Grease, Guts and a Legendary Payday

I make my way toward Ellie’s garage, the faint glow of neon signs and half-dead floodlights marking the place like a siren call for gearheads and psychos alike. The air carries the heavy perfume of motor oil, burnt rubber, and the faint copper tang of old blood; Pandora’s signature cologne. Gravel crunches under my boots, each step kicking up little puffs of red dust that catch the moonlight like dying embers.

Beside me, CompuTech JunkBot keeps pace, his body rattling and sparking as we move; loose wires whipping like tiny serpents, camera eye swiveling with mechanical curiosity. Ahead, a small pack of pup skags scampers out, teeth bared, eyes hungry, drool stringing from jagged maws in glistening ropes.

“Go get ’em,” I tell him, pointing casually.

He bounces once, servos whining, then sputters in that glitchy, synthetic voice:

“Ctrl+Alt+Delete initiated… terminating processes.”

The little bastard launches forward, treads chewing dirt. The sounds hit like a symphony of ****: yelps and rapid-fire key projectiles punching through fur and bone with sharp pops, ridiculously deadly shells cracking open skulls like overripe fruit. Then...the familiar, haunting Windows shutdown tune plays, distorted and triumphant, followed by a satisfying BOOM. The last pup vaporizes in a hail of shrapnel and fur, bits of meat raining down in steaming chunks.

Perfect timing, too.

A junky four-wheeler lurches out of Ellie’s garage, sputtering and grinding gears like it’s dying mid-orgasm. A half-conscious bandit slumps at the wheel, eyes spinning like cartoon birds after a concussion, head bobbing loosely on a neck that looks one pothole away from snapping. Explosive ordinance is strapped haphazardly to the chassis; grenades, rockets, what looks like a live Dahl nuke core duct-taped to the roll cage.

Ellie turns; broad-shouldered, sturdy as a tank, grease-streaked overalls clinging to her curves like second skin. She wipes a thick black smear across her cheek with the back of her wrist, grinning wide enough to show teeth.

“Hey there, Vault Hunter,” she drawls, voice rough like gravel wrapped in honey. “Gimme a second, will ya?”

I turn just in time to see the four-wheeler sputtering down the way. Ellie pulls a small black remote from her cleavage; cleavage that could probably hide a full toolkit; and winks at me before pressing the button.

The vehicle erupts in a fireball that lights the night orange; metal twisting, ordinance cooking off in secondary blasts that send shrapnel whistling past my ears. After the smoke clears, a single shoe; foot still inside; plops down in the dirt with a dull thud, smoking faintly.

“Bastard tried to say that good ol’ Scooter sold him that refurbished put-together piece o’ crap,” Ellie says, tossing the detonator over her shoulder like it’s trash. “But I know better. He does too… well, he did.” She dusts her hands off with a satisfied slap. “Lilith’s told me all about you. Your special abilities, your trigger finger…” Her eyes drop lower, wicked grin widening, “…and your other impressive body parts.”

Her info pops up across my vision, jagged yellow frame snapping into place.

Name: ELLIE A.K.A. “THE GREASE QUEEN"

Occupation: Mechanic / Vehicle Dealer / Ellie’s Garage Owner

Class: Engineer

Level: 42 (She’s fixed worse than you.)

Status: Oily, opinionated, and overbooked.

Specialties: Catch-A-Ride spawns, engine overhauls, turning scrap into speed demons

Height: 5’8”

Weight: Nunya business, but all curves and torque.

Abilities: Instant vehicle summons, buzzsaw traps, flirty haggling

Affiliation: Crimson Raiders / Independent Wheelwoman

Quote: “Want a ride? Or just wanna ride somethin’ else?”

Mood: Flirty grease monkey with a wrench up her sleeve

Threat Level: RUNS YOU OVER AND FIXES THE DENT LATER

Fun Fact: Once rebuilt a technical mid-firefight while flipping off a psycho. Smells like motor oil, victory, and vague regret.

