tied it around his face bandit-style. Ugh, it smells like gun oil and B.O. "Sooo, how's it look?"

"You look like a bank robber," Angel deadpanned.

"Then I'll fit right in," he countered. "Alright, let's head inside." As an afterthought, Timothy waited until Angel had hopped out of the truck before he snatched the magazine out from under the seat and shoved it in the back of his pants. It'd be a shame to waste it.

The two of them made their way past other parked vehicles and the occasional tied up skag. Wait… do people actually ride those things? Judging by the reins and saddles, it looked like someone was crazy enough to try. Coming up to a large metal gate, two guards stationed there pushed themselves off the wall and slowly advanced on them.

"Now, hold on there a second, lemme get a look at'cha," one of the men called out from the other end of a raised gun. "What's yer business here?"

Looking at the guns they all too casually pointed in their direction, Timothy decided to turn on the charm. "Guuuys, I get that you're doing your job, but relax. My daughter and I are just here to catch a train."

The gun lowered slightly as it wavered between Timothy and Angel. "Alright, but don't be causin' no trouble in town or Sheriff Youngblood will have somethin' to say 'bout it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Timothy put a fatherly arm around Angel as he steered her past the door. "You have a good day now, Marshals."

Angel immediately shrugged off his arm once they were inside. Exiting the narrow entranceway, the two were greeted with their first sight of Lynchwood. It was significantly less western than the name would have suggested, in fact, it looked like the same pre-fabricated buildings that dotted the rest of the planet. At least it wasn't hard to find their way around due to the giant glowing signs advertising the buildings' purposes. The town had just about what he expected: a saloon, a hospital, and a bed and breakfast. Timothy was particularly keen on that last one, but decided it had to wait for now. After all, he could sleep on the train.

"First off, let's find a vending machine; we need to get some money," Timothy said as he scanned the path for one. Not finding any, he flagged down the nearest passing native that looked reasonably sane. "Hey, can you tell me where you're nearest vendor is?"

The man pointed in the direction of the train station. "Up the stairs there, on the left."

Nodding his thanks, Timothy almost left Angel behind since she appeared absorbed in reading a wall covered with weathered posters. "Hey, kiddo. C'mon, move like you've got somewhere to be."

Wordlessly, she fell into step at his side. As they continued making their way down the main street, Timothy noticed the way she shadowed him as they weaved through the foot traffic. Her eyes roamed over the buildings and glanced nervously away from the people around them as her arms crossed tightly across her chest.

"You uh… you okay there?" Timothy guessed this was pretty much a new experience for her.

"Yes, I'm fine," came the curt response.

Deciding it wasn't worth the trouble if she didn't want to talk, Timothy dropped the subject. Ascending the stairs to the station, the two of them found themselves in front of a trio of vending machines. Looking at the medical dispenser, he was struck by the picture of a man that looked like he would be anything but good for your health. It came to life with a slightly bashful, "I don't actually have a medical license." Yeaaah, not exactly comforting.

"Remember to buy from Marcus Munitions where you can always trust the gun at your side," the gun machine promised as Timothy hooked up his storage deck. Browsing through the selection of firearms in his deck, he quickly selected the crap he had liberated from the bandits at Oasis. With a sense of satisfaction, he noted that his 'Bitch' had no value tag associated with it. Finishing up his selection, he looked down at the combined sell value of the weapons.

"Only thirty-six hundred. Are you kidding me? They're worth at least twice that," Timothy grumbled as the machine added the funds to his storage deck. "Fuck this Marcus guy. I planned on getting you a gun, but it turns out we don't have the cash for shit."

Timothy continued to grumble to himself as he walked off towards the station's kiosk to check out their ticket prices. Their train wouldn't be leaving for another eight hours, and they had just enough to cover their tickets. Buying a pair, he turned back to give Angel the news, only to find her browsing the weapon's machine.

"Heeey, good news. You won't be learning how to shoot today after all," Timothy informed her.

Angel held out her hand without turning her attention away from the screen. "Can I borrow your digistruct module?"

"Yes…?" Not knowing where she was going with this, he complied. Focusing his attention back to more important matters, he tried to think of another way he could get money. I mean, I already look like a bank robber, right? He quickly nixed the idea on account of having an aversion to bullets in his face.

"Is Hyperion a good first gun?" Angel momentarily broke his train of thought.

"Nah, their anti-recoil system is a pain to maintain. I'd get something idiot-proof like a Tediore – you don't even have to reload those." There had to be an odd job around town someone would pay him to do. Anything to get a couple hundred bucks for a hot meal and a room. He still smelled like sweat and death from his time in the desert.

"How do you know which one is good quality?" Angel interrupted once more.

"Well, I mean – you look for the one with the biggest price tag." If worse comes to worse, I could always sell my body. Being handsome had its perks and he'd been way too long without the comfort of a decent lady. But... nah, he preferred women that had all their teeth.

"So, what do you think of this one?" Angel pointed at the display.

