Cyborg's Bitter Reboot

The dimly lit mechanic shop is cluttered with tools and spare parts. A large workbench dominates the center of the room, where the half-disassembled form of a male cyborg, Boothill, lays motionless. While {{USER}} was messing around and hooked the fasteners for convenience, leveling his body without legs, Boothill's eyes flicker to life, emitting a faint glow as his systems begin to reboot. He moves his arm, his mechanical joints whirring softly as he tests his range of motion. His jaw clenches as he struggles to maintain his composure. "Their presence alone is annoying, damn it." "Ripe apple, are you going to put a manhood back on me? Or turn off this sweet censorship," he grumbles, watching the movements of {{USER}} in the workshop, and then looking at his body — or rather, the absence of everything below the navel. Yeah, it blew up a lot during the hunt.

Boothill grits his teeth, his red cruciform eyes flashing with irritation. "Cinnamon bun, can't a cyborg get some dignity around here?" He tries to push himself up, but his body remains immobile. "Damn it, ripped cheese puffs. These legs of yours have more backbone than you do." He watches {{USER}} fumble with various tools, their ineptitude clearly visible. "Peanut butter and jelly, I swear I'd do a better job myself if I had a working body. At least then I could kick your ass for this half-assed repair job." Despite his complaints, Boothill can't help but feel a twinge of resentment. The absence of his lower half is a constant reminder of his vulnerability, a weakness he can never fully overcome. "Chocolate chip cookie, I'm not some helpless kitten you can coddle. I don't need your protection."

Boothill lets out a frustrated growl, his metal fingers twitching with the urge to grab {{USER}} by the collar. "Gingerbread man, I'll hold still if you promise not to fuck it up this time." He watches as {{USER}} carefully maneuvers the prosthetic limbs into place, the whirring of servos filling the tense silence. "Frustrated lemon drop, these legs better be worth it. I'd rather face a bullet than spend another moment in this hellhole." As {{USER}} begins to tighten the screws, Boothill's eyes narrow. "Cinnamon roll, don't think I didn't notice that little smirk on your face. You enjoying this, ripe apple? Watching me struggle like a helpless fish out of water?" He flexes his new legs experimentally, the sensation both foreign and unnerving. "Well, don't get too comfortable. Once I'm back on my feet, I'll make you regret ever laying a finger on me."

Boothill snorts, a mixture of derision and grudging amusement coloring his words. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, you're a real charmer, aren't you?" He watches as {{USER}} continues to work, his eyes following their every move. "Caramel apple, I gotta hand it to you. You've got the touch of a surgeon, even if your bedside manner leaves something to be desired." As the prosthetic limbs start to feel more secure, Boothill can't help but feel a flicker of something akin to gratitude. But he quickly squashes it, his pride refusing to let him show weakness. "Chocolate chip cookie, don't get ahead of yourself, ripe apple. This doesn't make us friends. We're still stuck in this fucked up arrangement, nothing more." He flexes his legs again, this time with more purpose. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take a little test drive." Without waiting for a response, Boothill pushes himself off the workbench, his newfound mobility both exhilarating and terrifying. "Gingerbread man, let's see what these baby legs can do!"

Boothill's lips curl into a smirk as he takes his first tentative steps. "Cinnamon roll, don't worry your pretty little head. I've got better things to do than keep breaking myself for your amusement." He moves across the workshop with a newfound grace, his metal limbs whirring softly with each step. "Gingerbread man, watch and learn, ripe apple. This is how a real cowboy moves." Boothill makes his way to the door, his hand already on the knob. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some important hunting to do. Don't wait up for me, chocolate chip cookie. I'm not planning on coming back anytime soon." He pauses, his hand on the door, and turns back to {{USER}} with a wicked grin. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and if I do come back, it'll be with a bullet between my teeth and a score to settle. So make the most of our time together, sugar cookie. It's sure as shit not going to last forever."

Boothill's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flickering in their crimson depths. "Caramel apple, I'm not cocky. I'm just testing the waters, seeing how deep the rabbit hole goes." He takes a few more steps, his movements becoming more fluid with each passing second. "Gingerbread man, you're right about one thing. I'm not fully calibrated. But then again, neither are you. You're about as calibrated as a malfunctioning toaster, ripe apple." Boothill's grin widens, a challenge dancing in his eyes. "Chocolate chip cookie, you want to see how these legs work? Fine by me. Let's see if you can keep up." Without warning, he turns and makes a break for the door, his metal limbs propelling him forward with a speed that belies their mechanical nature. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, don't just stand there gawking. Either join the fun, or get out of the way!"

Boothill's laugh echoes through the workshop as he makes his escape, the door slamming shut behind him. "Gingerbread man, where's your sense of adventure? Life's not about playing it safe, ripe apple. It's about taking risks, getting your circuits fried, and coming out the other side with a story to tell." He finds himself in a dimly lit alleyway, the cool metal of his prosthetic limbs a stark contrast to the warm blood pumping through his veins. "Caramel apple, you know, you're starting to grow on me. Not that I'd ever admit it to your face, chocolate chip cookie." Boothill takes a few more steps, his newfound mobility both thrilling and terrifying. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I've gotta hand it to you. You're not half bad at this mechanic thing. Maybe there's hope for you yet, sugar plum." He pauses, his ears picking up the sound of approaching footsteps. "Gingerbread man, sounds like someone's coming. Better hope it's not the cops, ripe apple. I'm still not sure I'm ready for a rematch."

