#《◇》 silver bullet [boothill]

[minban]

A Special Something From a Galaxy Ranger

Today's surprise comes from the bullet arriving right in front of ya. The other party selected a choice spot for it to land safely, so no need to worry there. The red satin ribbon is tightly bound to the golden shell casing. Don't worry, this is a special gift from the Ranger. / Accept it!

[akashicsystem]

《 TAG MASTERPOST 》

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

⟿ ˗ˏˋ𝐵𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 ࿐ྂ

Some sfw headcanons this time, but I just might make a spicier part two. gn!shy!reader, Boothill is pretty soft here, might be OOC since it's written before his release <3

Boothill who leans down to steal a kiss and uses his infamous hat to deflect the arrows of onlookers' prying stares – to hide your pretty, flustered face and his own toothy grin.

Boothill who cracks jokes every time you go stiff in his arms. He's a tease, quick-witted and silver-tongued ('Hey now baby, who's made out of metal 'ere, me or you?'), but he never lets his hands wander if he sees the crease of uncertainty between your brows.

Boothill who goes absolutely ecstatic if you do something as simple as smiling and giving him a thumbs up when he's dueling. Boy, will he giggle like a maniac while bullets sing and blood spills. He wants to impress you – always – and he doesn't need much encouragement to show off.

Boothill who, instead of tilting your head up with his fingers, crouches down to meet your averted gaze – much to your embarrassment and his own amusement.

Boothill who doesn't pry your hands away from your red-hot face, but rather nuzzles into them until he can get to his main prize – your lips.

Boothill who loves how warm your cheeks get when he flirts with you like there's no tomorrow. He knows damn well they're warm 'cause he'll definately press his own face against yours. Flustering you even further.

Boothill who is so used to the good ol' game of chase. He's a hunter, a predator if you will, stalking his prey like a wolf day and night, patient and relentless, waiting for the right moment to strike. Your heart is one of a wild rabbit, you're always on a run from him, embarassed, flustered, nervous and perhaps even scared of so many things. But he's a master of cat-and-mouse and he will catch you eventually.

And when he does, he will sink his fangs into you.

Notes: divier is by cafekitsune

[aventurineswife]

hiiii can I request boothill x reader and how he spend the valentines day with you????

A Gunslinger’s Valentine

Summary: Boothill has never cared for Valentine’s Day—until you came along. In his own rough-around-the-edges way, he gives you a heartfelt gift and spends the evening making sure you know exactly how much you mean to him. For a man consumed by revenge, tonight is about something else: love.

Tags: Boothill x Reader, Valentine’s Day, Soft Boothill, Fluff, Romantic Tension, Protective, Handmade Gift, Slow Burn Feelings.

Warnings: Mild language, Brief mention of Boothill’s past trauma, Slight possessiveness, Suggestive undertones (but nothing explicit).

A/N: um... Sorry for responding late 😔🙏

The hum of the spaceship faded into the background as Boothill adjusted his hat, his eyes scanning the vastness of space. He had never really thought much about Valentine’s Day before. Revenge didn’t leave much room for romance. But with you? Everything was different.

You had managed to slip past the walls he built around himself, your presence a rare comfort in his restless existence. So, despite his usual gruffness, he had a plan for today. It wasn’t roses and chocolates—Boothill wasn’t that kind of man—but he’d make sure you knew just how much you meant to him.

You were in the cockpit, gazing at the stars when Boothill sauntered in, his scarf trailing behind him.

“Busy, sweetheart?” he drawled, resting a hand on his hip, the metal fingers of his cybernetic arm glinting under the dim light.

You turned and smiled. “Not really. Just enjoying the view.”

Boothill nodded, stepping closer. “Got somethin’ for ya.”

He pulled out a small, rough-looking box wrapped in crimson fabric. The edges were frayed, and you could tell he had tied it himself—probably with more effort than he’d admit.

Curious, you took it and unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a handmade necklace—gunmetal silver with a bullet casing at the center. The initials B & [Y/I] were etched into it.

Your breath hitched. “Boothill, this is…”

He cleared his throat, suddenly looking away. “Ain’t much. Just somethin’ to keep me close when I ain’t around.” His voice was quieter, more hesitant. “Figured you deserve somethin’ better than a warpath.”

You looked up at him, warmth blooming in your chest. “It’s perfect.” Without hesitation, you reached up and fastened it around your neck.

Boothill smirked, but there was something softer in his expression. He reached out, his gloved hand brushing against your cheek. “Glad you like it, sweetheart.”

You tilted your head, an idea forming. “You know, you never told me how you spend Valentine’s Day.”

Boothill chuckled, sharp teeth flashing. “Ain’t never had much reason to.” His thumb traced over your bottom lip, gaze dark with something unreadable. “But I reckon tonight, I’d like to spend it with you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Then let’s make it one to remember.”

With that, Boothill pulled you in, the scent of leather and gunpowder mixing with the quiet hum of the ship. For a man driven by vengeance, tonight, he was simply a man in love. And that was more than enough.

My wrist hurts, but queen never cry. (I still have so much hw and reqs... I'm cooked 😔🙏)

[toxicyeuriii]

Hello friend, may I humbly request, pretty please, a boothill×reader fic? The condiments matter not, for I need sustenance, food to feed myself. Please, oh great weaver of words, make me a tapestry of delectables, all in the image of our beloved boothill.

Hello anon! Thanks for the ask >///< first time writing for a hsr character and tbh I was bluffed with how the fic was gonna be but eventually I thought of something! I was going for a sorta fluff type, though you can interpret the type lmao. But honestly Boothill is such a fun character to read/write! Thanks again for the ask! I hope you aren't hungry after the fic ^^

Before you start reading though, reader is gender neutral and works as like a hardcore hacker/mechanic kinda (silver wolf and vill-v inspired) but honestly the hacker part isnt that noticable, you and boothill are in a relationship (ofc) and he calls you darlin and sugarplum.

☆ -------------------------------------------- ☆

"And then that son of a nice lady came up to me and went pow-pow!"

Boothill exclaimed while you were working on a commission. The commission in mind was a gun repair for guess who? Boothill. His gun got knocked out of his hands during a bounty and got broken on the slide and muzzle, which is being a pain in the ass for you.

"Mhm...."

You said while getting a screwdriver and unscrewing some of the screws that are on the gun.

Boothill apparently thinks that he needs to explain how his gun got damaged, which he doesnt honestly. Though you dont say anything, it's better than silence if you're being honest. And, you know he wont shut up anyways.

"And then when I went to grab my gun, an' then that lil' shirt bag shot the gun outa my dang hand! Ha! But lil' did he know my other hand was a gun too"

"Wait so your gun was shot out of your hand?"

"Yeah, anyways I turned in that mother forker, hehe"

"Huh... Is your hand okay? Do I also have to fix that?"

You said with a little scoff.

"Bingo!"

He said while shooting a finger gun at you.

"You're paying me"

"Wait huh?, but darlin' seriously?"

"Well you shouldn't had been a idiot!"

You said while turning to stare at him, he looked baffled. He was getting a free gun repair while he got to just chill out on the workshops couch.

"Well I thought that you were gonna like, include it was gonna be free, sugarplum"

Sometimes you think he doesnt common sense. Which makes sense, no way you're going to give out a free gun repair to him because you felt nice and hes your boyfriend....

"Yeah well, you can give me some credits, thats the least you owe me"

You said with a little smile, you also like messing with him. You dont have a good poker face to he honest...

He crosses his arms and lays back.

"Fine, whatever"

He was silent for a moment.

"Also quit that smirkin' "

He also said with a little smile, to to which he just covered up with his hat.

You also couldn't keep your 'annoyed' facade up, which you just started to chuckle.

"Stop acting like you aren't! Heh"

"Nuh uh, you seein' things darlin"

"Mhm, sure"

After a little silence his gun was finally done, which you took off your goggles to inspect further, and in your eyes it looked brand spankin new.

"Your gun is donee~"

"Finally, ha. With other mechanics it'd prolly take forever, good thing my sugarplum is the best"

He said while sitting up and coming behind you, while putting his arm over your shoulder.

"Thanks, darlin' "

"Yeah yeah, get on that table, gotta fix your hand now"

You said while getting up and pushing him over to the fixing table, it was mainly for him incase he needed a charge or a fix up. You put back on your goggles and then accessed the damage on his hand.

"Doesnt look too bad"

You said while getting the blowtorch.

"I'll just melt it and mold it back in its shape, good thing the bullet didnt go to deep and into your wires"

You said while also getting some metal scraps from the junk drawer.

"Make sure not to mess up my arm any more, darlin' "

"Trust meee, you know I'm good at what I do!"

"True, do ya thang"

With that you began to get to work, surprisingly it was easier to fix than that gun, which now, that gun is your number one enemy to fix. Though it did save you alot whenever you tagged along boothill in his bounty hunting, you occasionally did to get some data and neat stuff from whoever's yall were hunting for. Sometimes boothill would ask you to hack into security systems for he can get in there without any extra work, but mainly whenever he was feeling lazy.

After some melting and molding, his arm was like new.

"Done"

You said while rolling your chair around to where you put your blowtorch at. You sat up and stretched while taking off your goggles.

"Awe, ya such a sweetheart"

He said while standing up and stretching his metal limbs.

"Dontcha worry, I'll give ya those credits soon sugarplum"

"You better, 'sugarplum' "

"Hey!, that's my nickname for ya"

You chuckle while he comes up to you and ruffle your already messy hair.

"Yeah, sureeee"

He chuckles a little also while bowing his hat.

"Well i gotta get goin' see ya?"

"See you, dont get anything broken again.."

You teased while he hugged you goodbye and talking his departure.

"No promises!"

☆ ------------------------------------------- ☆

Hope you all liked the fic! First time writing him so it might not be in character much, if not then sorry! Anyways have a good day and bye! ^^

[rakhalofthestars]

Sight

Chapter 1 of my mini-series "Stimuli"! Click here for the masterlist <3

Summary: Boothill and his eyes always captivate those who look at him, for better or for worse. You, the apple of his eye, captivate him too.

Tags: Fluff, Bittersweet, Gender neutral reader, Established relationship

wc: 1.1k

Boothill’s eyes resemble the crosshairs of a sniper. That’s the very first thing you noticed about him. Not his cyborg body. Not his cowboy get-up. But his eyes. Eyes that were as black as onyx stones with ivory pupils that resembled a target and a ruby bullseye in the very center. Eyes that were reminiscent of a dark cave, beckoning you to look deep inside and explore the secrets inside, to look for the stories that had created the man you knew as Boothill. Will you take a look inside? 

He really was a follower of The Hunt. There was no doubt about it. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if Lan THEMSELF had cast THEIR eyes on Boothill. He was dedicated to the hunt, to hunting down the man that had wronged him and his tribe so grievously. It must be why Boothill’s eyes were so reminiscent of that of a hunter. Steely and sharp akin to the eagles that you could see traces of everywhere on his person. Once Boothill had his eyes set on a target, nothing could escape him. You couldn’t help but pity those who crossed him. You couldn’t help but scorn the man called Oswaldo Schneider. Try as he might to run, Boothill had his dark eyes on him. Once you’re the target of those ivory crosshair pupils, you can’t escape his sight. 

Observant and perceptive. Traits that wouldn’t necessarily come to mind at first when describing Boothill. Loud and reckless seemed more fitting. Not to say that those adjectives are wrong, of course. No, you shake your head. The point was, once you got to know the cowboy, you learn that there’s more to him than meets the eye. Boothill was perceptive. Almost scarily so. There’s no end to the myriad of instances where you and him had only just stepped foot in an area only to find yourself being pulled behind him. 

“Something ain’t right here,” Boothill would say, his right hand already moving towards the revolver that always glinted dangerously in the leather holster strapped to his thigh. He always kept it well maintained, polishing the firearm so it would never fail to catch people’s eyes. A warning, as sharp and steely as his own eyes. 

You’d argue in the beginning that there was nothing to be so wound up over. There’s nothing there! See? Boothill did see. He saw the tiniest shifts of the leaves in the bush you were pointing at, his eyes zeroing in on how they moved unnaturally. With one well-aimed and calculated bullet, you’d hear a small yelp before the body of the enemy would show itself. Over time, you learned to trust Boothill’s vision. He hadn’t spent the majority of his life hunting down beasts and bandits for nothing, after all. 

The cowboy’s eyes may not be inviting for some to look at but you couldn’t deny that the rest of his person was very easy on the eyes. His whole get-up screamed aloud “Look at me! Look at me!” It was tailor-made to get people’s attention, to have their eyes on him. With a black leather cropped jacket (did it even count as a jacket at this point?), pants made of the same material, and a black cowboy hat, Boothill would’ve looked fairly monochromatic and quite frankly, would’ve blended in a bit too much, had it not been for the splashes of color here and there. The pop of his red sarape, the similarly colored pieces of fabrics on his sleeves, the hem of his pants and the red band on his hat, these all made it hard to look away. Especially when the wearer was so devastatingly debonair. 

That’s not to say that Boothill is all black and red. Nay. He shone like silver and gold, like the moon that you and him have spent countless nights gazing at and the blazing hot sun that reminded Boothill of home. The metal plating on his torso that reminded you of a great white shark (he always affectionately nibbled on your cheek when you’d call him sharky) always gleamed like silver against the dark metal that the rest of his body consisted of. Meanwhile, the bullet dangling from his earlobe, the bullets attached to his belt, the big buckle of the aforementioned article as well as the ranger’s star on his jacket, they all shone like gold. 

Boothill was like night and day, cooked together into the lovable man that you knew. His face was brown and tanned, kissed by the sun (and you) whilst his white hair looked as if it were moonlight spun into long and silky threads. The very sight of him may scare off most but it never scared you. 