"Angel, I told you already: we don't have any mo-oooh my god – that's a lot of zero's!" The weapon in question looked like your typical boxy Tediore SMG… except for one little detail. "Angel... that gun is pink."

"What does the color matter?"

"Look, guns are supposed to look intimidating. I don't care if that gun fired smaller guns that fired bullets. No one's gonna take anyone seriously if they're using a pink gun. That's also more money than I've ever had in my life except when I was using Jack's. And that's gone now."

With the press of a button, the weapon icon instantly moved into Timothy's storage deck. "You were saying?"

...What. "How the hell did – nevermind – can you do that again, but with money?"

"No, I'm not a thief," Angel snorted.

"What do you call that?!" Timothy pointed at the screen.

"You said I needed a gun to survive, so that's different."

"Sooo, you needed the most expensive gun I've ever seen in my entire life to survive?"

"It was pink," she shrugged.

Timothy had to fist his hands at his side so we wouldn't do something rash – like tear his own hair out, or strangle a not-so-innocent little girl for instance. Taking a moment to compose himself, he struggled think of a way to get her to be reasonable. The stench of the rag pressing up against his nose as he breathed gave him his answer. Pulling the rag down his face, he adopted his most charming smile.

"Weeell, I do know something that you'll agree we need to survive: so, when was the last time you had a shower?" Timothy didn't bother to wait for an answer. "I bet it's been a while. You reaaally gonna turn down the chance for a nice, hot bath, eh Pumpkin?"

"Don't do that," Angel spat at him.

"Do what?"

"Don't put your hand on my shoulder. Don't call me your daughter. Don't call me those stupid names. Don't act like my father." Angel put her hand on the machine, and with a brief glow, it began to spit out dollar bills. "There's your money. Let's find a hotel."

Okaaay then, that seemed… uncalled for. Picking up the money off the ground, he wordlessly followed her out of the station.

The sounds of cascading water soothed Timothy's mind as he lay silently on the threadbare sheets of the hotel bed. Getting the room had been easy enough. When your only condition was a working shower, it wasn't overly hard to find an accommodation. Angel had immediately laid claim to the shower when they entered and he didn't care enough to argue the point; they had time to kill anyway. Instead, he waited in silent contemplation as he counted the number of water stains on the ceiling. Of course, this did little to distract him from Angel's earlier remarks.

She had certainly seemed irrationally defensive. Okay, admittedly traveling with the person that killed your dad who also looked and sounded just like him was probably a little weird. But it wasn't like he acted like Jack all the time or anything. Of course, he was different than before the whole 'Jack thing' - and not just in the looks department. But now he had confidence. Now people listened to him when he talked. Now he was somebody and he wasn't going to change for anyone. Angel was just going to have to deal with it.

Although… maybe he could try to smooth things along a bit.

Angel laid silently on the bed as she kicked her feet back and forth over the edge. The steel links of the watch turned slowly in her hands as she tried to make out any problems from the case. Of course, there were no problems she could see. And why would she? It's not like she knew how a cloaking watch was made. Timothy clearly didn't understand how her powers worked – not that she expected him to. In that regard, Timothy really was nothing like her father. Her dad had been a genius; Timothy was an idiot. Not that she could really bring herself to care right now about what he thought.

Timothy had said maybe a whole two sentences to her since she had snapped at him. But he needed to understand that being around someone that looked, and talked, and acted like her father wasn't making her situation any easier. Job or not, Timothy didn't have to act like him anymore, so why did he? She'd almost think he was doing it on purpose just to get to her, but from those rare times where he'd do something so… so un-Jack-like, she wasn't so sure. Like now.

Angel turned her head once more to the bathroom as another burst of random singing echoed from within. What was taking him so long? He had turned off the shower a while ago. Tossing the watch to the other side of the bed, Angel buried her face into a pillow with a relaxed sigh. The bed – while not exactly clean – was still really comfortable. She wasn't even tired after sleeping in the car, and she still wanted to sleep in it. The prospect of an actual meal once Timothy got out was also enough to leave her stomach growling.

Speaking of which, the door to the bathroom finally creaked open and out stepped- "What did you do to your hair?"

"Pretty sweet, huh?"

Timothy combed his fingers through his now copper colored hair, and it looked so… wrong. And that wasn't even the worst of it. He was dressed in a mess of clothing that looked like a teenager had decided to invade her dad's closet for an interview. The blue slacks and jacket seemed fine enough, but who wore a yellow shirt under a brown leather vest? And to top it all off, a white dress shirt that seemed twenty sizes too long hung almost to his knees.

"You look ridiculous."

"Oh, I'm sorry Miss I-Just-Stepped-Out-Of-A-Metro-Art-Gallery. You know hexagons are sooo overdone," he sniffed.

Angel couldn't believe she was having this conversation right now. "My dad had taste. You don't."

"Who's closet do you think I pulled this out of? Apparently this was Jack's idea of future company president attire."

"Yeah, but not all at once!" Just how many layers was he wearing?

"Weeell, maybe it's a bit much," he tugged up his multiple sleeves around his elbows. "But I think it looks great, maybe even iconic."

