Borderlands: A Sirens Call

Prologue

    The cold winds of the Southern Shelf whipped against the tattered cloth that a silhouette had wrapped around their face. The crunching of snow and ice underneath the figures boots was the only noise apart from the howling wind.

    'How long have I been out here? God, I need to get someplace warm.' he thought, tucking the cloth closer to his face. This young man was Miles Jameson Stalks, but that wasn't his original name. He abandoned that a while ago. After the Vault of The Warrior had been liberated, Miles had separated himself from the bandit clan known as The Bloodshots ( When I say part of the Bloodshots, I mean an errand boy) and became a mercenary. The best mercenary a 20 year old ex-"Bandit" could be, which isn't that good.

    With nothing but a standard DAHL pistol at his hip and the clothes on his back, Miles was actually quite wimpy. Standing at 6', Miles had enough muscle to get him by on this primal planet of Pandora.

    Snapping back to reality, Miles was still on a mission (figuratively) to kill a group of Bullymongs. They had been getting closer and closer to his camp every night so he wanted to deal with them before they became a major issue and attacked. After a bit more walking, Miles came to large pillars constructed out if ice. Approaching one, Miles drug his gloved hand over the surface before hitting something harder than the ice. Turning to face it, Miles fell right onto his arse when he came face to face with a human skull, embedded in the ice. That's when he heard it, the bellowing of the Bullymong that was atop one of the ice pillars. It was easily an adult, with its hulking muscles it tore a chunk out of the ice pillar with two arms, securing itself to the pillar with the other two. Scrambling to his feet, Miles threw himself back into the snow as the ice narrowly missed nailing him in the torso.

    Rouring at Miles, the Bullymong swung itself back into the tunnel inside of the pillar, leaving Miles in the snow.

   'Great, probably to go get his friends.'

   Picking himself up out of the snow, Miles decided he would hunt another day when he had more than a burst fire pea-shooter. Shivering intensely from falling into the snow multiple times, Miles made his way back to his little encampment in an ice cave. It was cozy inside, as cozy as a camp surrounded by ice could be but cozy none-the-less. There was some scorched stinging cactus in a fire pit, a small tent and a small amount of hanging meat from an ice column. It wasn't much, but it was home for now until Miles could find a way across the ocean and to the mainland. Easier said than done.

    Walking over to his tent, Miles pulled out a small toolbox and pulled out a blowtorch he used for igniting the fire. Pulling out the tool and the igniter, Miles struck up the campfire and sat down next to it. Pulling off his almost frozen gloves, the man held his hands close to the fire to warm them. When Hypothermia sets in, Miles knew his fingers, toes and ears would go first. But Miles never got Hypothermia, the thing about him is that he was lucky, extremely lucky. Being held up by bandits, their guns would jam and he'd get away, you get the idea.

   Rubbing his hands together, Miles placed his gloves next to the flame so they'd thaw out and dry. Unraveling his face cloth, Miles set that too next to the flame so it would get warm. Sitting contentedly next to the flame, Miles stared into dancing fire remembering his last day with the Bloodshots.

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    "Don't test me boy...." The Bloodshot captain stared down at the quivering Miles. Miles had tried taking some of the rations because he had planned to escape, but was caught. His luck didn't always work, seemingly.

    "Y-yes Mr. Ratchet sir." Miles replied. This particular captain had attained his name after beating another bandit down with a car tool which he still carries as a weapon.

   "Mind telling me what you planned to do with these? There was to much to eat in one sitting, you seeing a girl?" Ratchet asked, the bandits full helmet slightly muddling his voice. Miles simply shook his head 'no', he had only had one girlfriend before and she was taken for the Eridium experiments.

    "Ohoho, I get it. You thought you could just leave us? The boss will have be hysterical." Ratchet grabbed Miles by the collar of his shirt and began dragging him to the main building.

    "No wait! Ratchet please! I'll do anything, don't take me to Mohawk!" Miles pleaded, gripping at Ratchets wrist but swiftly falling unconscious after being hit in the back of the head by the captain's ratchet. Now being dragged limply by the bandit captain, the duo eventually entered an old warehouse with literally hundreds of bandits. At the end of the open path was a large man sitting on a throne of welded together weapons of all kinds. Pistols, swords, shotguns even empty shell casings.

    The bandit leader, Mohawk, lived up to his name. With tattoos littering his body, a gas mask and a large neon green Mohawk, the dictator watched as Miles was dragged to him.

    "What is the meaning of this. Why have you brought a petty bandit into the main house?" Mohawk spoke to Ratchet, Mohawks voice rumbling from the depth.

    "I found Miles stealing rations and attempting to escape." Ratchet explained, throwing the slowly awakening Miles to Mohawks feet. Looking up at the man, Miles' eyes widened in fear as the leaders eyes bored into him. Standing from the impromptu throne, Mohawk drew a long, jagged knife from his hip. The crowd of bandits was silent, all of them watching as Miles staggered to his feet.

    "Is that right? Well Miles, explain yourself." Mohawk took a step forward, encroaching on Miles, causing the latter to take a step back.

    "I-I-I-I..." Miles knew he was in trouble, and Mohawk seen it in the smaller man's eyes. Raising the knife, Mohawk prepared to slash downward. Miles felt strange, his entire body was tingling and it was as if a force shoved him backwards. Stumbling back, the blade Mohawk wielded slashed across Miles' chest, tearing through his clothes and leaving a shallow slash across his chest. Miles felt his breath catch but his luck was still in place, causing him to fall into an armed bandit. The bandit dropped his shotgun and the riggidy weapon fired a round blasting Mohawks kneecap to pieces. The leader fell to the ground, rouring and holding the fleshy area that used to be his knee. The Bandit horde broke into civil war, gunshots, screams and grenades blowing up were the only sound filling the air.
    Gasping for breath, Miles was crawling across the floor with blood running from his new wound. Luckily, it wasn't deep enough to kill, but it was going to hurt like hell for a long time. Bodies fell around him, but Miles was determined to get to the door, no matter how slow.
 
BUMP BUMP, BUMP BUMP, BUMP BUMP, BUMP BUMP

   With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Miles could barely hear the outside sounds over his own heartbeat. Heartbeat heavy as his breathing, Miles seen his saving grace. Roughly fifteen feet in front of him was the open warehouse door. Not that much longer and Miles would be free to steal a light runner and take off into the snowy southern shelf. Like someone pulling the cord on life support, Miles was kicked in the ribs and forced to lay on his back. Gasping, Miles felt tears prodding at the corners of his eyes as he was met face to face with a Bandit produced shotgun.

    "Everyone thinks that guy shot Mohawk, I SEEN YOU DO IT!" The bandit was enraged as he shouldered the shotgun.

   BANG

   The shotgun blast never came. Instead, the shotgun wielding bandits head was sent into chunks from a stray round. Crawling backwards, Miles had finally caught his breath but stayed close to the floor rather than stand. Finally making it out into the night air, Miles hissed in pain as the freezing air lapped at his fresh wound which has barely began to scab from dry blood. Running from the warehouse, past guards that were going to the firefight, Miles had hopped in a light runner and took off into the tundra.

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   The young man rubbed his chest, he had been on his own for about a year now. It wasn't what he made it up to be, but it was better than the Bloodshots. Sighing, Miles swiftly ate some of the preserved meat and fell into the Bullymong furs that were his only source of warmth other than his fire pit, and fell asleep. Unbeknownst to Miles, someone was watching. Someone with dark intentions.