loversandantiheroes:

whouffaldi – Tales from the Borderlands AU ~

“You know you could at least have the decency to kill me first.”  Desert flew by in a sun-baked blur behind the Hyperion’s head.  Clara held him by a fistful of waistcoat out the flapping caravan door.

“Why waste a bullet?” she said, smiling sweetly.  “The fall will kill you anyway.”

“What’ve I done, exactly?  I’m not the one peddling ten million dollar forgeries, that was you!”

“Yeah, well you’re the one that broke the ten million dollar forgery and lost the ten million dollars, so, out you go!”  She pushed, and he yelped, clinging to the door frame with both hands.

Clara laughed.  “Good God, what chance did a grey-haired stick-insect like you think he had on Pandora?  You’re no vault hunter.  You’re not even blood-thirsty enough for the Hyperions!”  Shaking her head, she gave up, and pulled the daft old git back inside.

“Thanks,” he said, edging away from the still-open door.  “For the not-killing-me-part, not the rest of it.”

“Door’s still open, mate.  Worth remembering.”

She frowned at him, whipcord-thin in a dusty black suit, gaunt cheeks and sharp eyes, and an impressive swirl of grey hair.  “I mean it, though, what the hell are you doing?  If you can’t cut it up with the corporate schlubs you don’t stand a chance down here.  The locals will eat you alive and I do mean that literally.  Stick insect fricassee with a side of face pizza.  It is not pretty.”

“Getting that,” he said.  “I…I lost something.  Someone at Hyperion took it from me.  I thought a vault key might help me get it back.”

“What, bargaining chip?” Clara asked, and he nodded.  “What’d they take?”

He smiled, lifting his shoulders a hopeless gesture.  “No idea. I’ll know it when I see it,” he added hastily, folding himself up into the corner.   

Clara raised her eyebrows.  “Right, that narrows it down.  Do you know who up there took this very important mystery whatsit?”

The man nodded grimly.  “Missy.”

The caravan lurched, tires slipping suddenly as the sand shifted, and Clara nearly fell out of the tiny kitchen booth.  “Missy?” she half-shrieked.  “The Missy?  Missy ‘You So Fine’ Missy?  The bloody president of the blood-suckers?”

“Hole in one.”

“Blimey.  You know how to pick ‘em.”  She looked at the man, huddled in his dirty suit with his knees pulled up to his chin, and groaned.  It was impossible not to pity the poor sod, and pity, on Pandora, was never a good idea.  “Name’s Clara,” she said, and held out her hand.  

There was caution in those wide blue eyes when he took her hand in his, and she was glad to see it.  Maybe he would stand something of a chance after all.  “John,” he said.  “John Smith.”