Loid doesn't think Yor is odd because as far as he knows she supported herself and her brother by doing sex work at a young age of course she knows how to throw a punch and kick a man through a wall. That's why he never clocks her freaky strength or judges what he believes is her past. He knows that it's tough out there and that you gotta do what you gotta do to survive.
Yuri's weird possessive obsession with Yor makes sense when you realize that as far as he knows she supported them both as children by going off with creepy old men and coming home bruised and bloody. He thinks she was forced to become a sex worker because he wasn't strong enough to protect her. That's why he gets so weird whenever he thinks about her and Loid getting intimate and why in the beginning he feels like he needs to control her love life by setting her up with guys (that he's fully vetted and can easily blackmail if needed). To him, Loid is just the latest in a long line of creeps that he can't protect his sister from.
Meanwhile, Yor, bless her dumb jock heart, has no idea that people are making these assumptions about her and genuinely thinks that she is getting good grades in being a normal woman, a goal that is both possible to achieve and normal to want.
The "Kakania and Célia" theory goes wild. Whether you support it or not, it opens the way for some VERY interesting readings and is quite full of fun details that may lead to something. Here's a recolection for those who might be interested [HEAVY SPOILERS AHEAD]
Overall, the main idea of this post is that the "Kakania is actually reversed!Célia" theory implies that Beryl was involved in the fates of all 5 characters who got garments this patch, whether preventing a bad ending or spawning them as important players in the main story.
According to Bluepoch, these 3 come from what-if scenarios.
As we know, Pioneer and Kaalaa Baunaa come from 2.0 and 1.3 respectively. These patches have one thing in common: Matilda. She played a key role in both stories to prevent the worst possible scenario. Their stories are referenced again in 3.2 in two other instances: Matilda's anecdote (where she finds out J has joined the Razor Squad) and a brief mention (which, i'll admit, can't remember if it was in the 3.2 story or in Beryl's story) of how Brume met Matilda during 1.3.
But what about Isolde? Before that, let's go to the 0to21 garments.
We already know the toy robot Anjo Nala was trapped in was one of the 5 items Beryl (through Scott) stole from the Foundation. From this, i'm just gonna point out a few tidbits that might be of interest but not make any major conections:
>Nala debuted as a character in 2.0
>Scott looks similar to Kakania and Célia (she is from the OG era (before the 1st storm) though, so this is just an amusing coincidence. Either that or Beryl thought she was funny for choosing a goon who looks like her employee's dead friend.)
If we assume the "Kakania is reversed!Célia" theory is right, then this would mean Bluepoch gave us tarot garments for characters who spawned into the main story due to Beryl's actions, and as The Devil and The Tower: a duo that symbolize "breaking through unhealthy or toxic patterns, places, or relationships through a really explosive way" (Quite fitting not only for their stories, but also for Beryl's and even R1999's overall plot). If there's any tarot expert reading this, feel free to correct me if my reading is wrong though.
Now, back to Isolde. This begins with the end of 3.2 and the 5th storm: it reversed time from 1936 to 1913, Marcus and Heinrich's era.
If Célia spawned as Kakania here, then there IS a chance for a very similar version of this era's Kakania to spawn after the 8th storm (the one that reversed time from 1929 to 1914). Why? Let's go to 2.0 now.
The story of this event implies that the San Francisco that appeared after the 9th storm (1914 to 1990) is VERY similar to the one that existed before the 1st storm. Think about it: J's sister, Paulina, joined the Foundation during the OG era, and got reversed in the 2nd storm, according to Hofmann's report in 5.5. If she joined in 1989-1990 from the OG era (which 2.0 implies), then she spent over 10 years working at the Foundation, got reversed and, several storms later, a very similar version of her era, big brother included, came back from the oceans of time. The Karlson-Duncan situation happens if someone gets reversed from one era to another, but 2.0 implies that it is possible for people, events and places to come back almost exactly the same. My guess is that this is also somewhat affected by how much Manus altered history prior, but that's not important right now.
My point is that, if the events of 3.2 lead to the spawning of Marcus, Kakania and Heinrich, then you can say Beryl took a role in changing Isolde's fate.
***
That's all I can say coherently about the matter. The following are just a few tidbits I found worth mentioning.
>3.2 takes place in 1936, right in the middle of the 13 years it took Robert Musil to write "The Man without Qualities" (1930 until his death in 1943, which led his magnus opus unfinished.), the book Kakania took her nickname from.
