[ there are so many warnings and errors going off in boothill's neurocircuitry—systems failing, losing energy, losing cognitive processing. even so, a ridiculous thought comes to mind as anders' shadow rises over him: that the shade feels blessedly cooling on his face, where his sensors can still register the faintest of changes in temperature. it's the smallest bit of comfort he gets while answers speaks, telling him to find justice in the next life.
justice. more colors flash, fainter than last time. DESPAIR. SORROW. REMORSE. REGRET. does he deserve justice at this point? killing twice on the first week? maybe roxana, real roxana and not the one from his strange and fading memories of the prism, was right. maybe he was always fated to be corrupted this way.
boothill's chin falls to his shoulder when he can no longer hold it up. there's a thump on the ground next to him. the knife dives into the crack over his breastplate, the place where his heart lies exposed.
out in the runway a few meters off, in the direction where boothill's eye is pointing, a toddler sits in a small circle of grass, out of place in the middle of the pavement. she wears a red bandana over her little clothes, and her hair thin and curly near her head. a hand-carved guitar, perfectly sized for her body, lies halfway on her chubby legs. she hits the strings with her hands and laughs delightedly at the light, discordant sounds it makes. then she looks directly at boothill as he dies beside anders and gives him a big grin, her bubblegum-pink gums showing little bits of baby teeth.
LOVE. GRIEF. TRUST. ACCEPTANCE.
boothill smiles at her and she disappears, eaten up by flames like a piece of parchment. he dies this way, colored blood pouring out of him, the light going out behind his eyes entirely.
no subject
justice. more colors flash, fainter than last time. DESPAIR. SORROW. REMORSE. REGRET. does he deserve justice at this point? killing twice on the first week? maybe roxana, real roxana and not the one from his strange and fading memories of the prism, was right. maybe he was always fated to be corrupted this way.
boothill's chin falls to his shoulder when he can no longer hold it up. there's a thump on the ground next to him. the knife dives into the crack over his breastplate, the place where his heart lies exposed.
out in the runway a few meters off, in the direction where boothill's eye is pointing, a toddler sits in a small circle of grass, out of place in the middle of the pavement. she wears a red bandana over her little clothes, and her hair thin and curly near her head. a hand-carved guitar, perfectly sized for her body, lies halfway on her chubby legs. she hits the strings with her hands and laughs delightedly at the light, discordant sounds it makes. then she looks directly at boothill as he dies beside anders and gives him a big grin, her bubblegum-pink gums showing little bits of baby teeth.
LOVE. GRIEF. TRUST. ACCEPTANCE.
boothill smiles at her and she disappears, eaten up by flames like a piece of parchment. he dies this way, colored blood pouring out of him, the light going out behind his eyes entirely.
Boot of the Hill is dead. ]