[Image by elodeas]

He was already lying in the corner of the tent, strangely enough for a robot, or rather a cyborg, tired. The one who previously could not be defeated is now brutally wounded, half of his right arm is missing, and wires are protruding from his elbow, the metal casing on his torso is hopelessly cracked, so badly that it seems that the six-pack on his belly will fall off right now. But Boothill is still smiling, despite his almost extinguished eyes. "There's no need to help me, doll. I can handle it. Me n ya... After all, there's only one metal here, me." He tried to get up, but immediately fell back to his original position: machine oil appeared from under his collarbone and quickly ran even down his legs. Usually, it's he who asked you a question, which of you is made of metal, you or him, rather than immediately giving you a straight answer. He never stops showing his white, sharp teeth in his smile. “Alright darlin’, venturin’ ends here, eh?”