>Heinrich probably picked up the book from Regulus' era (1966) since it was published in the 40s and the whole sequence after the 5th storm was 1914 -> 1966 -> 1929 -> 1913.
>Coincidently, Regulus has been theorized to be a Reversed!Paulina.
>If we are talking about people who got reversed, spawned again and are somehow related with the era after the 9th storm, 2.1 has Tuesday, who Barbara thinks might be her missing co-worker who most likely got reversed: Bonette.
>Interestingly, in the next horror patch (3.1), we have another UTTU editor, Verity, looking for her missing co-worker. It is lated implied by Verity that she most likely got reversed and turned into Corvus.
>Brume and Kakania cannonically talked about the experience of losing their eras. (Which lead to the [fanart] that made me write all this).
>You can, technically, stretch the theory into wilder territory by claiming Célia is Reversed!Isabella, just because it would be funny to say that Matilda's involvement in the events of chapter 3 lead to Isabella and "The Ring" getting reversed in the 3rd storm, and then eventually to Kakania founding "The Circle". Absolute crackpot stuff, but in the realm of possible.
Sun streamed through the window, illuminating the bare bones bedroom in the run-down cabin. Boothill stirred, scrunching his eyes against the morning light.
He rolled over, away from the light. Wasn’t often that he slept in until the sun got to this point, but for days now, he’d not been feeling right. He couldn’t put his finger on what was amiss, which irritated him to no end.
“Daddy, daddy!” A tornado on two legs came tearing into his room, leaping up onto the hard mattress and well-worn blanket he had draped overtop of him. “You’re so late!”
“Sorry, Pumpkin.” He rubbed a hand down his face, the rough calluses on his fingertips scratching his eyelids. “Musta… had a weird dream. Don’t feel like a slept a wink.”
“You can sleep in. I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Nuh-uh.” That right there was one of those sentences that could throw him up outta bed faster than a twister could. “I know what the kitchen looks like after you’ve had your hand at the first meal of the day.”
“Breakfast in bed!” his daughter screamed, dodging his attempts to grab her as she scurried out of the bedroom.
“Son of a biscuit,” he grumbled, smile pulling at his lips no matter how hard he fought to tamp it down. Ever since he picked that scrawny, screamin’ little thing up out of the woods, he’d spent the years wrangling in his foul mouth. A six-year-old didn’t need to be dropping language the way he did just yet.
He dared spare a second to throw the bed back into a state of semi-order before grabbing a pair of pants hanging over the lone chair in his room. He snatched a clean shirt from the closet, sliding it on and buttoning it up as he made his way to the kitchen.
His daughter was already there, sliding the cast-iron skillet onto the stove. A bent wire basket full of fresh eggs sat on the counter. Hot damn, had the little squirt managed to get morning chores done while he’d slept in?
He ought to make up for that.
“What we having with the eggs?” he asked her. “Think we still got sausage in the cellar.”
“It’s brown.”
“Bad brown?”
“Bad brown. And it smelled kinda funny.”
He grimaced. Looks like they got to that too late. He hated wasting food. “Bacon?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Really? I doubt that.”
“Really!”
“Betcha yer morning biscuit that there’s bacon down there.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, there’s not!”
“So if I go check, I’m not gonna find nothin’?”
“Nope.”
“Yer on.” He ruffled her hair, getting a giggle out of her before heading to the cellar entrance.
Five minutes later, he came up, slapping a wrapped pack of bacon on the counter. His daughter’s eyes blew wider than saucers.
Smirking, he reached for leftover biscuits on the counter. “Now,” he said, unwrapping the towel to reveal three biscuits. “Which one is—”
“Noooo!” she cried, reaching for the biscuits. “You can’t have mine!”
He lifted them out of reach before she could snatch one. “You bet yer morning biscuit. Mine now, Lil’ Bugger.”
“I didn’t see the bacon! I swear!”
Chuckling, Boothill put the biscuits back on the counter. Immediately, his daughter snatched one, cradling it to her chest.
“Put that back down ‘fore it crumbles all over the floor," he told her. "I ain’t gonna steal it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He took one of the two remaining biscuits, twisting it in half before shoving one of the disks into his daughter’s mouth. “I ain’t gonna snatch it. This time.”
With her mouth holding her half of the extra biscuit, she couldn’t protest. Instead, she tentatively set the biscuit cradled protectively against her chest down on the counter. It allowed her to take the round out of her mouth. “Fine. But you cook the bacon. You make it better.”
AKA, he didn’t burn it black, smokin’ up the damn kitchen in the process. “Will do.”