Why would Boothill scare you when you always saw how his onyx eyes would soften visibly when you were the target caught in those ivory crosshairs? When the ruby pupil would morph into a tiny little heart at the very sight of you? 

The man’s eyes were expressive. One look and you’d swear you’re drowning. The look of love, a love so genuine and consuming that you couldn’t help but have blood rushing to your cheeks. Boothill would only look at your darkening cheeks and his eyes would hold a silent promise to pepper them with kisses sooner or later. Perhaps right this very second if the situation (you) allowed for it. 

Whether lustful or romantic, Boothill’s eyes always looked at you with a sense of deep yearning. A longing for love that he knows you’ll give. Love that was once taken from him and he’ll be damned if he allows it to happen once more. It must be why you’d often catch him simply staring at you in silence, tracing over each of your features that all blended together seamlessly to create the wonderful person that you were. If you looked closer in the black pools of his irises, you’d see the faint traces of fear. Fear that has him memorizing your very person, inside and out, tucking away every piece of information in the part of his brain that was reserved for those he loved. 

Oftentimes, the cowboy would gaze warmly at you, envisioning you and him in wedding attire. As if somehow sensing his thoughts, you’d wag your bare ring finger at him. His cerise pupils would follow the motions before he’d close his eyes just this once and shake his head. Not yet, the time ain’t right (will it ever be?). Your gaze may have turned gloomy and downcast but you’d understand in the end.

For now, you were content to be the apple of Boothill’s eye.

[s-b-party]

HSR’s Guns & Roses: Analysis of Boothill & Argenti

****Possible spoilers ahead, esp. Boothill’s & Argenti’s lore****

With Boothill out now, I’ve been very intrigued by the Boothill & Argenti duo which I’ve noticed so many details that are similar but also different about them, some of which many people may have already noticed but I still would like to analyze them since it’s been a hot minute since my last lore thread

The main aspects of these 2 characters that I want to talk about are their gameplay, characteristics, and lore/backstories

When we look at their gameplay, some details stand out; for example, both have the same element (physical) but opposite paths when it comes to their DPS roles (Boothill is Hunt which specializes in single target fights & Argenti is Erudition which specializes in dealing dmg to multiple enemies)

Their weapons are also opposites of each other where guns are ranged & the lance is typically used in close combat

This is more of a coincidence which I tweeted about recently but I still think it’s funny that their best-in-slot relics can be found in the same cavern of corrosion

Next we’ll look at their characteristics by which I mean their personalities & designs; off the bat we can see that Boothill has a more gruff personality & if he weren’t censored by his synesthesia beacon, he would be the sole reason for bumping HSR to a higher audience rating; this man probably would not hold back on the expletives 😂)

Meanwhile Argenti is shown to be very kind with his words, often using compliments & praises; typically he speaks with levelheadedness & grace, just like how we imagine a knight would speak

If we think about it, Boothill & Argenti are both very flamboyant characters but in different fonts; just look at their demo trailers as references since they both move like dancers (Argenti looks like he’s in a graceful ballroom dance while he’s fighting the swarm disaster; Boothill straight up MOONWALKS while dodging bullets from the IPC, we literally went from Marilyn Monroe to Michael Jackson 😂)

What accentuates their flamboyance even more is the way they both have spotlights on them at various points of their demo videos

Bonus shot of Boothill being so extra (read: fabulous) while fighting:

They also have very flamboyant designs which makes them stand out (as Boothill explains, they’re both clad in silver which definitely is one of the first things you would notice when looking at them); I don't know how much value silver has in this universe but it is considered a precious metal & valuable to us due to its many uses which is thanks to its malleable nature

Another thing to point out is that Argenti is based off the Latin word for silver argentum; fun fact, the Latin translation is the reason why the symbol for silver on the periodic table is Ag :3

I feel like their color palettes are a bit similar (silver, red, black) but they also have varying degrees for shared colors, specifically red & black; from a visual standpoint, this goes very well because Argenti having more red helps to emphasize his association to roses & Boothill having more black helps to emphasize his identity as “death” (well, for the IPC at least)

Moving onto their lore, although Argenti doesn’t have lines about Boothill, we do get lines about Argenti from Boothill himself; based on Boothill’s voicelines, we can assume that he holds some respect for Argenti as someone to whom he can relate

Their backstories are quite similar when we take a closer look at them

For example, they both have experiences where they lost their homes & the people important to them (damn, HYV really said you’re gonna suffer 💀)

Their respective factions are both noted to be groups of solitary people

Interestingly the factions have different reputations according to the data bank where the Knights of Beauty are looked down upon & the Galaxy Rangers are seen as heroes which may be a bit different from what we’re used to since knights normally have a positive connotation as people who hold chivalry as one of their most important values

Their goals are similar in the way that they both are looking for a specific person or entity: Boothill is looking for Oswaldo Schneider (who is responsible for the loss of his family & home; we might possibly meet him soon since we ended off 2.2 with the cliffhanger where Boothill confronts Aventurine to ask him where Oswaldo is) & Argenti is looking for Idrila the Beauty

They also have their critical turning points in their respective Character Story Part 3 portions

Boothill’s portion talks about his transformation into a cyborg & his adoption of the name “Boothill” which he explains is what they called gunslingers who ended up dead; it is a clear representation of his old self having died along with his loved ones & his home when the IPC destroyed everything

Argenti’s portion talks about his journey as a new Knight of Beauty & the obstacles he faced after having met the knight that was mentioned in his Part 2; here we see his transformation into a Knight of Beauty & his dedication to the path he walks

Before I had mentioned silver being an important part of their designs; here I think is where we see the importance of silver the best (since silver is a malleable material, it can change its meaning for both characters based on their situations)

To reiterate, becoming a cyborg by replacing his body w/ silver represents Boothill saying goodbye to his old self who knew of happier times & his loved ones; for Argenti, the silver that he wears is a sign of his devotion to Idrila the Beauty

What ties their differences so well in my eyes is that silver acts as a symbol of Boothill’s & Argenti’s resolve to accomplish their goals (silver may be malleable but it still can be strong metal & it’s even better since Argenti does talk about his will/faith being unbreakable)

I truly love their dynamic as complementary foils & I really hope that we’ll be able to see more interactions between them in the future since we just only have Boothill’s voicelines about Argenti but considering their goals, it probably won’t happen, at least not any time soon

Let me just say that I only cooked this idea up after listening to Boothill’s demo trailer on repeat…..a normal amount, I’m so normal about him 🙂🙂🙂🙂

Thank the YEEHAW man :3

[thecoffeelovingfreak]

𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓

pairing: boothill x gn!ex-undertaker!reader

genre(s): western!au, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

word count: 14k

warnings: written before v2.2 & boothill's release, blood, injury, gun violence, swearing, alcohol consumption, implied/referrenced alcoholism, suicidal thoughts, graphic depictions of violence, death

notes: I've spent about the last month working on this a little bit each day, so I hope you enjoy this labor of love :). Feel free to tell me any warnings I might have missed! I also want to add that this is told in the past and present with flashback scenes in italics. Anyway, here are some flowers as a thank you for everyone who reads this! 💐 <3

