Disclaimer: Don't own Borderlands or Lilith.
Wind blew the dust in circles in the world outside the slatted windows. From what I could see through the narrow view out the bus windows, the landscape outside was barren; the only thing we had passed for miles besides the rocks that were scattered among the wastes was a decaying billboard that, at one point in it's life, had boasted of the treasures of "beautiful Pandora". I had been through hell to get here, only to find out that it was a barely inhabited rock covered in dust? I could strangle every last one of them for this. For what it was worth, at least I wouldn't have to deal with people…to an extent anyways. The bus rocked back and forth as the wind picked up, pushing us dangerously towards the edge of the steep inclination that was the only indication that the road ended.
"Next stop, Fyrestone Depot. Time to gather up your stuff," The grizzly man behind the wheel flicked the bobble head on his dashboard and chuckled, knocking over a bottle of booze. "Who's gettin' off the bus?"
The driver looked back at each of us through the large, grimy, rectangular mirror above his head. He paused on each of us, eyes traveling up and down, making judgments and building his own stories for us. He decided first to interrogate the strange man sitting across from me; he had earlier introduced himself as Mordecai.
"You, with the sniper rifle and the crazy mask? You look like a Truxican wrestler moonlighting as a dominatrix, man!" His description of the hunter was a little rough but Mordecai did not protest; his skinny frame remained slouched against the bus seat as he continued to be tied up in thoughts of other times, other places. His leather mask was a bit odd, I'll admit, but I had seen a lot weirder. He was the quietest man I had ever met, but people talked too much nowadays anyway. The only thing that he had said the entire bus ride was his name. Out of my fellow mercenaries, I liked Mordecai the best.
"And you, soldier man? Are those armor pieces from the Crimson Lance you're wearing?" His description of the soldier was the only time the driver didn't say anything stupid; perhaps he feared the Crimson Lance just as much as anyone did. I had no reason to trust any of these guys, but this soldier, Roland as he had told us, an African American man with a constant scowl on his face, was a former member of the Crimson Lance. I stared at him intensely, trying to fathom his intentions. A Lance soldier sitting on a bus with a bunch of mercenary treasure hunters that were set on taking the Crimson Lance's prize right out from underneath them…that wasn't suspicious at all? As an escapee from the Lance's laboratories, I wondered if he recognized me, if he knew me. If he knew what his beloved militia was doing to the innocent. The recent memories resurfaced in my mind like a fresh wound, the images making me nauseous. I could only process one word: retribution. The bus driver's eyes fell on me, lighting up with humor.
"And what's your story, young lady? What can you do?" He held back a chuckle. "Ah, perhaps you can bake us all a wonderful cake!" At this, he could no longer contain his amusement and burst into a small fit of laughter.
My anger flared as the driver continued to laugh, and, as usual when my emotion got out of control, I momentarily left that dimension, glowing a fluorescent blue against the dingy bus seat. This bus driver was the most mistaken, dead man I had ever met if he actually believed that I was that helpless. If I wouldn't have gotten my anger under control, I would've baked him. Everything was alright though, I reassured myself as I returned to that dimension, because while the driver wasn't looking, I had stolen our bus fare back.
"And you, beef stick in the back. I'm not gonna make fun of you. Your burps smell like blood and you growl like a rabid animal," The gleam left the bus driver's eyes as he spoke to the gigantic man in the back seat. He sat quietly, occasionally grumbling curses under his breath. He and Roland seemed to get along as if they were old friends. Earlier in the day, they had had a conversation that consisted of everything from knock knock jokes to the death of Brick's beloved puppy, whose paw Brick had fashioned quite cleverly into a necklace (apparently, when he was younger, he had not known his own strength and, being the cuddly thing that he was, had accidentally hugged his puppy too tightly). I almost felt pity, but stealing another glance at Brick corrected me immediately.
My story? I suppose you wanted to know how I got here and why I am the way I am. It all started a few months ago, when the Crimson Lance had discovered Pandora's "great potential" for colonization. It seems like such a long time ago now; I had been through the hell that was modern biological warfare, watched my comrades die, because of this ridiculous treasure hunt. Such is the vanity of man.