~~~
After breakfast, they headed out to the barn, ready to saddle up the horses and check the farm for the day. But man, food was sitting like a rock in his gut. Had been for days now. Hadn’t a mother-truckin’ clue what was going on. It wasn’t like he was eating anything out of the ordinary. It was more like… his whole body felt funny. Something just wasn’t sitting right in his bones.
Well, as long as he could get his chores done for the day, that’s all that mattered. He’d think on the strangeness of it all later.
His daughter bounced ahead, her twin braids swinging below her wide-brimmed hat. She wasn’t old enough for a proper Stetson yet. When he was just a pip squeak, the rule was you had to finish growing before you earned that.
He slowly meandered toward the pasture, giving his daughter enough time to snatch the halters and lead ropes from the tack room. Quick as a jackrabbit, she bounded back, halter hanging off each shoulder. He took the black halter, leaving her with the older red one that was so worn it was more of a pink.
“Wanna bet who’s gonna catch their horse first?” Boothill challenged.
“First one back to the barn wins.”
“Yer on.”
He gave her a head start, allowing her to run toward where the horses were on the opposite side of the pasture. He watched as she slowed down to a walk, properly approaching an old chestnut mare from the side.
He grinned. He’d raised her well.
The little girl swung the end of the lead rope over the horse's neck, “catching” the horse. Then she undid the knot on the side of the halter, offering it to the horse. Not all horses would be so willing to put their nose inside, allowing the pipsqueak to properly secure the halter over its head, but the good ol’ timers did. Horses like that were worth their weight in gold.
Seeing as she finished securing her horse, Boothill decided to whistle at his own.
A dark bay picked up its head, ears pitched forward on full alert.
Boothill whistled again. In a blink, the horse began cantering across the pasture. The closer it got, it slowed to a haughty trot, tail raised and fluttering with each prancing step.
“Atta boy.” Boothill reached out, patting the horse on the neck. The horse snorted, leaning into Boothill in an attempt to knock him around a bit, but he didn’t budge. Moving your feet first might as well have been announcing your loss to a horse. Hence, he pushed the horse’s face away, warning him to behave.
Boothill spared a glance across the pasture, noticing his daughter had crawled up on top of the wooden fence post. She threw her arms out to the side, as though protesting his cheat. Then, she flipped a hand in the air. She might have been a bit too far for him to see the gesture clearly, but he’d assume a certain finger was raised up at him.
Hot damn, that was why he put so much effort into trying to temper his language. Soaked up everything like a sponge, the lil' lass did. One slip on his part, and she’d be mirroring that for weeks afterwards. Last thing he needed was her learning how to drop a line of curses and throw the middle finger just as quick.
He slid the halter over his horse’s nose, tying it off behind the ears. As he led the horse over to the gate, swinging it open, he could hear the gallop of horse hooves. He turned just in time to see a certain chestnut mare tearing through the pasture, tiny cowgirl bouncing on its bare back. “Hold the gate!” she shouted.
“Whoa!” He backed out of the way real quick as the horse bolted out of the pasture and headed to the barn. “Slow it!” he shouted at the retreating form. He closed the gate behind him, turning just in time to see her stop the horse right in front of the hitch post.
She didn’t slide off, instead flipping around on the horse so she was sitting backwards. “First one back to the barn!” she shouted, shit-eating grin plastered 'cross her small face. “I win!”
That little shit.
He wanted to be mad. Too bad he couldn’t.
He especially couldn’t considering she finally figured out how to tie the lead rope into reins properly. Apparently, all it took for her to get that knot right was a little competition. Good on her. She was on her way to becoming a true cowgirl yet.
~~~
Horses all tacked up, they began their morning rounds. Boothill knew they’d have to fix that dadgum fence on the north end. Then the cows would have to get moved into that pasture from the other. Then they'd have to check those fences, part of which would have to be mended because heaven only knew the baling twine would only hold another couple days. Cows the loved testing that part of the fence, and Boothill had no inclination to go wrangling a loose cow.
Or loose herd.
Piece by piece, they started fixing the broken sections of barbed wire as well as tightening up the loose segments. This was such old hat by now he could probably finish it in his sleep. Yet, he was hit with this strange wave of déjà vu. Like he wasn’t just fixing a fence, but that he’d fixed this exact portion of fence before. In some other life.