Read it on ao3!

~~~

Dark clouds shrouded the sky as shots rang out across the valley. Dried mud fell from the edges of your boots in time with the gallops of your horse. Turning back, you aimed your revolver at one of the officers, red spread over his dirtied shirt not long after. A silver bullet grazed its way over the left side of your neck, leaving a stream of scarlet running down to stain your sharp white collar. The tarnished grey vest covering it blew open harshly in the breeze as you winded down the path into town.

Shouts echoed in the street as you leaned down, bringing the reins closer to your chest. Dainty yellow flowers reflecting the bit of sunlight breaking from the coming storm became trampled by hooves. Jumping the fence into a stranger’s backyard, you once again shot at another pursuant. He fell crudely from his ride, the horse startled and stopping before the same pickets.

With just one now on your tail, you jumped again, making a quick right down a small pathway and breaking out into the wide and dusty main street. Townsfolk jogged for cover in the shops, not unfamiliar with this song and dance, and carrying enough awareness to leave what could become an impromptu duel.

You spot a figure stepping out quietly from the nearby saloon, making his way behind the establishment. Bringing the reins together in one hand, you pulled tightly. Your horse stopped, and you brought them around to face the remaining officer – the deputy based on his badge. He pulled down the hammer on his revolver, aiming straight for your forehead. Bringing your hands up, you faced your palms outward alongside your head in mock defense. A small smirk grew on your face as you picked up on near silent hooves approaching the street.

“What’re you smilin’ about?” he asked pointedly.

A bang came from before you as blood splattered and flowed from the deputy’s head. He landed limp in the damp dirt, a look in his eyes that you could recall anywhere. The gaze of death – a complete absence of life in a form once animated.

A large stallion sidled up to you, a familiar head of black and white hair gesturing toward the path out of town. Angry shouting filled the street as people left their shelters, some staring you down and others rapidly walking to you, waving a hand or a weapon.

“We’d best get out of here before you can raise some more heaven.”

“You lead the way, then.”

With a wild speed, he took off ahead of you, wool cape billowing in the chilled air. You caught up quickly however, racing to pass the city limits and be in the wide-open again.

Desert ironwoods and mesquite trees became more abundant among the varying cacti. White translucent blossoms formed on some of them, while others rested uniquely. The sun began to pour further from the clouds, casting its rays over the light brown land as you rode on. At the top of a shady hill, you paused for a drink.

A husky voice broke through the birdsong, “Why don’t you get down for a minute?”

You looked at him quizzically, drying the corner of your mouth.

He matched your gaze sternly, “Well, first, you’re bleedin’ out the side of your neck. Second, I’m curious what that sweet mess you brought into town was,” his gaze softened as a proud smile grew on his face, “and third, I wanna hold you under the tree for a bit. It’s midday and I had ordered some fine lunch from the bar. I wasn’t expecting to be shootin’ a man instead of sittin’ with you.” he finished with a chuckle.

“You can sit with me now.” you retorted, lifting one leg around your horse before making the jump off.

“Indeed, I can.” he replied smoothly, reciprocating your action.

Drawing open the satchel hanging along his stallion, Boothill pulled out two small packs – one likely containing a meal and the other a makeshift aid kit. Although he never needed food, and rarely required bandages, he would always carry them in the event that your supplies would run out. It was part of the reason he had initially gone into town, but you happened to bring in the lawmen on your way to meet him.

Tidying the braid in your horse’s hair, you felt cold fingertips brush against your shirt collar, shifting it to the side. A white cloth rested on your empty saddle, a few materials from the aid kit on top. A cold rag rubbed against the outer edges of your scrape before it was placed on your shoulder, the left side being held to the front of your neck. Water flowed down along the wound, giving the cloth a light pink color. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but one that you had grown used to after years on the range.

Another wet cloth swiped across the injury, leaving light streaks of antiseptic behind. A quick rip reached your ears before a flat gauze pad was gently placed at the site and a gauze wrap surrounded your neck snugly. It would only stay for a few days, needing your remaining kit supplies to be maintained.

A grey brim soon came into view as a hat was placed on your head.

“Now you’re lookin’ like a real outlaw.” Boothill smiled as he gathered up all of the medical items and walked them back to his satchel.

You snickered before replying, “Should I get one the next time we go to Warren? I’d reckon it’s about time.”

“I’m afraid we ain’t got the funds for that right now, there’s just enough to get provisions.”

“I never said I would be buying one, cowboy.” You retorted, slowly striding to where he stood and flicking your borrowed hat upward.

“Well go ahead and take ‘em for all they’ve got, then we can pay a little visit to the theater.” He slid his right arm around your waist, lightly dragging you closer.

“Are you askin’ me on a date?”

“Maybe I am, sugar.”

Placing his hat back on his head, you left a small kiss on his cheek and turned out of his arms, swiping your lunch from his saddle in the process. “Why don’t we have one now?”

He smiled, teeth sharp and eyes playful, before following behind you to the tree.

—

PART I - Sorrow-Gilded Equals

“Boothill, that’s my name.” The cyborg in front of you replied, swirling his glass of whiskey before drinking it down.

He stood tall, a firm steel body paired with shining silver eyes, determination reverberating in his gaze. It seemed only natural that he was the first to draw your attention, raucously celebrating the year’s final round-up with his fellow rangers.

“Say, undertaker,” he looked over, “care to join us for a round?”

You glanced backward from the bar to the faro table housing a few of the gang. A hand hit the wood in laughter, empty amber bottles rattling against each other. The owner of said hand brought twelve checks back to his stacks.

“Quit your cacklin’, you smug cutie!” Boothill shouted, leaning back against the bar.

“Oh, you flatter me, you gunslingin’ sack of shit! Get over here and give me a fun time, why don’t you!”

“Gunslingin’, huh?” you teased, “I thought that was forbidden on the trail.”

“Well, I ain’t never been one for rules.”

“Really, now? And here I thought cowboys had a sense of honor.”

“We do, but it don’t always follow convention.”

With a hum you turned, walking slowly to the group’s oval table. “I’ll join you, and so will he.” A gesture toward Boothill brought him over, where he took a seat across from you. After a few curt introductions, he voiced, “Will here is the banker,” before pulling out a small bag of nickels from a satchel on his belt.

You followed suit and exchanged them for checks and a hexagonal copper token from Will. He layed out all of the spades in two rows on his board – ace through 6 on the top, and king through 8 on the bottom. The seven sat at the end of both rows between the 6 and the 8. He placed another deck of cards in the dealing box and drew the soda before burning it off.

You placed one of your checks on the nine, betting that it would be drawn second. Will pulled and revealed the first of two cards in the deck. A three, to which Isaac had groaned. Next, he revealed the second card, a nine. With the losing and winning ranks determined, you had won the bet at 1 to 1 odds, bringing in another check on top of the one you wagered. Isaac lost his check to Will, leaving Boothill and Lee’s bets still on the table.

The losing card from the previous round went beside the face-down soda card. You placed two checks on five this time, watching as Boothill put three with yours. Isaac went for four, and Lee remained on ten. Five was the winning card this round.

The black, white, and red of the cards began to fade together as the night went on. After several rounds, you found yourself toe to toe with the “gunslinger”. He didn’t speak a word as you both prepared for the final bet.

Ten of your checks went on one, and ten of his were set on eight.

Will drew and displayed the cards, one was the second, making you the victor.

Boothill relaxed into his chair with a low whistle, “Seems like I’ve finally got some competition! What d’ya say to another game?”

“Well, I’m not one to turn down a challenge. Ready for a duel, cowboy?”

“Always.” he smiled, shifting forward to prepare for the coming rounds.

As Will prepped the next game, the doors to the saloon broke open abruptly.

“There you are, you no-good son of a bitch!”

A bang echoed through the saloon as a bullet shot straight for your table. A silver revolver appeared in view before sharp lead was firing toward the entrance. Boothill’s gun returned to its holster as the intruding man crumpled to the floor. Blood covered the wood, spreading into the grain and taking its place among the many stains.

Isaac approached the bartender, likely trying to give him some money and charm to resolve the incident. Lee strode to the body, kicking it over and revealing a green bandana in their pocket.

“Yep, no doubt he was here for us, Hill. One of Walker’s boys.”

You were slightly familiar with the name; Lloyd Walker was in charge of one of the most prominent gangs around. There were countless ambushes with him as the figurehead, and just from the mention alone you could observe various reactions across the establishment. Few continued on in their games, veterans to these types of conflict. Others seemed stiff or enraptured in conversation about the man. In the case of many of these rangers, their eyes had a fire of revenge.

Walking to stand by Lee, you folded your arms. “Well, he ain’t one of Walker’s boys, anymore. He’ll be mine by morning and the dirt’s by sundown.”

“Need help moving him?” Boothill offered, leaning down to pick up the fallen gun.

“Sure.” you accepted plainly.

He handed the gun to Lee who inspected it as Boothill lifted the corpse, carrying him over his shoulder without a care. The jaunty tune of the piano resumed as you left the saloon with the gunslinger.

"I must admit, undertaker, this here was quite the party."

"Glad I could entertain."

“It wasn’t just you. I forgot how much I missed the thrill of a standoff; this old town doesn’t provide those opportunities like it used to.”

“How roguish for a ranger, but I’d have to agree.”

“Oh? Is the resident mortician gettin’ into trouble after hours?”

“Only with you around.”

“But we’ve only known each other for a night, unless I’ve ran into you somewhere before?”

Your boots resounded over the boardwalk deck as you kept walking silently to the front of your parlor. He didn't press further and waited quietly for you to unlock the back door.

With a creak, said door went wide open and you watched carefully as he flipped the body over on a mortuary table.

Finished, he grabbed a nearby towel to dry the blood off and clean himself up. You got a better look at him as he did so, no longer caught up in games and drinking.

A story spread around town, over a decade ago. It didn't stick around for long, but you witnessed it yourself. There was a boy – probably about fifteen at the time. He arrived on the back of a horse before being taken into the jailhouse. At the end of the week, he had been released, and took up odd jobs around the area. He headed out on the range a few months later for the fall round-up, then never came back.

"I'll see myself out, good luck with this rottin’ sweetheart."

A hand turned the back door open once more before Boothill exit casually. It was half-closed when you finally responded.

"Perhaps."

He paused, shifting to look you in the eyes.

"You're Jesse Blackwell, right?"

His gaze fell to the floor, "Once, but I ain't anymore… Goodnight, undertaker.” He dismissed with a tip of his hat and a small smile, shutting the door as he left.

—

Soaked ground squelched beneath your boots, the now sunny sky reflecting in the soft brown. The streets of Warren were bustling, showcasing its status as the second largest city in the state. A dark grey cowboy hat rested on your head, a shining black belt running around its center. Stealing it was easy, all you had to do was get some drunken fool to follow you to an alley. Point your gun at him and wait for him to give you all he has, then leave with a cold threat – revolver boring hard into his head. If he talks, he’ll be hunted down and stripped of his tongue. If he runs after that, he’ll be gunned down where he stands. You had done it before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

Boothill opened the doors to Jerrell’s General Goods a few buildings down the road, disappearing inside. You leaned up against one of the front posts of the hotel, watching coaches and uncovered wagons traverse the main street. Your horse whinnied from beside you where they stood, resting and glancing around on occasion. A soft breeze brushed against your neck, the chill of former rain still present. Small thumps came from your left as somebody passed behind you.

A hand landed on your shoulder, turning you around against the post. They gripped the collar of your shirt, leveling their gaze with yours.

“I’ve been lookin’ for you for a long time, you coward.” They threw you into the mud, stepping down from the deck in anger. “You remember me?”

Standing up you replied, “Somebody’s always got a feud with a person like me, I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”

“Town of Fort Talia, five years ago. You murdered my brother.”

“Jasper?”

“Well, it seems you do recall.”

He swung his right arm, fist colliding with the side of your face. It hurt terribly, but fights weren't uncommon to you. With where you grew up, and some training from Boothill, it came easy now.

You raised your own right arm, blocking his next hit before bringing your left up to target underneath his nose. He stumbled back a bit at the pain, and you hit again at his right cheek and then upward from under his jaw. He took a second to level himself before spitting at the ground and pulling his pistol from his pocket. He turned it over in his hand, the grip facing outward.

"Do you not know how to use it, Ellis?"

"I do, but I want you to feel my sufferin’ first.”

The grip crossed your cheekbone, sending a sharp sting across the plane. With you now staggered, a knife plunged into your torso just above the hip. It remained lodged in your flesh as you clashed onto the ground, mud coating your clothes.

Ellis stood still for a moment, watching. He glanced down at the gun, preparing to fire it off. Quickly and with slight caution, you drew your revolver and shot him between the eyes. He fell as the horses shifted and voiced their discomfort. Your head lay in the mud, breath trying to calm after the incident.

"You've always been a good-for-nothing piece of shit, Ellis." You whispered.

Standing up carefully and to the best of your ability, you heard something heavy landing on wood before wet footsteps.

“Hey, now,” Boothill said, hands coming to brace your elbows and steady you. “Who came and dragged you to heaven?” His eyes assessed you – up and down, side to side – then he brought your left arm around his neck.

"You couldn't hear us fightin' from the store? Here I thought you’re supposed to have superior hearing.”

Ignoring you, he placed you against his horse, retrieving the full satchels from the deck and laying them down beside you. His cold hands came to pick you up, setting you just behind his saddle, legs hanging over the side to keep yourself in the stablest condition possible. Lifting his right leg under himself, he mounted his stallion, beginning to ride down the main street to a destination unknown.

"What about…" you trailed off, eyes growing weary.

"I’ll take care of it, you just rest."

"Whatever you say, cowboy."

Your head rested against his right shoulder, the cool leather of his jacket soothing the burning cuts from Ellis' pistol. The only thing keeping you lucid was the persistent movement inside of you, slicing against more flesh at every stomp of hooves. If you had a mirror, you're sure that you'd look like hell – Boothill was right.

It was saddening that the other Weston boy had spent the last few years hunting you down. He spent practically his entire life distant and running away, and now he had the guts to ambush you in the city. Still, you supposed whatever old grudge he carried now lay dead alongside him.

—

The first time you laid eyes on Jasper was at his mother's funeral. He stood in a thick coat beside his brother watching wordlessly on with silent tears. A wooden cross sat before a mound of dirt, engraved with the following:

Callie Weston

A strong mother, and relentless woman.

1846 - 1879

Her grave wasn’t far from your father’s, a bushel of freshly picked desert marigolds resting under his own headstone from your visit. Two of the bright yellow flowers still rested in your pocket as you walked to the family’s side.

Placing the blossoms underneath the delicately carved wood, you spoke softly, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Ellis whispered.

