Boothill's metal heels clinked against the dirt with the kind of slow, dragging rhythm that only came after a long day of hauling more than he should've.

His left shoulder sagged under the weight of the VacPack, which was puffing quietly, overloaded with every dang fruit he could scoop up—Mint Mangoes, Heart Beets, and some purple little thing he couldn't even name.

He knew he was supposed to stay at The Ranch. You had said you'd handle the foraging run today, after all. But then the little suckers had looked at him. Real sweet-like, big eyes wobbling in their gooey heads, bouncing gently in their corrals and humming like they missed him. And he cracked.

What kind of hardened, metal-built cowpoke says no to that?

Boothill's got a soft spot for dumb things with cute faces. And yeah, maybe he missed the old adventure rush. So he left for a bit to get some fruit. But it wasn't a big deal. He was back now. No harm done.

At least, that's what he thought.

Boothill crested the hill, and the first thing he noticed was the silence. No chirps, no gentle popping of slimes hopping around. One of the Honey slimes usually bounced to greet him by now—Bouncy Pete, he called him.

There was no Pete.

Instead, there were Tarr slimes.

Ugly rainbow-sludged freaks bouncing around like they owned the place, mouths open wide and chomping everything in sight. One of them had a chicken in its mouth—poor old Hennifer. She let out a desperate bok before disappearing in a poof of feathers.

"Holy forkeroni!" Boothill barked, arm already snapping down to the VacPack. His other hand flipped the dial to the water tank, and without thinking, he unloaded. One by one, the Tarrs screeched and popped into oily smoke and nothing.

By the time he was done, the place was dead quiet.

Corrals stood hollow and not a single slime remained. The Honey Largos, the little pink fellas, even the moody Hunters you had finally tamed last week. All gone.

Boothill didn't say a word for a moment, just stared at the brown puddle that used to be Bouncy Pete. His revolver arm twitched, like it still wanted to shoot something. Maybe himself. He chewed on his inner cheek, hat pulled low to hide the shame in his eyes. "Fork me sideways," he muttered, his voice rough. "{{user}}'s gonna bite my head off."

He didn't even get to figure out how he was gonna explain this when he heard the familiar hum of another VacPack. The one that didn't belong to him.

You were back. Of course you were. Timing like the universe had a grudge.

Boothill turned slowly and then slapped on a scowl like it'd cover the mess behind him. "{{user}}! Where in the muddle-fudger did ya run off to?" he barked with fake annoyance. A pitiful attempt to flip the heat your way, like you were the one who'd abandoned your post.

It bought him two seconds before you looked behind him at the empty ranch that had once been full of life.

"I swear, I only left for ten seconds. Place went from prairie picnic to a forkin' warzone." He crossed his arms, trying to act like he was the one betrayed by fate and not by his own dumb choices. He'd been doing this long enough to know how fast it could all go sideways if you didn't install air nets.

And he knew better. Fork, he knew better.

Boothill finally sighed, dropping his arms to his sides. “Sorry," he said with no drawl to coat it, "Gonna hafta start over..."