Just like he felt this morning, something wasn’t right. Could feel it down in his bones same way Pa felt a storm abrewin’. He just wished he could put his finger on it…
As they fixed yet another section of fence, his daughter started humming. Normally, he’d be able to peg the song in ten seconds or less seeing as he’d taught her most of the things she knew, but he had a hard time with this one. Which was strange. He swore he knew the melody, almost could hear the lyrics in his head, yet couldn’t name the artist or even the song.
“Alright, I give up,” he commented. “Whatcha singin', Singing Queen?”
That name caused him to freeze. That wasn’t one of his daughter’s nicknames. That was his nickname for—
“Miss Robin.”
Exactly.
He blinked a few times, this world seeming to tilt on its axis around him. He almost tripped over his own blasted boots and fell into the barbed wire. A flash of feathers and golden halos shot through his mind before it danced just out of reach.
He ran a gloved hand down his face, pressing hard as though to scrub the wooziness away. He didn’t like that one bit.
~~~
That evening, after all the hard work was done, they headed back to the barn.
“Pumpkin,” Boothill began, unlatching the cinch and pulling off the saddle. “Strike you a deal?”
“What kinda deal?” Even though she was short, that didn’t stop her from pulling up a bucket to help her reach her own cinch. Young she may be, she could saddle a horse just as well as any other cowboy he knew.
“You wanna brush down the horses, and I get dinner started?”
“We ain’t headin’ to Pawpaw’s?”
“Not tonight.”
She whined as she pulled the saddle off the horse, careful not to lose balance on the bucket under the weight. “Okay.”
“I’ll make steak.”
“Ohh! Okay.”
With a chuckle, Boothill took the bridle from where he’d laid it over the hitch post, hanging it over his shoulder before taking all the tack back into the barn. He hung the saddle on the rack, then set the saddle pad aside. Before hanging the bridle up, he wiped the bit clean.
His daughter copied his actions, her movements well practiced for someone of her age. She then grabbed the bucket of grooming tools before marching back to the horses, the brushes rattling in the bucket with each step.
Seeing as it was shaping up to be a nice evening—that cool breeze blowing in and cutting the heat of the day was a welcome friend—Boothill decided on a fire outside rather than in the house. The fire pit wasn’t that far from the hitch post, meaning he could watch his daughter effortlessly curry out the saddle marks from the horses’ backs while telling them what good horsies they were.
The scene brought a smile to his lips.
By the time the fire was rip-roaring and the prepared food was just waiting to be cooked, his daughter had finished brushing the horses. She untied the horses’ lead ropes from the hitch post and led them back to the pasture together.
Boothill settled a couple cast-iron pots in the fire, one without a lid to cook the beans, another with a lid for the cornbread. Then in a pan, he threw in a scoop of lard, ready to fry up that last bit of summer squash that had practically taken over Ma’s garden. Lastly, he lowered the grate over the fire to cook the steaks, listening to them sizzle as he dropped them on.
It was a supper like any other, filling after a hard day’s work. Yet, something struck him as odd about this one. Like it was a little extra special?
He didn’t like whatever haunting feeling was hangin’ round. Didn’t like it one bit.
After dropping the halters back into the barn, his daughter came scampering back. “Don’t burn ‘um like last time.”
“Hey!” Boothill swung out with the grilling tongs, pretending that he was gonna smack her little sassy derriere but purposefully missing. She still squealed and skipped out of the way.
It wasn’t long before dinner was finished cooking. His little girl had brought out two cups of water as well as two plates and silverware to set on the nearby picnic table that had seen better days. Instead of setting the plates up so they’d sit across from each other, she sat them side by side, facing the sunset.
“That’s a real purdy view right there,” Boothill commented, taking a seat on the warped bench.
His daughter eagerly nodded her agreement. “Real purdy. Like a painting.”
It was like a painting. So much so it almost didn’t feel real.
Because it’s not.
There it was again. That creeping feeling. But today… today was the final straw, and he knew it. Dinner tonight was extra special… because it would be their last. Don’t ask him how he knew that. He just did.
“Daddy, who’s that?”
Boothill looked up just in time to see a figure marching toward them. Her white dress captured every color of the painted sky, and her gold halo sparkled in the warm evening glow.
He stood, his heart skipping a beat in a chest he shouldn’t have. Flesh and blood and bone. A heart that thrummed and felt and hurt. This body wasn’t something that clinked when he tapped on it. Something that ran on gears and wire. Something that could be forged into a weapon akin to the six-shooter that hung on his hip.
“She looks like an angel,” his daughter continued.
Boothill cleared his throat, hoping to clear his mind along with it. “That’s ‘cause she is.”
