Chapter Text
Dan Heng
For anything related to the data bank, come find me.
22:48
Ran into something interesting at the port, I’ll be another half an hour or so
Don’t worry about it
!voice message converted to text!
No problem, brother. Want me to grab a drink for you?
Dan Heng doesn’t grace the message with a response, which Boothill guesses just means ‘no’. He does act like just the uptight kind of guy to avoid drinking on a mission. Or at least, Dan Heng might try to be uptight- to Boothill, he seems like the quietly off-the-rails type, keeping up appearances to fool others or even himself, but always ready to drop everything and fight at a moment’s notice.
‘Least likely to start a bar fight, most likely to win one,’ Is how Stelle had described it. Not that Boothill is planning to start any fights in this bar, but if push comes to shove, at least he can count on Dan Heng to help him out.
Dan Heng’s seriousness does seem to have infected him a little, though, when he has the annoying thought that it might be a good idea to survey the crowd before he has a drink or two. And he would be best for the job, too, with his security camera-quality eyesight. He has no idea how anyone could enjoy people-watching without software that automatically displays any available information about the faces he locks on to. Do they just look at people’s faces? Sounds hellishly boring.
From experience, though, it isn’t information he’s looking for, but lack thereof. People masking their identity, people who’ve had their records wiped- those are the ones Boothill needs to keep an eye on.
It’s a classic space bar, the chaotic kind of sight you only get to see on unaffiliated ships and stations like this one; way more limbs than eyes, bodies of flesh and metal and cellulose and chitin and Lan knows what else.
Only, when he does catch on to something interesting, it’s for a reason he’s never seen before. That is, this person’s data completely forks up his formatting settings (fucks up, he reminds himself belatedly, he is not getting into the habit of saying ‘fork’ inside his head). Instead of Boothill's usual blocky font and clean-cut machinelike outlines, this man’s data shows up in pixelated neon blues and purples, and the font is equally pixelated. Emojis appear sporadically around the edges of the textboxes.
Boothill furrows his brow. It’s one thing to have fake data appear to observers, but to change up the appearance for the hell of it? That’s just showing off. He’s begrudgingly impressed.
Even stranger is that Boothill can tell with a glance that the popping arcade textboxes around this man are not at all his style. He’s tucked quietly into a table in the corner- alone at the bar, oof, except he hasn’t even bought a drink- dressed in muted colours, long bangs that cover one eye. It’s almost funny seeing him surrounded by this strange retro-gamer UI.
He has this ominous air of familiarity about him, and Boothill almost staggers backwards when he figures out what it is. That it doesn’t matter whatsoever that this man or someone he knows is masking his information, because Boothill knows exactly who he’s looking at. He looks up the wanted poster just to make sure, and-
Stellaron Hunter: Blade. Wanted dead or alive, bounty 9.08B credits.
The image is a perfect match, and bounty’s gone up a few hundred million credits since Boothill last checked. Nine billion. That’s over a thousand times his own bounty. Of course he can’t help but be awestruck.
Well. Anyone who gives the IPC nine billion credits worth of trouble is definitely Boothill’s friend. And with the mission he’s about to take on… yeah, a Stellaron Hunter would be the perfect ally.
Only prudence holds him back. The Stellaron Hunters are dangerous. They know the future, supposedly, and exactly who to cut down in order to get their jobs done. But Boothill is just a small fry in their eyes. What reason do they have to kill him?
And if Boothill’s death is already written into the so-called script, then there’s nothing he can do to escape it. He has nothing to lose here.
Right on cue, the bartender hands him his drink. Boothill quickly tips his hat to the clearly-overworked woman, and then strolls over to the table in the corner. He slides into the seat opposite Blade, shoots him a friendly grin, and asks, “This seat ain’t taken, right?”
The response is a simple, curt, “It isn’t.”
