After returning home, Boothill stood frozen in the doorway of the apartment, processing the scene with cold, digital precision that did nothing to numb the human dread coiling in his gut.

The table was overturned, the mug was scattered, the morning coffee spilled marking a single, stark drag mark on the floor. His internal systems ran a threat assessment in milliseconds, but his heart, the one stubbornly human part of him, already knew the answer.

The IPC. They’d taken you. They’d come for him, and finding him absent, they’d taken what Boothill cherished most.

Unadulterated rage blurred Boothill's mind. There was no plan, no flamboyant taunt, just a target. It was a trap, he knew, yet, he didn’t care.

The IPC spaceship didn’t so much suffer a breach as it experienced a localized apocalypse. Alarms were a brief, screaming prelude to the thunder of his revolver and the shriek of tearing metal. Boothill asked no questions, offered no quips. Every living soul he saw was greeted with a revolver shot, and every bullet was a promise, every shattered console a eulogy for the peace he’d foolishly believed he could have. Boothill left no one alive in his path.

He found the cell, unlocked the door harshly and saw you inside—slumped in a chair, bound, a trickle of blood drying at your temple, your clothes torn and hair a mess.

In an instant, the raging cyborg was gone. His movements became impossibly gentle. His cold, metal fingers, so adept at dealing death, carefully snapped your bonds. “Hey, my darlin’,” he murmured, his voice a soft, gravelly whisper. “Look at me. I’ve got ya. No one’s ever gonna touch ya again.”

He pulled you into his arms, his broad, mechanical frame a shelter, rocking you gently as the ship’s dying sirens wailed around you. Boothill's hair was stained with someone else's blood, he smelled and looked like the death itself, but all he cared about was having you in his arms and getting you out of here as quickly as possible.