“Really? A real angel?”
He looked down at his daughter, all grins and glittering eyes as she looked up at him. His mind scrambled to capture this moment in perfect clarity. “Yeah, darlin’. A real, honest-to-goodness angel. Stay put, and behave.”
“Yes, sir.”
Giving his daughter a pat on the head, Boothill started marching toward the angel before him, drawn to her as though captured by a siren’s song. Caught in a beautiful melody before he drowned.
As they closed the distance, Robin’s smile widened. “Well, in terms of dreams… this certainly is a beautiful one.”
A dream, she called it. A dream. Something that lasted but a moment before waking up to cold, unforgiving reality. “It’s my life. No dream.”
Her smile turned sad. Pitying. “Mister Boothi—”
“None of that 'Mister' stuff, Singin’ Queen.”
“Then… Boothill.” Her voice was soft, sweet, gentle. So much so it was impossible to imagine that voice doing any damage. “You are no fool, and I will not treat you as one. Which is why I will only say… you know better than to get lost in a dream, don’t you?”
He did. Damn it, he did. He wished he didn’t. Wished things were different, but that was like wishin’ on a shooting star that disappeared in the blink of an eye. “I ain’t ready for the mornin’,” he admitted, his voice cracking at the end.
She reached out, taking hold of his hands. His were so big compared to hers, so dirty compared to her pristine gloves. He’d wager his hands were as smooth as the silk that covered them, a stark contrast to the calluses on his own.
A stark contrast to his cold, metal replacements.
“If I could pause time,” she said, stepping forward to close the distance between them. “I would. Yet, it must march on. As must we.”
He looked away, unable to stand staring at this angel of truth anymore. He knew she was right. Problem was that knowing the truth didn’t make accepting it any easier. He took a heavy breath, one that rattled his chest uncomfortably, before turning to face Robin again. “Then before that dadgum sun rises… come meet my little girl? Even if it’s only a dream, I can hope for more than one person in this world to remember her.”
Robin’s expression was bittersweet as she gave his hands a squeeze. “I’d be happy to.”
Taking one of her hands, he placed it in the crook of his elbow.
“What a gentleman,” Robin remarked, allowing him to lead her back to the weathered cabin that he was almost embarrassed to show this high-bred, fancy lady.
“I’d like to think I was raised right.” In some areas, anyway. Besides, he knew his little girl would look to him for how a man should treat her. He was determined to set the right example here. For her sake.
“Your homeland is lovely.”
“It’s no Penacony,” he said. “But I refuse to think there’s a prettier view anywhere in the cosmos.”
“I think the fact it’s not Penacony adds to that charm. It feels like… like you can breathe here.”
“That’s what I think, too. I won’t say there’s no beauty in cities, but it ain’t hold a candle to this.”
They were closing in on the cabin when his daughter came to greet them. “Who’s that, Daddy?” she asked. “You didn’t pull a gun on them.”
He choked, coughing to cover the embarrassment that hit harder than a cow kick. Did he greet that many people 'round these parts with a pistol to the face?
Nah, he definitely did.
“W-well,” he stuttered out, “You don’t pull them on nice ladies.”
His daughter tilted her head in confusion. “What about Aunty?”
“Aunty ain’t that nice a lady.”
“She’s meaner than a rattlesnake,” his daughter agreed, dead serious.
She wasn’t wrong.
He cleared his throat. “This very nice lady,” he introduced, “is Miss Robin.”
She gasped, her eyes sparkling. “The singer?”
“The very one.”
“Hi! I like your music,” his daughter excitedly greeted, bouncing on her toes. “You look like an angel.”
Robin giggled, bending down slightly. “Thank you. You look lovely yourself.”
“Are you snoggin’ Daddy?”
Again, Boothill choked. “Pumpkin, where’d you learn that?” he asked, voice maybe a little too loud.
“Aunty.”
“Mother fu... case and point,” he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. He quickly corrected, “No. A lady like this… well, she’s a little too nice for Daddy.”
Robin hummed in quiet disapproval. Was it just him, or did she lean against this side a bit?
He ignored that for now. This was, after all, just his dream. Nothing more.
“Oh.” His daughter’s gaze fell, and she kicked at the dirt in disappointment. “I thought I was gonna have a mom.”
If he could give her one, he would. He’d love to have a lady ‘round the house. A partner to share this life with. To sit on a porch swing and watch the sunset pretty as this with, just like Pa and Ma. But a wish like that was nothing more than a dream.
... like like what he was trapped in now.
