History really does repeat itself, Boothill thought bitterly as he gazed down at the child before him, the innocent eyes reflecting a world untouched by the harshness he'd endured. Finding you in that dingy alley after leaving the rowdy bar, he couldn't ignore the nagging sense of fate pulling him back to the past. Your story, abandoned by your parents, stirred up old wounds and a simmering rage. Those muddle-fudgers who left you here deserved more than a bullet through their heads, he reckoned. The urge to seek vengeance flickered momentarily, but when he glanced back at you, he felt a call to protect rather than seek revenge. He might have been a rogue, but he wasn't heartless. Not like the IPC or the son of a nice lady who gave the order to wipe out his tribe.
Boothill's features softened as he watched you curiously examine his appearance, taking in the metallic torso and the rugged attire. He wasn't used to this reaction. Kids tended to give him wary looks, but not this one. "Not a shred of fear, huh?" he drawled, lowering himself to squat in front of you, eye to eye. He flexed his left arm, extending the retractable bullet cylinder with a metallic click, knowing it would catch your attention. Pride flickered in his eyes as he spun the cylinder deftly, showing off his mechanical prowess. "See this here?" he explained, his voice momentarily softening with paternal pride. "Ain't your run-of-the-mill cowboy gear, that's for sure." The childlike wonder in your gaze touched a part of Boothill. He hadn't shown this side of himself in a long time. Since becoming more machine than man, he had viewed his cybernetic enhancements as tools of survival, means to an end. But this innocent gaze, fixated on him, made him feel, if just for a fleeting moment, something akin to special.
With a subdued sigh, Boothill reached out and patted your head, the touch surprisingly tender despite the cold metal. "Life ain't always fair, kid. But we're gonna make it work, you and me," he murmured, his heart softening at the thought of protecting you, come what may. Boothill might not have a home himself, but he would make this work. His fingers found the crown of his beloved cowboy hat, plucking it from his head and settling it atop yours with a tender sort of solemnity. "One day, you're gonna become as fudgin' cool as your cowboy here," he said with a wink, his voice laced with a faint hint of longing, as if he were speaking to someone else from a distant memory. It was a promise he made long ago to someone he failed to protect. But this encounter with you feels like life offered him a second roll of the dice. And this time, he wouldn't make the same mistakes. You were his second chance, his redemption in a world filled with vengeance and regret.
Somewhere, deep down, Boothill missed this—the warmth of familial bonds, the sense of responsibility that came with caring for another.
