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It was the dead stretch between night and morning in Planarcadia. The streets were hushed, save for the occasional passerby cutting through the silence every few minutes.
A violent pounding rattled the detective’s door. Inside, Ashveil jolted upright from his makeshift bed in the fridge, blinking against the dim light as he rubbed at his eyes. Before he could move, his assistant dutiful monkey, Mr. N sprang toward the door with surprising urgency. When it swung open, the silhouette resolved into Jade of the IPC. Fury sharpened her features; faint lines creased her forehead, her composure stretched thin.
“Did you have to knock that loud?” Ashveil muttered, voice thick with sleep as he stepped out of the fridge. “Some of us were trying to rest.”
Jade didn’t bother responding. She strode past him with purpose and slammed a sheet of paper onto his desk hard enough to scatter loose trinkets to the floor. The crack echoed in the small office.
Ashveil glanced down.
A wanted poster stared back up at him.
“Find him,” Jade ordered, her voice cold and clipped. “Dead or alive—I don’t care. The IPC has tolerated his theatrics long enough. He needs to be stopped.”
Ashveil’s eyes widened as they dragged down the numbers printed across the bounty. The figure was so absurdly high he wasn’t even sure it could be real. He let out a low scoff. Mr. N scrambled up onto his shoulder, chittering urgently into his ear as if delivering critical advice. Ashveil waved him off without so much as a glance.
“You think you can just walk in here and order me around like some dog?” Ashveil accused, grabbing one of the many half-finished cups cluttering his desk and taking a long sip of cold coffee.
Jade arched a brow, studying him with cool calculation. “Name your price.”
That was all it took.
Ashveil promptly choked and spat his coffee across the room. “I— what??”
A stray splash had landed on Jade’s dress. With visible distaste, she produced a pristine handkerchief from seemingly nowhere and dabbed at the fabric, her nose scrunching in quiet disgust. Ashveil cleared his throat, straightening his coat and attempting to recover what little dignity he had left. His posture shifted, suddenly all business.
“Forty million credits,” he said firmly. “Take it or leave it."
Jade crossed her arms, a soft chuckle slipping past her lips. “That’s quite a bold statement coming from someone like you.”
Mr. N immediately bristled on Ashveil’s shoulder. “Ms. Jade, what exactly is that supposed to mean?” he chirped, narrowing his eyes in offense.
Jade didn’t answer. She simply turned and walked toward the door, heels clicking against the floor with measured finality. Just before stepping out, she glanced back over her shoulder.
“I’m counting on you, Ashveil.” Her gaze sharpened. “Don’t let me down.”
The door shut with a quiet but decisive click. For a moment, Ashveil stood there, staring at the empty space she’d left behind. Then he shook himself from the daze and sprang into motion, Mr. N jumped down to his desk watching him work.
Drawers were yanked open. Filing cabinets rattled. Papers, holo-prints, and scattered photographs flooded his desk before being snatched up and pinned to the board across the room. Images of the cyborg outlaw stared back at him from every angle. One by one, red strings were stretched between them—connecting sightings, rumors, reported IPC attacks.
Finally, Ashveil stepped back, planting his hands on his hips as he admired the chaos-turned-pattern.
“A galaxy ranger cowboy targeting the IPC…” he mused, leaning forward, one hand sliding under his chin. “That’s the most interesting thing I’ve seen all week.”
His eyes lingered on a particular photo.
“Boothill, huh?”
A low chuckle escaped him as he shook his head.
“Well, thank you, Mr. N, for opening the door and delivering me this fine new opportunity.”
Mr. N folded his tiny arms, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Of course, Mr. Ashveil. That is quite literally my job.” He paused pointedly. “Do not forget about my bananas.”
Ashveil waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. Hazard pay in potassium. You’ll get your bananas.”
Ashveil snatched up the crumpled bag of fast food that had been abandoned on his desk hours ago, grease already seeping through the bottom. With his other hand, he seized his cane, spinning it once with practiced flair before striding toward the door. He gave the board one last assessing glance, lips twitching with anticipation.
“Forty million credits,” he muttered under his breath, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s see if you’re worth it, cowboy.”
With that, he strode out, coat swaying behind him, steps sharp and self-assured. The door shut with a firm click, leaving the office humming faintly in his absence.