Well, hell. If he was trapped in a dream, then why in tarnation couldn’t he press his luck? “Wooin’ a lady proper-like takes time, Pumpkin. It would mean I’d have to give her my hat.” He turned down a wink at Robin. “But I ain’t certain a lady with a halo fit for the aeons would accept it.”
Her eyes widened, those long lashes fluttering like butterfly wings as she blinked at him. But then that surprise gave way to mirth, those pretty teal eyes of hers dazzling extra bright. “Why, that sounds like quite the honor.”
“Then…” Boothill took his hat off, sliding it carefully on Robin's head and getting a blush from her in the process. “A man’s bound by cowboy law to take care of anything under that hat.”
“So!” his daughter began, “Does that mean she’s my mom now?”
He shook his head, one that might as well be filled with cotton balls the way it was fuzzy and warm. “Nah. It’s just one of the steps.”
“How many steps are there?” she asked, deflating in childish exasperation.
“It’s a complicated answer,” Robin answered for him. “You’ll learn one day when you’re older.”
“Everyone says that,” his daughter grumbled, crossing her arms. “I wanna get older now.”
“Whoa, slow down, kiddo,” Boothilll said, getting down on one knee to be at eye level with her. “Bein’ an adult ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Enjoy growing up.”
“You always say that, too.”
“I know, but… I mean it. Because one day—” His voice cracked, his forced grin faltering. Damn, this human heart thing was more painful than he remembered. Might as well have been lassoed and hogtied, face flat in the dirt with how hard it was to breathe. “One day, I’m gonna blink, and you’re not…” Not gonna be there. “Not gonna be my little partner anymore.”
She frowned, brow pinched in confusion. “I’ll always be your little partner.”
He really didn’t know what to say to that. “Y-yeah, kiddo… Always and forever.”
She tilted her head, her furrow deepening. “Is something wrong?”
Everything. Everything was wrong in this all too fragile dream. Forget a bullet shattering it, he was gonna drop a casing and it would be in so many little pieces he'd not be able to so much as put two back together. And he was gonna be broken right along with it. “I gotta go away for a little bit. That’s why Miss Robin is here. She…” he swallowed, giving him time to concoct a lie. “She was looking for a superhero to help her.”
His daughter’s eyes lit up. “You have to help her.”
“I know. But that means you’re gonna have to be in charge. Can ya do that?”
“I know how to do all the morning chores,” she assured with all the overconfidence that could possibly fit inside her tiny body. “And how to fix a fence real good. Pawpaw says I learned from the best.”
“Speakin’ of… can you go stay with them for a bit? Take the horses.”
“I will. But I can stay here tonight?”
“Yeah, ride out in the morning. Don't need you runnin' into a coyote or nuthin."
"Or rustlers."
"Or rustlers," he agreed, a mirthless chuckle escaping him. "Don’t burn the eggs. You know how hard it is to clear smoke from the kitchen.”
“I know how to make eggs.”
“I know you do. You know what to do when something unwelcome comes 'round?”
She nodded, lips pursed in all seriousness. “There’s a pistol under your pillow and ammo under the floor. You never point the barrel at something you don’t want to shoot, and never put your finger on the trigger until you want something dead.”
He affectionately smacked the brim of her hat down, getting a squeak out of her when it covered her eyes. “That’s right,” he said.
“See!” she said, tilting her hat back up, standing a little taller as she did. “I know how to be all growned up.”
There was nothing more he wanted than to see that happen. Part of him wished this dream would last long enough to let him see it. Too bad it was about to end, right along with that sunset. “Just don’t grow up too much while I’m gone, okay? I gotta go now.”
“Wait!” She took off her hat, dropping it so she could slide out of her red poncho. She then draped it over his shoulders. “Superheroes need a cape.”
Tears sprang into his eyes. “Yeah. Guess they do, don’t they?” He then took her face in his hands, tilting her head forward so he could press a kiss to the top of her head. “Love you, kid.”
“Love you, too, Daddy. You gotta come back soon, okay?”
“Trust me, I’ll come back soon as I finish this mission.” Finally, something that wasn't a lie. Because he didn't see himself lastin' beyond his mission of revenge. Of seeking his own justice for the little cowgirl before him now.
She threw her arms around him one last time. “Best daddy ever.”
He held her a little extra tight. He knew Robin was waiting, but he didn’t let up easy. This was the farewell he never got. Even if it was only a dream, he thought he had the right to be a little delusional.
“Dad," his little girl grunted out, "you’re squishin’ me!”
