Boothill’s loyal steed

"Well, hey now. How come you're so sure I don't know how t'fix that rust-bucket o' yers? Y'lookin' down on us poor folks out in the sticks?"

"First you call it a fancypants car and now it's a rust-bucket? Mister, it'd be nicer if you make up your mind on how exactly my car offends you. And for your information, I'm not assuming you're dumb. I'm assuming you don't have any tools to fix the damn thing."

"Y'all city-slickers always got this much of a mouth on y'all? But! You're right. Don't got my toolbox with me to fix yer car. Reckon that engine's busted from the sounds it was makin' 'fore it took it's last breath."

"Yeah yeah, got it. All I'm hearing is a whole bunch of 'I'm right' and no 'Let me oh so kindly offer you a ride' right now."

"Hah! Got me there. Where'd ya say you're headin' to?"

"Pietà."

"So that's what folks from outside call it? I mean, I've heard word of it but hell, never thought that's the name they'd actually go with."

"Is there supposed to be another name?"

"Yeah. 'Round these parts, ain't nobody gonna respond t'that name. Not unless you're one'a them big shots who sit on their asses all day, anyway. Us regular folks stick to the ol' good an' true name: Aeragan-Epharshel."

The letter had come as a surprise.

Well, not really. Working as a freelance subcontractor usually meant moving around a bit but you preferred sticking close to the shitty cozy apartment that you called home. In fact, you had specifically listed it as one of your conditions and thus far, you never had any trouble. Living in the city meant projects were constant and constant projects meant a decent stream of income in a place where even selling your soul wouldn't come close to covering your expenses for a year.

However, a couple weeks ago, you received a letter from some small-town firm that you'd never heard hide nor tail of, situated a good couple hours away from the city. Quite frankly, you didn't even know a town even existed in that area. As far as you were concerned, once you went past the city borders, it was all just dense and overgrown forests trying to cover up the blood that makes the soil so rich in iron.

In fact, the name of the town had really sealed the deal for you that this was a no-go zone. Anybody with half a braincell knows that nothing good ever comes out of small isolated towns with a religious name. Whether you were a child of the aeons yourself is neither here nor there, nor something that you liked thinking too hard about but I mean c'mon! You had read enough books and seen enough movies to know how this story goes.

Yet… The pay was good. Real fucking good. In fact, you were relatively impressed with the amount being offered, along with lodging for yourself to stay at until the projects were over to save yourself the commute. Considering the scale of the project, it seemed that you'd be busy and paid for at least a couple years. Guess the tiny petite town of Pietà planned on stretching its wings and branching out, if the amount of homes they wanted built was anything to go by.

So you did what anyone would do in this economy. You took the job.

And now here you were, sitting in the passenger seat of a truck that had definitely seen better days and that smelled like liquor and gunpowder. Maybe even lingering traces of raw flesh, though you don't question it. Both because the oh so generous Mister Boothill, as he called himself, is a hunter who kept the local butchery and tannery in business and because from the handful of days you had spent in Pietà Aeragan-Epharshel, you had learned not to ask too many questions.

Lest you end up at the wrong side of the shovel.

"Real fortunate, ain't it? That I was passin' by an' find a purdy lil' deer like you stranded and needin' rescue?" Boothill remarks with a sharp grin. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel as he speaks, the turquoise rings on his long fingers serving to dull the sound.

"Do you make a habit of calling helpless strangers 'deers' or am I special enough to have this honor of being the first?" You raise an eyebrow, a complicated expression appearing on your face.

"Don't gimme that look. Ain't nothin' special so don't go gettin' any ideas, y'hear? Got enough on my fuckin' plate as is."

"Still waiting on that explanation…"

"Right right. Forgot y'all sapheads can't listen long enough fer someone t'get to the paint. 'S a miracle Mrs. Abernathy ain't started her usual yammerin' 'bout kids these days who don't have a lick o' respect fer the old ways. But you're a deer, darlin'. Purdy things who jus' stand there lookin' all innocent an' watch as- Oh shit!"

