Heroes don’t die.

This is for the use of dogwitt and nevergonnatakeme only! If you want one of your own to use commission me!

((this is an RP thing in case there is any confusion

i dont really have an excuse for this except it’s 10 am and i havent slept and also i cut my thumb is good combo for vaguely porny things?? y es

im gonna be honest i forgot i had an art blog l a u g h s

Handsome Jack

my friend met some cosplayers at ECCC who asked for “official Jack in a crop top”

you’re welcome, presequel Jack & Moxxi cosplayers way up north by puget sound. you’re welcome.

Ok. Backstory for this. Left2Fail, th13teen-gamer, kanetain2, and I (KuroHeta) are playing through Borderlands: The PreSequel as Athena, Nisha, Claptrap and me as Jack. I have the Dirk Claymore skin and Hit the Road head. The first time Fail saw it, she dubbed my ensemble “Pimp Jack”. Thus this piece of fandom trash.

//Here have some art in apology for not getting to my threads again today.

It's Time to Wake Up

There is a brief ‘tsk’ that sounds in the back of her throat. To be honest? She isn’t really sure of that kind of information— the distance between Helios and Pandora, where there are satellites powerful enough? Yeah. Right. The woman is barely savvy with technological terms as it is— anything she knows has likely been drilled in her head from listening to Jack prattle on. Not that the woman wants to remember those long nights resting in his arms while he idly tapped away at some project or another while she dozed against his chest—- Okay, yeah thanks for that unconscious. Didn’t hurt one bit. Uh, fuck this ass hole.

The woman narrows her eyes, carefully taking note of the golden dots that popped to life on the scale before her. It wasn’t as if she could memorize them all. Maps were the bane of her existence. But she did know where they were, and the relative landmasses of the planet. Her echo is hauled out— the old badge is rusting around the edges and the shine has long since been worn off it. She doesn’t look to see his reaction to it— of course she’s kept it. It’s probably the only useful thing the idiot has ever given her. It’s been rewired, by the looks of it— more then likely the Hyperion tracker in it had been ripped out. It wasn’t actively connected to their network any more. She’s double-checking to see if he’s done as she’s asked.

There is no comment made on the safe houses at this point. He doesn’t need to know how she’s dealing with getting in. Nisha shoves the echo back into her pocket and removing a rag. The blood on her pistol is being rubbed off as she attempts to keep her tempter in check with the menial task. Unfortunately? He has to give one final jab at the beast and her gaze is lifted upwards to regard him with a feral sneer pulling itself along her lips.

"Remind me to break your face when it’s reconstructed. Fuck you." Is the low hiss of her voice, dangerous as the gleam of her eyes in the light from his image. "Haven’t you learned anything yet, Jackie? Even death doesn’t want me-- I might as well bring hell to the living to see what I’m missing out on.” The barrel on her pistol is spun before she’s holstering it and drawing her weight to one side.

"One last question before I leave. How many do I need to kill, and how long will it take for you to reconstruct?”

The data transfer was as easy as waving a hand through Nisha’s badge. The little bit of tech painted a pathetic sight, but he didn’t comment on it. The thing worked and judging from the woman’s rising temper that was about as much of technology as she wanted to deal with. That, and he had the explicit pleasure of knowing there was sentimental value attached to that little star. He made sure to keep the projection of the memory off as he accessed it; Jack with his arm tucked around Nisha’s shoulders, the sheriff badge being slipped over like it was some kind of naughty secret.

What they did after they cleared out Lynchwood certainly wasn’t any bit a secret.

Jack knew he was essentially setting himself up to be shot again the moment he was reconstructed, but right then? He didn’t care. He needed to see those uncontrolled reactions in the woman and if he were alive you would have heard a low chortle as Nisha lashed at him. Sometimes he was just a glutton for punishment and he didn’t even try to protest.

“Well if you want to be certain you should bring about thirty close to this machine before you kill them. Or you could drag them all the way here and we could do a blood sacrifice. Might invent a new religion for the locals if you tie up a few witnesses too.” He shrugged. “I heard the act is therapeutic. As for reconstruction it should be under a minute.” There were a few more comments just waiting to be made about making Nisha wait, but the other looked absolutely done with his sass. He knew there was a fine line that he’d crossed already and one more could drive her to finally pull the plug on the machine for good.

A Pair of Jacks

Jack had caught a glimpse of Someone’s movement over the dark rim of his glasses, but until they’d drawn level with his desk, he hadn’t concerned himself with actually identifying them. The confidence he had in both his office’s biometric security, as well as his own ability to foretell doom and destruction if it was coming down fast on his ass, left him pretty unconcerned about whoever was coming his way. At least until they were standing right over him. Talking to him. In his voice.

So, for what felt like a very long moment. Jack stops. And stares.

The scrap of metal and wires in his hand is set to one side, although the screwdriver in the other is not. In fact, he subtly shifts the grasp he has on it, in case this is one hilarious fuck up on SOMEONE’S behalf, because even though Tim walked like a duck and quacked like a duck — he wasn’t a duck beyond how he acted. And this guy. This guy, was the bona fide thing. Not just a double, nor a paid actor that went through the motions for a paycheck — this was The Guy.

And by The Guy, Jack meant himself.

“ — well, would’ja look, at THAT,” he breathes, nudging his glasses down his face so he can get a good look at himself. Right down to the way he parks his ass on his desk like he owns it ( DOES own it, in another life, he doesn’t doubt ) and makes himself right at home. “As I live and godDAMN, breathe. Is R&D dropping subspace out their ass or something, because there is not a doubt in my mind that I am looking at a friggin’ king among men.” Flirt flirt, gloat gloat. It’s like autopilot for him.

Given their proximity Jack could see that screwdriver—an effective weapon, but it didn’t feel like a threat. He still had scalding hot coffee in a glass mug at his own disposal, but this wasn’t about killing. The tension that filled the space between them was more about power, control, and killing one another would be such a waste.

Especially with how nice his other self looked right now. He reached out to push the glasses back up his nose, admiring the image he didn’t often get to see. Maybe he’d start wearing his glasses more outside of his office…

“The King. Yes. But we can worry about R&D later.” Those fingers trailed down from the frame to a cheek and then the strong jaw line. He could feel the seam of that mask, something he was intimately familiar with and wondered idly if this Jack was just as defensive about. Circumstances, of course, were different. He might have even welcomed another self’s touch on his real, scarred flesh under the covering. Might. There was still that unpredictable element of being him to remember.

“The mirror really doesn’t do me justice. Do me a favor? Stand up, lets get a look at the back too.” He had every intention of pulling those pretzels and enjoy them while trying to coax a show out of this man.