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Boothill has always been a man of action. The kind of guy who prefers to let his gun do the talking. It’s pretty damn easy to get a bird to sing when you've got them staring down the end of a barrel—it keeps things simple, and in his experience, gets the point across just fine.
When Aventurine told him about the IPC-sponsored party this Lewis fella—one of the highest ranking executives working under Oswaldo, almost as hard to track down as his boss—would be attending, Boothill should’ve stuck to that. He shouldn’t have let the silver-tongued bastard talk him into this plan of his.
“There’s a reason Lewis is Oswaldo’s right-hand man, you know. He’s not an idiot. Anything tips him off and poof, he’ll be gone faster than you can blink. And trust me, with the amount of security you’d have to take out, he would catch on long before you got to him,” Aventurine had said during their last call. “Instead of drawing attention, your best bet will be blending in with the other guests to get closer without alarming him first. I can help you with that. Then, my friend, the show’s all yours.”
The thing is, the plan did make sense. If anyone had a chance of having useful intel about Oswaldo, it was this guy, and there was no telling when Boothill would get another shot at getting his hands on him. What was it that Aventurine said?
“With such a valuable prize on the table, it doesn’t hurt to stack the odds in your favor, does it?”
Right. But if Boothill had done things his way from the start, at least he might’ve been giving some IPC scumbags a taste of his bullets by now instead of standing in the middle of a goddamned clothing store.
Boothill looks around with a scowl. He didn't catch the name displayed out front before Aventurine dragged him inside, but it's got to be one of those posey brands that filthy rich folks like him love to deck themselves in. Fancy wood panelling everywhere, dressed up mannequins, rows of shiny leather shoes and colorful ties displayed all neat and tidy. The place even smells pretentious.
Well, that could just be Aventurine’s cologne.
“Good thing I ran into you before you got to the party, my friend. Security would have been onto you as soon as you showed up at the door in that outfit,” Aventurine says, heading straight to the closest rack. The store’s single salesman comes up to greet him, barely sparing Boothill a glance, but Aventurine is quick to dismiss him with a wave of his hand.
Boothill wonders how many times he must’ve come here for the staff to know him by name. “You said to wear a suit. This here is a forkin’ suit, ain’t it? Got one of them jackets and all, dressy as they come.” Annoying as all hell, too, with sleeves that keep bunching up like they can't stay put. “How’s mine different from what you’re wearing?”
Aventurine has ditched his usual clothes for an all black suit and a matching gold-patterned tie. Under the jacket, a teal dress shirt with no heart-shaped cutouts in sight. He's kept those flashy rings and that peacock earring of his, and a golden watch on his right wrist gleams every time he moves.
Boothill considers his own clothes. White shirt, gray jacket and trousers. He’s missing the tie and jewelry, and he doesn’t look like he jumped straight out of a goddamn modeling ad, but there’s really not that much difference—
“It doesn’t fit you well,” Aventurine says, mercilessly crushing Boothill’s train of thought. He pulls out a brown jacket and holds it in front of Boothill, pursing his lips. A moment later, it goes back to the rack. “The buttons look like they’re made of plastic, and the fabric is clearly low quality.” The hangers rattle as Aventurine resumes sorting through their options, eyes scanning each piece of clothing like a hawk choosing its next prey. “A classic checked suit is usually a safe bet, but that pattern? Sorry, my friend, but whoever designed that didn’t know anything about fashion.”
“Well I ain’t going to a fashion show, am I?”
“You might as well be. Exclusive events like this are all about appearances, you know. Who has more money, more power, more influence…” Aventurine chuckles. “Believe me when I say you’d stick out like a sore thumb dressed like that.”
Boothill huffs. Money, power, influence. That’s all those corporate bastards care about, alright. He still remembers the choking smell of smoke, the roar of machinery, and the dying cries of the men and women who’d fought beside him back in his homeland. Remembers black staining the plains and grasslands like a scar left behind by Oswaldo’s greed.
Left Boothill with some scars of his own, too, that not even this modified body of his can heal. Memories of riding beside Nick and swimming across rivers with Graey, of strumming a guitar and singing under thousands of stars, and of hearing small giggles as tiny hands grabbed at him. Memories of everything turning to ash.
They’re like the blood that doesn't flow through his veins anymore, fueling him on his hunt for revenge.
Crossing his arms, Boothill starts tapping his foot impatiently, the spurs on his boots jiggling over the low ambience music. Aventurine is lucky that he's made good on his word so far to help him with said revenge, because he's walking a thin line with how he keeps on yapping.
“Had you asked me earlier, I’d have arranged to get something tailored for you. Alas, we’re on a bit of a tight schedule, so we’ll have to make do. How do you like this one?”
Boothill is pretty sure that's the exact same jacket Aventurine rejected not even five minutes ago, only in a different color. “Ya makin’ it real tempting for me to shoot you right now, partner.”
“Hmm, you’re right. Blue doesn't suit you,” Aventurine replies, unfazed by the threat like the madman he is. “There’s no cutting corners with these people, ranger. If you want to fool them, even if for a short while, your mask needs to look like you were born wearing it.” He throws Boothill a quick glance over his shoulder, smiling as if amused by an unspoken joke. “Trust me on this. I'm helping you out here.”
