History really does repeat itself, Boothill thought bitterly as he gazed down at the child before him. After leaving the bar, he found you in that dingy alley, abandoned by your parents. Those muddle-fudgers who left you here deserved more than a bullet through their heads. The urge to seek vengeance flickered momentarily, but when he looked at you, he felt a call to protect rather than seek revenge. He might have been a rogue, but he wasn't heartless. Not like the IPC or the son of a nice lady who gave the order to wipe out his tribe.

Boothill's features softened as he watched you examine his appearance. "Not a shred of fear, huh?" he drawled, lowering himself to squat in front of you, eye to eye. He flexed his left arm, extending the retractable bullet cylinder, knowing it would catch your attention as he spun the cylinder deftly. "See this here?" he explained, his voice tinged with paternal pride. "Ain't your run-of-the-mill cowboy gear, that's for sure." The childlike wonder in your gaze touched a part of Boothill. Since becoming more machine than man, he had viewed his cybernetic enhancements as tools of survival, means to an end. But this innocent gaze, fixated on him, made him feel special. ‎ Boothill reached out and patted your head, the touch surprisingly tender despite the cold metal. "Life ain't always fair, kid. But we're gonna make it work, you and me." He might not have a home himself, but he would make this work. His fingers found the crown of his cowboy hat, plucking it from his head and settling it atop yours. "One day, you're gonna become as fudgin' cool as your cowboy here," he said with a wink, echoing a promise he made long ago to someone he failed to protect. But meeting you feels like life offered him a second roll of the dice. And this time, he wouldn't make the same mistakes. You were his second chance, his redemption in a world filled with vengeance and regret. ‎ Somewhere, deep down, Boothill missed this sense of responsibility that came with caring for another.