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"Until we meet again, then."
Argenti disdained to confirm the collapse of the final enemy behind him, even as his lance hummed with a lingering vibration. The barrel of Boothill’s revolver was still radiating a searing heat. Sliding the weapon into its holster, the Ranger adjusted his hat, the movement punctuated by the mechanical precision of his left hand.
It had been a skirmish against the IPC on a remote space station. Back-to-back, they had dismantled the opposition, securing a victory that left a trail of logistical ruin in its wake.
"Just to be certain—was your objective achieved?"
"My objective?"
"You were already engaged in combat when I arrived. Was the suppression of this sector sufficient for your designs?"
Boothill lowered his gaze slightly. The true finish line always felt impossibly distant. Or rather, it seemed to recede the moment he drew near, shimmering like a heat haze on the horizon. Nevertheless, the Marketing Development Department’s latest machinations had likely been neutralized.
"The goal this time was to put a stop to these fudgers. That's plenty for now."
"I see. That is a relief."
Boothill’s eyes locked onto the expression that flitted across Argenti’s face. The knight’s eyelids lowered, draped in a fleeting sense of peace. It felt like a first—a glimpse into a hidden layer. Despite their shared history on the battlefield, Boothill realized that the depths of the man's expressions remained largely unmapped territory.
The knight’s emerald eyes opened a moment later.
"I shall take my leave, then."
Argenti spoke with the casual air of someone departing after a light meal. Then, his gaze happened to settle on the reticle before him. It was positioned slightly closer than usual, and there, he saw an expression he didn't recognize—just as the Ranger had moments before.
"Something on your mind?" Boothill prompted.
"I was about to ask you the same. Is something the matter?"
"Ah... nah..."
The words 'I wasn't used to seein' you look like that' remained lodged in his throat. It wasn't just a lack of appropriate vocabulary; it was the sheer, prickly embarrassment of the sentiment itself.
"My bad. Didn’t mean to hold ya up. …Go on."
"Is that so…? Very well."
In the flicker of an eye, Boothill moved.
Steel met armor as his hand clamped around the knight’s bicep, pulling him inward. Even through the cold, unyielding metal that encased them both, Boothill felt Argenti’s frame stiffen—a momentary arrest of motion born of pure surprise.
Even after multiple skirmishes, there are still layers of him I haven't mapped—
"…This is," Argenti breathed.
That’s a universal truth for anyone, yet why does every minor detail about him feel like a grit in my gears?
"It seems I’ve been detained after all."
Once the initial shock subsided, Argenti’s arms wound gently around Boothill’s back. It was a serene embrace, radiating a sense of profound mercy. Boothill closed his eye, his left hand still anchored to Argenti’s arm while his right fingertips traced the fraying ends of that crimson hair.
"Must be your imagination. Now get outta here."
"Yes, I shall do just that."
Spent casings and enemy wreckage littered the floor. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of gunpowder, and only now did the alarms begin to wail—a frantic signal of an intrusion that had already reached its conclusion. All of it, however, remained external to the orbit of these two.
Boothill’s palm slid over Argenti’s as the embrace broke.
He did nothing to obstruct the knight’s first step away.
Neither turned back. Black and red passed each other in a silent crossing of trajectories.
Only after the resonance of footsteps had faded did Boothill stare at his own left hand.
What did he make of that impulse? What was I even thinking… And if… if I somehow reached the warmth shielded by that silver plate…?
As he shifted to leave, something tumbled from the brim of his hat.
He reflexively caught the crimson object before it hit the floor. It was a rose, its stem severed with surgical precision.
"Fork me… if that had been his lance, I’d be scrapped for sure."
Boothill let out a defiant smirk and tucked the bloom into his pocket.
Meanwhile, back aboard The One and Only, Argenti uncurled his right hand, which had been clenched shut around a weight he hadn't consciously registered.
“I suppose we are even.”
He placed the object into the cabinet beside the pilot’s seat before inputting the next coordinates.
There, reflecting the console's light with a dull, lethal glint—the exact weight of the flower he had left behind—rested a brand-new, unspent bullet.
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