Rebirth of a Cowboy
synopsis: This is part two of Death of a Cowboy! If you haven't read that yet, I highly recommend reading it first! tws: child death, trauma tags: boothill, boothill has a daughter, I gave boothill a name, heavy angst, trauma a/n: the second part of the sad boothill fic I wrote! took me a long time deliberating over posting it so I just bit the bullet (pun intended) and did.
ao3 link here!
The trip off-planet was a blur.
Somehow, Wes stowed away on an IPC ship, barely restraining himself from killing everyone aboard. Once he was alone in the hold, he curled up, and allowed himself to weep again. It was as if a garden he’d cultivated for years within himself had been razed to the ground, leaving nothing but scorched earth and a gaping hole inside.
As the ship neared its destination, the intense burning grief had effectively cauterized his heart, leaving him numb to his emotions. He got off the ship, running across the shipyard unnoticed and into the bustling metropolis that sprawled before him. Everything was foreign and cold, concrete towering over him in hard edges and inorganic lights everywhere.
He found himself stumbling into a bar, lost and alone, and the bartender took pity on him and offered him a place to work and stay, despite his lack of any identification. Over time, he got more accustomed to his new surroundings, accustomed to the bustle of daily life in the city. Through his job he met many different people, from different walks of life. Yet, no matter how long he worked, how long time had passed since Aeragan-Epharshel, the garden in his heart stayed destitute and dry, an dull ache that didn’t go away.
And then one day he met a Galaxy Ranger.
Drawn to his righteous nature and kindhearted behavior, Wes asked him many questions about his work and what he did, to which the Ranger answered truthfully. They protected the weak, served justice by their own hand. Each Ranger followed the Hunt — an Aeon that Wes recognized by a different name — in their own way, were solo riders. And as he talked, Wes felt something grow inside of him, one with thorns and a flower that bloomed a fiery red.
“How do I become one?” he asked.
“Just start,” the Ranger replied. “You’ll need this.”
The Ranger dug within his pocket and presented a bullet to Wes, with a distinct shark-like face at the front of it.
“This is all you need. Us Rangers may be few and far between, but these are our uniting force. This bullet tells you that no matter where you are, brother, you aren’t alone.”
Wes took the bullet, holding it up to the light and studying it reverently. An idea took hold in his mind.
☆ ☆ ☆
It would be a week before he would walk into the dimly lit clinic, located underground and away from prying eyes. Too long, he thought, as he made his demands to the black market doctor.
“I want a new body. This one ain’t for me no more.”
She gazed at him calmly, chewing on her sandwich.
“What do you plan on doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to become a Galaxy Ranger. But to do that, I need to get rid of this.” He gestured to himself, as if there was a problem with his youthful, lean build. “This body needs too much. Where I’m goin,’ it won’t be very useful.”
The doctor chewed thoroughly and swallowed before speaking again.
“This road doesn't suit you. Get out. Go find a job or... get an education.”
The cowboy took off his shirt. Underneath the fabric was a body that was half charred, covered in burns and scars from his time fighting the IPC. Despite the state of his body, the doctor was undeterred. The young man didn’t realize how much potential he had, she reasoned. There was so much he could do, so much he could learn.
But what the doctor didn’t realize was that the young man was completely aware of how much potential he had, knew exactly what he wanted to use it for. He held a gun to her head, refusing to argue with her any longer.
“Just giv’ me what I asked,” he demanded.
It was here that the doctor saw that there was no amount of reasoning that could change his mind, so she put down her sandwich and wiped her hands on her smock.
“Go lie down over there.”
He watched as she set up her tools. A variety of sharp objects hovered over and surrounded him, and he closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his decision.
“There’s no going back from this, I hope you understand,” the doctor said to him as she prepped the necessary drugs.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“You won’t be able to feel anything, touch anything.”
“Don’t need any of that ta’ do what I’m gonna do.”
“Alright.”
He closed his eyes, letting her work around him, trying to calm the erratic beating of his heart.
The artificial lights flickered behind his eyelids. The clinic smelled faintly of something metallic and burned. The only sounds he heard was the clinking and shuffling of the doctor.
