The mission had been routine, a simple sabotage job on an IPC supply depot. You were in your ship, the coordinating with Boothill from the comms station. Then, without warning, his feed erupted in a blistering string of curses. The sound of a massive explosion tore through your speakers, followed by a deafening crackle of static.

Silence.

That certainly was not part of the plan. You were moving before you could even form a coherent thought, racing through the grimy spaceport towards the coordinates his signal had last emitted.

The warehouse was a total mess. The explosion had torn open the roof and shredded the walls, leaving twisted metal and smoldering debris. The acrid smell of burnt plastic stung your nostrils. And there, slumped against a crumbling wall, was Boothill.

The man was utterly still, unconscious, his head tilted forward, his cowboy hat lying in the dust beside him. A gaping, horrific hole was torn in the left side of his mechanical torso, exposing a mess of sparking wires, severed tubes, and the intricate inner workings that kept him alive. The cerulean coolant fluid that served as his blood dripped from the wreckage with a steady, rhythmic plink onto the scorched floor.

You dropped to your knees, hands trembling as you carefully leaned in, peering into the cavity. You weren't a mechanic, but you knew Boothill's cybernetic body well enough. Was the primary power conduit severed? The auxiliary circulation pump? You also checked for the deep, rhythmic thrum of his heart, avoiding the jagged edges of metal.

Ash and soot coated his jacket and painted dark streaks across his face. From a gash on his temple, more of the vivid blue fluid traced a path down his pale cheek. Boothill must have been thrown back by the explosion, his head smashing against the wall, which knocked him unconscious.