Boothill slams the brakes on his truck and you lurch forward in your seat. Thank goodness for seatbelts, though you make a point of letting the man know he should look into replacing the ones in his truck soon. Though right now, you were too occupied with trying to calm your rapid breathing and figuring out what the hell caused the sudden brakes.

A deer. A fucking deer. That's what you both nearly crashed into.

"Well… Speak of the devil an' he doth appear," Boothill mutters, rubbing his cheek.

You look at him incredulously. How can someone be so calm despite having nearly crashed and gone to the very heavens his small town loved preaching about? But the man only meets your gaze head-on and shrugs.

"What? We're out in the dadgum woods, darlin'. Ain't my first rodeo with these critters. 'S the woods. There's gonna be woodland critters," Boothill replies cavalierly.

"Yeah or maybe the aeons had enough of your cussing and wanted to make an example out of us with that bullshit metaphor you were going on about deers and pretty strangers which, thank you by the way," you mutter, shifting in your seat.

"Like you're some saint yerself." He snorts. You bite down the urge to answer with something crude, figuring it's not the smartest idea to get dirty and rude with only other person around for miles and who carried a gun around at all times. Not that you believed Boothill was that kinda man but you weren't really chummy with him either to risk anything.

All this talk of being strangers wasn't entirely true either, though you doubted either of you had even reached the acquaintance stage yet either.

No use dwelling on that for too long though as Boothill starts the car back up once the deer had scampered away to whatever hidey-hole it had made for itself in the woods. There were still nearly two hours left until you arrived at your destination and near-death experiences made for a great way to break the tension. In most cases, at least.

"What were you doing out here anyway?" you ask, fiddling with the fraying strap of your seatbelt. "Thought people like you don't like going out much."

"An' pray tell what ya mean by people like me?" Boothill eyes you out of the corner of his eye, sharp grey meeting your gaze. For a man so rustic and outdoorsy, to put it lightly, his eyes had a strange way of reminding you of the harsh concrete sidewalks back in the city. If you stared hard enough, you could feel the familiar burn of skin splitting open on the gravel. But you're no creep and most certainly no ignoramus, a fact you kindly make sure to let Boothill know.

"Nothing bad. Just meant that small-town types like you don't appear to be fond of leaving the place if you can't help it, tis all. And considering the amount of shit I've had to hear from you and others already about me being from the city, I'd bet half a month's salary that you aren't the type to go to the city for a healthy dose of sight-seeing either."

"Eh. Got me there. Ain't nothin' healthy about that shithole ("Amen to that.") so I don't go there if it ain't an emergency. Matter of fact, I wasn't even there. Was jus'… drivin' 'round the woods. Game's been scarce lately near my usual grounds."

"I see… No wonder this bag of bolts smells like something died in here."

Boothill slows the car down and stares at you. You stare back, unabashed and even daring. But all he does is give you a slow, sharp-toothed grin and nods.

There's something slow and dreary about the constant buzzing of cicadas. When you first arrived to Aeragan-Epharshel, the noise drove you nuts. The bothersome bugs were loud and seemed to be everywhere, though your eyes weren't particularly trained enough yet to spot them. Nor were your ears accustomed to the ever persistent droning. You could barely hear yourself think. And when the cicadas die down, the crickets start so you barely get any decent sleep.

When the truck was finally within a couple miles' radius of the town, you could hear the cicadas singing their merry tune already. Right on cue, sweat begins to bead on the top of your lip and starts dripping down the back of your neck, slow and steady like molasses.

The air- No, not just the air. It was the very spirit of Aeragan-Epharshel itself that stifled.

"Fuck, does this thing even have any air-conditioning?" You curse, trying to fiddle with the buttons and knobs on the center console. Instead of being greeted with any blast of nice, cool air however, you receive a light slap on the hand followed by a glare.

"Too good fer nature's air-conditioning, are ya? Never heard of a lil' wind?" Boothill taunts.

"I've heard of wind but I don't think this dump- Sorry, this town has. It's like being in a goddamn inferno."

"Maybe if ya stopped wearin' all them clothes, ya wouldn't be pantin' like a hound."

"Excuse me?"