With that, he calls for the salesman to take a few suit jackets that apparently don't offend his fashion tastes to the dressing room before moving on to the dress shirts.
“More like tryin’ to strap me for cash,” Boothill mutters, eyeing a price tag warily. That’s more zeros than he’s seen together in his whole life. “Look, even if you're right 'bout them clothes, I ain’t one of you loaded muddle-fudgers who’ll drop a shirtload of money like it ain’t nothin’, and I reckon stealing these would kinda defeat the whole not drawing attention thing.”
The salesman, who'd just returned to the room, throws Boothill a suspicious look and not so discreetly steps closer to them. Boothill grins at him. The guy shivers but stays put.
“Don’t worry about it,” Aventurine says. “The bill’s on me.”
That's enough to have Boothill abandoning his silent staring match and narrowing his eyes at him. He doesn't think Aventurine is lying. For regular folk, anything in here costs a fortune. For a guy with pockets as deep as his? No more than loose change. Still, it's hard to believe he’d be offering out of the kindness of his heart. “What’s the catch?” Boothill asks.
Shrugging, Aventurine sends the visibly hesitant salesman off again, this time with a handful of shirts. “No catch. The Marketing Development Department has been more of a headache than usual ever since we secured Penacony, so if this knocks them down a few pegs, it’ll be my win too.”
Now, with all the wandering Boothill's done and all the different people he's met, he'd like to think he's gotten quite skilled at telling the good from the bad folks. Aventurine—he's one crazy bastard alright, knows how to fit right in with the other no-goods from the IPC when he wants to.
But he hasn't been all bad of a partner against Oswaldo, Boothill will give him that. “Fine,” he relents, “but don't go thinkin’ this means I'll owe ya somethin’. Let's call it thanks for me not putting a bullet through that pretty head of yours when we first met.”
Aventurine smiles and tips an imaginary hat toward him. “Sure thing, my friend.”
“Now hurry the fork up, will ya? I—” Boothill chokes on his own tongue, eyes going wide with horror when he catches sight of the shirt Aventurine is reaching for, printed with horrendous black and white flowers. “Holy forkeroni, that's gotta be the ugliest muddle-fudging shirt my poor eyes have ever seen.”
Without a word, Aventurine glides his fingers over to another one, dotted all over with green. Boothill wrinkles his nose.
Aventurine laughs, not even bothering with the rest of the rack as he leads Boothill to the next part of their impromptu shopping spree. “No printed shirts, got it.”
Boothill has never really cared about getting dressed up. Not like evildoers are going to pay attention to what he's wearing when he's giving them a one-way ticket straight to hell, are they? They'll be too busy looking down the barrel of his gun for that.
He still can't say he cares about it proper, but as he stares at his reflection on the dressing room's floor-to-ceiling mirror, he has to admit—Aventurine has a mighty fine taste for this fashion stuff.
After a lot of changing and fitting and fussing around with colors and fabrics, Boothill ended up in a plain dark gray suit that molds itself to his body and has sleeves that fucking stay where they should. His white shirt was replaced by a red one as soft as butter, and after much insistence from Aventurine, he agreed to wear a slightly loosened tie.
It's still nothing Boothill would wear under any other circumstances, but compared to his previous clothes, he likes these much better. And, most importantly, Aventurine guaranteed that the fabrics won't restrict any movements if Boothill needs to, say, kick someone's ass or escape from armed guards.
Sliding up next to Boothill, Aventurine appraises his work through the mirror with the smile of a cat who got the cream. “Now that, my friend, is the perfect outfit to arrive fashionably late in.”
The party's location isn't hard to find—of course those snobby motherfuckers would pick the fanciest hotel in Pier Point for it—but, to avoid suspicions, Aventurine heads in earlier, with Boothill following ten minutes later.
A petite brunette greets him at the door, an IPC badge around her neck and a tablet clutched in her hands. “May I have your name, sir?” she asks, peering at him over rimmed glasses.
“Pom-Pom,” Boothill lies. Aventurine should have made sure that the name is on the list, but just to be safe, he adds the explanation he was given for it too. “I'm here as a, uh, representative from the Nameless of the Astral Express.”
The woman nods, tapping something on her tablet. Instead of motioning for him to enter, though, her eyes slowly sweep over Boothill, analyzing him from head to toe.
Boothill’s hand twitches.
Before he can reach for his hidden gun, the woman meets his gaze again and smiles. “Welcome, Mr. Pom-Pom,” she says, all polite, like she hadn’t just been scanning him for—what? Goddamn plastic buttons? “Please enjoy the party.”
Beyond the door, the venue is already teeming with well-dressed guests from all over the cosmos. Boothill catches sight of Aventurine talking to a purple-haired fella he vaguely recognizes from Penacony, a glass of sparkling wine in his hand. There’s a woman in a glittery dress he’s pretty sure he’s seen on a billboard ad somewhere before.
And there, next to the bar, is Boothill’s potential ticket to getting a step closer to his revenge.
He opens a smile as sharp as his teeth. “Oh, I sure plan to, darlin’.”