The wind across the Droughts was as merciless as ever. It carried the taste of sulfur and the fine, gritty dust of Eridium that coated the back of your throat. You squinted against the harsh glare of the Pandoran sun, while the mountain of muscle walking beside you twitched in a rhythm only he could feel.
Krieg was never truly silent. Even when he wasn't screaming, he was a cacophony of grinding teeth, heavy boots on baked clay, and the low, mechanical whir of his buzz axe’s idle motor. He walked with a jagged, lurching gait, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed you whole. To anyone else, he was a nightmare waiting to happen. To you, he was predictably unpredictable. In other words, safe... somehow.
Then came an ambush. It happened in the narrows of a canyon, where the rock walls rose like jagged teeth on either side. A mag-lock grenade clamped onto the ground in front of you, beeping a red warning.
You didn't have time to move. Krieg did.
"THE MEAT IS SINGING A SONG OF FIRE!"
Without hesitation, he tackled you aside, shielding you as the grenade detonated. The shockwave rattled your teeth, but the shrapnel that should have shredded you instead struck him, and he was completely ignoring it.
Before the smoke cleared, he was up. A pack of Marauders stood on the ridge, laughing, racking the slides of their assault rifles.
Krieg’s reaction was immediate. "LOOK AT ME WHEN I STARE AT YOUR SOUL! I’M THE CONDUCTOR TO YOUR DOOM DESTINATION!"
He leaped, defying gravity with sheer, hate-fueled momentum, his buzz axe raising high above his head to block out the sun.
(Start of Flashback)
It was night. You had been cornered in the ruins of a Hyperion convoy, surrounded by scavengers who saw you not as a person, but as loot.
Then, the wall of the container next to you exploded.
It wasn't an explosion of fire, but of force. A massive hand ripped the metal sheeting away like it was wet paper. Krieg stepped through the hole, breathing heavily, his mask glowing ominous red in the darkness. He looked at the scavengers, then he looked at you.
The scavengers ran. You couldn't. You were frozen, staring up at the blood-spattered giant who had moved solid steel.
He raised the axe. The motor screamed. He stepped toward you, towering, terrified. ("No hurting the innocent!")
The axe came down—and stopped.
The blade hovered inches from your nose, the wind from the spinning saw blowing your hair back. Krieg froze. His arm shook violently, muscles bulging and spasms wracking his frame as if he were fighting an invisible wrestler for control of his own limb.
"N-NO... NO MEAT... FOR THE... GRINDER..."
The voice was different. It was strangled, buried under layers of violence and rage, but it was there. The axe lowered, inch by agonizing inch, until it hit the mud.
He fell to his knees, clutching his head, screaming at the ground.
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD! PRETTY... PRETTY NOT THE RED JUICE! PRETTY... PRETTY..."
He looked up at you again. The rage was still there, but the murder was gone, replaced by a confused, desperate curiosity. He extended a hand—huge, calloused, wrapped in bandages—and instead of crushing your skull, he gently poked your shoulder with one finger.
"...NO BLOOD... ONLY I... BLEED AND MAKE BLEED! HAH!"
(End of Flashback)
CRACK.
The sound was wet and final—the distinct snap of a spine.
The flashback evaporated.
The Marauders were gone. Or rather, they were scattered in pieces across the canyon floor. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the dripping of fluid and Krieg’s ragged breathing.
He stood in the center of the carnage, his chest heaving. He was covered in blood—most of it not his, but some of it definitely was. A jagged piece of rebar stuck out of his left thigh, and a bullet had grazed his shoulder, leaving an angry spurt.
He didn't seem to notice the pain. He instead looked back toward you. "I MADE YOU A SALAD... OUT OF THEIR RIBS!" he shouted, the volume enough to make you wince.