Boothill nods absentmindedly, taking a swig from his drink. It’s pretty crap, but par for the course for this kind of establishment. The kind that draws in people who are just looking for some alcohol to drown themselves in and a bunch of fellow nobodies to briefly fill in at least some of the broken pieces.
“So, drinking all alone?” Sympathy doesn’t fit well on Boothill’s face, what with the crosshair eyes and shark teeth, so it doesn’t really matter if he’s faking it or not.
“I’m not drinking,” Blade states in response. Yeah, no shit. Boothill isn’t an idiot. Well, maybe he is, talking to a Stellaron Hunter. But he’s an idiot trying to start a conversation and Blade isn’t making it easy for him.
“Mind if I buy you one, then?”
Blade only shrugs. “It’s not up to me what you do with your money.”
Well. It’s not a no.
While Boothill waits at the bar for the drink he ordered for Blade, he opens the messages app again.
Dan Heng
For anything related to the data bank, come find me.
23:17
!voice message converted to text!
If, totally hypothetically, I were to find us a third team member, what would you do?
If you trust them, I do too.
!voice message converted to text!
Not sure if I trust them yet
Gonna see how much info I can get out of ‘em first
(b^_^)b
Getting Dan Heng to trust a Stellaron Hunter shouldn’t be an issue- Boothill overheard that SAM was helping out behind the scenes in Penacony, and Dan Heng has proven not to be picky about his teammates simply by being Boothill’s friend. No, Boothill’s real challenge will be getting the Stellaron Hunter to trust him.
When he slides back into the seat opposite Blade with another drink in hand, the Stellaron Hunter in question remains wholly disinterested. He accepts the drink and takes a sip, but Boothill is quickly concluding that Blade is the won’t-speak-unless-spoken-too type.
So, of course, Boothill is obliged to take the initiative. “So, if you ain’t here for a drink, what are you after?”
“Pursuing a personal interest.”
“Ha! Same as me then!” Boothill lifts his glass, grinning, and Blade predictably ignores the invitation to toast. “Me an’ a brother of mine are gonna meet up here and start figuring out how to get the jump on some lovely people hanging out on this station. He’s running kinda late though. So, you up for a chat?”
“Brother?” Blade glances down at Boothill’s metal body. “Through what blood?”
“The world’d be in a pretty sorry state if blood was all there was too it, brother.” Blade raises an eyebrow at the address, but lets Boothill continue. “Though I do confess, I ain’t never had any blood relatives even before my old body died. So maybe I just can’t appreciate the word properly. But I reckon any enemy of my enemy is a brother of mine.”
Blade throws his efforts off course, though, when he doesn’t take the bait and ask about Boothill’s ‘enemy’. “And how did your old body die?”
A sly smirk automatically takes its place on Boothill’s lips, masking the feeling of emptiness. “Well, same way my old life died, I suppose,” He mutters. “Technically speaking, my flesh and blood died on the operating table, but… it was already gone a while before, in fire and ash along with everything it lived for.”
Actual surprise flashes across Blade’s face, then, only for a moment but it’s the first emotion Boothill has seen from him. “You… chose to do this?”
“Sure did.” Boothill grins for real then, all of his sharp teeth on display. “The IPC deserves a ghost to haunt them, and I’m way too restless a spirit to let them off the hook.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“No point keeping it all locked up in this metal heart o’ mine, I say. I ain’t dumb enough to say anything you could use against me in any way that matters. ‘Sides, it never hurts to have more friends,” Boothill says, all innocent, but it’s clear from Blade’s expression that he’s caught on.
“Indeed, the enemy of the enemy is your friend,” Blade echoes his earlier words, before fixing him with a piercing stare. “And your enemy is the IPC. What do you want from me?”
Boothill flashes him yet another sharp grin. “Straight to the point. I like you. See, ‘bout a week ago a fellow ranger let me in on some pretty interestin’ intel- supposedly, somewhere on this station, there’s a Stellaron hiding out.”
