A/N: Never thought of Borderlands having fiction before today. Had to write something once I found it.


Whoever yields properly to Fate, is deemed

Wise among men, and knows the laws of heaven.


The bus smelled like a hobo: body odor, vomit, and piss. Most of Pandora did, with some rotten corpse and skag dung thrown in for good measure.

As beginnings went it was not promising.

Marcus the Creepy Slob of a crappy bus driver was probably deliberately hitting every single pothole.

The entire road is one long fucking pothole, who am I kidding?

Bloodwing dug sharp talons a bit deeper into his shoulder, just enough to pierce flesh through the armor. Mordecai was starting to regret not just walking, sand and heat be damned, as he hung grimly on to the dirty seats.

He was far too busy trying not to get thrown out a window to give the three other passengers much notice, especially when Marcus started heckling them and driving even more erratically than Mordecai had thought possible.

Fucking shitty driver. Watch the bloody road! I'm not going to die in a fucking one-vehicle-no-explosives-wreck!

Marcus' thick lips were moving but he wasn't really listening to the sounds coming out. Bloodwing's sharp talons were doing a number on his shoulder and sudden jerks and shudders of the rickety old bus – Had this shitcan just been airborne for a moment? - took possession of the rest of his considerable concentration.

He had never been so glad to get back out into the desert in his life.

"Fuck me man, that was the worst ride I've ever been in." The dark skinned soldier to his right wasn't actually talking to anyone in particular but he had managed to voice the collective feeling. The muscle-bound ox of a man behind them grunted in agreement.

"Maybe another time handsome, we've got incoming!" The pretty redhead pointed off into the distance at the small dark figures moving steadily toward them.

The dregs of Pandora. Psychos.

Her smile could have lit up a world.


"C'mon boys!"

In a flash she was gone, reappearing in the middle of the disorganized attackers energy crackling off of her and sending them to the ground.

That's different.

As a beginning it was inauspicious.

No one had really planned anything, like most of the chaos on the shithole known as Pandora it had just kinda happened. Mordecai had taken aim and shot true, straight through the head of an charging freak. The cement block of a man had charged headlong into the band approaching, crushing heads and raining shotgun pellets. The dark skinned soldier racking up his own headcount. Their skills so different and unintentionally complimentary.

It was the first time Mordecai had ever felt...part of a group in combat, not just him and Bloodwing encumbered by clumsy idiots who shot their own feet. The joy of a well-fought battle ran through his blood as another head exploded down his sights.

Its beautiful. God, it fucking beautiful!

When the dust finally settled and they were all one uniform shade of dirt-encrusted gore, the four strangers brought together by a rickety bus were glancing warily from face to face. Trigger fingers itchy.

All there for the same reason. The Vault.

It lay between all of them, unspoken.

"That was...God, it was gorgeous. I think I like you boys." She might have been talking about sex, voice low and throaty. Echos of his earlier feeling in the ecstasy of battle and the seamlessness of combat.

Guess I wasn't the only one who thought so.

It vaguely pleases him.

The other two nodded, muscles relaxing incrementally. The tension broken by the shared love of battle.

"So...we gonna go see if this lot had a price on their heads or what?" The redhead spoke carefully, moving to rifle through the pockets of the nearest corpse, moving in the direction of town.

"Sure, why not?" Mordecai surprised even himself. Groups weren't something he liked. Just him, Bloodwing and Betsy his trusty rifle.

The things he could count on.

What did you just sign up for? People betray you, moron. Its just the way of life – and hey did you see that rifle? Go get it, its looks nice.

The voice in his head became too busy running a commentary on the shiny equipment he was scooping off the ground to complain further about the vagaries of human nature.

"Hey skinny, mod for ya." The piece of equipment bounced off his left leg, landing in the sand. He glared at the smiling soldier.

I have a name asshole.

"Mordecai not skinny."

"Yeah? Name's Roland. Who are you big guy?" The mountain of muscle wiping brain matter off his nose flashed a rather deranged smile while adjusting the two rings he wore.

"One" and "Two" eh? Gives a whole new meaning to the "o'le one-two"...

"Brick." He bumped his chest with a fist, completing the he-man image. Mordecai shook his head, holding in a laugh.

"Fyrestone's this way! Oh you handsome gentlemen can call me Lilith." Her smile could have lit a world, even covered in blood and dirt.


The dividing of equipment and cash became automatic, probably the fairest thing on the planet. Nothing was discussed. It just...happened.

Another piece of the random violent world called Pandora. A fluke of fate.

The beginning of a legend.

The Vault hunters.

Legends die hard. They survive as truth rarely does.

- Helen Hayes