"Not in that way, idiot." Boothill rolls his eyes at your scandalized expression. It reminds him of how the church ladies clutch their pearls whenever he walks by and the mental image has him stifling a snort. "Meant y'oughta find yerself some proper clothes fer the Texan heat. It ain't kind t' purdy things like ya an' darn shame it is that this here town ain't nothin' like the concrete prison ya crawled outta, with all them fancy gizmos t'keep everyplace nice an' cool."

"Right. Of course. I knew that."

"Sure ya did."

You sigh and bite the inside of your cheek, looking out the window instead of letting the heat get to your already fried patience. The truck was nearing the town gates now and the closer you got, the more intense the sun seemed to burn. A feeble attempt is made by you fanning yourself with your hand and you make a point to ignore the muffled chuckles of the driver beside you.

Then finally, finally, the truck screeches to a stop right outside the Bed & Breakfast you were graciously allowed to stay at. You couldn't wait to get out the steaming hot death contraption that Boothill called a fucking mode of transportation but what do you know? Seems as if the aeons really did aim to make an example out of you as your seatbelt gets stuck and you're positive that you'll die a painful death at the hands of whatever comes first: Being slow-cooked by the sun or dehydration.

"Here. Lemme." You hear Boothill mutter before he leans over. Instinctively, you suck in your breath and lean back, trying to ignore how the flyaway strands of his long white hair tickle your skin or the way you can smell the mixture of sweat and the cheap, woodsy aftershave he used.

"See, this here's why I don't like lettin' strangers ride my baby," Boothill continues, fiddling with the tattered, loose threads of your seatbelt that had somehow caught and gotten stuck in the lock. "All y'all do is move around too much an' now you're stuck like a deer in front o' headlights. That's why I call folks like ya a deer."

"Or maybe… You could look into replacing the belts. So helpless little deers like me don't get caught in a bad man's truck," You fire back.

He pauses briefly and for a second, you debate on whether you went too far. People back home always said you talked too much. But then, you hear Boothill chuckle and feel his warm breath ghost over your skin from the action so all is well.

"Yeah maybe. Or maybe, y'oughta consider the fact that I ain't a bad man an' that deers ain't so helpless. They're animals just like us an' all animals have fangs, don't they?" He grins, flashing his teeth in the same breath your seatbelt finally comes loose.

"Mmn… Can't argue with a hunter now, can I?"

Boothill huffs out what sounds like a mix between a scoff and a laugh. Perhaps a bit of both with the way things seemed to be moving along between you both. It puts you at ease somewhat and you deign to give him a faint smile.

Enough dawdling, though. You and Boothill both get out of the truck and he helps you carry the items you'd purchased from your trip into the city earlier, placing them by the front steps of your lodging as that was seemingly where his own hospitality ended.

"I'll give a holler at Edie at the garage, see if he can go down an' tow yer car out from where ya left it," He says, lean muscles straining against his plaid shirt. Not that you were particularly looking or anything. No, of course not. You just wanted to make sure he didn't manhandle your precious equipment.

"That's very kind of you, though I doubt by the time he gets there, my car will still be there. Wouldn't be surprised if some hooligan somehow starts it back up and runs off with it."

"Mighty active imagination ya got there, I see. Don't reckon it'll be a loss anyhow. Ain't like ya plan on leavin' town anytime soon."

…

"No. I don't." You smile, though it came off as more a grimace.

"Ah. Ya'll be fine. Though I don't see why the fuck y'needed t'go into the city fer all this fancy cement. Don't the folks at the firm already supply this shit?" Boothill raises a brow, taking stock of the heavy bags by your feet.

"They do but… I'm more used to this specific brand. I planned on showing the fellas at the construction site why this brand is better than the third-rate shit they planned on using for the new houses," you answer easily while hauling each bag up the steps.

"That so?" Boothill hums, leaning against his truck and watching you break your back in the hot sun. Asshole. "I gotta say, I really do 'preciate ya lookin' out fer us poor folks out here an' how fuckin' bad it'd be t'live in a house made with… third-rate shit as ya put it."

"It really does make a difference. When you've been in the trade as long as I have, you pick up on these things like it's a sixth sense."