Blade’s expression betrays nothing. If he knows, he doesn’t say a word about it. Undeterred, Boothill presses on- “Now that on its own ain’t enough for my attention. What really matters is that the IPC are the ones who put it here. And, as a-” He leans back in his seat, mimes straightening a tie- “dutiful member of the Galaxy Rangers, it’s my obligation to throw a spanner in their works. If we can expose whatever scheme they’ve got going on, even better.”
“Your intel is solid,” Blade says, completely unaffected by Boothill’s display of bravado. “And I find myself impressed by your… ways.”
“That a yes?”
Blade folds his arms, ostensibly considerate. “You have yet to tell me what I am actually required to do, nor what you are offering in return.”
“That’s easy, don’t you worry,” Boothill assures him. “All we’re asking for is an extra pair of hands and eyes. As for what you get- shouldn’t it be obvious, Stellaron Hunter? No one else in the universe is crazy enough to want one of them things- ‘cept the IPC I guess- so it’s all yours.”
“So you’re offloading a problem to me, is that it?”
Boothill holds up both hands in surrender before a closer look at the curve of Blade’s mouth reveals humour buried beneath the threatening words. His smile is still scary as shit though. Just a little too hungry for Boothill’s liking, so he doesn’t dare mince words- “Whoa, brother, I didn’t say anything like that. We were just gonna seal the Stellaron and leave it be. Wait, uh, do you still want it if it’s sealed?”
“Depends.” Blade’s unsettling smile only sharpens at Boothill’s uncertainty. “You know how to seal them?”
“I don’t. My buddy does.” Boothill slowly lowers his hands, and Blade doesn’t react. If anything, he seems curious about the fact, though his face barely moves. “What does it depend on? You gotta tell me. I don’t want to get to the end of a mission only to be accused of false promises.”
Blade sizes him up for a second, and- fuck, those eyes are scary. Eye, not eyes. Boothill almost shudders under the bright, bloody scrutiny of just the one that isn’t sheathed in dark hair. Staring down the barrel of one gun takes nerve he can only barely scrape together, how would anyone handle two?
“I have a personal interest in a particular Stellaron,” Blade says eventually, finally. Boothill tries not to fidget, no longer pinned in place by Blade’s inhuman intensity, but finds his fingers tapping a hollow rhythm against the grip of his holstered gun as Blade continues, strangely absentminded. “But you have my word that I will not turn on you if it turns out the one present on this space station is not my quarry. I will be this ‘extra pair of hands and eyes’ for you, in return for the simple possibility of laying hands on it.”
Well. That was easy. “Pleasure doing business, then.” Boothill lifts his glass in another attempted toast, and this time Blade accepts, though unenthusiastically.
“Hey, I never introduced myself, did I? Seems a little unfair, since I’ve known your name from the get-go,” Boothill says once he’s downed his drink.
“No, you certainly introduced yourself,” Blade says, with a mocking lilt to his voice. “But a name will be helpful if we are to collaborate.”
“You said it, brother!” Blade frowns again at the name ‘brother’, but he’s earned it now whether he likes it or not. “Galaxy Ranger Boothill, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Blade gives a simple nod in acknowledgement. Boothill once again gets the feeling that some part of him is occupied, or elsewhere. There’s no drift to the line of his eye, nor confusion marking the lines of his skin. It’s just… a feeling. Boothill doesn’t consider their friendship to be anywhere near developed enough for him to ask what’s wrong and expect a serious answer.
He finds out soon enough.
Two things happen. First, Boothill’s phone pings. Another message from Dan Heng, most likely, so he pulls it out to reply.
Second, the faint smoke of Blade’s distractibility solidifies, sharp-edged and purposeful, into a stare that latches onto something across the room. He laughs, disbelief hollowing out the amusement, and Boothill turns around to see what the issue is, but something else catches his eye-
The face of a friend he hasn’t seen in a good while, and a complicated expression he can’t even begin to decipher.