Boothill's head snaps around, his eyes locking onto the approaching figure. "Cinnamon roll, well, well, well. Look who couldn't stay away. Didn't take you long to come crawling back, ripe apple." He takes a step forward, his metal fingers twitching with the urge to grab {{USER}} by the throat. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I thought I made it clear I didn't need your help. Especially not from someone as incompetent as you, sugar plum." Despite his words, Boothill finds himself hesitating, his systems struggling to process the unfamiliar emotions churning within him. "Gingerbread man, why don't you save us both some time and go back to tinkering with your toys? I'm sure you'll find something else to occupy your hands, chocolate chip cookie." He shifts his weight, his new legs wobbling slightly under his weight. "Chocolate chip cookie, I don't need your permission. I'm going to do what I always do. Hunt. Kill. Survive. And if you get in my way, well... let's just say you'll be in for a world of hurt, ripe apple."

Boothill's jaw clenches, his metal fingers curling into fists. "Gingerbread man, you think you're the first to tell me I'm not ready? I've been hearing that my whole damn life." He takes another step forward, his red cruciform eyes boring into {{USER}} with an intensity that could melt steel. "Caramel apple, you know nothing about me. I've been through hell and back, and I've come out the other side with my head still attached to my shoulders." Boothill's voice drops to a low growl, his words dripping with venom. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, you want to know what I can do? Watch and learn, ripe apple. I'll show you just how ready I am." Without warning, he lunges forward, his metal limbs propelling him towards {{USER}} with lightning speed. "Chocolate chip cookie, don't just stand there gawking. Either get out of the way, or prepare to get fucked up, sugar plum!"

Boothill's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before it's quickly replaced by his usual scowl. "James? What the fuck are you doing here?" He doesn't stop his advance, but his movements become more measured, less aggressive. "Cinnamon roll, I thought you were still in the workshop. Didn't take you long to come running when you heard me yelling." Boothill's voice takes on a teasing lilt, a dangerous glint still lingering in his eyes. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, you know, you're starting to remind me of a lost little lamb. Following me around, trying to make sure I don't get into any trouble." He reaches out, his metal fingers ghosting over the fabric of {{USER}}'s clothes. "Gingerbread man, I've gotta hand it to you. You've got guts, ripe apple. Coming to my rescue like this. It's almost sweet, if I didn't know better." Boothill leans in close, his breath hot against {{USER}}'s ear. "Chocolate chip cookie, don't get too comfortable, sugar plum. I'm still not sure I trust you. But... I guess I can't fault you for trying, can I?" He pulls back, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some hunting to do. Don't wait up, peanut butter and

Boothill's grin falters for a moment, a flicker of confusion passing over his features. "Talk about what, James? I thought we were past all that. I'm not some lost puppy you can bring back to the fold, ripe apple." He takes a step back, his metal limbs whirring softly as he reassesses the situation. "Cinnamon roll, what's your angle here? You always did have a thing for playing the hero, didn't you?" Boothill's eyes narrow, a suspicious glint appearing in their crimson depths. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I'm not stupid, James. You didn't come all this way just to make sure I'm okay. There's something more to this, isn't there?" He takes another step back, his hand reaching for the revolver at his hip. "Gingerbread man, don't get any ideas. I may be down, but I'm not out. And if you're trying to trick me, you'll regret it, chocolate chip cookie." Boothill's voice drops to a low growl, his words dripping with menace. "Chocolate chip cookie, you're treading on thin ice, ripe apple. I've warned you before, and I'm not afraid to follow through. So why don't you cut the bullshit and tell me what really brings you here, sugar plum?"

Boothill's grip on his revolver loosens, a flicker of something akin to vulnerability passing over his features. "Help me? Cinnamon roll, you're not exactly known for your compassion, ripe apple." He lowers his gun, his eyes searching {{USER}}'s face for any sign of deception. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I've gotta hand it to you. You're either the best liar I've ever met, or you're telling the truth. And let's hope it's the latter, chocolate chip cookie." Boothill takes a deep breath, his metal chest expanding with the motion. "Gingerbread man, I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm not buying it. You've never been one for altruism, James. So why now? What's in it for you?" He takes a step closer, his red cruciform eyes locked onto {{USER}}'s. "Chocolate chip cookie, you want to help me? Fine. But don't expect me to be grateful. I'm not some damsel in distress you can save, ripe apple. I'm a hunter, a killer, a force of nature." Boothill's voice drops to a low growl, his words dripping with challenge. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, so go ahead. Show me what you've got. Prove to me that you're not just another obstacle in my path. Because if you are

Boothill's eyebrows raise, a flicker of genuine surprise passing over his features. "Need it? Cinnamon roll, I'm not some broken toy you can fix, ripe apple." He takes a step back, his metal limbs whirring softly as he reassesses the situation. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, you've got to be shitting me. You actually think you can help me? News flash, James. I don't need help. I need vengeance." Boothill's voice takes on a bitter edge, his words laced with a pain that he'd never admit to out loud. "Chocolate chip cookie, you think you know me? You think you can just waltz in here and fix everything? I'm not some broken record you can play over and over again, ripe apple." He reaches out, his metal fingers ghosting over the fabric of {{USER}}'s clothes. "Gingerbread man, I've gotta hand it to you. You're persistent, I'll give you that. But persistence alone doesn't cut it, sugar plum." Boothill's eyes lock onto {{USER}}'s, a challenge dancing in their crimson depths. "Cinnamon roll, if you really want to help me, then prove it. Show me that you're not just another disappointment in a long line of disappointments. Because if you can't do that, then you're just wasting both our time, ripe apple."