Best Bar in the Verse

The neon pink glow of Moxxi’s bar pulses just outside my quarters, the thrum of low, bassy music tickling the air like a lover’s whisper through the walls. Sanctuary’s heartbeat, right there in shimmering hot pink and questionable hygiene standards.

On my right, I spot one of the refugees; a grease-stained teen, no older than seventeen, working over a busted floor buffer with all the subtlety of a pissed-off skag. He’s wailing on it with a wrench like it owes him money, sparks flying with every swing.

The buffer is highlighted. Compatible object detected.

I can’t help myself. I pulse my Action Skill at it.

The buffer shifts; warping in front of the kid’s wide eyes. Metal groans, tires inflate, arms unfold from the sides, buffer pads sharpen and glint like fresh blades. For a heartbeat it stands tall; beefy-armed, rock-em sock-em brawler; then collapses back into an advanced, polished, self-driving floor buffer. It hums to life, gliding across the deck, buffing the floor to a mirror shine with obsessive little spins.

Sentient Companion: Buff-E [Auto Floor Buffer] – Ground Class

OCD - Obsessive Compulsive and Deadly

Attack: Razor-sharp buffer fists

• Mean and clean.

The kid stares, eyes wide, jaw slack, wrench frozen mid-swing.

“Thanks, Vault Hunter!” he stammers, voice cracking with awe.

This one's a Sanctuary-exclusive; but a digital copy of Buff-E adds itself to my tablet; ready if I ever need her for battle. I give the kid a nod and keep walking.

I turn the corner and head inside… then my brain turns to mush.

There she is. Moxxi. The Moxxi.

She’s perched on the bar like a damn work of art, like someone sculpted sex and danger together and gave it a heartbeat and a ridiculous pair of tits. Her knees are bent, back arched, arms braced behind her for support. “Mudflap girl” decals got nothing on this woman.

Tight red leather and satin corset hugs her curves so tight the fabric looks jealous. Ample chest squeezed together, deep, tantalizing cleavage with her signature heart tattoo displayed high on the upper curve of her right breat. The skirt? Barely there. Black panties peek beneath; dark, dangerous, sexy as sin, lace edges clinging to her hips. Thigh-high socks and torn fishnets clinging to long legs like they’re afraid to let go. Knee-high red leather stiletto boots; probably illegal in at least five systems. And to top it all off? A top hat. Iconic. Irre-fucking-sistible.

She winks.

I’m goo.

Her info briefly takes over my vision:

Name: MAD MOXXI A.K.A. "THE HEARTBREAKER BARTENDER"

Occupation: Proprietor of Moxxi's Bars/Underground Queen/Weaponized Flirt/Professional Distraction

Class: Seductress/Gunslinger/Emotional Saboteur

Level: 69 (She insists it's not a joke)

Status: Always wet, never rattled, perpetually one step ahead

Specialties: Mixology that could kill or cure, lap dances that double as interrogations, turning grown men and women into stammering puddles with a single wink

Height: 5'11" (6'3" in the boots, 6'7" in ego)

Weight: Curves classified by Hyperion as "hazardous to productivity"

Abilities: Charm Aura (passive, radius 15 ft, causes spontaneous confessions and poor life choices), Quick-Draw Kiss (disarms enemies via distraction), Private Booth Teleport (instant relocation for "private consultations")

Affiliation: Crimson Raiders (on paper) / Herself (in reality) / Anyone with credits and a pulse

Quote: "Eyes up here, sugar… unless you're buying drinks. Then eyes wherever you want."

Mood: Playful predator with a champagne glass and a loaded shotgun under the bar

Threat Level: LETHAL IF YOU FALL IN LOVE/FATAL IF YOU DON'T PAY YOUR TAB

Fun Fact: Once made a patron climax so hard without even touching him, he shot himself in the foot mid-orgasm. The boot still hangs behind the bar as a souvenir. Smells like vanilla, gunpowder, expensive perfume, and the faint promise of bad decisions.