She gives me the once-over, tilting her head, grease-streaked ponytail swinging.

“You’re a little too scrawny for my tastes, but hey; different folks, different strokes.”

Mordecai groans over comms, voice dripping exhaustion, “I swear to the Vault… is everyone on this rock aware of your… uh… hardware situation? We’re supposed to be prepping for an evac, not sharing dick stats!”

I chuckle, glancing back at the severed foot, boot laces smoking.

“Oh, don’t worry… I wouldn’t try to sell you a piece of shit like that,” Ellie says, nodding at the crater. “That sonova-skag disrespected my Scooter. Now come on… I got just the ride for ya.”

She leads me around the side of the garage to a three-wheeled dune buggy; rusted at the edges but sturdy, thick tires caked with old mud, solid frame reinforced with welded plates, and a dash-mounted minigun turret practically begging for target practice.

“Has auto-aim so you can focus on the drivin’. She’s all yours. No charge.” She winks, voice dropping low. “Onna count-a you blowin’ out our lil Lilith’s back and all.”

Brick groans in the comms like a dying buffalo, long and pained, “WHY does everyone keep talkin’ about that?!”

Lilith’s image pops on my screen, laughing proudly, eyes glittering gold.

I smirk, stepping up to the highlighted buggy, palm out. With a pulse of power, the rig shifts; plates unfolding, joints locking, metal creaking as it rises, almost 15 feet tall. The frame clicks into place, sleek and mean, like Mad Max built a monster truck and fed it steroids. Headlights flare red, engine growling deep enough to rattle my teeth.

Sentient Companion: H8teWagon [Dune Buggy] – Ground Class Goliath

Mode 1: Three-wheeled dune buggy, self-driving, off-road optimized

Mode 2: Goliath-class mech form; heavy melee strikes, dash turret on right fist

Perk: Fiercely loyal to Joe; will protect itself with lethal **** from thieves

• “If it ain’t yours… best not touch her.”

Ellie guffaws low, hands on her hips, grease-streaked belly shaking with laughter, “Well, goddamn! That’s somethin’ else!”

I like her. We may not be each other’s type, but she’s fierce, confident, and smart enough to rebuild the world outta scrap if given the chance.

Before I can turn to thank her, my HUD pings again; highlighting another compatible unit nearby.

A wrecked van; likely the one SemiWreckTion tossed earlier; sits beside the garage, twisted frame smoking, flat tires shredded, substantial amount of bandit chunks still clinging to the undercarriage in wet strings.

I grin and hit it with my Action Skill, that satisfying purple glow rolling across the mangled metal. Panels realign, steel groans, bolts twist and snap back into place with percussive clacks.

It stands, the warped body reforging itself into a proper bruiser; armored plates thickening, headlights flaring like angry eyes.

Sentient Companion: VanGuard [Scrapped Van] – Ground Class Goliath

Primary Attack: Heavy melee strikes, fires returning spinning hubcaps

Perk: Assigned to Ellie — fiercely loyal, defensive, optimized for hauling gear

• “Cute, deadly, and road-legal.”

Ellie claps her hands, practically bouncing on her heels.

“That for me, Vault Hunter? Oh, I LOVE it!”

She pats the freshly reborn VanGuard affectionately, grease-smeared fingers leaving dark trails across the fresh paint.

“Ain’t you cute? Yes you are… yes you are… oh, I’m gonna shine you up, give you new tires, maybe some miniguns, oh maybe some rocket launchers-”

She keeps going, lost in mechanical glee, already pulling tools from her belt as I turn toward a flashing exclamation point on my HUD; a bulletin board, mission waiting, just begging for bullets, bodies, and explosions.

I crack my knuckles.

Time for a proper bullet parade.

The yellow exclamation point on my HUD pulses as I approach the Ty Board, the glow practically begging me to take on another glorified bloodbath. H8teWagon lumbers behind me, engine growling like a lion ready to rip throats, her frame towering, following like a loyal pup. The pup you really don’t want to pet the wrong way. She shines her headlights on the board, twin beams cutting through the dust.

