Skag Snacks and Vendor Vices

My comms are barking in my ear as I head outside the post, Marcus’s vending machine, and the pure, unfiltered chaos of Pandora on the other side.

Claptrap, in all his hyperactive glory, is still trying to unravel the biological mystery of how sex works; with Mordecai and Brick as his unwilling soundboard. His treads squeal on the concrete as he spins in place, arms waving like he's directing traffic in hell, “So wait… hold on… the rod goes where? And what do pink tacos have to do with this? The internet is extremely unclear, guys! Guys? Guuuuuys?”

Mordecai’s comm icon flickers on my HUD, his pixelated face looking about three seconds from quitting life, brows furrowed under those goggles, “I am trying so hard to ignore this… it’s not working.”

Brick’s image and voice cuts in, no patience left, face contorted in disgust and anger, veins bulging on his massive neck, “Where’s his goddamned reboot button? I’m about to factory-reset this fuckin’ bot!”

Claptrap’s blank image cuts in, voice peaking with mechanical panic, static crackling at the edges., “But… but what about buns? And where does the cream filling come in?! GUYS?!”

I snort as I push open the outpost door, the rusted hinges groaning in protest.

The temperature is a stark contrast to when I stepped off Marcus’s bus; no blazing sun now, just cool desert air and sharp blue moonlight painting the broken asphalt and busted junk piles in eerie silver. Just to the side is Marcus’s vending machine, his mean mug flickering on the front display, eyes narrowed like he's judging every credit I own.

I’m barely a few steps from the outpost when I hear it.

The growl.

Low, guttural, hungry; vibrating through the ground like distant thunder, accompanied by the wet slurp of drool hitting dirt.

Skag.

I draw my revolver, as the beast lumbers out; a bulky, four-legged muscle tank dripping with drool that sizzles on the ground, electricity crackling off its back in blue arcs that light up the night, fur standing on end like charged wires.

Elemental skag. Of course.

I squeeze the trigger, rounds punching into its hide with wet thuds; flesh tearing, blood spraying in electric-laced spurts; I reload like second nature, shells clinking to the dirt, but the trigger clicks dry after, and the skag’s still standing, snarling, pacing toward me with sparks jumping between its teeth.

The skag rears up; then its head explodes in a shower of sparks and blood; brain matter arcing like fireworks, chunks of skull ricocheting off rocks; as WeaponCacheBot storms in, dual-wielding its Tediore SMG and Atlas shotgun, spinning them like an old-west gunslinger, barrels smoking with fresh discharge.

“Danger… averted,” he says, monotone voice grinding like rusted gears, tossing ammo clips at me from his chest compartment. They snap into my belt with magnetic clicks, fully stocked, the weight settling comfortably.

But it’s short-lived.

The dead skag’s yelp echoes across the rocks; and more answer; multiple growls layering into a chorus, gravel crunching under paws.

Six shapes slink into view, snarling, eyes glowing feral yellow in the moonlight, saliva strings dangling from jagged maws.

“Danger… un-averted,” WeaponCacheBot deadpans, raising his guns with a hydraulic whirr.

My HUD highlights a pile of trashed computer parts nearby; monitor cracked like a spiderweb, keyboard keys scattered, hard drives dented and exposed.

Alone? Just abandoned junk.

For me? Companion material.

I hit it with my action skill, purple glow spreading across the heap as it assembles, metal and wires snapping into place with sharp clacks and sparks, circuits humming to life.

Sentient Companion: CompuTech JunkBot [Trashed Computer Parts] – Ground Class

Quickfiring, Swift

Attack: Fires rapid “key” projectiles

Abilities: Scrambles Enemy Comms

• Wireless and deadly.

He hums to life, camera eye flickering blue, voice box scratchy but smug, like a dial-up modem from hell.

“Dial-up connection engaged. Please hold while your ass gets kicked.”

I grin, sliding behind the rest of the dead skag for cover; its cooling corpse squelching under my boots, blood pooling sticky and warm; reloading as WeaponCacheBot and CompuTech JunkBot light up the field.

The pups drop easy; bullets riddling hides in wet bursts, keyboard keys embedding like shrapnel; flesh parting with pops, my rifle barking explosive rounds that bloom fire across fur, charring meat and filling the air with the acrid stink of burnt hair.

But the real problem’s still standing.

Three badass skags.

Acid. Frost. Spitter.

All with that telltale red skull over them, indicating their badass-ness; hulking frames twice the size, hides armored with glowing elemental veins, roars shaking dust from rocks.

WeaponCacheBot takes acid to the chest; projectile vomit splashing across his chassis, circuits frying with hisses and pops, metal bubbling like melting wax; but like every good soldier of mine, he goes out on his terms.

Divebomb. Detonation.

The acid skag explodes in a shower of toxic gore; viscera spraying in green arcs, sizzling on impact, the air thick with corrosive fumes that sting my eyes and throat.

Two left.

I peek from cover, spot something clamped in the dead shock skag’s jaws; maw frozen in a rictus snarl, drool solidified around it.

Double-barreled pistol, sleek, heavy.

Way better than Marcus’ dollar-store special.

Weapon Acquired: Jakobs Double-Barrel Pistol – "Widowmaker's Kiss"

Damage: 189 (x2 Simultaneous Barrels)

Accuracy: 68%

Handling: 75%

Reload Time: 3.3s

Fire Rate: 2.1/s

Magazine Size: 8

• Two barrels, one heartbreak. Unloads both slugs in a thunderous kiss; guaranteed to leave 'em seeing double... or not at all. Perfect for close-quarters romance gone wrong!

