Boothill with Remembrance Pathstrider Reader working undercover as an IPC agent.
Reader has a solid résumé that gets them a high enough position in some department, and it helps that they have a background in engineering and computers, letting them slip into areas normally closed off to others which lets them steal information and data (and gather memories from the surrounding environment) while they’re doing their job; and after waiting for someone to complain about their tech still not working, Reader can go back in to clean up, leaving the tech to work properly without anymore problems so that no one suspects anything.
And Reader can easily act annoyed whenever someone asks for help, because they also do have legitimate experience in dealing with the computer illiterate. 😅
Reader: “Ugh, it’s having problems again? What did you do this time?” 😒
IPC goon: “Skott was the last one to use it.”
Skott: “IT WASN’T ME, I DIDN’T BREAK IT!” 😭
Except someone occasionally starts to suspect and close in on Reader, especially when they notice that almost every technological incident has Reader involved; and this time the suspicion is heavy enough that Reader needs some kind of distraction, or at least some way to lift it the suspicion.
So they send an encrypted message to their regular, Boothill, saying “Hostage situation,” meaning, “I need a temporary extraction because they’re onto me and I can’t shake them off.”
No Rest for the Wicked
Summary: When you, an undercover IPC agent with a solid background in engineering and computer systems, find yourself under suspicion for a series of tech malfunctions, you send a coded message to Boothill, the cyborg cowboy and your regular ally, asking for a distraction. As suspicion mounts and the heat intensifies, Boothill creates chaos in the IPC building, allowing you to make your escape. With the agent closing in on you, you rely on Boothill’s timely intervention to ensure your extraction—and your survival.
Warnings: Gun violence, Explosions, Suspenseful action, References to combat and danger, Mild language, Peril.
The air in the IPC’s towering headquarters was sterile and cold, the hum of computers filling the halls. You walked confidently through the corridors, your heels clicking against the marble floors, a calculated annoyance etched into your expression as you passed one of the many workers bustling about. It wasn’t the first time someone had called you in to deal with a malfunctioning piece of tech, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
You had an impeccable résumé, one that made it easy to slip into the ranks of the IPC unnoticed, a high-ranking agent within a department no one could quite place you in. Engineering and computer systems, the perfect cover for your true work. Your ability to slip into areas normally closed off to others, gathering information and gathering memories from the environment around you, made your job easier. But today, something felt different. The air around you was heavier—like someone was watching just a little too closely.
"Ugh, it’s having problems again?" you muttered as you walked into the small office where a flustered employee stood beside a malfunctioning console. "What did you do this time?"
The worker, nervous and flustered, hesitated before pointing to a colleague in the corner of the room. "Skott was the last one to use it."
Skott’s face immediately contorted into horror. "IT WASN’T ME, I DIDN’T BREAK IT!" he wailed.
You simply rolled your eyes, more focused on the larger picture at hand than their petty drama. You always had a reputation for acting annoyed when these "accidents" happened, and honestly, it suited you. It kept people from asking too many questions, gave you the perfect excuse to swoop in and fix things. This time, it was a simple fix—too easy. A few adjustments here, a gentle tap there, and the console would be working perfectly. But as you bent over the console, your mind was elsewhere.
There were whispers lately, whispers that made your stomach churn. Someone was starting to suspect. Maybe it was just paranoia, but you couldn’t help but feel the eyes on you. Each time you fixed another "problem," you felt someone getting closer, lingering a bit too long. It wasn’t a coincidence that every tech failure seemed to involve you.
You had to cover your tracks. It was time for a distraction, something to keep the heat off you for a while. You couldn't afford to slip up now—not when Boothill was still out there. He was your lifeline, and he knew exactly how to handle situations like this.
With a subtle gesture, you activated your communicator and sent a quick encrypted message: "Hostage situation."
It was your code for "I need extraction. They’re onto me."
A few moments passed before you received a response. Just one word: "Coming."
You felt a small wave of relief, but you couldn’t let your guard down. The pressure was mounting, the suspicion growing stronger. You needed to get out, and you needed Boothill to cause the perfect distraction. As you finished the minor repairs to the console and reprogrammed it to work flawlessly, you heard the distinct sound of boots in the hallway. The unmistakable heavy thud of someone approaching—someone who didn’t belong.
The door swung open, and a cold-eyed agent stepped in, his gaze locking onto you. "Agent Pathstrider," he said with forced politeness, "We need to have a word."
Your heart skipped a beat. The suspicion was no longer subtle. You had no time to play coy.
"Of course," you replied, giving them the most disinterested expression you could muster. "What is it now? Is someone else having problems with their tech? Maybe they should stop breaking things."
The agent took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. He wasn't just trying to figure out a malfunction—he was trying to figure out you. And that was a problem.
Before the agent could say anything else, there was a loud bang, followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. A massive explosion shook the building, sending a tremor through the floor. You didn't even flinch. This was it. Boothill had arrived.
The agent’s eyes flickered toward the door, and without missing a beat, you lunged forward, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the nearest wall. His breath came out in a rush, but you weren't about to let him make a sound. You quickly applied enough pressure to keep him still but not enough to kill him—not yet.
"Stay quiet," you hissed in his ear, your hand tightly gripping the small, concealed blade hidden at your side. "We don't want anyone to notice you're missing."
With the agent temporarily subdued, you moved to the window, your heart pounding with adrenaline. The building was in chaos—Boothill’s signature, a calculated mess of violence. His handiwork was exactly what you needed. As you glanced out, you saw him—his tall, imposing figure in his cowboy hat, flames in the distance framing his outline. Boothill had made sure the distraction would cover your escape.
You didn’t waste any time. With the agent out cold, you slipped out of the room and into the ventilation system, quickly making your way to a secure exit. You had a rendezvous with Boothill, and you weren’t going to let anyone ruin it.
After all, when your cover was blown, only one thing could save you—your partner in the shadows, the gunslinger whose fire never burned out.