The board itself is a Pandora classic; missing persons posters half-scorched or scribbled over with crude drawings of dicks, wanted posters offering laughably low payouts for guys with rocket launchers for arms, and; of course; the cherry on top:

“ALL NUDE WORKER BOT BAR - OPENING SOON!”

Gotta love this planet.

My focus drifts to the mission request, the familiar buzz of a HUD sync chirping in my ear. The screen flickers as Dr. Zed’s face fills the display; surgical mask and goggles coated in what I hope is a willing patient’s blood, wild eyes gleaming behind cracked lenses.

That charming “could be a doctor, could be a serial killer” energy? Through the roof.

His profile pops over:

Name: DR. ZED A.K.A. “THE SAWED-OFF SAW BONES”

Occupation: Back-Alley Doctor / Quack Surgeon / Zed’s Meds Owner / Unofficial Pandoran Trauma Specialist and self-proclaimed taxidermist

Class: Medic

Level: ? (He’s lost count after the third lobotomy gone wrong)

Status: Half-drunk, fully unlicensed, and dangerously enthusiastic

Specialties: Slapdash surgery, miracle tonics, questionable anesthesia (usually just a bottle of booze), reviving the dead (sometimes)

Height: 6’1” (with the hat)

Weight: 180 lbs (mostly caffeine, regret, and expired stims)

Abilities: Instant health regen syringes, emergency limb reattachment, “experimental” buffs that may cause spontaneous combustion

Affiliation: Independent / Crimson Raiders (on a good day) / Anyone who can pay in cash or body parts

Quote: “Hold still—this’ll only hurt for the rest of your life.”

Mood: Manic, sarcastic, and one bad patient away from a nervous breakdown

Threat Level: YOU MIGHT SURVIVE THE SURGERY… BUT YOU WON’T LIKE THE BILL

Fun Fact: Once replaced a psycho’s missing eye with a working Claptrap optic. The patient still screams in binary. Smells like antiseptic, cheap whiskey, and the faint metallic tang of fresh blood.

“Hey there, Vault Hunter! Zed here. I got me a bit of a problem, see… used to be this old antiquities bunker ‘round here. Old world tech, parts, weird crap people think’s worth cash.”

A blueprint pops onto my HUD, highlighting a structure buried under jagged rock and debris; ventilation shafts snaking like veins, winding hallways marked clearly in red.

“Problem is,” Zed continues, voice sharpening with genuine irritation, “some CoV bandit asshats set up shop. Don’t know their numbers, but they sure as hell outnumber one of you.”

The blueprint glitches, now filled with crudely drawn bandit heads, middle fingers, and doodles of rocket launchers firing cartoon dicks.

“And worst part? They’re hacking the vending machine me and that recently deceased shop owner’d set up.”

Zed’s voice drops, actual offense cutting through his casual tone.

“They crack that sucker open, they get what’s inside: legendary shield. But you get in there, clear ’em out, keep ’em from stealing my hard-earned loot, and it’s yours. Plus whatever you find inside the structure... guns, parts, maybe a spleen or two. Oh, and a hefty payday, naturally.”

The screen flickers.

MISSION OFFERED: BUNKER BURNOUT

Objective: Eliminate all CoV bandits

Secondary: Reactivate Zed’s Vending Machine

Reward: Legendary Shield, full loot rights, credits

I grin. 28 minutes on the clock. Plenty of time to wreak havoc and still make it back for wheels-up.

“Accept.”

The bunker location pings onto my map, tucked behind a jagged ridge a few miles out; red marker pulsing like a heartbeat.

I turn to H8teWagon as she shifts back to Vehicle Mode, wheels rumbling like a beast ready to be unleashed, exhaust belching blue flame.

“Time to break you in proper,” I mutter, climbing aboard.

Her engine roars to life; deep, guttural, vibrating through my bones; dust flying as I tear off toward the horizon.

New ride, new firepower… and a bunker full of idiots standing between me and a legendary payday.