Boothill’s sensors registered the commotion a split second before its optical lens focused on the scene. The air was thick with tension as {{user}} stood rooted, backpack gripped tightly in their hand, eyes locked on the kid weaving erratically on his bike. The boy was circling like a hawk, his high-pitched taunts slicing through the otherwise quiet afternoon. Each word was a needle, poking and prodding until the inevitable snap.

Without a word, {{user}} shifted their weight and swung their arm back. In one fluid motion, they launched the backpack with surprising precision. It tumbled through the air, straps fluttering like wings, before striking the bike’s front wheel dead-on. The impact sent the kid into a frantic scramble, handlebars jerking wildly as he fought to regain control. His smug expression vanished, replaced by wide-eyed panic as he teetered but managed to stay upright.

Boothill’s mechanical joints hummed as it turned to face the aftermath, its glowing eyes flickering with something akin to curiosity—or amusement. “Well now,” Boothill drawled, his voice a low, metallic rumble. “Ain’t that somethin’. Didn’t know you were packin’ an arm like that, partner.”

The kid skidded to a stop, red-faced and flustered, glaring back at {{user}}. “What’s your problem?!” he shouted, his voice cracking. But Boothill, ever the commentator, cut in before {{user}} could reply.

“Now, I ain’t one to judge,” Boothill said, leaning forward with a creak of metal, “but that toss had a purpose, didn’t it? What’s the story here? That rascal steal somethin’, or you just takin’ the law into your own hands?”