"Well, at least you got rid of the soul patch. It never looked good on him," Angel rolled her eyes at Timothy's over-the-top attempt at striking a heroic pose.

Timothy rubbed a finger down his freshly shaved chin. "The 'douche-patch?' Yeaaah, I hated it too." He straightened his lapels importantly, "So, you ready for some non-skag food?"

"Yes." A million times, yes.

"Great," he clapped his hands together. "You'll need your strength, 'cause we're totally gonna do some shooting practice after that."

"What?"

"No – don't death-grip it; hold it a little looser than that," Timothy adjusted her hand placement. "You gotta hold it like a lady: be gentle, but firm."

"I don't hold ladies," Angel hissed.

"You should try it sometime, I recommend it."

Angel had quickly found out that knowing how a gun works is very different than knowing how to shoot a gun. After dropping the gun, Timothy had quickly stepped in and hovered over her like a nagging mother as he tried to correct everything. Her stance, her grip, her aim. Nothing was good enough.

"Okay, I think I there's a problem. You have the buttstock set back too far. Here, lemme just ahhh… here." Taking the gun from her just right grip, he held it out between them as he showed her where the release for the stock was. "You see, it's right here. Then you just gotta push the stock forward a couple of notches aaand-" Timothy inspected the gun for a moment. "Huh. This isn't the usual plastic crap Tediore uses. This thing's actually metal. No wonder it was so damn expensive. I guess this gun was probably a custom job." Handing the gun back to Angel, he waited expectantly.

Angel tuned his ramblings out and adjusted her grip. Taking aim at her target - a piece of scrap metal they had been set against the canyon wall – she was better prepared for the kick-back. There was no way she was going to have Timothy snickering at her if she dropped the gun… again. Angel squeezed the trigger and was rewarded with several metal pings before the shots went high.

"See, piece of cake. Remember, you're gonna to have to adjust for the recoil, so slowly pull your forward arm down to keep your aim on target – or just fire in short bursts," Timothy reminded her.

"I already know that," Angel bit out. It was far easier to give instructions then follow them. He made it look so easy.

Timothy held up his hands in a consoling gesture and backed away a couple of steps. "Believe me, I get it: no one likes to suck at something. I remember dropping my gun a few times too."

Angel ignored him and wondered about how easy it would be to turn the gun on him instead. He already had the train tickets, it wouldn't be hard to take the storage deck off of his body and travel to New Haven without him. But no… she couldn't. Just like shooting a gun, it was easy to pull the trigger, and she didn't want to think about what it would be like if it wasn't a lifeless target at the other end. It had been sitting in the back of her mind the entire time they'd practicing. She knew what it meant for him to teach her how to use a gun. She knew what the expectation was. Sooner or later, it wasn't going to be a target on the other end…

Eager to turn her thoughts to less morbid things, she glanced over at her 'iconically dressed' companion and noted the way the copper of his hair caught the light. It nearly turned his hair into a burnt orange color and the image was just so absurd that she couldn't hold back her snort of laughter. "I still don't get what you were thinking with the hair."

Timothy leaned in for a mock whisper, "I'll tell ya a little secret: before all this-" he gestured towards his face. "- I used to be a soulless redhead - freckles and all."

Another burst of gunfire stitched her target before she added, "That's hard to imagine." She couldn't wrap her mind the idea of an awkward, redheaded, and freckled Timothy by the way he acted.

He grinned sheepishly, "I speak only the truth. In fact... I even wore glasses."

This was enough for Angel to lower her gun. "So what you're saying is… you used to be a total nerd."

Timothy clutched at his heart as if wounded and said melodramatically, "Ouch – I feel the rays of judgement from here." Just as quickly as he started, he stopped. "Yep, pretty much. Drama geek all the way."

"Really. Drama?" Angel didn't peg him for an actor.

"You think I got this gig by chance? I'll have you know I played King Lear my sophomore year at college," he preened. "Now, less talky; more shooty."

"Whatever you say, my liege," she rolled her eyes. With small smile, she took aim and squeezed the trigger once more.

A/N: You know Tassiter would so totally be a Momma's Boy. Tropey Jewish Mother voice is optional for imagining what she might be saying, but highly recommended.

On a slightly more serious note for changes: Tediore. We know throwing them like a grenade is a fun game mechanic, but it just doesn't jive at all with our version of how digistructing works. I mean, think about it: if you can make exact copies of anything out of nothing, then there should only be one model of any given thing from any manufacturer since you could endlessly copy it. It also begs the even stranger question of where the hell do these things come from? Because fuck E=mc^2, amiright? So, to still give them the 'beginner's gun' reputation, we decided that their nifty little trick is that they don't have a clip. The box you see on all their guns where the clip should go is a small digistruct device where the ammunition is stored. Therefore, no reloads.

Anyway, that's all for now. Thanks for the reviews and if you have any questions, comments, or if you're just curious about all the rules we're changing to the world, let us know and we'll hit you up in a PM. Thanks for reading!