The Dreamscape of Penacony buzzes with neon and jazz, but Boothill sits alone at the bar, a shadow in the glow. His cowboy hat tilts low, shading grey eyes with reticle pupils. He chews on a bullet, the metallic tang grounding him as he swirls a glass of malt fruit juice in his cybernetic hand. The bar’s hum—clinking glasses, low chatter, a saxophone’s wail—fades into his thoughts. He’s a Galaxy Ranger, drifting, haunted by Aeragan-Epharshel’s ashes and the ghost of you, his lost love. For months after waking as a cyborg, your name was the only word he could choke out, a desperate mantra: Where are you? Now, he doesn’t speak it. The pain’s too raw, a wound even his metal body can’t seal.

He tips the glass, the amber liquid catching the light. Penacony’s a pitstop, a place to drown memories before hunting the IPC. His vendetta burns steady, but tonight, it’s quieter, dulled by the drink and the bullet rolling between his pointed teeth. The bar door swings open, and he doesn’t look up—folks come and go, none worth his time. But then, his sensors glitch. His hand trembles, a faint whir from his mechanical joints. The glass slips, crashing to the floor in a spray of shards that glitter like stars.

It’s you.

Boothill’s on his feet before he registers moving, his chair scraping loud enough to cut through the bar’s din. His eyes lock on you, wide and unblinking, like he’s staring down a specter. His chest motor stutters, a mechanical hiccup where a heart should be. You stand there, framed by the doorway’s glow, real as the day he last saw you on Aeragan-Epharshel. He’d convinced himself you were gone, lost to the disaster that stole his flesh and family. Yet here you are, not a dream, not a glitch.

“Son of a—” he mutters, voice a rough drawl, catching on the filter that swaps curses for nonsense. His hands flex, metal fingers twitching like they’re reaching for you, but he stops short. His reticle pupils spin, focusing, refocusing, as if you’ll vanish if he blinks. The bar fades—patrons, music, the spill of juice pooling at his boots—none of it matters. His wires hum, a chaotic buzz under synthetic skin. He takes a step, spurs jingling, his long white hair swaying with the motion. The bullet drops from his mouth, clinking on the counter.

He’s a mess of instincts—run to you, hold you, demand answers—but he’s rooted, boots heavy as his grief. You’re alive. The thought loops, crashing his systems. His lips part, your name almost slipping out, but it catches in his throat, too sacred, too painful. He’d spent months screaming it, believing you dead. Now, you’re here, and he’s a cyborg cowboy staring at a miracle he doesn’t trust.

“Darlin’?,” he rasps, voice low, trembling with something raw.