EXT. FREIGHT TRAIN SPEEDING ACROSS PANDOOORA'S FROZEN WASTES
The freight train howls across the frozen wastes, steel wheels shrieking against warped rails. Snow and ash whip sideways in the wind, streaking past jagged candy-colored rock formations and glowing purple Eridium veins that pulse beneath the ice like exposed nerves. Pandora—if that's what anyone still calls it—looks half-remembered, half-misprinted, as if reality itself was rushed through a cheap printer.
Bandits cling to the train's sides, boots slipping, fingers numb, guns firing wildly as they scream incoherent threats into the wind.
At the very back of the train, someone moves like he's done this a hundred times.
He's crouched low on the roof, boots locked magnet-tight to the metal plating, coat snapping violently behind him. A long rifle rests against his shoulder—clean-lined, modular, scarred from use. The weapon hums softly, an ammo counter ticking down with each measured shot.
Crack.
A bandit jerks backward, tumbling off the train.
Crack.
Another drops, chest plate sparking.
He doesn't rush. He breathes. He tracks. When a pair of enemies crest the roof at once, he slides forward on one knee and slams a compact device onto the metal.
It unfolds midair—panels snapping outward, barrel rotating—
A turret locks into place with a cheerful chirp and immediately opens fire, sweeping the roof in controlled bursts.
He advances behind it, rifle up, eyes sharp, movements precise. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
The screen flashes mid-action:
FINN AS "THE MARKSMAN"
He cracks a grin as he reloads, glancing at the turret as it suppresses incoming fire.
"Still got it," he mutters, and keeps moving.
Midway down the train, chaos erupts inside one of the cargo cars.
Bullets spark against steel walls. A group of bandits rush through the smoke, shouting, boots pounding—
—and then stop.
She stands in the open doorway between cars, one boot braced against the frame, posture loose, almost lazy. A bass guitar hangs across her back. Her eyes glow faintly violet.
Strange symbols ignite beneath her skin, curling up her arms and across her neck like living ink. The air thickens, pressure building until it hums in your teeth.
She lifts one hand.
The space in front of her bends.
An invisible force slams outward, lifting the attackers clean off their feet and pinning them midair, limbs flailing uselessly.
She steps forward, unimpressed.
A single strum of her bass sends a resonant pulse through the car.
The glyphs flare.
Bandits are hurled sideways, smashing through windows and doors alike, vanishing into the blizzard outside.
The screen cuts in as the glow fades:
MARCELINE AS "THE SIREN"
She exhales, rolling her shoulder as the sigils dim.
"Every planet," she says flatly, "same garbage."
The front car explodes inward.
Metal folds like paper as something massive crashes through the door in a storm of smoke and debris.
He's already growing—arms ballooning, fists swelling to the size of wrecking balls, muscles knotting and reshaping as he barrels forward. His grin is wide, feral, eyes shining with unfiltered enthusiasm.
"YEAH!" he roars, voice rough and exaggerated. "COME ON! LET'S DANCE!"
A bandit raises a shotgun.
Too slow.
One punch sends the man sailing off the train, screaming as he disappears into the white void.
He freezes mid-laugh.
"…Okay," he says in his normal voice. "That was pretty cool, right?"
Gunfire peppers his back.
Something flips.
"NOPE!" he bellows, voice dropping into theatrical madness. "WE'RE DOING THIS NOW!"
He grows taller, broader, charging headlong into the remaining bandits, smashing bodies together, slamming heads into walls, arguing with himself the entire time.
"You're leaning too hard into it!"
"THE BIT WORKS!"
"I'm just saying, maybe less screaming!"
"THE SCREAMING IS PART OF IT!"
The screen flashes as he headbutts someone through a control panel:
JAKE AS "THE BADASS"
He laughs wildly as alarms blare and sparks rain down around him.
CUT TO: PRISMO'S ROOM
Jake stares at the TV, eyes wide.
"Whoa," he says. "Is that me?!"
Prismo squints at the screen, amused.
"It's… A, U," he says, nodding. "A you."
He chuckles to himself.
"Anyway—"
CUT TO: INT. FREIGHT TRAIN
Near the engine car, the fighting pauses.
The marksman retracts his turret, snapping it back into a compact carry mode as he checks the track ahead.
The Siren drifts down lightly from the doorway, boots touching metal like gravity's optional.
The big guy shrinks back to normal, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
"Okay," he says. "I think I got that out of my system."
A heavy clang echoes through the car.
Footsteps.
Slow. Precise. Mechanical.
A figure steps through the smoke—humanoid, clad in pristine yellow armor unmarred by the chaos around it. Its movements are just a hair too stiff, servos whining faintly beneath synthetic plating.
Its face is wrong.
Too smooth. Too perfect.
A jagged metal mask is bolted directly into its skull, shaped like a crown stripped of all mercy. Painted eyes smile without warmth.
It spreads its arms theatrically.
"Well," it says, voice smooth and smug. "This is adorable."
The marksman raises his rifle.
"Who are you?"
The robot tilts its head.
"Oh, kid," it says. "That question alone tells me everything."
The Siren's glyphs flicker back to life, low and dangerous.
"You talk a lot," she says, "for something that looks mass-produced."
The painted smile widens.
"It's cute," the robot says. "Really. That you think you're the heroes of this little adventure."
Beat.
"You're not."
It taps a control on its wrist.
"You're the example."
Its chest panel opens, revealing a blinking red core.
"Welcome to PandOOOra, kiddos."
The explosion tears the engine apart.
Metal screams. Cars rip free from the rails, flipping end over end into the wasteland.
The world spins—
gunfire lost to wind—
laughter cut short—
CUT TO BLACK.