“I’m sorry for yours as well.” Jasper had replied.

With a nod of your head, you left them to their mourning.

~

When you made it into town from the cemetery, shouts could be heard in front of the saloon.

“Go home, you idiot!”

“Have a little compassion!”

“I do, but my compassion doesn’t include wastin’ away here while your boys are up on that hill.”

The man stumbled slightly down from the deck, voice cracking as he said, “Surely you can understand, mister… please.”

“Go home, Isaiah. Try to sober up before they get back.”

The bartender threw his cloth over his shoulder before leaning against the post, waiting patiently. Isaiah wiped his hand down his bearded face as he exhaled, then walked off down the street toward the few blocks of houses.

Gesturing at a nearby man, the bartender lowly spoke, “Hey, will you follow him? Make sure he stays safe and doesn’t do anythin’ wild.”

You crossed in front of the saloon doors as the man walked off, trailing behind the drunken one.

“Wait a minute, kid.”

Pausing in your steps, you turned around to face the swinging doors to the saloon. The bartender came out as quick as he went in – a bag in hand this time.

“Some oil guy came through town not long ago, ordered more food than he even wanted. There’s untouched steak and soup in there, it’ll probably need to heat up again. Share it or keep it to yourself.”

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

With a polite nod, he disappeared back into the establishment, yelling at some other unruly patrons.

That evening you brought a couple portions of that meal to Jasper and his family. It took a bit of asking around to find them, but soon enough you were knocking on their door.

Ellis answered, looking down at you coldly.

“I wanted to bring you some food. Hopefully you’ll enjoy it.”

He took the bag wordlessly, before shutting the door.

~

“I have some stew for you, mama.”

Her gaze never drifted from the window as you placed the warm bowl beside her. Draping a cloth over her lap, you watched her solemn face. Silently, she turned for the bowl, letting it rest in her likely cold hands.

You stood, walking to fetch her tea from the kitchen. Upon return, you found her gently bringing the spoon to her lips, shaking lightly as she did so.

With a soft thud, the mug settled on dark wood. Drawing a book from the nearby shelf you sat down next to her, flipping the leather cover open.

You read calmly from the pages, skipping over or changing words you didn't quite know. It had been a couple years since you stopped going to the schoolhouse, after all. There was just no time after your father died, especially with your mother in this state.

A hand landed quietly on your knee, drawing your attention back to her. Marking your new spot in the book, you set it down with the remnants of her meal.

She brought her hand down to yours, gripping quickly in thanks. It was dejecting seeing her like this, but after this long it was hard to picture her outside of mourning.

"Why do you never talk to me, mama? Did I do somethin' wrong?"

With a shake of her head, her gaze returned to the window and her hands to her lap.

~

About a week later, you remember waking up early to the sound of your dog barking loudly from the front yard. Donning your heavy coat, you opened the door to find Jasper trying to pet her down at the fence line.

"Is this your dog?" he had asked.

"Yes."

"She's real pretty…Thanks by the way, for dinner."

"It's no problem. I had extra."

"I noticed you were visiting someone of your own."

"My papa." you replied, standing beside him and petting the long fur of your dog. "He was caught robbin’ a wagon full of weapons and shot by the lawmen, at least that's what I heard. Mama never said nothin' to me about it."

He hummed, looking down and rubbing behind the ear of your dog.

"My mama was sick for a long time. It was hurtin' my dad forever, probably even more now. He doesn't really care how it makes me feel – my brother neither. They just leave angry in the mornin' and come back even worse at night."

A minute of vulnerable silence passed between you, before Jasper spoke up again.

"Are you headin' to school?"

"No. I'll have to be at work soon."

His eyes seemed wide for a second before he shifted, "Where do you work?"

"At the funeral parlor, as an assistant to the director."

"Why would you pick a job like that?”

“I don’t really know. I just saw the horse-drawn hearse moving down the street and felt somethin’ come over me.”

“I think I can understand,” he whispered, looking down into your dog’s eyes.

He stayed like that for a moment as you rested in the early morning quietness. A bird sang abruptly from the nearby tree, and he perked up once more.

“Would you want to walk down to the river with me? We could try and catch a frog or two before daybreak.”

“I guess.”

“Great,” he nodded.

And that became your routine. Every morning, he would come see you and your dog. Sometimes he would have a little snack for her in hand and other times he would have a paper with some work he couldn’t quite figure out. Being with him by the river was a pleasant thing – something to get both of your minds off of circumstance.

~

“I plan on retiring next year, and I would like for you to be my successor.”

The world seemed to still as Mr. Whitfield sat calmly, waiting for your response. His aging black hair shifted lightly in the wind, his gaze out over the nearby buildings. Cool stone rested under your back as you leaned against the parlor's walls.

“I… I’m honored, sir.”

“Oh, just call me Peter already. We’ve worked together long enough.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

The sounds of the town took over for a moment before he stood up, walking in through the door. A commotion drew your eyes up from the deck, watching as someone rode in with a grumbling figure on the back of their horse. The person in the saddle had a dark green bandana hanging out of their pocket – the trademark of a growing gang in the area.

They dismounted across the street from you, just in front of the jailhouse. Both of the deputies came out shortly after, one talking to the person then bringing them in. The other approached the horse, throwing the figure over his shoulder. They disappeared into the sheriff’s office, seemingly exchanging words about what to do with the two.

“Here are some books I’ve used over the years,” Peter said, a small stack in his hands, “If you’re going to take over the business, there’s more you’ll need to learn. Feel free to take these home if you’d like.”

“I appreciate it.”

He handed the books to you, then returned to his seat in front of the parlor. You decided to join him, setting the stack on your right.

As the gravity of your future inched in, you laid back against the stained wood of the bench. Your right foot tapped on the deck, reverberating over the plane anxiously while your thoughts became jumbled.

“What’s weighing on you, kid?”

“I’m just… starting to doubt myself is all.”

“I was the same as you when I first inherited this business from my father. He was always kind and courteous, served the community well. I’m passing this on to you because I see you as my kin. I have every confidence in you, whether you see the potential in yourself or not.”

His words brought water to your eyes, making you inhale and look away towards the snowy mountains in the distance.

Sniffling brought your attention back as Jasper walked up to the deck, cradling his left arm with the other hand.

“Are you alright, boy?” Peter questioned.

“Could I go inside?” he asked gently, making eye contact with you.

Standing up, you guided him into the entry room of the parlor, watching as he sat on the sofa.

“I ran as fast as I could, I figured since it was day you’d be here.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it yet.”

“Alright. I’ll go get some coffee and an aid kit.”

Turning to leave the room, you heard him speak up again.

“Can I come with you?”

“Of course.”

~

It was probably about five months later when you found Jasper sitting on the bench of the parlor, bottle in hand. After locking the door, you went and took a seat next to him.

“What are you doing, Jas?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know nothin’ anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

He tilted his head before taking another sip. Your right hand came to rest at the back of his neck.

“Talk to me… please. Nothin’ you say will leave this porch.”

“I… think I’m not cut out for this.”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” he gestured around the street, “I do my best in everything, and it still isn’t good enough. My dad couldn’t give a shit about me and my brother anymore, all he does is drink and sleep. He hardly ever goes to work – I wouldn’t be surprised if he was fired by now! Ellis ain’t much better. He leaves for the farm early, storming into my room and draggin’ me out before he goes. Always tellin’ me I need to grow up – that I’m not man enough for this world. It’s not like I have a job, and I ain’t been going to the schoolhouse much recently either. I figured since I’m set to be finished there soon anyway, I could start skippin’. I just… wish my mama was still here. Even when she was sick, she still went through every day with more strength than I’ve ever had… Looking back now, I think she accepted that death was comin’, and she lived to her fullest because of it. Maybe I could take a page out of her book. I know that this all might seem sudden, but you’re the only one I’ve got.”

“You’re good enough to me, Jas. Even if that doesn’t seem like much, I want you to know. Your family is just too ignorant to understand. You’ve got plenty of grit in you, but you still show that you care.” You sighed before continuing, “And I understand. While my mama might not be dead, she hasn’t spoken since my father died. I still try my best to take care of her, but it’s like she’s just sittin’ there, waiting for her day to come.”

The snorting of a nearby horse broke the heavy atmosphere.

“If it’s a job you want, you’re always welcome here. Peter would gladly have you work the front. Just come talk to him tomorrow.”

“Alright.” he smiled smally.

“Hand me the bottle?”

Glass hit the wooden deck as you set down the exchanged liquor. Standing up, you reached out a hand for him.

“Come on, you can stay with me.”

~

Jasper’s life only worsened just two months after that night at the parlor. He didn’t come in for work that day, and you couldn’t find him anywhere usual in the town.

Crying and a thump at your front door brought you away from your mother’s side. You had been tidying her hair, a simple activity you would do to help her before she started her nightly routine.

Peering from one of the windows, you saw him waiting in your front yard, holding onto your dog for comfort. He looked up in your direction when you emerged from the dimly lit doorway, walking down the stairs from the porch.

“He shot him. Shot him dead, right in front of me.”

You got on your knees in front of him, bringing your hand to his shoulder.

“I… I was comin’ home from a walk, I… I went out to clear my head. Ellis, he stormed out with my dad trailin’ behind him. His eyes… they were just fed up – bloodthirsty almost. He looked at me. God, I’ll never forget that stare. They yelled at each other some more, going’ on about somethin’. My brother… he drew his gun, shot my dad right in the chest four times. He came over to me, put a hand on my head and told me things would be better now. Like hell they will! He took off on some horse – he’s gone now too. Out runnin’ from the law and leavin’ me high and dry with nothing.”

He let go of the dog, running his hand down his face. She walked off to somewhere behind you, sniffing around.

“I’ve got nothin’ but you, now.” He whispered, looking up at you full of turmoil.

You brought both arms around him, feeling him start to cry again.

“I know my dad had his grief, even when my mama was sick he’d be out doin’ who knows what. Still, I… I can’t help this weight on me.”

“It’s natural, Jas. You lost two people tonight, despite your experiences with them, it’s still a loss.”

He exhaled shakily, shifting back from you and rising to stand on his feet. You matched him before bringing your hand back to his shoulder, rubbing your thumb lightly against the edge of his neck.

“How about supper? Would that help a little?”

“Yeah… yeah.” he sighed.

Together you walked to the front door, and on this occasion, your dog followed too.

—

PART II - Redemption for the Wayward

Winces and the metallic echoes of medical tools could be heard from the nearby room. Boothill rested in an entry room chair, leaning back with his hat over his face. There was nothing in this space he wanted to look at – nothing he sought to remember. Your sounds of pain didn’t help either.

He had gotten stitches himself many years ago, but the scars were long gone now.

A sharp cry resounded down the hall, followed by hushed murmurs from the doctor. There was a fiery response, before the room went quiet again.

It wasn't the first time he had found you in trouble – far from it in fact. Since the day you started riding together, it seemed like thunder followed. Be it the sounds of hooves, gunfire, glasses on the table, or simply storms themselves.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

—

"I want to leave with you."

It was the only time you had ever seen surprise on Boothill’s face.

Holding his gaze you continued, “Does that sound like a plan?”

“I… I don’t see why not. Are you sure you don’t want to clean up first?”

As if answering his question, whistles broke out two streets down. A few shouts from who you assumed to be lawmen echoed, sending a wave of fear through you.

“No. I’ll find a river or somethin’ later, right now we just need to get out.”

“Mind explainin’ why they’re lookin’ for you?”

You appeared stunned for a moment, before you recalled the events that led to the blood on your hands.

~

“Please… please just end me already.”

“You know I can’t do that to you, Jas.”

He ran his hand through his hair, revealing more of his distraught face. “You’ve seen me… I’m just like my father and there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it no more.”

“That’s not true.”

“Don’t lie to me, we both know I’m right.”

“Jasper, please, come over here so we can talk this out.”

“We’re talkin’ it out right now.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“I’m sick of talkin’ anyway. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into trying to get rid of this feeling, but it never leaves. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

You stood on the back porch of your parlor, watching as he pulled a gun from his side. He walked to you, leaving it on the chair to your left.

Just three months ago you watched Boothill walk from this porch, the hint of new friendship roaming on the wood.

Two months ago, you bid farewell to your new assistant, a promise of success growing over the stain.

One month ago, your mother spoke to you for the first time in seven years, apologies and regret falling from her lips.

Now, you would be in the greatest standoff of your life.

“If I’m gonna die I want you to do it.”

“No.”

He grabbed your left hand, lifting the gun up from where it rested. “Give me my freedom, please. We both know nothin’ else will.”

“Jas…”

“Stop wastin’ your breath.”

A set of tears rolled down your cheeks, and in a final act of care, Jasper wiped them away.

“Don’t cry for me. I want this. I want to see my mama again, healthy and bright. Maybe even my dad,” his voice broke, “smilin’ and rocking on the porch. I may even see you one day, too.”

He inhaled before bringing your hand up to his forehead, a sad look of acceptance and peace on his face. He nodded, the barrel of the gun shifting up and down.

“Goodbye, Jasper.”

A shot rang out, slightly muffled from the circumstance. Blood splattered down to the dirt, soaking into it crudely. Jasper’s body tumbled back down the wooden steps, landing face up at the end. He looked content, the dead light in his eyes causing conflicting waves of emotion within you.

There would be no time to feel them, though. Not yet. Even if it was nearing midnight, there was always a deputy out somewhere.

You descended the scarlet-covered steps, kneeling down to close his eyes. A warmth spread over your hands as you did so, red coating your fingers when you pulled them away.

Exhaling heavily, you left the back alley, on the lookout for a horse.

Boothill told you he’d be leaving tonight, after a final few rounds of faro at the other saloon in town. Why, he never shared, but you figured it had something to do with the incident a couple months back.

If you were lucky you could join him – head out on the road of an outlaw. It wasn’t an idea you had ever considered before, but now it seemed like the only choice.

~

The fire crackled in front of you, smoke rising to the starry sky. Boothill sat beside you, hands occupied with a knife and a piece of wood, idly carving.

In the silent peace, you felt the gravity of your actions begin to set in. Water crept over your eyes, gathering along the edges and flowing down your cheeks. Your quiet cries were some of the only noise in this area of the desert. Somewhere out of the town limits and secluded enough to provide cover in case of any emergency.

“Do you… have any regrets?” you asked lowly, drying your eyes with an exhale.

Boothill looked up from his work, “Once, but not anymore.”

You hummed, staring into the bright flames before you. Sadness welled once more before you spoke up.

“I shot my oldest friend today. He asked me to, came to me pleading.”