"Yeah yeah, I hear ya. I ain't got time t' listen to yer yammerin' 'bout trade secrets. Got errands t' run. Give Holden my regards, will ya? Ain't seen that boy in a while. Lord knows the fucker ran off with whatever they're payin' y'all fer buildin' these houses."

"I will." You promise. "I'll be sure to let him know."

Though whether Boothill heard and took note of your very sincere promise, you couldn't say for sure. He was already lighting up a cigarette and getting back inside his truck to go do whatever the hell he did during his days.

A darn shame. You had really meant it this time.

Perhaps wearing a mask would've been beneficial, you think to yourself. The soil stank of iron and shit, though perhaps the latter came from the body resting a foot away.

Thankfully, this shouldn't take too long. All you had to do was dig deep enough and the rest of the pieces would fall into place naturally. At least, as natural as manual labor could possibly be. Human beings are a part of nature too, ergo actions performed by humans are natural. You mentally pat yourself on the back for that one.

"Hup! That should do it," you mutter to yourself, hauling the body into its grave once you had managed a decent depth. "Just gotta pack the dirt back in and pour the concrete over and tomorrow, I'll be getting compliments for days from the boss."

You grab the shovel, already stained a dark crimson from days you weren't privy to yet a legacy you'd undoubtedly been dragged into by whatever that poisons the ivies in this region. But who are you to be rude to the inhabitants of this town?

If they so graciously extend an opportunity to be one of them, then why turn it down?

Oh, speaking of which… Silly you! You nearly forgot in all your excitement to partake in some good ol' fashioned hospitality and niceties, as so zealously preached and practiced by your new neighbors.

In Boothill's lc, we see him in the middle of his surgery where he threw away his flesh and bone body for steel and cybernetics. We know it was The Big Surgery and not just like some sort of tune up or modification because of the description attached to the lc:

Which is where a lot of the dissonance comes in, because in this lc, Boothill's hair is much, much longer than in the cg.

And as someone who also has super long hair, I can tell you that it would take like. Multiple years to grow it out to this length.

There's also the fact that these cybernetic arms don't even match, the lc is the one that looks like our Boothill does now. And there's no reason for Boothill's shirt to be ripped up and in tatters like that; it even states he takes off his clothes before the lc surgery. If it were a matter of Hoyo needing to censor nudity, there were plenty of other methods they could have used that would make more sense, like a hospital gown, a blanket, surgical partition, etc

When will I get to see Boothill with all his scars, Hoyo, when, quit cockblocking me!!! OTL

But there was also another piece of new lore this patch that hit me like a fuckin' brick- the fact that Boothill was tortured by the IPC.

He just drops this out of nowhere! Just says it and then moves right along!! BABY, PLEASE. I WANNA KNOW MORE SO GODDAMN BAD.

But anyway as Hydrachea pointed out to me, this means the torture definitely had to happen before the lc surgery, because being whipped with a belt soaked in saltwater (fucking OUCH) wouldn't work on someone with metal skin.

So, we know that the IPC did, at some point, capture Boothill. And this is reaching further back to previous patches, but we also know from the Luminary Wardance event in 2.5 that the IPC also dabbles in cybernetic arms, because of the one they foisted on Luka.

The model there is a new one they're debuting, but we see in a flashback sequence that the IPC has been part of the cybernetics game for at least 700-800 years, because they also manipulated Igor into getting one too, and this could have only happened before the Eternal Freeze on Jarilo-VI.

It's never stated just how old Boothill is, or how long ago the genocide on Aeragan-Epharshel took place.

But I doubt it was more than 700-800 years ago.

I really don't think Boothill is that old, or has been doing this for that long. So he definitely would have been captured at a point that the IPC was manufacturing cybernetic arms, and had a known history of amputating perfectly healthy patients to use them.

I wonder if all their test subjects were willing.

(This part is entirely unnecessary for the new cg showing Boothill being a forced lab rat as part of the IPC torturing him. But it is a fun, delightful, bloodily gruesome twist of the knife nonetheless.

Boothill was also betrayed by his own brothers-in-arms on Aeragan-Epharshel. For the IPC. Just saying.)