Chapter Text
A certain Galaxy Ranger walked around The Showstopper's halls cluelessly. What was he even doing here in the first place?
With every turn he took the more frustrated he got. The flashing lights, the loud music, the sea of people. It was more than enough to override his systems.
Eventually, he walked far enough for the music to slowly fade out. He could still faintly hear it, but the metal clacking of his heels drowned it out.
It felt oddly wrong. For a faction as lively as Astron, why would it have an area where it was quiet? The Laughter wasn't exactly known for being the most silent of Aeons.
Boothill continued to explore out of curiosity. As if some unknown force was leading him somewhere. He found himself in a dimly lit room, the ceiling reflected the night sky and it's entourage of constellations. He thought he was alone until he heard the familiar strum of a guitar. A gentle voice sang out a melody he was all too familiar with.
"The water here is smooth as fine wine,
the cold snow is cutting like a knife,
this place is... a perfect world."
Instinctively, Boothill drew out his gun and pointed it at the singer's head. "How the fudge do you know that song?" he interrogated.
The unknown singer was obviously taken by surprise. They looked more shaken up by the fact there was someone who heard them sing rather than the gun pointed between their eyes. Their hand seemed to be reaching out for something. A weapon? It was too damn dark to tell.
He pressed the gun on their forehead. "Don't even think about it," he warned. "Now answer the damn question."
The singer raised their hands and sighed, not one of fear but more of annoyance. "It's just something I came up with." They tilted their head to the side, "So can you put the gun away? I'm unarmed."
"Tough shirt, you were reachin' for a weapon."
"Look again, wise guy."
On closer inspection, the person was reaching for a LED mask. It was turned off so it blended with the cushion they were sitting on.
With a frustrated grunt, Boothill put the gun back in it's holster. He stood in silence as the singer put the mask on the side of their head. There's not much use hiding their identity now. Even though the room was dimly lit the star shaped birthmark on their right cheek casted a faint glow that made their face clearer to see.
He broke the silence with another question, "You really just came up with that?"
"Yeah," they miraculously answered. "Why? Have you heard it from somewhere before?"
He took a seat right next to them. If someone were to walk in, they wouldn't have guessed it was an interrogation a few seconds prior. "Y'could say that... Anyways, what is this place? It's weirdly calming. Sure sticks out like a sore thumb compared to the rest of the ship."
They took a pencil that rested on their ear and began writing on a sheet of paper - A music sheet. "It's a quiet room. Ptolemy built it for people who feel overwhelmed by the constant partying going on. No one really uses it except me. My room wasn't putting me in the right headspace for songwriting, so I figured I needed a change of scenery." They narrowed their eyes at the cowboy, "The last thing I expected was for a gun pointed at my head by a wanted criminal."
Boothill chuckled, "No hard feelings, alright? You seem mighty calm for someone who just experienced that."
They sighed. "It's not the first time. You have no idea how crazy some fans can be."
"Fans?"
"Right..." They turned the LED mask on. Two eyes curled into a smile lit up, a bright star glowed brightly on it's forehead. "You probably don't recognize me as Sirius"
"Sirius?" Boothill repeated, racking his metal brain for any significance of the name. He faintly remembered a popular disk jockey by that name in passing conversation. He saw the mask in posters as well, but the Sirius he knew was a man and the one before his eyes was a woman. Or was it?
"Starstruck?"
"You're a dame?"
"What..."
"..."
"I'm a man," Sirius pointed to himself, a confused look plastered on his face.
"My bad," Boothill apologized. "I thought you were a girl because of your hair."
"Just because my hair is long doesn't automatically mean I'm a girl! And you're one to talk!"
"Aye, in my defense it's pretty forkin' dark in this room."
After the misgendering mishap, Sirius distracted himself by working on his newest piece. He thought it'd calm his nerves, but it only made him more frustrated. He knew the Galaxy Ranger could sense his frustration. Maybe it was the pencil he snapped in half that gave it away...
"Think you're overthinkin' it a little too much," he said. He tipped his hat upwards, a crooked smirk on his lips, "It ain't that serious, Sirius."
"Maybe for you," he grumbled. "I haven't been able to come up with a song for days... I usually made one a day, but this burnout has been sucking me dry."
Boothill hummed, noticing his distress. "You reckon you could play that song you were singin' earlier?"
"A request?" He was here having a creative drought and the ranger had the audacity to make him improvise. For some reason, he didn't want to refuse. "Sure..."
"Sing your heart out, songbird. I ain't the type to judge."
Songbird huh? Sirius adjusted his posture and gently strummed the guitar with his calloused fingers. He took in a sharp breath and began singing the melody, closing his eyes and letting muscle memory take over as he switched chords.
Boothill closed his eyes, relaxing for the first time since... ever. Sirius's voice wasn't like Grey's, it was soft and velvety. The kind of voice siren's would lull sailors out of their ships to drown in the seas.
For a moment, Boothill was back on the farm. The sun kissing his pale skin into a tan, the wind intertwining itself in his long braided hair, the gentle laughter of his daughter that never failed to tug at his heartstrings.
There was no IPC. There was no Oswaldo Schneider. All was well.
...
Oswaldo Schneider?
Boothill opened his eyes in a panic. He looked around but Sirius was nowhere to be found, only a sheet of paper and a flash drive in his place where he sat.
He read the note with difficulty, either from the lack of lights or his illiteracy. He somehow managed to decipher it:
You fell asleep. I didn't know you could do that.
Ptolemy called me to do something and I didn't want to wake you up.
I left a recording of the song you requested in this flash drive in case you wanted it.
My number is also attached to the drive.
I'll see you around, space cowboy.
-Sirius
He held the drive as if it was a precious metal in his fingertips. It might as well be.
Boothill inserted the drive into one of his ports, the gentle strumming of a guitar resounded in his ears - A requiem.
He remembered why he came here now.
Find Oswaldo Schneider's whereabouts.