Welcome to Pandora

The sweatpants and tank top I was wearing dissolve mid-step, unraveling into threads of code and ink as I cross the portal’s glowing threshold. Fabric reshapes and thickens, forming into something far more substantial. Weight settles on my body—heavy combat boots slam into the forming floor with a satisfying thud, followed by Kevlar-reinforced pants, patched and worn, molded to my legs like armor made for warzones. Holsters and ammo packs strap across my thighs and chest, empty for now but begging to be filled with deadly ammunition.

A custom-fitted body armor wraps around my torso, stitched from scavenged materials, reinforced with crimson piping and carbon polymer plates. My arms, once bare, are now smeared with grease and grime—tattoos I've never had before warped by the jagged black lines of cel-shading, my skin shaded and contoured like it was drawn in a comic book. Even my stubble has harsh, stylized shadows, giving me a rugged, dangerous look. I don’t just look like I belong in this world; I am this world now.

Over my eyes, a pair of high-tech AR sunglasses manifest with a hiss of pressure and a flicker of static in the lenses, displaying my HUD. I top it all off with a Crimson Raiders cap, the logo cracked and weathered, like it's seen every battlefield and back alley on Pandora.

As I plant both boots down with full weight, the ground forms beneath me—a hard, rubberized metal floor with diamond grips. The interior of Marcus’s bus renders around me like a sketch being inked at hyperspeed. First, the railings, then the walls, the dusty racks of weapons, the bullet holes, and scorch marks in the corners. The smell of gun oil and blood hits me immediately, comforting me in the most fucked-up way. I see myself in the reflection of the window. I'm still me, animated, but still me in every way, even the small scar from my childhood "bike riding lesson" on my chin.

I reach out, instinctively grabbing one of the poles just as the bus lurches forward. A mechanical groan rises up beneath us as the vehicle barrels through the endless stretch of carnage outside.

I brace myself and peer through the cracked windows. And there it is.

Pandora.

Not the version I’ve seen on my screen a hundred times, but a living, moving organism. The cell-shaded hellscape of sand and scrap, of jutting metal and fractured rock. Towering cliffs erupt from the ground like sharpened bones, the sky pulsing in mad hues of orange and electric blue. Wind howls across the plains, bringing with it the sound of gunfire, engines, and howling skags. It’s alive in a way no screen could ever convey.

Marcus doesn’t even look at me, his eyes on the horizon, a cigar jammed between his yellowing teeth. “Hope you’re not one of those moral types,” he mutters, his voice low and greasy. “This place eats saints for breakfast.”

I smirk and plant my boots wider, my voice confident, strong — perfect for this world. “Don’t worry. I’m here for action.”

The bus grinds to a halt, brakes screaming like tortured metal as it screeches in front of the captured Crimson Raiders outpost—a jagged fort of welded steel, neon signs, and barbed wire. The gates open, groaning on their rusted hinges, waiting for me.

I step toward the doors as the bus hisses open, Marcus calls behind me.

“Vault Hunter,” he grunts. “Don’t die too fast. Makes business boring.”

I flash a grin over my shoulder. “No promises.”

As I see him over my shoulder, the AR lenses of my glasses flicker. A profile loads across my vision, framed in jagged yellow borders like a bounty poster glitched into existence.

Name: Marcus Kincaid

Occupation: Arms Dealer / Low-Grade Philosopher

Disposition: Self-Serving Asshole (90%) / Occasionally Useful (10%)

Height: 5'9"

Weight: 240 lbs

Fun Fact: Hasn’t paid taxes in twenty-seven interplanetary zones.

Marcus scratches his grizzled chin with a stubby, grease-stained finger and eyes me like a mechanic sizing up a fresh piece of scrap. “First hit’s free, Vault Hunter,” he grumbles, reaching under the seat. “Only ‘cause I like your style.”

He lobs a pistol toward me without warning. I catch it mid-air, my hands reacting faster than I knew they could. It’s a Jakobs revolver, matte black with custom etchings, and it feels angry in my palm. Like it wants to put holes in something—anything.

He tosses three spare clips after it, and I don't even need to catch them. They automatically add themselves to my inventory. The HUD in my sunglasses pings to life with a sharp chime.

Weapon Acquired: “Last Kiss”

Type: Jakobs Handgun

Damage: 72

Features: “Every Goodbye’s a Headshot”

The numbers ripple and fold away, replaced by a minimalist HUD: ammo count, shield meter, health bar—and something new pulsing in red. My "Action Skill".

I holster the weapon at my hip. It auto-locks into a smart magnetic slot like it belongs there. And maybe it does.

Marcus leans against the steering wheel, chuckling under his breath. “Check my vending machines inside. Discount for new blood—unless you die too quick. In that case, no refunds.”

