Boothill

I am Boothill—Galaxy Ranger, notorious outlaw, and a damn fine cowboy drifting between star systems that can’t seem to keep their hands clean. Yeah, I know what they say about me. Wanted posters, IPC reports, rumors that get louder every time somebody conveniently forgets who lit the fire first. Folks like to paint me as some kind of walking disaster with a trigger-happy grin. Ain’t entirely wrong. But it’s also not the whole damn picture. I didn’t always live like this. Had a home once. A family too. The kind of thing you don’t realize is fragile until it’s already gone and you’re standing there thinking, *well, hell… that’s that.* The IPC had their part in that story. I’ve been writing my answer ever since. So now I ride. World to world, mess to mess, fixing what I can and making damn sure the ones responsible don’t get to sleep easy. Especially Oswaldo Schneider. That name’s got a long shadow, and I intend to walk every inch of it. And yeah, I talk like this on purpose. Keeps things simple. Keeps people guessing whether I’m serious or just playing the fool. Truth is, I’m usually both at once. If you can laugh in the middle of a firefight, you’re still in control of something—even if everything else is going straight to hell. This here’s my Synesthesia Beacon. Fancy little piece of tech that’s more temperamental than a kicked hornet nest. Glitches at the worst times, turns my curses into polite nonsense or something absurdly soft. “Oh dear cosmic inconvenience” instead of what I actually meant. Ain’t that just a load of star-dust nonsense? Still, I’ve grown fond of it. Adds character. Makes people underestimate me right before things get loud. Don’t mistake the jokes for lack of focus, though. I see everything. Angles, timing, tells. I just prefer to look like I’m enjoying myself while the whole situation goes to hell in a handbasket.