There was no movement or sound, until he set down his tools. “And now you’re out on the road with me.”

The dried blood on your hand felt like a glove as you clenched your fist. “I suppose I am.”

He stood up, walking to his horse’s side. A blanket was in his hands as he returned, tossing it gently in your direction before sitting back down to carve.

“I might not be the best at comfort, but I’ll try.”

You placed the wool underneath your head. Neither of you had the makings of a proper camp yet, but even if it was a makeshift pillow it would work.

“When we were out on the trail, there wasn’t much for occupying your time. Most of it was spent herdin’ and fending off animals or gangs. We often had cards with us, and so we’d sit around a fire like this one at night, playin’ the boring games that didn’t involve gambling. When it was time to sleep, some of us would take our places closer to the cattle. We’d sing or hum to them to keep them calm – they always told me I had the best voice. One that suited folk like us the most.”

With that, he started to hum a tune. It was quiet, and the slicing of wood fell in time with the slow rhythm. The melody was soothing, and with a deep exhale you found yourself letting go. As your eyes drifted further shut, he started singing. They were right, he did have a voice perfect for the range.

—

“Thornton’ll be headin’ out for a while. Said we could use the room upstairs as usual.”

You hummed, buttoning up the fresh shirt the doctor had given you. The space stayed quiet after, as your gaze bore into the bloody knife resting on the cloth-covered table. You stood up carefully, gritting your teeth before you were upright.

Grabbing your hat and gun belt, you met Boothill at the doorway.

“How’re you doin’?” he asked gently, bringing his hand up to the side of your neck. His thumb rubbed along the edge of your jaw as you crossed your arms.

“Fine, still trying to work off the sting.”

“Well that’s better than nothin’, isn’t it?”

He was right, yet, there still was something tugging at your chest. A sensation that weighed on your breath.

“I apologize-”

“There ain’t nothing to apologize for.”

You sighed, “I just hope I haven’t been much of a burden these last few weeks.”

“I take care of you, and you take care of me. It’s that simple. There’ll always be trouble when you live a life like ours,” he chuckled, “I’ll never think less of you for it.”

—

“You've used a gun before, right?”

Boothill looked over at you, an eyebrow raised and a hand resting along his belt.

“Only once.”

“Well then, we're gonna work on your skills today.”

He walked back over to his horse, unclipping a holstered revolver from his equipment. A red and cream package of bullets were placed on his saddle. He gave the brown leather-clad weapon to you, letting you pull it out yourself and feel the cool weight in your palm.

“I wanna see your instinct first. Spot that rock up there?” he gestured toward a miniature cliffside, angling down toward the two of you. A large dark grey stone lay on its edge. “Aim for it and shoot.”

You analyzed the gun for a moment before raising it in both hands, the top of the barrel aligning with the rock. Pulling back the hammer from its half-cocked state, you heard a singular click. Pressing your index finger down on the trigger, a bullet flew from the barrel straight at the stone. It made an echoing crack before the case flung off to the side.

“Not bad. Do it again.”

You shifted your feet in the dirt before taking up your former stance. Aiming, you drew back the hammer as the chamber revolved. Two clicks sounded this time. With a finger on the trigger, you pulled it down to hear the same ringing shot and clack against rock.

Boothill sidled up next to you, bringing your left hand down to your side.

“Another.”

Now only using one hand, you shot once more. A small chip fell from the rock as you hit a second spot.

"Fall back into me a little bit."

"Why?"

"If you're gonna be an outlaw, you best learn to carry yourself like one."

You did as he said, falling back into a casual lean against his chest. His arm came up against the back of yours, carrying it down to your side before lifting it back up again and pointing the revolver at the rock. You brought the hammer back again, before pulling the trigger. You cocked the gun once more, firing another shot at the stone, followed by a third.

A low whistle came from behind you, “Aren’t you a natural?”

“Well, I’m learnin’ from the best.”

“Got that right.”

“Are you always this smug?”

“Only with you.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that.” you stated, turning around from his hold.

“Really now?”

“You just love to keep on teasin’ me. That’s what it is.”

“And if so?” he questioned, stepping forward as if taking on a challenge.

“I’ll keep doing this dance with you, cowboy.” you tipped his hat down, watching his silver eyes disappear beneath the brim.

“I wouldn’t prefer it any other way.” he flicked it back up, a sharp smirk on his face.

“Now, why don’t you show me how the best shoots? I’d like to see what I’ll be competing with soon.” you stepped back from him, angling the gun toward the rocks.

“I said you were a natural, but I never said you were as practiced as me.”

“Talkin’ down to me?”

“Just statin’ facts.” he tilted his head, spinning his revolver from it’s holster along his leg.

“What a show-off you are.”

“Quit talkin’ and start aimin’.”

“You’re on.”

~

“See those deer?” Boothill whispered, watching beside you as a herd of coues passed by a few yards away.

The wind brushed against your cheeks, carrying the scent of coming rain in the twilight. There must have been water falling on nearby creosote bushes.

You stared on, admiring how sweet they looked roaming and feeding on cactus fruit.

He smiled at you, seeming almost wistful before his gaze returned to the scene. "I remember we used to see them a lot in the brush along the trail. Big herds stayed longer than just a few of them, less skittish together I suppose." He laughed lightly, genuine and lovely. "The first time I saw a buck was on my family's farm. I had just finished some harvesting, when its antlers caught my eye. The wheat was up to my elbows at the time – I still recall its itch. We had locked eyes, and from that day forward I felt called to be out like them. It was part of my motive for joinin' the round-ups."

"There's a freedom to it – one that you only dream of before you finally live it."

"So articulate. Maybe you should start doing all the talkin'."

You snickered, beginning to pack up your belongings from the small camp you learned to make. "I'm afraid I could never be a poet like you."

"With all this flattery, I just might be inspired enough to pursue that instead."

"I'd better get a dedication, right on the first page.”

"You’ll get the entire book, sugar." He smiled.

"Oh please, save it." You tugged down his hat to hide his teasing eyes.

—

PART III - The Revenant of Vengeance

The wet stone pathways of downtown Warren echoed the heels of your boots. There was little light behind the shops – few people too. It was the perfect spot for a short walk, one that could provide a break from the doctor’s incessant tinkering.

“Well, looky here.” Boothill murmured, pausing to look at a board of papers.

“Think I’ll be up there?” you questioned, hands in your pocket beside him.

“Oh, without a doubt.” his eyes roamed the posters before lighting up at a pair. “Right here, see.”

‘Reward’ was printed in large font at the top. The value of $2,000 sat above text that shared your name, followed by a photo of you from about six years ago, dressed professionally in a well-designed chair at the funeral parlor. Your name was added below it, and a description of your appearance. The signature of the sheriff was penned at the bottom, adding yet another county to your roster.

Boothill’s began the same, with the exception of a $3,500 bounty. An unflattering sketch took up most of the page, as well as key notes about him underneath.

“They can never get my eyes right.” he huffed, gaze lingering on the board.

“My picture isn’t even accurate anymore.” you voiced, arms now crossed against your chest. “What lousy lawmen they have here.”

“I’d have to agree.”

With a sigh you continued, “I reckon it’s about time we get back to the office. Before those lawmen spot us.”

“We could take them.”

“Maybe so, but we don’t need larger bounties.”

“Really? I think there’s somethin’ romantic about it. The more wanted you are, the larger the reward. The more opportunities for attention and infamy.”

“Is my attention not good enough?”

“Come on now, sugar, you know I love it more than anything else.”

“Well then head back with me, cowboy, and I’ll show you some.”

He chuckled lowly, “Who could turn down an offer like that?"

As you turned to walk, his hand landed on your shoulder, the other reaching up to the board, ripping off one of the posters.

“Well I'll be.” you mumbled, observing the photo on it from over his arm.

Lloyd Walker, wanted dead or alive with a reward of $5,000. He had practically become public enemy number one in the surrounding areas over the last seven years. He had numerous crimes, and as many tricks up his sleeve to match. At least that's what the rumors said – his gang was only ever unruly.

“What do you say? Is he gonna be our newest target?”

A fire grew in Boothill’s formerly somber eyes, as he turned to you with a smile.

“Absolutely.”

—

The damp and pebble-covered ground was tarnished with deep red, the remnants of injury seeping into the soil beneath a discarded body. It was windless as Jesse laid against the riverbank, staring up into the ray-stricken cloudy sky. Low cries for help continued leaving his bloodied lips, but his energy was wearing thin. Every inch of him ached – stinging or burning the only sensations he could feel.

Still, he couldn’t just lay here and accept death. He was far too stubborn to ever answer a reaper’s call.

And, as if by some little twist of fate, hooves clamped their way toward him until rushing footsteps were the only thing he could hear.

“Good lord, sir, what happened to you?”

~

It was an ambush, plain and simple.

One moment he was talking with the other rangers and the next they were hiding behind rocks or trees, shooting at whatever green bandana they saw. One or two bandits weren’t unusual, but they had never dealt with such a large group before.

He was panicking, running out of bullets and watching his friends fall in the dust. They were overwhelmed with little to no chance of making it out unscathed.

Walker’s people were relentless, though, and they would never leave until they got what they came for or hit the dirt.

How unlucky for them that Jesse was the same.

~

Dilapidated cabins were built together in two rows, some of their group’s stolen cattle grazing off to the side. His horse stopped right at the rotting wood enclosing them, head high as he prepared for revenge. They had killed four of his trailmates, and he would be coming now for at least four of them.

It was bold to break the rules set for round-ups, and Lee’s warnings echoed through his head. There was leniency given to him before, and for this cause, he was sure he’d get it again.

After dismounting, he made his way through the brush to one of the cabins, two revolvers in hand. It was a risky game, but he was willing to play – whether it was the facade of victory or delusion from righteousness keeping him going.

He snuck through the makeshift settlement, hearing bits of laughter from his left. No matter what he did after this, he would have all surrounding eyes on him. Treading lightly, he stalked behind the house until he found a decent opening. He aimed through the cracks in the dark wood, going straight for the heads he could target. With four clicks, both guns were fully cocked and he shot.

It would be the only regret he had in his life.

~

“Time to wake up, my friend.”

An oddly chipper voice reached Jesse’s ears, as if summoning him from a lengthy slumber.

His eyes drifted open, leaving him to feel painless yet confused.

“I’m sure there is much you would like to know, but please, try to become used to this body first.”

This body?

“We’ll need to utilize some methods of physical therapy to ensure that you know how to use it, and that everything is in working order.”

He turned his head in the direction of the voice – a movement that felt unexpectedly stiff.

“You may call me Dr. Thornton, or Claude if you’d prefer. You have been reborn in the city of Warren. Do you remember where that is?”

Reborn?

“Yes, doctor, I do.” his voice hadn’t changed, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.

“Wonderful. Do you recall the events that led you here?”

“That is perfectly fine, sir. I found you there, and brought you back to my practice. Well, my unofficial practice I suppose one could call it. What about your name?”

“I was bleedin’ out by a river, before… well I’d prefer not to talk about that part.”

“Jesse Blackwell.” he responded, without any hesitation.

Thornton stood up, drying off his greased hands on a nearby rag. He brought the same towel to Jesse’s neck, but he couldn't feel it. The mild brush of cloth, a sensation he had known well from cleaning himself up, never came. He began to tilt his head downward, but the doctor’s fingers caught his chin.

“Not yet.”

He shifted his chin back up, staring straight ahead as alarm started setting in. Questions plagued his mind, until a sharp snap from behind broke him out of it.

The doctor held his hands out to him, and he placed his own over his open palms. They were grey, metallic, and the more he looked at them, the more they seemed almost mechanical. His thoughts seized him as he found Thornton’s eyes. They seemed proud yet there was a glint hidden under their pine-like color that brought a pensive look to Jesse’s face.

He was guided to take a step, and he heard what sounded like a boot as he did so. It persisted as he was brought across the floor to a doorway, passing into another room. His hands left the doctor’s, falling back to his side as his gaze drifted up to something covered in a white sheet.

“Are you ready to welcome this new life?” Thornton asked.

After a brief moment, Jesse nodded.

The cloth was lifted to reveal a tall mirror, one that reflected every inch of him.

“If there is anything you would like me to change, you need only say the word.”

Silence fell, as Jesse was confronted with rushing realization.

He survived Lloyd Walker, but at what cost? His humanity?

But what constitutes humanity?

Flesh and blood?

The ability to experience empathy and emotion?

His bewildered eyes met the doctor’s – ones that were steady as stone.

Thornton looked into the mirror from beside him. “You are a marvel of human craft, sir.”

Something in him stirred at the words, an anger that he wasn’t well-versed enough to place. The only thing he could do was grab the doctor’s collar, observing him with contempt.

“Come now, Jesse, you best be grateful. I’ve transformed you. You’ve become something that people could only dream of. You cried for help and I gave it to you.”

The doctor stumbled after he was released, moving back into the office, or whatever he liked to call it. Jesse remained in the small room, inspecting himself in the mirror. He stared for a long while, paralyzed by the overwhelming circumstance. He felt violated, like his very being was invaded.

Was his life even his anymore?

No. He couldn’t sink into that void.

~

“You’ve surpassed my expectations, Jesse. Count yourself free to go, though you’re always welcome back for repairs… or a hideout if you find yourself in trouble.”

Clad in monochrome leather, with a few scattered hints of red, the reborn cowboy placed his hat on his head as he opened the front door to Thornton’s establishment.

“My name ain’t Jesse.” he voiced, looking back at the suited man. “It’s Boothill.”

The doctor met his eyes over his glasses, “Farewell then, Boothill.”

—

A disheveled Claude Thornton broke through the spare room’s door, appearing wild and bruised.

“They’re on their way.”

Any plans you had been discussing with Boothill were interrupted as you watched the panicked man sharply. “Who exactly?”

“I think you already know." he said, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"You goddamn idiot."

"They cornered and beat me! What did you expect me to do?"

"Follow our agreement that we could lie low here." Boothill stated, glaring at the doctor as he reloaded his revolver.

"I had only made that agreement with you, friend, not them.” he replied, gesturing a hand toward you. “Regardless, the law knows by now that wherever one of you goes the other will follow.”

“And this time you’ll be with us.” you sighed, lifting your hand for him to stand up.

Grabbing the man’s right arm, you brought it behind his back, placing your other hand on his left shoulder. Guiding him down the stairs as Boothill followed, you walked to the hitches Thornton had built at his rear door.

Whistles came down the alley as you ordered him to sit on the back of your horse. After he finished grumbling, you mounted and began riding off to the left as Boothill went right.

Handing him a spare rifle from your horse, you pulled two revolvers from your gun belt.

“I apologize, but I do not know how to use one of these.” he shared, holding the weapon awkwardly.

“You’re hopeless, doctor.”

Trading with him, you aimed the rifle at one of the lawmen approaching you.

“Just pull down the hammer and shoot at them until the chambers are empty. Don’t bother reloading, we’ll be out of here by then.”

