Mod Upgrade and Cyclone Ride

Lorelei boots into the Catch-A-Ride terminal, cycling through the selections with a low whistle that cuts through the garage’s ambient hum of cooling metal and distant engines.

“Ellie’s got quite the selection of wheels,” they say, voice laced with impressed amusement. “Never saw a van decked out with mini-guns and rocket launchers. That thing looks like it could start its own war.”

I nod, already checking my weapons, holsters snug, straps tight, the familiar weight of Widowmaker’s Kiss and Overcompensator riding my hips like old friends. “She’s a savant.”

I’m mid-reload when something metallic smacks into my chest. I catch it on instinct; sleek, Maliwan design, still humming faintly with residual energy.

I glance up.

“Seriously?” Lorelei says, eyebrow arched. “You’ve been running around out here without a proper mod setup?”

I turn it over in my hand; cool metal, glowing interface already syncing to my HUD. “Been doing alright so far.” Truth is, I’ve been having so much fun I really didn’t put too much thought into it.

Lorelei scoffs and walks toward me, boots echoing on the garage floor. “Yeah, and I’ve been winning a war with half a bloody army. Doesn’t mean I’d recommend it.” They tap the mod in my hand; sharper this time, almost scolding. “That’s a weapon management mod. Syncs to your HUD, stores your entire loadout, cycles weapons instantly. No digging, no guesswork, no ‘hang on while I find my favourite gun’ nonsense; ready at a thought.”

Their eyes flick over my current setup; unimpressed, but not unkind.

“You’re a Vault Hunter, you shouldn't be rummaging through a duffel bag mid-firefight.”

I smirk. “You always this helpful?”

“Only when it benefits me,” Lorelei shoots back, crossing their arms. “And right now, keeping you alive is very beneficial.”

I slot the mod in.

My HUD flickers; reorganizes. The weapons on my hips and back, digitize into a clean rotation, icons snapping into a seamless radial menu. I extend my hand; Groovy Boomstick materializes lightning-quick in my grip, triple barrels humming; I siwth again, Firewatcher, scope already zooming; Widowmaker’s Kiss, double barrels heavy and ready; Respec’tor, already spinning up. They slip back into the mod with a soft digital whoosh; smooth as liquid, no delay.

Lorelei clocks my expression and smirks, “Yeah. Welcome to not fighting like an amateur.”

They pull up a Cyclone for themselves; single-wheeled death machine, neon piping glowing pink and white under the garage lights. Lorelei tosses me a smug, teasing look.

“What’s-a-matter? Can’t drive a single-tired death vehicle?”

I smile; time to return the favor.

I tap the side of the neon-piped Cyclone. The surface ripples with violet energy; plates shifting, clicking, folding with mechanical precision. The rig unfolds, rising tall; over 15 feet, thin and wicked, lean deadly posture like a predator on stilts. Four arms extend from its frame, each lined with glowing, double-edged neon swords sharp enough to make a Vault Guardian nervous. The single wheel splits into articulated treads for stability, neon accents pulsing in sync with its new heartbeat.

Sentient Companion: cy-CHO [Cyclone] – Goliath Ground Class

Neon Baddie

Mode 1: Single-wheeled all-terrain vehicle, self driving

Mode 2: 15’ four-armed ninja

Attack: 15-foot laser-bladed ninja; four arms, four swords; cuts through anything

• We all go a little mad, sometimes.

cy-CHO hums, revving like a beast flexing muscle and menace before folding back into its compact Cyclone form.

Lorelei just stares, blinking. cy-CHO stands there, buzzing faintly with power, the stance like something rejected from a fever-dream Star Wars concept board. The blue neon lighting shifts to pink and white, mirroring Lorelei’s highlights.

I grin.

“It just complimented your hair.”

They don't even question it, their eyes widen, pink-highlighted hair swaying as they tuck a strand behind their ear; half-laugh, half disbelief.

“She’s yours, personal chauffeur.”

I deploy another cy-CHO for myself and slide into the seat; neon lights pulsing beneath me, the single wheel humming with restrained menace. “Lead the way.”

Lorelei smirks, jumps into their Cyclone, kicking it into gear. The hover-conversion hums as they peel ahead down the ruined roadway; "tire" kicking up dust and debris in a rooster tail.

My cy-CHO surges forward, letting me sit back as it drives with machine precision, already logged into my Companion Tablet, following Lorelei like a loyal shadow.

Lorelei’s face pops onto my HUD; the comms glitchy, pixelated at the edges, but their voice still dripping with that smooth, cheeky accent.

“Alright, Vault Hunter… here’s the rundown,” they say, weaving between busted cars and smoldering barricades. “We’ve got signal jammers running interference all over this sector. They’re blocking our comms, screwing our tech, making it a real pain in the ass to coordinate with the resistance.”

They swerve sharply; their Cyclone kicking dust and debris into the air behind them.

“Your mission’s simple: We kill those jammers, get our network back up, and maybe I can finally get a bloody decent cup of coffee.”

I lean forward as cy-CHO maneuvers effortlessly around a collapsed overpass, the neon glow of Promethea casting the busted city in eerie light; shadows stretching long and jagged.

“Thought you Brits liked your tea,” I say, eyes narrowing on the horizon.

Lorelei laughs; short, sharp, genuine. “Smart ass… I like it.” They zoom ahead, Cyclone’s single wheel carving a perfect line through the wreckage.

cy-CHO guns it; neon blades humming, ready to carve anything stupid enough to get in our way.

Promethea’s about to learn what happens when you piss off the wrong Vault Hunter.