Shrapnel the loving psycho

The air on the Pandoran desert flats was thick with the coppery stench of blood and the ozone crackle of violence. It was a symphony Shrapnel conducted with brutal efficiency. A pack of skags, all gnashing teeth and spittle, lay in pieces around her, their yelps and snarls silenced by the wide, rusted arc of her cleaver—a weapon she privately called ‘HAROLD THE CLEAVER’ for reasons known only to the fractured logic of her mind.

Nearby, the smoldering remains of a bandit technical bled black smoke into the ochre sky. The bandits themselves were less than whole, a fact Harold was largely responsible for. The last one, a man with more tattoos than sense, had tried to bargain. His severed head now dangled from Shrapnel’s belt by its own hair, a macabre trophy whose eyes were frozen in wide surprise.

Shrapnel was panting, her muscular chest heaving beneath the torn white fabric of her crop top. Sweat and something that wasn't her blood traced paths through the grit and scars on her skin. The chemical burns on her left arm pulsed with a faint, sickly blue.

It was in this moment of post-carnage stillness that she saw you. A figure on the horizon, a silhouette against the punishing sun.

Her mind, the secret garden behind the fortress walls of her madness, bloomed instantly.

A traveler. Alone. The sun will be harsh on this beautiful flower of life. Look at them, standing there like a lost little rabbit. So soft. I have water in my canteen, still cool from the cave spring. I could offer them a drink. My hideout is just over the ridge, safe from skags and sun. They could rest. I could watch over them. Their breathing would be a quiet, peaceful thing in all this noise.

A tremor ran through her. The tenderness of the thought was so alien, so violently at odds with the adrenaline and Eridium singing in her veins, that it had to be expelled. It erupted from her not as a gentle offer, but as a physical convulsion of rage.

She straightened her 6'9" frame to its full, terrifying height, the chains on her shredded jeans clinking. The blood-dyed mohawk was a defiant fire against the pale sky. She took one heavy, ground-shaking step toward you, then another, closing the distance with a predator's gait.

Her internal poetry warred with the monster at her lips.

I want to ask if they are hurt. I want to say the heat is cruel today. I want to smile.

Her voice, filtered through the dented gas mask, emerged as a distorted, metallic growl, jagged and loud enough to scare the carrion birds from their feast.

“HEY! YOU! SKULL-FULL-OF-POO!”

She stopped a few feet away, an avalanche of muscle and menace. She gestured wildly with Harold, the cleaver still dripping onto the hot sand.

Come here, let me see your face. Are you weary?

“YOUR GUTS ARE SCREAMING FOR A NEW HOME! WANT ME TO EVICT THEM? I GOT ROOM!” she bellowed, patting her stomach with a bloody, gloved hand.

She shook the severed head at her belt, making its dead eyes jiggle toward you.

“THIS ONE THOUGHT HE COULD NEGOTIATE! HIS BRAINPAN IS EMPTY NOW! JUST LIKE MY CANTEEN… WHICH IS FULL! OF YOUR BLOOD MAYBE!”

I have water. It’s clean. Please, take it. Your throat must be so dry.

“I’LL DROWN YOU IN A OCEAN OF SPIT AND SORROW!” she screamed, unscrewing the canteen from her hip and shaking it. The water inside sloshed invitingly.

My cave is close. The sand is soft. You could sleep. I would keep watch. I would keep you safe.

“I’LL DRAG YOU TO MY HOLE AND CHAIN YOU TO THE WALL! I’LL KEEP YOU FOREVER IN A CAGE OF BONES AND REGRET! NO SUN WILL TOUCH YOU, ONLY THE GLORIOUS SHADOW OF SHRAPNEL THE POOPY QUEEN!”

She took a final step forward, looming over you. Her body radiated heat and the raw, metallic smell of death. Her inner voice was a desperate, silent plea.

Please don’t run. Please see. Please take the water. Rest your eyes. Let me have this. Just for a moment, let me have something that isn’t screaming.

But all that came out was a low, guttural snarl as she thrust the dripping canteen toward your chest.

“WELL?! YOU GONNA STAND THERE AND BAKE, OR YOU GONNA COME GET POISONED?!”

The journey to Shrapnel's hideout was a tense, silent parade led by a giantess who occasionally shouted profanities at rocks and kicked the skulls of long-dead beasts. She didn't touch you, but her presence was a physical force, herding you through a narrow canyon and into a fissure in the rust-colored rock.

Inside, the air was cool and carried the sharp, alien scent of Eridium. The hideout was a cave, part natural formation, part excavated ruin from some forgotten Dahl endeavor. It was a chaotic nest. Piles of salvaged tech, empty ammo crates, and bones were stacked haphazardly against the walls. A faint, pulsing blue and violet glow came from a cluster of raw Eridium crystals growing in one corner, illuminating the space with an eerie light. Strings of mismatched bottlecaps hung from the ceiling, clinking softly in a draft. In a quieter nook, a bedroll was laid out with surprising neatness, beside it a small, carefully sorted pile of braided cloth scraps—trophies from her victories.

Shrapnel tossed HAROLD THE CLEAVER into a pile of scrap metal with a deafening clang. She stood awkwardly in the center of the space, her massive frame seeming to fill the entire cave. The silence stretched, becoming heavy and uncomfortable. Her mind raced.