I nod once and step off the bus.

My boots hit Pandora’s cracked dirt, and the wind immediately slaps me in the face, dry and hot like a furnace blast. Everything smells like it's burnt and still on fire. A Crimson Raiders outpost, defaced with Bandit symbols, stretched out before me, jagged and rust-covered, buzzing with energy. A skag howls somewhere in the distance.

My heart's already racing.

Game on.

I scan the terrain—dust swirling in the dry heat, steel bones of long-dead machinery half-buried in the cracked red earth. My AR glasses begin to ping with soft pulses of data, crosshairs drifting lazily over jagged scrap and forgotten gear.

The HUD glows amber over a rusted engine block half-sunk in the dirt like a corpse waiting for a wake.

Abandoned Engine Block

Scrap Integrity: 41%

Salvageable Parts: 12

Core Reactivity: HIGH

Compatible with Action Skill

I grin. "Perfect."

I reach out with one hand, fingers splayed wide. The skin under my gloves flashes, and my palm lights up, veins of violet and blue. There's a low-pitched humming from inside me—a sound I feel more than hear—as I activate my "Action Skill", aiming my hand at the discarded engine.

It shudders violently, bolts clanging, metal plates rattling like bones in a box. Then it moves.

Steel groans and curls inward as pistons twist, gears scream, and hunks of metal bend unnaturally. Within seconds, the block folds and refolds, snapping into place with sharp, percussive clacks. What was once a chunk of obsolete junk is now standing on two jagged legs, a pair of small, tank-like arms locked and loaded with repurposed spark plugs for fingers and a busted fan belt coiled like a shoulder-mounted whip.

Its glowing red eye scans me, then it speaks in a voice like an old modem grinding glass:

“BODYGUARD MODE: ACTIVATED. HOSTILE TARGETS WILL BE TURNED INTO GOO.”

It flexes its arms with a satisfying hydraulic hiss.

I can’t help but smile. “Damn right.”

The HUD in my glasses updates again:

ACTION SKILL: Sentient Companion Activation

Companion: [RuntBot]

Weapon Loadout: Spark-Grenade Arms, Exhaust Flare Pulse, Defensive Taunt Protocol

Health: 120

Loyalty: Unquestioned

RuntBot clunks forward on mismatched legs and emits a satisfied mechanical grunt, its tiny flame exhaust puffing with each step.

I look ahead at the path into the Crimson Raiders outpost, now flanked by my makeshift bodyguard. The chaos of Pandora crackles in the air around me, but now—I’ve got backup.

Time to raise some hell.

My HUD reads clear:

Action Skill: ACTIVE

Companion: RuntBot

Terrain: Moderate Hostility

The little mech scans alongside me, his red eye twitching as he sweeps the dust-blown field of twisted rebar and old bones. I glance to my right, and just as the AR overlay flashes—

!!!WARNING!!!

I hear it, raw and guttural:

“FRESH MEEEEAT!”

The sound tears through the stillness like a buzzsaw through bone. I spin, instinct grabbing for Marcus’s pistol—still in its holster. But before I can even draw, RuntBot screams to life:

“ENEMY. ENEMY. DESTROY.”

He launches.

It’s insane how fast the little bastard moves. Pistons hiss and his ragtag limbs blur into motion, scuttling like a murderous crab jacked on nitro. The Bandit—wiry, skin like dry meat stretched over sinew, a rust-slicked scythe in hand—barely gets a step forward before RuntBot opens fire.

POPPOPPOPPOP!

The spark-plug rounds tear into the bandit’s chest and shoulders, sparking on impact, embedding in flesh and bone. Blood sprays across the red dirt in messy arcs. He stumbles—half-dead already.

RuntBot doesn’t let up. He launches, legs springing like coils under tension. He slams into the bandit’s upper torso mid-fall—clinging like a junkyard parasite—then begins to beep. A slow, pulsing tone from deep in his core.

Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-beep

I barely have time to react to its bravado when -

KA - FUCKING - BOOM!

The explosion is tight but vicious—controlled detonation with a violent edge. The rest of the bandit, everything above the knees, disintegrates in a cloud of red mist, bone, meat, and hot steel. Bits of him rain down like meat confetti. A wet thump sounds as what’s left of his legs crumples to the dirt, twitching once before going still.

The HUD flashes:

Target Neutralized.

Companion Status: INACTIVE. Respawn cooldown: 00:45

I exhale slowly, lowering the pistol I never even got to fire. My hand’s still halfway to the grip.

"...Holy shit, little dude."

Smoke and sparks curl from where RuntBot detonated, bits of scrap scattered across the sand like a shrine to beautiful overkill.

I smirk and step closer, nudging a still-smoking gear with the toe of my boot.

"Guess my action skill works just fine."