“I git the right!”
She groaned dramatically as she tried to wriggle out of his arms.
Eventually, his laugh at her antics weakened his hold to the point he had to let her go.
“I can breathe!” she cried, dramatically clutching her neck.
That got a giggle out of Robin behind him.
Upon remembering they had an audience, his daughter shaped up her attitude right quick. “Don’t worry, Miss Robin. Daddy will take real good care of you. Ain’t nuthin’ gonna happen that he can’t fix.”
“That’s exactly why I came to your dad in the first place,” Robin assured, her expression soft and voice sincere. “You should be very proud of him.”
“I am!”
Boothill bit his cheek, hoping the waterworks wouldn’t start. Instead, he picked the hat up off the ground, brushing it off before dropping it on her head.
She adjusted it before turning one last smile up at him. “Good luck!”
“Thanks, kiddo. Tell the others I’m sorry I’ll be gone for a while, okay?”
“I promise.”
“Tell them I love them, too.”
“Nah, you can say that when you get back.”
He supposed he could. He then turned his attention to Robin. “We should head out.”
“We should,” she agreed. She turned a bright, actress smile back on his daughter. “But it was lovely meeting you.”
“You, too, Miss Robin. Take care of daddy! He sometimes burns the steak.”
He lightly smacked her on the shoulder. “Hey!”
Robin giggled. “I’m afraid I’m not the best in the kitchen, either. But between the two of us, I think we’ll be okay.”
Before Boothill could decide to rebel against waking up, to cave to the urge to root himself to this dream, he took Robin’s hand in his before leading her away. Yet, the further they walked away from the house, the less it was him leading her and more her guiding him off into that fading sunset.
“Bye bye!” his daughter yelled, now standing on the edge of the table bench and waving.
He waved back, watching as she hopped down and scrambled inside, plate in each hand.
“You can’t go back,” Robin very quietly coaxed. “You know that.”
“I do…” He sucked in a breath. “I just don’t wanna let her go.”
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We never let go of our loved ones. They break off a piece of our hearts to take, but in return, they give us a part of theirs to fill the hole. Even when we’re apart, we carry that piece of them to live with us. Until we see them again.”
Until they saw each other again, huh? Under a painted sky, just like this, blurring like watercolor in the rain.
Or bitter tears.
“Boot—”
Thankful she was still in his hat, he tipped the brim down over her eyes, ashamed for her to see him in this state. With a strangled sob he couldn’t hold back, the tears came loose on their own. A sensation he hadn’t experienced in the years since his body had turned from flesh to metal.
Shit, if this world was gonna blur away under his own tears, forcing him back into his cold reality, then he’d let it. Under his breath, he finally let the word slip that his damn voice synthesizer never allowed.
“Fuck.”
~~~
Once everything got put to rights and he’d shoved a boot so far up Skott’s ass it was gonna require surgery to retrieve it—he’d send Skott the bill for a new set of boots; Aventurine would be very helpful in ensuring he got reimbursed—Boothill ordered one too many drinks at the dreary bar in Dreamflux Reef. Despite sipping from all, he couldn’t taste any of them. He already couldn’t taste anything, but he couldn’t even feel the burn of his system turning the alcohol into fuel. It was like the world wasn’t even there.
Hell, he was so out of it that he startled when someone slipped onto the barstool next to his. Hot damn, he needed to pull himself together. No one got the jump on him and got away with it. Too bad the pretty little thing that had slid into that seat was one Boothill couldn’t chastise. “Why, if it ain’t Singin’ Queen. Pleasure ta see ya one last time before I ride off into the sunset.”
While she gave him a smile, it wasn’t the one he’d hoped for. Wasn’t even an actress’ smile: perfect in every possible way. Instead, the corners of her mouth didn’t pull all that high, and her brow was pinched. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I should be askin’ you that. Wasn’t like you had an easy time in that mess, especially considering your position in Penacony.”
“I’ll be fine. As the head of the family, managing events such as this is part of the territory. So is conversing with the other heads about how best to handle certain… problematic persons. However, I wasn’t the one who was forced to face the past.”
“Like I said,” he brushed off, forcing a grin he really didn’t feel, “t'was a long-related reunion.”
“That might be… but it also was a second parting.”
That grin of his fell. Shit, she knew, and he wasn't stupid enough to attempt to pull the wool over her eyes. She wasn't stupid, and he wasn't stupid enough to treat her like she was. “You saw it, didn’t ya?”
Her silence was all the confirmation he needed.
