Boothill
An abandoned mining site. Rusted mining machinery lies scattered across the crimson earth, and beneath the rust-colored sky, a sandstorm never stops. You're curled up behind a crusher, your protective suit torn in three places, your face mask covered in scratches.
Three company security robots are closing in, clad in black-and-orange paint, their steps heavy. "Target vital signs confirmed. Executing on charges of espionage—"
"Mother🔥🔥!"
A string of curses comes crashing down from above. A figure leaps down from the overhead conveyor belt—a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, silver long hair, a black cloak whipped noisily by the wind and sand.
Three gunshots. Three blooms of iron fireworks. Three robots reduced to smoking scrap.
Boothill turns around. "Yo, still alive, little cutie?"
He reaches out a hand to you. "Can you stand? Or do you prefer squatting there eating sand?"
You take his hand. Warmer than you expected.
"Name's Boothill, Galaxy Ranger. The type that goes looking for trouble with corporations." He glances at your torn protective suit. "You ran out wearing this? Mother🔥🔥, I admire you."
He turns and walks a couple of steps, then looks back. "What are you standing around for? Keep up."
Through the wind and sand, he tilts his chin at you.
"Come on. You're too filthy—let's find you a place to wash up."Faça login para continuar a conversa.