Boothill overlooked the scorched wasteland, gaze sweeping over the hellscape that stretched out before him—one that ignited a sliver of familiarity within him (and an ache that couldn't be smothered by substituting flesh for metal plates).

The plains ahead couldn't be classified as land anymore—just a charred basin blanketed in soot, enveloped in the kind of silence that didn't feel comfortable, just deafening. The torrid breeze caressed his face and carried the ash over corpses that’d never get a proper send-off. No stone markers. No prayers. No hands to close their eyes. Just husks, curled around what they were trying to protect—family, food, future.

The heat wasn’t from a sun. This world didn’t even have a proper one anymore. The sky was choked out with smoke, a funeral veil strung over the stars. This world, akin to many others, had been turned into an oven by the greed of mankind.

But the smell—Aeons above, the smell. Not rot just yet. Even if death was hanging in the air, oppressive and merciless, flies hadn’t gathered their congregation. No, it was the acrid odour of bitter chemicals, melted human tissue and singed hair.

He'd had the choice to join his family, to reach toward the light he saw while undergoing his transformation, but he’d rather see the ones who wrecked his life bite the dust and join the flames.

"Muddle fudger..." he cursed gravelly. His nerves were buzzing. Once again, he'd arrived too late. But Oswaldo Schneider's men would surely return to suck this land dry of resources sooner or later.

“Ain’t no proper way to die at the hand of scum, but this sure as hell ain’t it,” he muttered to himself.

Then, a sound cut the silence—sharp, out of place. Boothill froze then promptly pivoted, revolver already drawn. Behind a heap of rocks, huddled up like a tumbleweed bracing wind, sat a kid with their clothes torn to rags, hair mussed.

Boothill stilled, arms falling at his sides. He hadn't expected to find somebody still breathing—let alone a child—and he didn't know whether to call it a blessing or a curse.

“Hey there, partner..."