Post-Firehawk Hangover and Claptrap's Inquiry

I roll out of the bed, still buzzing. Muscles loose, skin tingling, my brain struggling to come back online after what just happened with Lilith. I swear, if we’d gone any harder, we’d have blown the roof off this half-busted Crimson Raiders outpost.

The faint glow of leftover Siren energy still hums against my skin like static clinging to my veins, a low buzz that makes every hair stand on end. The sheets are wrecked; damp patches, twisted fabric, the sharp scent of sex thick, clinging to everything. I stretch, feeling the pull in my shoulders and thighs, and will my clothes back on. Threads of code weave themselves together: armor plates snapping into place with satisfying metallic clacks, holsters tightening around my thighs, the familiar weight settling across my chest like it never left.

The sorry-ass Jakobs revolver Marcus tossed me goes on my right hip, still faintly warm from use. The Torgue Rifle to my shoulder, magazines full, ready to spit rounds like angry hornets. I swing the door open; expecting freedom, maybe a beer to wash the taste of her down.

Instead?

Brick and Mordecai.

Posted up outside the door like a goddamn intervention squad; beer bottles in hand, looks on their faces somewhere between concerned older brother and “we’ve seen some shit.” Brick’s massive frame blocks half the hallway, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to disappear into the wall, beer number I-don't-know what in his fist. Mordecai leans against the opposite side, one boot propped up, goggles reflecting the dim neon, half a bottle in his.

I stammer, unable to hide the shit-eating grin creeping onto my face.

“Morning, gentlemen.”

Mordecai snorts, eyes hidden behind those ever-present shades.

“It’s nighttime, buddy.”

I can’t help but chuckle as I pat the last strap of my chest rig into place, the leather creaking under my fingers.

“Well… when she’s shining like the goddamn sun, you tend to lose track of time.” I tell them.

Brick gags mid-swig, coughing backwash into his bottle with a wet splutter. Foam drips down his chin.

“Come on, man!”

Mordecai fires back, quick as ever.

“She walked out here all…” He gestures wildly with his free hand, mimicking curves and glow, “out there. Hair wild, tattoos still pulsing like she just came off a kill streak. Smelled like fire and… well. You know.”

I shrug, not bothering to hide the satisfaction anymore.

“Hey, at least now you know where her tattoos end.”

Brick’s expression contorts like he just bit into a live Skag; lips pulling back, eyes squeezing shut, “That’s my commander, man.” He shakes his head, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like it might save him, “I can’t unsee that.”

Mordecai’s still grinning despite himself, shaking his head.

“I’m just saying… I didn’t need the full anatomy lesson. Or the sound effects. Walls are thin, new guy.”

I laugh, raising my hands in surrender.

“Look, fellas; when the Firehawk says ‘jump’, you jump. When she says ‘fuck’-”

“Nope! Nope! Done!” Mordecai holds up a hand, turning away as he chugs the rest of his beer like it’s the only thing keeping him from melting. The bottle clinks against his teeth.

Brick rubs his temples, muttering under his breath.

“If I step in anything… anything at all…”

I grin, already striding toward the hallway.

“Relax, big guy. She probably burned it all away.”

Mordecai spits beer everywhere, coughing and laughing at the same time; foam spraying the wall in a sad arc, “You’re gonna get your ass shot before you even hit your first vault, man.”

Lilith’s voice crackles through the outpost speakers, clear, commanding, and still smug as hell, “Stop haranguing the new guy and get him connected to our comms. We got thirty minutes ’til we’re wheels up. Use that time to gear up. There’s a Marcus vending machine down the way, Tiger. First one’s on me.”

A soft chime in my HUD; balance ticks up a few thousand credits, green numbers flashing like a jackpot.

Mordecai sets his beer down, still chuckling as he moves to the nearby console, fingers dancing over the keys with practiced speed.

“She ain’t never bought us weapons,” he grumbles, tapping away at the system. A progress bar fills, and my comms link pings active.

Brick just exhales, defeated, wandering off down the hall as I step outside.

“I can’t, man. I need… brain bleach or somethin’.” Mordecai’s voice trails off behind me.

HUD PING.

Mordecai’s image pops into the corner of my vision; the faint glow of a system link syncing up, green checkmark flashing.

“Alright, Vault Hunter. You’re good to go. You heard her, gear up, meet us on Sanctuary. Thirty minutes.” He says voice clear in my ear.

I smirk, “Another great adventure starts with bad decisions and a free gun. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I’m just about to step out of the outpost, ready to throw entirely too much money at Marcus’ vending machine, when a familiar, voice ambushes me.

Claptrap.

“Hey guys! You will NOT believe what I just saw!” He blasts, wheeling around the corner, arms flailing like malfunctioning windmills, voice cranked to eleven like always, optic flashing red and blue in manic excitement.

“I just passed Lilith… and she was NAKED! Like, 100% unshielded, day she was born, Firehawk on full display! Glowing tattoos, sweat, the whole package!”

I snort, sidestepping, but it’s too late. His optic hones in on me, and I can practically hear his CPU fans whirring as his little robot brain connects the dots.

Click. Whirr. Data processing.

“Wait a minute…” Claptrap leans forward, mechanical eye scanning me head to toe, red laser sweeping across my chest, my hips, lingering at my groin.

“Why is there… WHOA… that’s a LOT of Lilith’s DNA on you… particularly concentrated in the groin region… oh my...”

On comms, Mordecai groans, his image mirroring the growing worry, “Don’t do it, man…”

Claptrap’s still talking, volume climbing.

“Statistically speaking, that amount of genetic material exchange suggests… OH… OH MY… were you two mating?!”

Brick lets out a long, low sigh from down the hall.

“I’m gonna be sick…”

Claptrap doesn’t slow down, “Wait, wait, wait; what position generates this much data? Hold on, I have a diagram...”

A small holographic chart flickers from his chassis, disturbingly graphic for a children’s toy-turned-warbot: stick figures in explicit angles, arrows labeled with torque and “friction coefficient” numbers.

“Was it this one? Or maybe… oh my processors… this one?!”

Mordecai starts laughing, but it’s the strained, pained laugh of a man witnessing a car crash he can’t look away from, “You’re making it so much worse, little guy.”

Claptrap keeps going, undeterred, “Oh! Or maybe you used the classic ‘turret rotation’ position! That one’s my favorite! High ground advantage, excellent reload access-”

“I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this,” Brick cries from somewhere deeper in the outpost, voice muffled like he’s trying to bury his head in a crate, the image of him wincing.

Claptrap’s still analyzing, little wheels whirring, more horrifyingly but shockingly accurate diagrams popping up as he goes; now with heat maps and “siren energy transfer efficiency” overlays.

“I gotta say, structurally speaking, I didn’t think a human pelvis could handle that kind of crank-”

I pat him on the head; clink, cutting him off mid-rant, “Good talk, buddy.”

I step around him, leaving him sputtering and trying to run after me as I head out to the vending machine, his treads squealing on the concrete.

“Wait! I haven’t even gotten to the fluid analysis! The protein levels are off the charts! And the residual Siren heat signature; fascinating! You should really get that checked for-”

“Time to make some poor financial decisions.”

Because if there’s one thing guaranteed to numb the memory of Claptrap’s sex commentary?

Spending way too much cash on guns I definitely don’t need.

I slap my palm on the scanner, credits burning away as the machine hums to life, dispensing **** in shiny new packages.