#borderlands crossover

Chapter 1 - Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

The scent of stale sweat hangs heavy in the recycled air. Hundreds of warm bodies fill the mess hall leaving little space to maneuverer. Unit upon unit of troopers lining the facility in orderly rows. Packed in tighter than vacuum sealed standard issue MREs.

Happens like groundhog day. Same routine over and over again.

Wake, eat, drills, eat, sleep.

Leaves him feeling little more than another cog in the fine-tuned military machine that is Dahl.

It’s stifling. Suffocating.

Maybe he’s just been stuck on base for too long. Maybe he just needs to head planetside. There’s this voracious itch that always rears its head between deployments. An uneasy tension sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach. Gnawing, screaming at him that more needs to be done and sitting here is just wasting time.

What good is a weapon in a fight if left unfired?

This was not what Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia signed up for when joining the Corp. Pipedreams and promises of jumping around the system, liberating settlements from the greedy grip of Atlas. Putting down bandit scum.

Life on Pandora prepped him for action, for violence.

Not the bureaucracy of the corporate military industrial complex.

Hoo’ fucking rah.

“Need some motor oil?”, a deep voice cuts through Pope’s musing, Ironhead giving him a knowing look.

“Wha-?”

Santiago’s eyes refocus. Physically shunted back into reality by a light shoulder check from the young blond adjacent to him.

“Can practically hear the gears crunching in your head, Pope.”

Will. Now there’s a company man through and through. Six foot and build like a brick house. Keen blue eyes that shine with something purely predatorial. Nothing gets past his gaze. Lives and breathes the life.

Nerves of steel and unwavering discipline earnt him the well-deserved moniker Ironhead.

Regimented. Reliable. Never fails under fire.

Dahl ‘til the day he dies.

“I hate being… stuck. Feel useless.”

Elbows braced on the slick steel benchtop, Pope runs both broad hands through his salt and pepper undercut. Pulling at strands. Trying to find a physical reset to pull him back from the frustration welling in his chest.

“I geddit. It’s driving me nuts, man, sitting here not doing anything.”

Now, Ben, the boy wonder, is pure unadulterated chaos. If Ironhead is a Doberman, then Benny is a damn Retriever chasing down a car on the highway. Kid had a good heart and boundless energy. Though doesn’t know do with it half the time.

Doesn’t think too often, just feels. Get’s him all sorts of situations.

Fortunately, The Miller boys made one hell of a team in combat. The Hellhounds from Hieronymous. Ironhead’s tactical efficiency paired with Wonderboy’s unbridled fury burnt through scores of Atlas platoons on tour. It was enough for brass to look the other way when it came to the frequent indiscretions they found themselves in.

“You hear that Lima Charlie got shipped to Elpis after Zarpedon’s crew went dark? Fucking bullshit man. Why do we get stuck here while- ”

“Better not let Redfly hear you saying that, hermano, especially after last month’s stunt. You’re lucky all you got was a week in the hole.”

Fish interrupts Ben with a look that can only be described as fatherly disappointment, grease-stained hand waving his fork about to about drive point home. Though underneath the worn cap his warm eyes give away everything, brimming with mirth.

Before Atlas. Before the exodus.

Pope swears he would have lost his humanity years ago if Fish hadn’t have kept him grounded. Practically inseparable, the two pulled each other out of scraps since they were knee high in Haven.

Frankie, ever the voice of reason, reminded Pope why they joined the Corp in the first place.

The guy was too honest for his own good. Has a big heart and wears it on his sleeve for all the world to see.

Made cleaning house during poker night a walk in the park.

“Yeah yeah, flyboy. Wouldn’t have been a problem if that snitch from Whiskey Kilo kept his big mouth shut.”

Benny petulantly spears at a suspect lump slathered in gravy on his tray, nostrils flaring.

“Well, it’s certainly shut now. Wired shut. Heard from Ty in medbay Phillips won't be having any solids until next month” Pope can’t help but chime in, it was a small comfort to know he wasn’t the only one grappling with the inertia being stuck shipside.

A collective chuckle erupts from the group and with that Benny's pout is wiped clean. Boyish face cracks into a smug grin.

And who could blame him?

Kid has a left hook that would floor a bullymong.

Conversation soon flows easily, falling into hopeful speculation about the next operation.

Tensions have escalated as of late between major intergalactic powerhouses. The system is on the precipice of a second Corporate War.

It's not just Dahl and Atlas duking out for supremacy across the stars.

Hyperion has begun to stake their claim, planet by planet. Peacocking with the latest in loader tech. Bunch of Machiavellian suits parading around as soldiers. Would sell their own grandmother to make a profit. And what they couldn't buy, they were willing acquire through "aggressive negotiation".

And Vladof, bunch of commie bastards, took glee in sabotaging years of blood, sweat and tears for the sake of glorious revolution. Whatever that meant. Why waste manpower when you can incite the masses to do your dirty work for you?

The desperate push for colonization in the most bizarre locations didn’t make any tactical sense whatsoever.

Something bigger was going on than just a turf war over resources. Not when this many players had come to the table. Stakes must be high.

“Nice to know that you boys are itching for action.”.

By pure reflex the four rise to their feet. Backs straight. Eyes forward. Jaws tight.

Chairs clatter across the hull floor, food all but forgotten.

The crimson glare shoots pure ice down Pope’s spine. Every damn time feels like someone walked over his grave. No matter how long he served, could never get used to it. Cybernetic eye picking apart every detail of the crew before him with clinical precision.

Captain Tom ‘Redeye’ Davis.

Takes a particular kind of individual rise through the ranks in the Corp. A certain cold bloodedness that makes a man willing to put the mission above all else. Hardly a surprise for a seasoned Dahl Mercenary. Redfly had a track record that would make any C.O. green with envy.

The company couldn’t fault him, no matter how harsh his methods. Ran tight crew and expected nothing but excellence. The Corp chewed up and spat so many bodies in the field, there was little room for complacency.

Or mercy.

“Fortunately for you, Brass has something that will scratch itch. Section-312, Intel Room 4. I expect you all there at nineteen hundred TangoFoxtrot. Copy?”

“Sir, yes Sir!”

“At ease soldiers.”

Will shoots Pope a wry smile that spreads across the crew like wildfire. It says it all.