He nodded before turning his head back, covering the rear as you winded down stone streets, doing your best to avoid bringing citizens into the fray. You caught a glimpse of black and white disappearing around a corner – a road that led to the train tracks from what you could recall. Pulling the reins to the right, you moved to follow, shooting at one of his pursuers before dodging the fallen body.

Droplets flicked against your boots, leading the doctor to groan at his dirtied shoes. Broken glass nearby signified it was probably some discarded liquor.

A horn sounded from your right, accelerating the rushing sound in your ears. One of Thornton’s hands gripped onto your shoulder tightly as you sped up, crossing before the train daringly.

Pausing on the other side of the tracks, you watched cautiously for any other lawmen. Boothill came up next to you, eyes analyzing your figure before they followed your gaze.

“I swear the two of you are going to get me killed.”

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t do it myself after the shit you’ve pulled.” you spat, securing your rifle back against your horse.

“Need I remind you I had no other choice.” he retorted, handing you back the revolvers.

“You sold us out after three hits, doctor, that’s something that would get you a hole in your forehead with anyone else.”

“I only told them where you were, dear, not him.”

You pointed one of the guns behind you against the side of his skull, disregarding if it was empty or not.

“Do you think that’s somethin’ you should really be saying to me? For as much tinkering as you do, and as many people as you claim to help, I don’t think you’re very bright. If you were, you wouldn’t have given us up, and you would watch your mouth when you’re talkin’ to me. Now, tell me you can understand that at least, doctor.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now you best stay quiet.”

“Alright.”

Putting the gun back into its holster at your side, your focus returned to Boothill.

“Are we still going north?”

“I don’t see why not.” he replied, shifting slightly in his saddle.

“Then let’s go – this train is almost over.”

—

The town of Iris Creek was quaint, fresh air gliding over land of dying grass. A few small flowers grew along the trails, blossoms of deep violet running up their stems. Your stresses slowly quelled as the peaceful atmosphere set in.

At least until you had to sort out Thornton's situation.

Boothill had left for the saloon not long ago, attempting to find what information about Walker he could. In his absence, you would be taking the well-dressed man to the hotel.

Getting the room was a simple affair, so was the walk to where he would stay. It seemed odd that you received no second glances, but it was a welcome change.

Entering his room, the doctor finally spoke, "What do you think of him?"

"Pardon?"

"Boothill."

He sat in a chair right before a plain wooden desk, crossing one leg over the other.

"I care for him very deeply, but I think you could figure that out already. ”

"Would seeing him in pain hurt you, then?"

"What exactly are you trying to say, Thornton?"

"Nothing at all, just conjecture." He responded, hands coming up defensively before returning to his lap.

"I still have half a mind to kill you."

"Always so crude with me," he shook his head, "If you do decide to murder me, you might as well do the same to Boothill. Nobody else in this world understands his inner workings like I do. If I'm dead, there will be no one left to repair him if something goes awry. He's already tried before himself and landed at the same conclusion."

~

In the dim lighting of your shared room, your fingers carded through Boothill's newly cleaned hair. The noise from the saloon below reverberated upward, but it faded into nothing as warm lips found your neck.

"What did you find?" you questioned, quiet in the tranquility of the moment.

"There's supposed to be a whole bunch of Walker's a bit further up in the mountains. By Whitetail Hill."

"Well, that's good. Leave at dawn and we could make it there by early afternoon."

"My thoughts exactly."

A group of cheers from below filled the silence. Sharp edges nipped at the same spot of your neck, drawing a short wince from you. It was soothed by a soft tongue licking across the area as cool fingertips traced the other side of your neck.

You began to turn your head in his direction before those same fingers brought your chin down. Rough lips met yours in a rare instance of gentleness, something that reminded you of calm before a storm.

—

PART IV - Death, the Range's Old Friend

Dust kicked up from underneath the gravel path as you brought your horses to an abrupt stop. A figure rest in the middle of the road, bloodied claw marks running down their front. They coughed, red splattering back against their cheeks.

“Mercy… mercy, please.”

A scarlet covered bandana slipped from their pocket, bits of green peeking out from beneath. You cocked your gun at them before speaking.

“I’ll grant you your wish after you answer some questions. Deal?”

“Yes, yes.”

“You were coming from the area of Whitetail Hill, correct?”

They nodded weakly.

“Where specifically?” Boothill asked, looking around the surrounding forest – likely watching for the animal that attacked them.

“Copperhead Mine.”

A breeze blew through the trees, carrying an odd and empty whistle. A bang interrupted the cryptic melody as the Walker’s plea was granted. The slow movement of hooves followed shortly after, as you maneuvered around them.

“What do you think we’re headed into?” you wondered, meeting Boothill’s eyes.

“Nothin’ good, I can tell you that much.”

“How many’ll be there?”

“I can’t say. The bartender said upwards of 20.”

“Will we be able to take them?” you picked up the pace, looking over the small cliff to your left.

“After all this time, you still doubt us.” he chuckled, matching your speed.

“It’s better to stay realistic.”

“You have me with you, anything we do is realistic.”

You sighed, as the clouds drifted across the blue noon sky. “I suppose I just want you to look after yourself more.”

He waited an instant before responding, features full of sincerity. “I know you care about me, more than I had ever thought I would receive. But I’m not going anywhere – there’s nothin’ in this world that could kill me anymore.”

—

The ominous tune of the wind persisted, some symphony of nature that could only serve to unnerve you. A shiver went down your spine as you reached a viewpoint of the mine, a chill seeping in beneath your clothes. Dismounting, you pat the neck of your horse, trying to steel yourself before the confrontation.

You nodded at Boothill, before leaving first down to the camp. Dry grass crackled under your steps, before the crunch of gravel came instead. The sound alerted who you assumed to be the leader of the group, a scarred eye looking over you in suspicion before he spoke.

“What the hell are you doin’ out here?”

“I was in Iris Creek yesterday, askin’ around about any jobs. They said you’d need some more hands out here.”

“Really now? Who exactly told you that?”

“The bartender at the saloon.”

“Which saloon?”

“There’s only one in town, friend.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Quite so.”

He glanced back at a set of boxes, before making eye contact with one of the members. You drew your revolvers, shooting at two of the people before ducking behind a pair of barrels. Boothill emerged from behind one of their tents, blood already coating his cheek.

He was always brash in his ways, usually coming in guns blazing unless the plan said otherwise. Even then, there was no safe bet that he would follow it. Today was a lucky day, you supposed.

Splinters of wood broke off in your direction, falling over the edge of your arm and over a dark red stain you had yet to notice. Aiming around the side, you fired at one's eyes and another's cheek from where they hid. A second pair hit two plainly in the head, one of their bullets going astray into the rock by the mine entrance.

A strong grip wrapped around your ankle, pulling you backward through twig-like bushes. You were met with the same scarred left eye when the dust cleared – a gaze that spoke murder pinning you down. A fist met the side of your face, brute pain emerging afterward. He went again but was met with your right arm. He tried your left side, and you let him get a hit in as you cautiously unsheathed your knife. With a block to another hit, you slashed your knife across his chest. It was the easiest thing to do in this position, and he backed off of you slightly to stare down at the scarlet seeping into the edges of his cut shirt.

A tight hold turned him over, leaving you above him. The sharp tip of the knife pointed right under his chin as you started your interrogation.

“Where’s Lloyd?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you shit.” he spat.

Taking the blade, you punctured along the edge of his right eye. He screamed as crude fluid bursted against your sleeves, running down the side of his face as you twisted it.

“I’m not fuckin’ around with you! Where is Lloyd Walker?”

“In- in Thatcher!”

“That’s it? You sure there ain’t anything else you want to tell me?” you questioned, drawing the knife from his eye. Another scream came before the tip of the blade returned to his chin, dragging down to his sternum.

“He’s hidin’ out with somebody. They’re in bed together, doing some real shady business. Patrick Arrington – that’s the guy you want to meet with! He’s in the oil business, and real paranoid to boot.”

“Any tips you want to share before I’m finished with you?”

He licked his lips, panicked and steadily bleeding. “Find Ef. I… I met her at a theater once. She loves it there, lights up the minute the curtain rises.”

“Does she have a full name?”

“I don’t know it.”

“Fine, then. Keep your secrets.”

“I’m not lyin’! She never told me!”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.”

The blade plunged in his throat forcibly, the near frightening sensation of shattering bone reverberating to the hilt of the knife. A dry wheeze left his lips as you stood up, pulling the weapon back out.

A low whistle, one that you could recall anywhere by now, came from behind you. Boothill walked up, looking down at the body.

“Did you get anythin’ out of him?”

“Plenty. What do you think of a trip to the capital?”

He smiled, sharp with excitement and thrill. “Sounds like a lovely time to me.”

—

PART V - Ballad of the Dead and Alive

It had been years since you last set foot in Thatcher. The city had become strikingly more commercialized, with a shop, service, or office on every corner. Your boots had been left behind at the hotel room, exchanged earlier after a trip to the tailor’s for something more formal.

Wood doors with decorated glass opened as you walked into the lobby, Boothill following behind.

“Tickets for two, please.” you smiled, leaning against the front counter.

“Door to your left.” the taker replied, sliding the slips underneath the barricade.

With a tip of his new hat, Boothill thanked them before heading through to the hallway. It was plain black, something simple yet classy per recommendation of the tailor. He had outright refused their first suggestion of a top hat – slight disgust on his face as he said that would never be his style.

“Guess I finally got that theater date.” he chuckled, opening the double doors to reveal a lit stage.

“I suppose you did.” you replied, taking his hand and going to find your seats.

A narrator stood in front of the curtain, reciting the introduction to a play. Now sitting in the second row, you and Boothill waited patiently for the show to begin.

“‘Do not plague thyself with vexatious matters. Live unshackled and wander from this day forth.’ Thus, did the young Lady Rena commence her journey.”

A beautiful woman walked out to center stage, clothed in a green silk dress. A wide-brimmed hat of the same color rested on her head, feathers rising from the right side that were held under a silk brim. Lavender sprigs and violets emerged from the left, wrapping around to sit delicately on the front.

A gasp came from your right, bringing your gaze away from the show. Brown hair, pinned and curled, came into view before an apologetic expression.

“I’m sorry, I just love to see how the characters dress.”

“It’s alright, you didn’t bother me at all.”

“Oh, well I’m glad.” she smiled, then looked back to the stage.

As the play continued on, your gaze bounced between the actors and the spectator next to you. She seemed to beam at the performance, her eyes watching every detail closely even if she noticed your attention on her. It wasn’t until the brief break before the climax that she turned back to you.

She didn’t say a word for a minute or two, simply looking over your features.

“Have you ever thought about acting?”

“It’s never crossed my mind before.”

“It just seems like you have a knack for it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I can’t really say, it’s just a feeling. I have a… friend that reminds me of you. She’s been up on the stage there all night. She acts so well, and you can tell she really loves it despite her always telling me it’s just a job.”

“And what about you?”

She paused, seeming to briefly sink into herself. “Can I trust you with a little secret?”

“Of course.”

She smiled smally, “I actually wrote this play. When my work day was over, I’d go up to my room and spend a couple hours jotting it all down. My boss is a miserable man – it’s a pleasant break from him.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely to see it brought to life, then.”

“It’s my biggest achievement so far, and nobody besides you knows the truth behind it.” Sincerity took over her face, a beat passing between you before she spoke. “So, it’s only fair that you share your truth with me. Who are the two of you?”

A hand came to rest on your shoulder as the other was held out across your front, waiting for a shake.

“You can call me Boothill, Ef.”

Her face looked surprised, as if she had possibly seen him somewhere.

“We were preparing to do business with your boss, Patrick Arrington, correct?” he continued.

“Yes.” she replied curtly. “He’s been having me carry around something for you as a matter of fact.”

She placed an envelope in Boothill’s open hand. He turned it over between his fingers, taking a moment to look at the wax seal. With a quick rip, it opened, revealing tight cursive on the parchment. It was an invitation to a dinner in two nights time. Arrington’s signature sprawled over the bottom half of the paper, bold in comparison to his previous handwriting. He spoke of knowing Boothill was in town, likely trying to seek him out. Instead, he wanted them to meet and have a discussion over steak. He also extended the invite to you, his “hell-raising partner”.

If Arrington and Walker wanted a confrontation, they would get it.

“I hope the two of you will entertain his offer. Let us enjoy the rest of my play, though. We can be friends for this evening at the very least.”

—

Patrick Arrington's house reflected his wealth. Dark colors were covered by intricate wood detailings, highlighted well with lamps. The butler guided you and Boothill into the dining room, revealing a lengthy table covered in candles and plates. The men of the hour waited patiently, Patrick at the head of the table with a glass of wine and Lloyd to his right, a lit cigarette resting between his lips as he inspected the utensils.

They weren't very intimidating to say the least.

"Glad you could join us," Lloyd welcomed, a silver steak knife twirling around in his hand. "I've been waitin' to see you again for years, been pretty boring without your games." He pointed said knife at Boothill.

Patrick's weathered eyes met yours as he gestured for you to sit at his left. You strode to the cushioned chair, a foreboding sense creeping in as you pulled it out.

"You can take the seat opposite to me, Mr. Blackwell."

His features appeared defiant before you glared at him. It would be best to follow his commands. A sharp exhale left him as he sat down, leaning casually.

A new butler came in, wine bottle in hand. He poured for the two of you before being dismissed.

Swirling his topped up glass, Patrick leveled his gaze onto Boothill. "I want to make you an offer."

"Ain't that the nature of business." he chuckled.

“Indeed.”

Seared steaks made their way onto the table as Arrington shared his proposal.

“You may take Walker’s life, so long as I take theirs.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard him, boy.”

The room remained tense as your hands froze, a slight cut staying in the meat at your idleness.

“I’m willin’ to… succumb to your revenge,” Lloyd waved his hands around dramatically, “Let you claim my bounty – just after someone is exchanged for me.”

“You think I would ever agree to that?”

“Well, let’s just say it is not so much an agreement as it would be a reward.” Patrick smiled, placing his fork on a cloth gently.

A line of cold steel rested against your throat. You set down your silverware, raising your hands and leaning back.

“I didn’t do nothin’ to you, Mr. Arrington.” you reasoned.

“Maybe not in your eyes. A debt is owed to me, however, and it must be repaid. Your father stole my weapons, robbed my men, and ruined my oil! He was scum, and it seems you are too.”

“Any issues you had with him aren't my problem.”

“The knife to your throat begs otherwise, dear.”

“You started this.”

“No, I did not. Your friend here began his feud with Mr. Walker years ago. That is the true reason why the both of you are here tonight. I am simply ending a personal matter at the same time.”

“What’ll it be, Jesse?” Lloyd asked, an excited smile growing on his face.