I grab it, fingers slick with skag blood, sending the old revolver to my inventory with a chime, and squeeze the triggers.

The pistol roars like twin thunderclaps; recoil kicking my arms back, muzzle flash blinding in the night; twin shots hammering into the frost skag, slugs embedding deep before shattering its hide in icy explosions, blood freezing mid-spray into crimson shards that clatter to the ground like broken glass.

CompuTech JunkBot unloads his last barrage, keyboard keys slamming into the spitting skag with wet thunks, scrambling its comms (or whatever passes for skag brains); confusing the ugly bastard into staggering circles before the final keyboard barrage punches through its skull, brain pulp erupting in a gray-red mist, keys protruding from the exit wound like a glitchy crown.

The pack falls silent, the night settling again; only the faint sizzle of acid pools and crackle of frost remnants breaking the quiet.

I holster the pistol, smug, wiping blood from my hands on my pants.

“Thirty minutes? I can do a lot in thirty minutes.”

First stop?

Marcus’ vending machine.

Time to burn some cash and buy my way into more trouble.

I crouch over the pile of dead skags, CompuTech JunkBot humming beside me, occasionally pinging useless system alerts as his optical scanner pans across the corpses; beeps echoing like error codes in the wind.

The thing about skags?

They eat everything; other skags, bandit loot, sometimes their own legs; and if you’re lucky?

They leave something behind worth taking, half-digested and slimy.

Tonight? Jackpot.

2K in cold hard, or wet and slimy, cash blinks into my account as my HUD confirms the transfer from their half-digested loot piles; credits materializing with a satisfying chime. Not a bad appetizer, even if it comes with the bonus scent of bile and rot wafting up from the guts.

My eyes catch a Dahl grenade mod, viscous green strings dripping from the casing; but the stats pop clean on my HUD:

Grenade Mod Acquired — Dahl “Fragmentation Situation”

Damage: 620

Radius: Medium

Special: Sticky: attaches to target before detonating

Bonus: 20% chance to split into two additional grenades on impact

• Sticks around like your mom on Mardi Gras.

Way better than the model I’m carrying now; old one vanishing to inventory with a ping.

I swap it in, the new mod clicking into my bandolier with a solid thunk. Couple clips of ammo buried in the skag guts go into my belt; shells sticky with entrails, but functional. The rest?

Junk.

Perfect for Marcus, the GameStop of the Wasteland. He’ll rip me off, but at least he doesn’t care where the loot came from; blood, bile, or bandit asses.

Marcus’ vending machine sits right before me, leaning against the side of an old shipping crate, rusted edges flaking under the moonlight. His greasy, smug face plastered across the holo-banner, that familiar, sleazy recorded voice croaks to life the moment I approach, gravelly and mocking:

“Welcome, Vault Hunter! Come spend all your money here! It’s not like you’re living long enough to retire anyway!”

The man has a way with words and advertising.

The machine hums to life, weapon racks spinning like a game show wheel of ****; gears grinding, lights flickering across manufacturers: Dahl's tactical greens, Jakobs' wooden accents, Maliwan's elemental swirls, Hyperion's corporate sheen.

I pause as my eye lands on a Tediore Rifle, and yeah… this one’s a keeper.

Tediore Rifle — “The Divorce Settler”

Damage: 850 (Incendiary)

Fire Rate: 5.2 sec

Reload: Toss to explode

Bonus: Can be thrown with full clip for larger explosion

Secondary Fire: Mini Nuclear Rockets

• Don’t worry… everything is radioactive now.

The rifle’s sleek, black and yellow, polished like it came from a corporate boardroom; designed to set things, and probably ex-wives, on fire; barrel warm to the touch, even unloaded.

Lilith’s voice pops into my comms, that signature, cocky tone curling in my ear like smoke:

“Nice choice, Stallion.”

I grin.

Still scrolling, another catches my attention; Hyperion SMG, stats glowing bright.

Hyperion SMG — “Overcompensator”

Damage: 410 (Corrosive)

Accuracy: 89% (increases while firing)

Magazine Size: 40

Perk: Shield activates while aiming

Bonus: 10% chance to ricochet rounds to nearby targets

• Size matters… but so does splash damage

Credits drain, my bank account takes a hit; numbers flashing red then settling; but well worth it, the new gear materializing in my hands with a digital shimmer.

I dump the leftover junk from the skag pile into the vending machine; entrails-smeared parts clanking into the slot; getting pittance back, like selling your soul to a pawn shop; but credits are credits, even if they come with a faint squelch.

Loadout rearranged:

On my right hip, the Hyperion Pistol, opposite hip, the Hyperion SMG. The Tediore Rifle, is slung across my back.

My Bank Account? Thinner, but firepower’s stacked.

The best part? I feel none of the weight. A hundred pounds of ordinance and I move like I’m naked in the moonlight; boots silent on the dirt.

Out of the corner of my eye, a lit-up billboard catches my attention; Ellie’s garage, that familiar smiling face welcoming gearheads and psychopaths alike; neon flickering pink and yellow, promising "Scooters and Rides... That Kill."

I check my mission status; plenty of time.

Time moves weird here. A little detour won’t hurt.

I head toward the garage, grinning.

Time to see if Ellie’s got anything fun… and street-legal optional.