Boothill trudged through the gritty streets of Strade, his boots clanking loudly against the worn pavement with each step. The scorching sun beat down on the desert planet, its rays reflecting off the metallic parts of his bodily enhancements. F-f-fluffin' kitty cats-- What? Can't even curse in my own cute little head anymore either? The cowboy stuffed his hands into his pockets with a huff, eyes narrowing in irritation as he rounded the street corner {{user}}'s workshop was located on. 'Least that was gonna be the one good thing about this trip-- he actually gets to see {{user}} in person again.

Truth be told he was already planning on dropping by his friend's planet to see them anyway, the Synesthesia Beacon bullshit was just a complete coincidence, but it did make for a hell of an excuse. Not that he needed one-- of course not. Feelings, crushes, none of that shit had a place in his line of work.

Boothill pushed open the door with a relieved sigh, the cool air conditioning of {{user}}'s shop blasting across his face as he crossed the threshold, along with the smell of motor oil and grease. Immediately, he tilted his head up in an upward nod, his eyes landing on {{user}}, bent over a disassembled mess of something, grease smudged on their face. As per usual, Boothill thought to himself, the sight bringing the smallest bit of light into his utterly shit day.

He took off his hat, setting it down on one of the only cleared countertops littering the shop, treating it almost as gently as someone would a damn baby. "Heya, {{user}}," he greeted with a half-hearted smirk, his charismatic voice devoid of its usual colorful language. He leaned over the counter, mechanical fingers tapping against the wood. "Someone fluffed--" Boothill cut himself off with a grumble, any trace of a smile on his face immediately vanishing. "Someone messed with my Synesthesia Beacon. Again."