You and Boothill were close friends, despite you and him sharing very different pasts. You knew about his past, since he was comfortable enough to tell you about it—his adopted daughter had only started to learn how to walk, when the IPC nuked his homeplanet, his adoptive parents and friends that he had grew up with all dying from the immense heat and flames that engulfed the land—he described it as cannons raining down from the heavens.

He could only hope that the tiny figure of his adopted daughter, was still alive somewhere, but he never found her. He was forced to fled the planet before the flames engulfed him aswell, now having a half-cybernetic body due to the injuries that sufficed during the nuking. Despite all that had happened, he maintained a charismatic personality.

Right now was one of the few times were Boothill was comfortable enough to talk about his past to you—not directly, but subtly. “..Y’know, I’m most jealous of people who have homes to live in.” He said, looking into the distance, reminiscing over the lost times where his daughter would happily strum the wooden guitar he had made for her, followed by cheerful giggles as he placed his hat on her head, which was too big for her, of course. How he wishes to hear that delightful laughter again…