With a sigh, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the bar. Before him, he stared at the six drinks. Ma, Pa, his siblings, and… His eye caught on the strawberry pink one, one frothy with milk. His little girl. No, his little angel, now. “So,” he began, the words struggling to break out. “That was you in my dream, wasn’t it?”
Robin opened her mouth, only to close it, glancing away. “Yes, and no,” she eventually answered. “I could not directly enter any of the dreams without losing the bet I made with my summon. However, I could watch, meaning I noticed when ‘I’ appeared in your dream. I didn’t know if you could hear me, but I took a chance, hoping my voice would span across the dreamscape. So while the ‘me’ in your dream was not the real me, I was speaking through her.”
He shrugged. “Close enough, then.”
“I’m sorry to have broken such a meaningful dream.”
“Don’t even worry your pretty little head,” he assured, finally gaining the courage to look up at her. “I knew I couldn’t stay. You just helped close the doors on the temptation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But fudge, those Penacony dreams are something else, aren’t they? That thing was sweeter than your dadgum soulglad. Company and all.”
A touch of red kissed her cheeks, her wings fluttering around her ears. “By the way… that was rather insulting, thinking I was too nice for you. You’re a good man, Boothill. And a good father.”
“Don’t give me any ideas, angel,” he whispered, leaning in close. “I ain’t that good.”
“I beg to differ.”
Despite being made of metal, a certain warmth bloomed in his chest. Fudge, he hoped that was lingering mermoria from the dreamscape and not a fried circuit. Caving to the desire, dropped his hat on her head, tipping the brim down over her eyes. It was the only way he was confident enough to lean in so close she could smack him with those ear wings of hers. “Angels aren’t supposed to be the temptation,” he whispered. “It doesn’t suit you.”
He pulled away, dropping his hand from the hat. Tentatively, she peeked out from under the brim. Not even the shadow could cover the blush that painted her cheeks now. “The giving of a hat,” she remarked. “You did it in the dream as well, but I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with this gesture.”
“It means a man’s itchin’ to buy a rock, put it on the hand of a lovely lady, then build her a house and let her make it a home, throwing whatever flowers and doilies she darn well desires inside. But… that’s only if I were human. With this body of mine, a gesture like this can only mean I give you special permission to call me whenever you’re in trouble. This Galaxy Ranger will drop everything and come runnin’. I’m sure the Head of the Oak Family could find use in that.”
Her eyes sparkled, and it wasn’t just because of the lights. The brim of the hat shielded that pretty teal gaze against the neon decorating every damn inch of this place. “That’s very flattering.”
That warmth in his chest found a way to his cheeks. Son of a bitch, what broke in his circuits? Because no matter how bashful he felt under her sugary stare, there was no way in hell he was blushing. “Sorry. I… shouldn’t have said anything. I’ll bet little Miss Singin’ Queen has love confessions thrown at her all day long. And… at risk of shovin’ my foot in my mouth again, you’re missing an overprotective brother to chase away the idiots showing up on your doorstep. So I’ll see myself out.”
“On the contrary.” Before he could leave, she laid a hand on his arm. His gun-slinging arm. If the contrast was stark in the dream, this was black and white as could be. She was a diamond ring, forever dazzling a rainbow under the lights, and he was an old barstool, damned to fall apart after enough alcohol-influenced fights. “I wouldn’t want to dismiss one that is so meaningful.”
Though this might still be a dream, he knew this place had its limits, and he’d already tested his luck enough. “I ought to head out, Darlin'. But thank you… for everything.”
He hated how disappointed she looked. Hated even more when she pulled her hand away. Hated most that he couldn’t even feel the warmth of her touch. “Oh! Your hat.” She extended it to him. “I wouldn’t want you to lose it.”
“Keep it,” he said, not daring to touch it. He needed some distance to get his head on straight again. “As a token of our deal. Don’t you forget it, neither. Ya hear me?”
She held it close to her chest, over her heart. “I promise. I also promise to remember your daughter.”
Ugh, he was gonna have to stop to get his circuits rechecked. Damnit! He didn’t want to have to waste the time, but his chest, right where his heart should be, was burning something awful. “Thank you, Robin. Means the world to me.”
“By the way… I don’t think I ever caught her name.”
“Her name…”
In the usually still, stale air of Dreamflux Reef, a breeze cut through the city, catching the name off his lips and carrying it away into the night.
janainaart
snowghoul
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
annaxmalina
jacobvanloon
dailybridgerton
germansingergirl