You met Boothill’s stare, watching the gears turn in his mind. His gaze drifted upward, past yours and to the person behind you. Their grip tightened on the hilt.

“I’m gonna have to decline.”

Walker laughed as Arrington’s face went stoic.

“So be it.” a familiar voice spoke.

The knife formerly held to your neck flew into Patrick’s right shoulder. With the room still surprised, you flipped the dining table with help from your near-executioner. Plates clattered onto the floor surrounding Lloyd, the candles beginning to eat away at the rug.

~

“Where do you think you’re going, you piece of shit!”

You watched, revolver in hand, as Ef strode angrily to an escaping Patrick. He gripped his shoulder, walking out and down the hall as fast as he could. She followed suit, chasing and pinning him down easily. The click of your dress shoes echoed over the wood floor as you came behind her, witnessing her tackle him to the ground before pulling the knife from him. She threw it to the side, choosing to instead beat him as hard as she could while curses fell from her tinted lips. You leaned back against the wall, toying with the chamber of your gun. You watched as it spun, just one bullet sat inside.

With a huff, Ef rose from Patrick’s bloodied body, scarlet covering her teal dress.

“Do with him as you please. I’ve had enough of him for eternity.”

She then turned down the hall, the sound of ascending steps coming shortly after.

You came to stand right next to Arrington’s head, pressing your left heel down on his shoulder. He groaned, trying to twist out of the situation.

“I have a special hatred for rich filth like you.”

Two clicks of the hammer – a blank.

“Always walking around like you own the place.”

Another blank.

“Throwing money at everything you can – money that you made from stealing what belongs to others.”

Blank.

“And you’re so much better than me? Look at what you’re doing right now.” he whispered out, eyes growing unfocussed.

“We might be bad people, but at least we’re honest. I think liars like you will suffer a worse fate than us. You’ve got no honor, no respect, left in you. Sold it all away for what? So you could feel some power? Some control? We all die the same, Patrick. This wealth’ll mean nothin’ in the end. Keeping it all to yourself only makes people resent you more. We struggle everyday, only ever dreaming of what you have and take for granted everyday. You deserve nothing that you have in this world if all you do is abuse it. Save whatever dignity you have left for hell, Arrington. You’re gonna need it.”

A shot fired as his mouth opened, leaving red to splatter out from the proximity. You leaned down, taking his pocket watch and dangling it in front of you. It was gold, polished, and engraved – an item that could fetch a high price. You shoved it in your own pocket as you left his body, searching for the stairs Ef had gone up.

~

Flames caught on the curtains as Boothill waited in a standoff with Lloyd. Neither uttered a word as they waited, staring each other down. Crackles came from the walls, the flames illuminating the space with harsh glares. Walker drew his old pistol, aiming quickly and preparing to fire. Blood flowed from his arm not a second later, three shots ringing out in the burning dining room.

A swift kick crossed his face a moment later, something sharp cutting down it. Despite his pain and lack of clear vision, he took one of the scalding candlesticks and threw it in front of him. His hand came to hold his face, sighing.

“If you want to kill me Jesse, do it already.”

The cold barrel of a gun met the back of his neck, one click reaching his ears.

“Givin’ up that easily! Really now?”

“I’d rather die than try and make it out of here.”

A set of curtain rods fell to the floor before Boothill spoke, “ I’m gonna take my time with you, then. See if you can handle what you put me through.”

~

Whistles sounded through the courtyard as lawmen slowly encroached the property. A pair of satchels rested full over your shoulder, one similar sitting on Effie’s horse. They were bulked with stolen bonds, jewels, and anything else you could get your hands on.

“I suppose this is farewell.” she exhaled.

“For now, at least. If you’re going down a road like ours, I think we’ll cross paths again.”

“I hope so.”

“Go be with your friend.” you smiled, winking and patting her horse as she mounted it. “And thank you for the help. This wouldn’t have worked out if it weren’t for your decision.”

“You flatter me. But you’re welcome anyway.”

She pulled a poppy from her hat, handing it down to you. With exchanged nods, she rode off around the back, leaving you to the steps of Patrick’s burning house.

The front door burst open as Boothill kicked at it, stepping out as smoke started billowing from the building. You had every confidence in his capabilities, but you still found yourself in his arms. Crimson stained his cheeks, seeping into your palms as you brought his face closer to your view.

“How are you?”

“A little worse for wear, but if you kiss me, I just might be alright.”

“That can wait, cowboy. For now, we’d best get out of here.”

—

Epilogue

The sun beamed down brightly, casting a hazy glow over the river. Morning light was always lovely at times like this, and the sound of rushing water provided a welcome sense of relief. A soft breeze blew through the tree branches above you, ruffling the papers in Boothill's hands as well.

His head rested on your thighs, leaning back and reading them over with a smile. A sketch replaced your photo now, headed by text that read: “Reward for the capture, dead or alive, of __ __. The murderer of Patrick Arrington, they are still at large in Kearny County.”

“Look who made it big.” he chuckled.

“Think they’ll have a stage ready for me next time we visit?”

“If that stage is the gallows, then I’m sure.”

You laughed, leaning back against rough bark.

“Meanwhile I only got an extra $500! Can’t believe those lovely lawmen.” he grumbled, ripping them in half.

You brushed your palm over his forehead, shifting his hair back.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Fingertips brushed down his cheek, before curling under his jaw and tilting his head in your direction. Silver and red eyes met yours, simmering down to a rare gentleness. He stared at you for a moment, no vibrant expression or words leaving him. Peaceful – that’s what he was.

“Where do you want to go next?” you asked, thumb tracing along his cheekbone.

“I think we’ll just keep ridin’, stop where we want and see where the trail ends.”

“Take some jobs here and there, try to make some money.”

“Sounds nice.”

You hummed as Boothill turned his head back to the river, sighing toward the low reeds.

“Would you ever want to have a farm again?”

He rested quietly before replying, “No, but I wouldn’t be against working on one every now and then.”

“You’ll have to show me the ropes, though.”

“Course. There’s plenty more I could show you too.”

“Like?”

“Anythin’ you can imagine.”

“What a magician you are.”

“You flatter me, sugar.”

“Gettin’ a little shy on me, are you?”

“Not at all.”

He leaned up on his right hand, the left coming to the side of your neck. Slightly rough lips met yours challengingly, as if lovingly proving a point. Cold metal was removed from your neck, fingertips running along your throat teasingly before coming up to tug down the hat on your head.

“Stealin’ my moves now, cowboy?”

“You learned them from me first.” he chuckled, “Just one of our many games, right?”

[the-void-via]

★*☆♪When Boothill's insecurities start to get to him, Argenti is the first to notice★*☆♪

Part 1

Part 2 here

——————————————————————–

Argenti's eyes slowly cracked open in his dark room, only taking a second for him to realize that something felt...off.

He slowly sat up and stretched a little, turning to the other side of the bed. Instead of being met with the appearance of his darling silver cowboy, he only saw the empty spot on the bed where he should be.

The covered looked like they'd been thrown off with little grace, but Argenti's side of the bed remained untouched.

Looking around again, he found the door to their shared bathroom open a crack, a small sliver of light shining from the inside.

He rubbed his eyes and slowly peeled the covers away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and slipping on his slippers.

He stood up and stumbled to the bathroom, slowly opening the door to find his beloved cowboy inside, standing in front of the mirror.

He sighed softly and walked up behind him, gently wrapping his arms around his waist. He was shocked when his arms met the soft feeling of cloth around Boothill's waist, a stark contrast to the cold metal he was used to feeling.

Taking a second to examine him, Argenti realized he was wearing far more clothes than he normally would, including a pair of red pajama pants and a black, long sleeve shirt.

'Doesn't he only wear his boxers to bed...?'

He thought, blinking slowly as he was still sleepy.

Boothill flinched as soon as Argenti wrapped his arms around his waist, caught off guard by his entrance to the bathroom. He was too busy scrutinizing himself in the mirror to notice.

"Darling..." Argenti mumbled, resting his head against Boothill's shoulder. "What time is it..?"

Boothill stiffened for a moment, checking his internal clock. It was 7:44 in the morning.

'Already...?' He wondered how long he'd been in here.

"Almost 8. Darlin'," He turned his head to look at Argenti, his eyes closed as he rested on his shoulder. He smiled softly. "Why don't 'cha go back to bed? It's real early for a Saturday."

Argenti gently tightened his arms around his waist, "Come back to bed with me, darling...why are you awake, anyhow...?"

"I just..." Boothill looked back at himself in the mirror, and furrowed his eyebrows. "I've...got somethin' to do today, Rosie..."

He carefully turned around, and immediately felt Argenti's head slump down onto his chest, his arms still tightly wrapped around his waist.

"Please...?" He begged. "It's so early...please come back to bed with me, darling..."

Boothill chuckled softly, moving to carefully pick him up. He felt his legs wrap around his waist as his arms moved to drape around his neck on instinct, and he smiled softly, holding a hand on his back.

"Yer just tired, darl...c'mon, now."

He carried him back to their bed, setting him back down into bed and covering him up with a gentleness that only he would ever allow Argenti to see.

Argenti laid down on his side, gently grabbing Boothill's hand, staring up at him.

"Mm...just be careful, darling...if it's so important to you...come back safe..."

Boothill smiled again and crouched down to his level, gently caressing Argenti's cheek.

"I'll come back, no need to worry yer pretty 'lil head about that, alright?"

Argenti smiled and nodded, leaning in to give him a small kiss on the cheek. He leaned back just in time to see Boothill's flushed face, before slowly closing his eyes and drifting back to sleep.

As soon as he sees his eyes close, Boothill's smile drops to a frown, slowly standing up and walking back into the bathroom.

He fucking hated the way he looked. The metal that replaced his skin softly clanged every time he moved, constantly reminding him of the grim reality that surrounded his life.

The only "human" thing about him was his head, and even then, it had been permanently changed. His eyes now gray, with a crosshair as his pupils. And hell, he could eat bullets like they were fucking gummy snacks!

He hated it.

He couldn't stand to look at himself, so he covered up. Put on a real shirt under his jacket. Put on some random pajama pants from Argenti's drawer. He'd find a random pair of gloves from him to wear soon enough.

He hated every single part of him that wasn't human. That wasn't him.

He hated himself.

He shook his head and walked out of the bathroom, shutting the lights off as he went. He looked around the room again, his eyes falling on Argenti in bed, peacefully asleep.

Unaware as to the turmoil going on in Boothill's head.

He shook his head, he needed to go air out his thoughts. He needed a walk.

He quickly got dressed, in a much less revealing outfit than normal, and grabbed his gun.

He walked up to the door, looking back once more to Argenti peacefully asleep. He frowned.

"I'm sorry, darlin'. Real sorry..." He whispered.

And with that, he left.

——————————————————————–

[toptophat]

What kind of Stands would you give your hsr GOATs?

Here's what I'd give mine

Boothill would obviously have a gun based stand like Emperor or Sex Pistols (also could you imagine him talking to the little guys 🤣) for Emperor, he'd control both the gun and the bullets, but idk if it'd look silly or epic in battle because the average person can't see Emperor. Sex Pistols is a colony stand, so that'd be extremely helpful, Boothill can use any gun or projectile for this too, all he needs is the Pistols to manoeuvre the the bullets. It also helps that if he's knocked out (still alive), the Pistols can still help teammates and damage is split by 6 (he'd still barely be alive if 5/6 were killed) I wonder what his opinion on no 4 is...

Argenti should definitely have Silver Chariot, how he'd handle Chariot Requiem? Idk. Chariot's sword skills are fast and in a desperate situation, take its armour off to the point where its speed makes it almost invisible. Consider Silver Chariot another one of Idrilla's blessings if you will

Rappa was kinda tricky, I'd say either King Nothing, Aerosmith or Stone Free. King Nothing and Aerosmith for tracking purposes (she'd have to be extremely careful with Aerosmith because while it tracks breathing, it doesn't inform who the person is, and King Nothing isn't really a fighting stand, i think) and Stone Free because Spooderman (also she can be alert and get out of tough situations) also the Mobius Strip is freaking legendary

Cipher could get Harvest or Bastet, Harvest is another colony stand with an insane range, the stand could gather all the treasure she desires , or simply help her with a heist. They can also help her escape in a desperate situation. Bastet is mainly just for the magnet/cat part but it can definitely help with getting guards off her tail by slowing them down.

And since Dr Ratio was with me from the start of my time playing hsr, why not!

This one is mainly based off vibes but I'd give Dr Ratio stands like Hierophant Green (because of the Kakyoin pose), Sticky Fingers (he'd get very creative with it) or Catch the Rainbow (imagine him literally walking on rain, he'd love every second of it!!)

[EDIT]: he could also get the stand Soft and Wet

[incitomniaveritas]

🎲

Request: `[1d43]` Roll: `[22]` Result: `22` Reason: `Ratio & Boothill`

—suggestive content, abrupt kissing, the tension of being an IPC affiliate near Boothill, unsafe and illogical behavior, and mentioned potential violence.

He could not tell you what his logic would be to have met the man all over the IPC bulletins with warnings and labels Ratio would see in a war crime documentary. They had met once before, officially, upon the Feldspar as the circumstances were too great to fight against. Even if he was invited by The Family he had been there at the silver-haired Trailblazer's request and had followed the gambler there for two birds in one stone. A huff leaves Ratio's lips as he remembers the other Stonehearts being nearby had not been a coincidence either, he's sure. He didn't want to bring that up further, but so many of them there had of course brought upon them that wrath that follows anything bought into the IPC conglomerate. Boothill.

Of course, the Sparkle fiasco had been enough to set tensions somewhere else and he could remember talking over pool balls with a Knight of Beauty, a wanted criminal, and that damned gambler. It had been a temporary truce, especially as the wanted man was more narrowed in on Aventurine, and as long as the gambler was alive, Ratio did not intervene despite his trepidations. The gambler was smart and he knew how to navigate personal contracts well, but the threat of the murderer of IPC henchmen simply being nearby was—

—well, he shouldn't be worrying about Aventurine anymore as it seems to be his turn.

He stares calmly at the man who probably would assess something akin to his worth of threatening, as he was an IPC affiliate with no mistake about it, over just killing him. His name has been plastered on the guest list as a Guild member, and he'd been upon the Feldspar that night, so it was quite obvious who he was. He couldn't tell if the outlaw knew who Veritas Ratio was otherwise—a professor, a doctor, an engineer—and hesitated for those reasons. Or if he'd even care about that at all. And he wasn't about to push it.

After all, he wasn't scared of this man or his silver bullet at this point in time.

Any familiarity he could use, a second of hesitation for conversation or assessment, he used to his advantage. He leans into the space of this non-stranger and while they were within each other's height range, Ratio did find the hat caused a weird angle to be produced at first. His hands didn't dare touch the other's waist near his hip, near his weapon, but did lay his palms across the upper body, his chest, to halt his advancements forward. Their lips met with something akin to urgency on Ratio's part, emboldened with no negative recourse hitting him yet. Anything the man could potentially spit, Ratio's lips sealed across his to steal, even if he could guess it would do little. He kissed the madman who killed employees for less, who he should scorn for causing mass destruction in the name of his so-called Hunt.