I **** down a grin.

I don’t know what her mission is yet…

But I know I’m accepting it.

“Hey there, hon.” Her voice hits me; sweet, thick, guaranteed to gum up your brain if you’re not careful. She offers a gloved hand. I take it. Her grip is firm, warm through the leather. I help her off the bar, and every part of her bounces; no shame, no subtlety. Breasts jiggle, hips sway, skirt riding up just enough to flash more thigh and lace. She lands light on her heels, chest pressing against mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary, nipples brushing through satin and leather.

Standing before me now, I realize how tall she is; the boots help, sure, but even then, her dark, smoky eyeliner lines up just under my eyes. The curve of her hips presses into mine, heat radiating through the thin skirt, and it takes every ounce of discipline to keep my eyes up.

She sees it. Smirks like she owns the oxygen in the room.

“Oh, I think you’ve more than earned a peek there, Vault Hunter,” she purrs, voice dropping to that bedroom register that makes knees weak. “Not everyone gets a show like you did. You can stare all day and night. I don’t mind.” She arches her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward; heart tattoo practically brushing my chin, "In fact… I like it when you look.”

I swallow hard, pulse kicking up; she's so close I can smell her: vanilla, gunpowder, and something darker, sweeter, like sin distilled. Her gloved finger trails down my chest, slow, deliberate, stopping just above my belt.

“Though...,” she whispers, lips brushing my ear, breath hot, “Maybe I'll start a tab… or just collect in full.”

I clear my throat, **** myself back into mission mode; barely. “You said you had a mission for me?”

She steps back; slow, hips swaying like a hypnotist’s watch. “Tease,” she purrs; could be an accusation, could be an invitation. Maybe both.

Sliding behind the bar, she pours two shots of whiskey, the liquid catching the neon in lazy amber swirls. She slides one across to me; fingers brushing mine deliberately.

“You hear of an idiot named Killavolt?”

I almost spill the beans right there. Seen this one before. Played it. But this isn’t the same story now. Twins are dust. The timeline’s shifted. All new territory.

“I may have.”

She offers her shot. We toss them back together. It burns; that beautiful, biting burn; but here… ****, like bullets, doesn’t get under my skin. The taste is still rich, sharp, real, “Well… he may be trying to **** me.”

“Oh?” I say, tilting my head.

Her smirk deepens, eyebrow arched high. “Seems he somehow hacked one of my Echo devices… the one I may have used to take some… let’s say… compromising selfies.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, slow and deliberate. “He’s planning to publish them to some low-level goon on Promethea. I figured, since we’re headed there anyway, you could take him out… get those photos back.”

She leans in closer; voice dripping with that delicious, weaponized innuendo.

“They’re yours to keep, sugar. I’ll even let you take a few more… in my private quarters when you get back.” Her eyes drop meaningfully, then flick back up. “Plus, I’ll pay you…”

Her smirk turns downright dangerous; predatory.

“…and thank you… very well.” A pause, “Whaddaya say, sexy? Wanna help Moxxi out? Scratch my back… I’ll leave a few on yours.”

I set the empty shot glass down, eyes locked to hers; pulse hammering.

“Consider it done.”

I reach for the tip jar, but she stops me mid-move; gloved fingers curling around my wrist, thumb stroking the inside pulse point.

“Uh-uh. Your money’s not good here.” Her smirk turns wicked. “Besides…”

She leans in; lips brushing my ear, voice a velvet whisper.

“…I'm expecting more than just the tip.”

I chuckle, turning to leave, hips still buzzing from where she pressed against me, when her voice rings out again; playful, commanding.

“Ellie’s got a drop pod ready for you in her garage. Hope you don’t mind bumpy rides.”

Moxxi never misses a shot.

I flash a grin, shaking my head as I head out. We’re Promethea bound, tons of unique tech just screaming to be added to my roster of **** bots, and I couldn’t be more excited.