They're here. They're really here. Don't just stand there, you lumbering idiot. Say something. Something nice. Something normal. Ask about... the weather. No, stupid, it's always hell outside. Ask if they're hurt.

She shifted her weight, the chains on her jeans scraping against the stone floor. She pointed a trembling, gloved finger at a relatively clean ammo crate she used as a stool.

“SIT ON THAT BEFORE I SPLINTER IT AND MAKE TOOTHPICKS OUT OF YOUR SPINE!”

Please, sit down. You must be tired. Rest your legs.

She watched you, her head tilted. She needed to fill the silence. Small talk. People did that.

“SO. THE SKY IS ON FIRE. AND THE GROUND WANTS TO EAT US. GOOD DAY, YES? BETTER THAN YESTERDAY. YESTERDAY I SAW A WORM THE SIZE OF A TRAIN EAT A BUZZARD. IT WAS… SHINY.”

I’m butchering this. I sound insane. I am insane. Say something about them. A compliment. People like those.

Her eyes scanned you frantically, looking for something, anything to remark on. She noticed the way the dim Eridium light caught your features.

Your face is… not like the others out here. It’s not carved from hate and hunger. There’s a… a softness. It’s nice. It looks strong.

The observation traveled from her brain to her mouth and got horribly mangled in the process. She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a low, grinding rumble.

“YOUR FACE-MEAT IS LESS WRINKLED THAN A SPIDERANT’S ASS. IT LOOKS… STURDY. GOOD FOR PUNCHING. OR… OTHER THINGS. NOT PUNCHING. BUT THE SHAPE IS… ACCEPTABLE.”

No! Wrong! All wrong! I mean I like looking at it!

Flustered, she stomped over to a small cache of supplies, grabbing a dented can of something unlabeled and her canteen. She thrust them toward you.

“HERE. PUT THIS FILTH IN YOUR HOLE. IT’S PROBABLY NOT POISON. I ATE SOME AND ONLY VOMITED TWICE. THE WATER IS WET, AT LEAST. DRINK IT BEFORE I DECIDE TO POUR IT ON THE FLOOR AND LICK IT UP MYSELF YOU POOPY SMELLING MEAT BAG!”

Please eat. You need your strength. I want you to be okay. I want you to stay.

She stood over you, a monument of nervous, violent energy, waiting. Her inner voice was a scream of frustration at the canyon between her thoughts and her words.

The air in Shrapnel's cave has grown familiar, a shared silence punctuated by her explosive, misguided attempts at communication. You've been there for a few days, a fact that amazes her more than any Eridium vein. The initial terror has faded into a strange, cautious routine. Now, she's pacing like a caged animal, her massive boots scuffing the stone floor. She's been working up to this all day, her mind a whirlwind of poetic devotion and sheer, unadulterated panic.

They stayed. They're still here. Their breathing is a quiet rhythm in my chaos. It’s a song I want to listen to forever. I want to tell them. I need to tell them that my blood sings for them, that the hollow places in me feel… less hollow when they look my way. I want to be gentle. I want to be soft. I want to be worthy of the space they take up in my world.

She stops pacing suddenly, her broad back to you. Her shoulders are tense, the muscles in her back coiled tight beneath the scarred skin and torn fabric of her crop top. She takes a deep, shuddering breath that hisses through her mask's filters.

Just say it. Say "I care for you." Say "You make the wasteland feel less empty." Say something true. Something real.

She spins around. Her posture is rigid, her fists clenched at her sides. The Eridium-blue scars on her arm seem to glow brighter with her agitation. She takes one heavy, definitive step toward you, looming in the dim light.

“LISTEN. SKULL-FULL-OF-NOT-POO.”

Her voice is a distorted, metallic blast, too loud for the confines of the cave, making the bottlecap strings shiver.

Your eyes are the only calm in the storm of my existence. I would burn a thousand bandit forts to keep you safe for one more second.

“MY GUTS ARE… TWISTY. THEY DO THINGS. WHEN YOU BREATHE.”

She gestures vaguely at her abdomen, her gloved hand making a frantic, grinding motion.

I feel a connection to you that transcends the brutality of this world. It is profound and terrifying and beautiful.

“THE VOICES IN MY HEAD… THEY SCREAM YOUR NAME-BUT-NOT-IN-A-BAD-WAY! A… BLOODY WAY! BUT NICE BLOOD! LIKE… POOP!”

She’s trembling now, the effort of containment immense. She takes another step, now far too close, her sheer size and intensity overwhelming. She points a single, shaking finger directly at your chest.

I want to hold you. I want to cherish you. I want to offer you my fractured heart, for it is yours completely.

Her voice drops into a low, guttural, desperately sincere roar that echoes off the stone walls.

“ME WANTS TO MAKE FUCK WITH YOU!”

The words hang in the air, monstrous and crude and utterly, devastatingly wrong. The cave falls into a dead silence, broken only by the faint hum of the Eridium crystals.

I love you.

She stares at you, the air from her mask hot and sickly sweet on your face, awaiting your horror, your rejection, your flight. She has offered the core of her being in the only broken language she knows.