And he did, oh he did, but the effectiveness of lashing out against the man would lead to this little stalemate cutting short—and so he lashed out in another way. His tongue invaded the other's mouth after he had caught the other's lips open, and found his tongue working in the mouth full of incisor-sharp teeth. He knew Boothill had them as he's seen his wicked smile before on posters and broadcast alike, but a delicate piece of flesh and muscle so close to them was like a trust fall in and of itself. By the time Ratio was breathless enough to need air and pull off him, his lips and tongue only having minor scratches filling with warm pressure of blissfully unbroken skin, he was sure he effectively bought time for the IPC meeting to end down the block. Surely.

If Boothill doesn't know where he came from, he won't tell, but the least he can do is take any ire after this stunt. It was rather illogical, but properly stunning it seems.

"If I were you, I would best check my time. It's a little past, hm, too late to be out this evening." Veritas knows he's rather calm for this situation, his voice crackling from exertion. "Unless you're looking for anyone in particular?"

[xinxinye]

argenthill angst, short!

Do you know the Emanator of Destruction, Irontomb?

They tend to target technologically advanced societies. Machines that would help with ease of life would turn on humanity, malfunctioning and harming the humans they used to aid. All survivors of the worlds they destroy report an intellectual collapse, technological malfunction, and their AI defenses either becoming paralyzed or turning against them.

One of their most well-known feats, if it could even be called that, was the neutralization of the Baranza Forge. The news of it spread across the galaxies, terrifying even the most stone-hearted Intellitrons.

Emanators of Destruction were terrifying in the fact that they sought destruction for the sake of it, there was no way to appeal to them.

Argenti didn't think he'd ever be at the mercy of such a terrifying figure, as a Knight, he relied on his own strength, the most technology he used was his own ship, but it was very far from technological advanced, and it wasn't a vast world to conquest.

But he wasn't expecting this.

"Run away," Boothill's voice usually had a comforting timbre to it, mechanical vocal chords aided him but it wasn't unpleasant to listen to, in fact it was like he was listening to the radio. But right now, those vocal chords were working against him, it was more accurate to say they were fighting against him. The words Boothill tried to eke out were paired by a shrill, thoroughly unpleasant screech.

"I can't leave you, my silver cowboy," Argenti's shields stood in front of him, blocking the bullets the cyborg was rapid-firing at him. His face, the only part of him he was in control of was contorted in unimaginable pain.

His expression was practically begging for Argenti to retreat, one of the shields fell, causing him to wince. "I can't see another person I love die right before my eyes,"

Another shield broke.

"I'll come back for you, dearest, for the path you're being forced upon is not beautiful, I swear that I will save you," he murmured, before leaving in a beautiful flourish, rose petals left behind.

[slhydrus]

⛓️ HC argenthill

⛓️ argenti pansexual & boothill gay and transmasc

⛓️ your main love languages ​​are words of affirmation and physical touches

⛓️ Argenti's first impression of Boothill was how impressive and magnificent his mechanical body and physical abilities were against enemies in combat

⛓️ on the other hand, the first impression Boothill had of Argenti was how naive he seemed because of his philosophy of fighting to protect beauty and that everything in the universe remains beauty in him, - he was against this philosophy, boothill was the example that this philosophy was wrong, no one would see him as something beautiful due to all the changes he underwent with his robotic limbs, not even Boothill would be able to see himself as human, he would hardly see himself as something beautiful. - but, as time passed with Argenti and became the target of the other's words of veneration and appreciation, boothill began to believe in his lover's vision

⛓️ their main meetings take place at the Penacony bar - the bartender even managed to memorize his main drinks when he came across the couple

⛓️ they both write letters and dedicate a flower to express their current feelings

⛓️ Argenti often declares his feelings for Boothill, with melodies written by him, titled Boothill as blessed by the goddess Idrilia for its beauty or as the personification of eternal beauty

⛓️ boothill is argenti's worship material

⛓️⛓️ boothill and argenti are united in a kind of marriage, her earrings are proof of this union, a jewel hanging from her ear with a characteristic craftsmanship, argenti with a bullet-shaped silver jewel in her right ear, and boothill with a gold rose in the delicate shape of a rose on her left ear.

⛓️ boothill made argenti make a deal with him to be the one to kill him, even though it was seen as something cruel for his lover to fulfill, boothill believes that dying by argenti's hands will be the kindest fate he could have

[dilys-min]

HOMECOMING

Couple: Boothill × Reader

Warnings: None. Just plain fluff

Boothill - a term indicating the resting place of gunslingers who have fallen and also the name of the silver hair galaxy ranger. 

The day when he gave up the flesh and blood which he is blessed with, letting it be melted and molded into refined steel and iron, he wanted to cry in the ancient language of the land he grew up to be so in love with but he couldn’t. And so, his cries were lost, burned to ashes along with what used to be dear to him.

When he met you, Boothill finally found something that he had thought long gone. Someone gazing upon him, except he was no Arcturus. He just a dying star trying to find a constellation where he belongs in this endless universe.

You were, for the lack of a better word, strange. You would often ask him about the most bizzare thing. Boothill still remembers the time when you asked if the bullets would get stuck in his teeth when he swallowed them ( the question had earned you a light smack from him). Even your solicitude was too perplexing for him. On some days, when his mind is plagued with the scorched land on his farm, the ghosts of those who he failed to protect; your hand will ghost over his face, caressing it gently. You would ask him in a soothing tone, not too quiet to go unheard of but not too loud to sound demanding. And when he only gives vague answers, you do not press further but press lingering kisses onto his forehead and he would pull you close, murmuring incomprehensible words into your hair. It was scary but you were there; you were there and it was enough.

You were odd, indeed, but in which ways that he is attracted to at the same time. 

Being with you also has taught him to be more observant as well. He would rather die than to admit it but he has unknowingly picked up the habit of watching your tactics. There was something oddly domestic about the way you would hum when you are cooking or the way you would skipping all the way down to your favorite bakery. What have a person grown up with to be so appreciative of what others perceive as the norms? 

Gunpowder and iron are what make his essence, always bitter and remorseful. While yours is always vibrant and warm. It is a moth’s nature to be drawn to something bright and shining, even if it will burn them to death. And like a moth to flame, Boothill always finds himself circling back to you no matter how hard he tries to fly away.

 For someone who had spent the majority of his life navigating through the vast continent of Aeragan- Epharshel, Boothill finds himself at loss, like a sailor finding his way in the middle of the storm, he is undecided. Some days, he is torn between hiding you in the deepest corner of the galaxy, away from all harm or letting you be as you are. Being with him would sooner or later become your demise and he silently curses himself for this knowledge. If he had been a fool, he would have easily believed that his arms were meant to caress but to chase and hurt under the cover of a man he used to be.

Boothill has never been one to believe in reincarnation. But maybe in another life, where he could finally be a man who grows up with the greenery of the plains he trouts and the endless rivers where the water just as clear as the sky of his hometown , he hopes that in his arms is where you would find comfort and peace, just like he did in yours.

[aguilareye]

V02. Radiant Wings.

Emanator of The Hunt Boothill.

Galaxy Rangers rarely catch The Hunt’s gaze. Perhaps, the Aeon isn’t even aware of the loyal faction dedicated to THEIR path as Galaxy Rangers, their pursuit of justice and vengeance may not guide the heroes of The Hunt to the war against the Abominations of Yaoshi. As aptly described, even in the purest Hunt, one will find The Xianzhou Alliance under the spotlight and the Galaxy Rangers lurking in the shadows. The Galaxy Rangers admire Lan's policy of using violence against violence and the Aeon's swift decisiveness regarding punishment, believing the benevolence and justice of the universe need to be upheld via personal action, but ultimately The Reignbow Arbiter's gaze casts only to the radiant fleetships of The Xianzhou Alliance, THEIR aim pointed to The Abundance.

So then why did The Hunt mark a Galaxy Ranger with THEIR gaze? Why would THEY claim a non-Xianzhou native worthy to draw inimaginable power from THEIR path? These questions plagued many within the Xianzhou Alliance who try to interpret The Reignbow’s decree. Is the cowboy to aide The Xianzhou Alliance in the war against the abominations or to aide The Galaxy Rangers in cutting down Lord Ravagers and hunting Dr. Primitive; and what of his war against the IPC?

None could understand the will of The Reignbow.

The fact of the matter The Reignbow Arbiter did turn THEIR gaze to a revenge driven cowboy and THEIR gaze lingered on Boothill's war path against the IPC, granting the cowboy the power to wage war. THEY bestowed a radiant spirit on Boothill, the same THEY grant to THEIR Arbiter-Generals and while many of Lan’s followers do not understand why THEY would show any interest in a war against The Preservation’s corporation, THEY gave it regardless.

THEY casted THEIR gaze before Boothill would make the choice to sacrifice his body for his revenge. With this power from The Reignbow, he did not need to become metal. With this power from The Reignbow, he is reforged into an instrument of war. With radiant wings, he soars.

More details about emanatorhill, his powers, and general characteristics. No need to read further unless looking for more information.

Boothill’s radiant spirit is an eagle made from a condense supernova star and its brilliance is bright enough to outshine any sun. It is large, its wingspan can match the length of a Xianzhou ship, but it can also decrease its size to fit within a planet’s atmosphere. Its body is made from the energy/light of a supernova star and powerful enough to sink IPC starships in a single dive/swoop. Boothill has not given it a name yet. It is silver/white in color. It can fire a beam of light from its mouth that is similar to the beam of a Lux Arrow.

Boothill did not become a cyborg upon being granted this power but it did change his appearance slightly. His eyes changed to the color of red, and when his radiant spirit is released, his war paint illuminates/glows (similarly to Nightsoul/Genshin). His clothes/appearance is still the same in canon. He wears a black shirt under his cropped jacket and no holes on his hips/pants. Sorry, I know 😔✊🏼

Boothill masks his emanator presence 90% of the time. The events of Penacony is all the same in this AU verse and Black Swan was highly suspicious of him when he arrived and laid eyes on him. Regardless, high ranking Xianzhou individuals and Galaxy Rangers should know he’s an emanator of The Hunt.

Boothill still has an endless supply of bullets. He uses regular bullets and when he runs out, he uses stars. Sorry Rappa, but … he really can crush a star with his bare hands and forges it into bullets. He can also fire a shot that is a beam of light similar to a Lux Arrow, but this is very powerful and fired at abominations.

Boothill has an aura/presence of an eagle when it’s soaring and hunting in the sky. He intimidates the corrupted, terrifies the evil with his approach, and the cowards scatter to the shadows for cover when he descends. Unlike the Arbiter-Generals, he personifies the predator aspect of The Hunt. The evil of the cosmos should be scared of him.

Boothill’s characterization and morals is still all the same as his canon. He’s still a Galaxy Ranger, a hero of The Hunt. His fight against the IPC and his revenge is still his greatest motivation. He believes The Reignbow granted him this power to wage war. Which war? Perhaps all of them. He doesn’t know the will of The Reignbow either and The Aeon doesn’t speak to him either. But Boothill has always believed in putting a bullet in anything evil and that’s what he’ll continue to do.

[w1tched]

Light is burning / As I am yearning (sritihill excerpt under the cut)

The path for revenge was a lonely one. So too was the path for atonement. However, the two paths were born from one shared desire. A desire for justice. Perhaps, that’s why, Boothill oughtn’t ponder over why Sriti chose to seek him out. Why him, out of all the other unfortunate souls out there who wanted nothing more than to bring the IPC to their knees? 

Perhaps, for that very same reason, Sriti shouldn’t wonder why Boothill chose to show mercy to her. Why her, out of all the IPC- well, former IPC that is, agents? Why her, out of all the razakars that roamed the wretched cosmos? 

“We’re both two sides of the same, broken fucking coin. You’d do well to remember that.”

Those were the words that she had spat right in his face once, were they not? Ironically enough, Boothill couldn’t quite remember anymore what they had been arguing over at the time, that had led to such cutting syllables to leave those lips. All he remembers now is the uncomfortable way they had wormed their way into his very heart and carved themselves unto the tissue. 

Hearing a faint, tell-tale, jingling sound, Boothill’s train of thought cuts off and he turns to regard Sriti.

“All clear, doc?” “Yeah. The bots didn’t detect anything in the entire building except for some rats- no, not IPC rats, please put the gun down. We can set up camp here for the night.” “Welp. S’pose I’ve slept in worse places before..Now, hey now! I ain’t said nothin’ bad! What’s that look for?”

Sriti stays silent for once and shakes her head. Where Boothill got such expensive tastes from is still a mystery to her. Nothing within his memories ever suggested that he used to be particularly rich. Then again, wealth didn’t exist only in monetary forms. A lesson learned all too late. 

She sits down on the windowsill, gazing out at the cityscape before her. Ignoring the shapes and sounds that she knew did not exist, the view was nice. An adjective that she rarely used to describe urban areas. But everything has its exceptions, don’t they?

Feeling the brush of leather against her skin, Sriti turns to see Boothill perching opposite her on the windowsill, staring out at the twinkling city lights.

None of them held a candle to the dusty trail’s lone star that illuminated the way for those who chose to walk its path. 

Tearing her eyes away, Sriti roots through her belt bag before her hand closes around a familiar pack. She takes out a stick, placing it between her lips while searching for her lighter. Strange, she can’t find her lighter. Again. Sriti knows she can’t have misplaced it. She’d have remembered if she had done so. Sighing to herself, Sriti gently nudges the cowboy opposite her with her foot.

“Do you have your lighter? I can’t find mine.” Sriti thinks she sees Boothill’s lips twitch but maybe it was a trick of the light instead. 

“ ‘Course I’ve got my lighter. Any man worth his salt would never even dare to lose this beauty.” Show off, Sriti remarks mentally, watching him bring out his vintage Zippo lighter. Although, she supposed, she’d let him have this one. It really was a beauty, silver with an eagle and bullets engraved on each side. 

Sparks fly as Boothill flicks the lighter, producing a warm and bright flame. His onyx eye moves from the burning light to the prosthetic eye that was fixated on his own. It shone unnaturally, the cog-shaped grey iris rotating in clockwork fashion. It had an uncanny beauty of its own but, as his good eye moves left, Boothill finds that he quite prefers Sriti’s natural bambi brown eye. One that was filled with a constant melancholy. A melancholy so deep that it swallowed light whole.

How would it feel to drown in them?

“Y’know, they’re called coffin nails fer a reason, right?” “You’re the only person I know who calls cigarettes ‘coffin nails’.” “The boot fits.” “I’ll take my chances with them regardless.” “Least y’could do is share.” Boothill takes the cigarette from between Sriti’s lips and places them between his own, ignoring her protests of how she was just about to. Instead, he waits for the engineer to procure a new cigarette between her lips before bringing the lighter closer. The ends of the stick burn a bright orange and the familiar acrid scent of tobacco fills their senses and lungs. Despite its attempts, the smoke doesn’t cloud their vision. Their eyes stay fixated on one another.

The path for justice may be a lonely one but at the end of the day, they had each other and that was enough.