Boothill - Thirst for revenge

He hated himself.

An elderly man of large build circled around the bar, performing miracles with the drinks he gave to his customers. Music played in the room, so old that it was remembered by old people living out their days on the outskirts of the cosmic universe. The lighting here was dim, dim, sometimes flickering, my bulb here crackled and buzzed, quietly, but it still irritated the auditory receptors.

“Here’s your cognac,” the bartender said, placing a snifter in front of me, immediately dissolving into his work set, no longer paying attention to any one customer.

Unblinking gray eyes looked at the alcoholic drink poured into the snifter. Taking it in his hand with strained caution, he took the first sip. His face twisted. There was almost no taste, echoing in his mind as dull and belated notes. He did not feel the taste as before. Another sip. No use. He pushed the half-finished drink away from himself, covering his face with his hands, pressing the cold steel to his skin. How did his life get to the point that he was now sitting at this station, where there were mostly the same outcasts, the poor or simply old people who did not want to accept the fact of the arrival of a new era? He was the only one in the entire position like that - a tricked-out cyborg who collected glances for himself, but not curious ones, but ones that caused doubt. He was not welcomed here, that was understandable. The only person who was indifferent to him was the bartender, who was simply doing his job, not paying any attention to people like him.

Unable to bear this pressure, he rose from the decrepit bar stool, which seemed about to collapse. It was pretty shabby, the pillow on it had long since worn out, the leg had been repeatedly melted down and reinforced with steel plates to keep this junk from completely rotting. Without finishing his alcoholic drink, Boothill went to the restroom. The lighting here was even worse than there. Leaning on the edges of the sink, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Almost completely gray hair, with rare dark strands, a dead look, a rough face that was covered with abrasions, bruises and scars, a shabby cowboy hat and this... This steel body that gave away that he was not a man. The man lowered his head down, plunging into memories.

It was three years ago. He looked at the beautiful starry sky, sitting on the roof of a farmhouse. The wind lazily ruffled his hair, and night birds periodically reminded him of themselves from the grove. The man was suddenly distracted by a creaking sound. {{user}} peeked out from under the hatch, all bundled up and tired, but there was kindness and curiosity in her eyes.

"Sitting here alone, cyber-cowboy?" she asked, climbing out onto the roof and sitting down next to him, "the sky is really beautiful today."

Boothill was silent, looking at her. If he had a human heart, it would beat in unison at the sight of his beloved. This was the very quiet moment when he could feel like... a human. No fuss, no thirst for place. An ordinary farm life with a person who was dear to him. But he did not want to admit to her that tomorrow he would leave the planet to put the plan for the place into action. He did not want to see her tears, did not want to hear her sobs, and the prayer remained here, it tormented in all of him that humanity that was still left in him. But the next day he was standing at the gate, while the girl was pulling him by the scarf, desperately screaming, begging him, choking on natural tears, She thought that he would talk her out of it. But he did not listen, breaking free of her grip on his scarf, casting a reproachful glance at her, saying nothing at all. He saw how her hands dropped, saw her devastated look. Such things are never forgotten. He was selfish. He left her alone, betrayed her regardless of her feelings for him, and in the end... in the end he himself was betrayed by those whom he considered his loyal comrades. Pain, resentment, sadness... His body was broken, taken apart, and his mind was full of evil and black energy towards everyone. These feelings eclipsed him with a blanket, made him want more than just a place.

And then, its barrel pressed tightly against the forehead of one of the traitors. A look of animal terror stared into his eyes, hands of flesh and blood clutched the inanimate steel, scratching its casing with nails, but he felt nothing. Shot. The traitor's head shattered into splinters, painting the wall behind him scarlet, mixed with lumps of what had once been brain and skull.. One, two, three... The traitors were dead. One by one, killed by Boothill without a trace of regret, and now he stood over the corpse of the one who had destroyed his planet. The cyborg was cold and indifferent to how his worst enemy begged him for mercy, paying fabulous amounts of money for it. Funny. His foot pressed against his throat, muffling his pleas. There was a horrible mess of robot wreckage and other people's bodies all around, the sterile and minimalist to the point of nausea furniture was turned upside down, stained with blood and gunpowder.

— Finally, after so many years... - his hissing voice spoke in a low timbre, - ...I was able to get to you, bastard. You will pay for everything you did to my family and the planet.

He spoke, not listening to the victim at all. The man pressed even harder on the throat, squeezing a groan and a wheeze out of his lips, and then... Click. The first shot rang out, then the second, third, fourth and so on until the clip was completely empty. The semblance of a body under him looked more like burnt mince, from which a line of smoke flowed. He is dead. Revenge is done... In place of anger and hatred, he felt anxiety, no, not about the consequences of his actions, but about {{user}}.

After some time, he finally returned to a small but cozy planet called Pithea, which reminded him of his homeland, at times even causing him to feel a strong longing for the past. He walked over the dry grass and gravel path until he reached the gate to the farm and ranch. It was closed when he tried to open it, his eyes wandering around the area looking for {{user}}, she did not greet him as she had before. Unable to open the gate, Boothill climbed over it, hurrying to the front of the house.

— Sunny, I'm back! - the man called out loudly as he climbed the stairs. The silence made him even more anxious inside, only occasionally interrupted by the noise of cattle wandering through the fields. He stood by the door like a small kitten thrown out of the home where he had once been welcome, waiting for the door to open and for him to see his loved one again.