He breathed in, feeling the stale air fill his lungs.
He breathed out.
The doctor stood over him, snapping her gloves over her arms.
“You ready?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She hooked up the drugs to him, and he let himself fall away.
☆ ☆ ☆
The cowboy had never been one for dreams. His eyes felt heavy, as if a hand were keeping them closed, and in the darkness he saw flashes of a life. His own, he realized, as he watched himself at a young age play with his siblings. He watched as his caregivers taught him everything he knew, watched as he grew from a little boy to a young man.
He watched as he found the baby in the grass, took her back into the house with him. He watched her take her first steps for the second time in his life, watched her smile and giggle and laugh and run and shriek. She was so different from what he was now. She was so full of life.
He watched as the IPC razed his family to the ground. Smelled burning flesh, and realized that it came from the world beyond his eyelids. He heard the heavy breathing of the doctor who worked on him. Somewhere he felt regret. But it was too late now, and he already accepted his consequences.
He wanted to sink into this unconscious state, wanted to sink into it and never leave. It was soft, comforting, like a mother’s touch. He didn’t even know his mother but he thought that if he did she would feel like this.
Then, just like the way he fell into this dream, everything fell away from him, until it was dark. Suddenly, he was surrounded by his rage, his vengeance. In the distance, a light appeared. A glimpse of a new path, a new purpose, fueled by his newfound passion. And as he walked towards it, a voice from his past called out to him.
“I love you, Daddy.”
The cowboy paused before stepping into his new life.
“I love you too.”
He opened his eyes, and felt choked. Sitting up, he gasped, gulping air, triggering a chorus of beeps from the monitors around him. Something felt wrong with the way he breathed. It was like when he took the Synesthesia Beacon, when his voice felt altered, but much, much bigger.
“Congrats. You’re pretty hard to kill.”
The young cowboy coughed. Everything felt disoriented. He looked down at himself.
Gone was his scarred, burned flesh body. In its place was iron and steel, cold and hard, clicking together as he shifted. He flexed his fists, heard the metal of his fingers scrape against the metal of his palms.
He felt nothing. It’s what the doctor told him after all, but now, actually experiencing the absence of touch, he realized it was a sensation he could never have been prepared for.
But this suited him now. In the aftermath of the disaster, his mind had become cold and numb, and now, his body reflected that.
“Ya thought I was gonna die?” The young cowboy looked at the doctor, who had washed her hands and resumed eating her sandwich. The smock she wore was stained with blood, no doubt his. He tried not to think about it.
“Most people would have died, and it won’t have been because I’m bad at my job.”
“Well I hav' a piece of good news for ya: I've been dead for a long time.”
The doctor nodded quietly, as though they were merely talking about the weather. She took another bite out of her sandwich.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
The cowboy took a pause. He closed his eyes.
He couldn’t feel the operation bed he sat upon. He couldn’t feel metal, only felt a resistance that told him his fingertips were pushing against something. All he heard was the clinking of his metal parts and the doctor’s chewing, and all he smelled was the same stale air, yet the metallic tang was stronger. He ran his tongue against the teeth in his mouth, shark-like and pointed, foreign. Yet even these few sensations felt departed, as though he was sensing them through a barrier.
He felt dead.
“Boothill,” the cowboy said finally. “Where I come from, that's what we call gunslingers who end up bite'n the dust.”
Boothill. That name was the final step, the final piece of his new future. He felt a renewed vigor, an excitement that coursed through him, and he smiled wildly at the doctor.
“But this is just the start, doc. Of all the prices I hafta pay to get ma revenge, this here's the lightest toll.”
The cowboy flexed his limbs carefully, then managed to stand up from the operation bed. His new body would take some getting used to. The doctor stepped aside as he limped out the door, then waved to him from behind.
“Then, happy hunting, Boothill the Galaxy Ranger!”
Boothill breathed in the night air, which no longer felt as crisp as before, then looked up into the stars.
And if his eyes didn’t deceive him, he could’ve sworn there was a new light blinking down at him from above.
dividers as always by @cafekitsune
comments and reblogs are appreciated!