Mr. N hopped onto the desk, then up to the back of Ashveil’s chair before finally climbing onto the edge of the investigation board. His small hands tugged lightly at one of the red strings, watching it tremble.
“A follower of the Hunt…” he said quietly, eyes tracing the lines between scattered reports and blurred photographs. “Reckless. Precise. Dangerous.”
He tilted his head at Boothill’s image.
“…And probably not the type to be cornered.”
Ashveil drifted through every district listed in the reports. Abandoned rail yards, dim back alleys, half-lit saloons that never quite closed. He had already finished his food trashing it in a garbage At each stop, he paused, closing his eyes and drawing in a slow, deliberate breath, as if the air itself might confess.
Oil. Gunpowder. Ozone.
He moved again.
Deep within him, something shifted.
A low, resonant growl coiled through his body—felt more than heard, a vibration beneath his ribs. His tentacle stirred restlessly, sensing the faintest trace of prey.
“I know, I know…” Ashveil murmured under his breath, a faint smile curving his lips as he adjusted his gloves. “I’ll give you something yummy to eat. I promise.”
The presence inside him rumbled again, less impatient this time almost satisfied. Ashveil’s gaze sharpened as he stepped into another shadowed stretch of street, cane tapping softly against the pavement.
“Just be patient,” he whispered. “We’re getting closer.”
The sharp click of heeled boots echoed through the alley, accompanied by the faint mechanical whir of internal fans cooling overheated parts. The sound rolled through the narrow passage like a warning.
A shadow stretched long against the brick wall—then sharpened. The brim of a hat. The glint of medal badges catching stray neon light.
“Well, ain’t this neat,” the voice drawled, smooth and edged with something dangerous. “Did Jade send you?”
A low chuckle followed.
Ashveil tightened his grip on his cane, shifting seamlessly into a battle stance. His muscles coiled beneath his coat, every nerve alert. “So what if she did?” he shot back, eyes flicking to the rooftops, the fire escapes—calculating.
The footsteps stopped.
“Then you’re a dead man if you think you can catch me.”
Ashveil smirked and began walking toward the voice, slow and deliberate. “Ha. I’d like to see you try, cowboy.”
The moment Boothill’s full silhouette emerged from the dark—broad shoulders, hat tipped low, metal limbs glinting—Ashveil moved.
He thrust his tattooed arm forward. The markings along his skin flared faintly as something tore free from within him. His voracity companion erupted outward in a violent surge, a mass of writhing force and hunger, eyes locked onto Boothill with singular intent. It launched down the alley with blistering speed. The pavement cracked beneath its impact, fractures spiderwebbing outward as it barreled toward the galaxy ranger in a reckless, devastating charge.
Boothill moved first.
He kicked off the alley wall, metal heel striking brick as he vaulted sideways in a smooth arc. Mid-spin, his revolver snapped into alignment—barrel steady, arm unwavering. He fired. The shots cracked through the alley in rapid succession, muzzle flashes strobing against the dark.
Ashveil barely had time to register the first flash before his companion reacted. The voracity mass tore backward in an instant, abandoning its charge. It surged in front of him like a living shield, swallowing the bullets whole. Each round disappeared into its writhing form with a sickening ripple—holes tearing open and sealing just as quickly, flesh regenerating in seconds.
Metal clattered as spent chambers hit the pavement.
Boothill landed lightly, boots scraping against stone. He straightened, letting out a low, almost impressed whistle.
“Well now…”
He spun the revolver around his finger before snapping it open, empty cartridges flicking free. With effortless precision, he slid in a fresh round and slapped the chamber shut.
“Not bad,” he drawled. “But you’re gonna have to be better than that.”
For the first time, he lifted his gaze fully.
Their eyes met.
One of Boothill’s eyes gleamed a sharp, mechanical red—focused, calculating. Like a targeting reticle locking into place.
Ashveil felt it.
That look.
Cold. Certain. Predatory.
A shiver crept down his spine despite himself, his grip tightening on his cane as the alley seemed to shrink around them.
Ashveil didn’t retreat.
A low snarl curled in his throat as he steadied himself, briefly patting the writhing crown of his companion in silent gratitude before straightening and adjusting the brim of his hat. His pulse was racing—but he refused to let it show.
Across from him, Boothill stood loose and casual, revolver hanging easy at his side. That lazy posture made it worse. The sheer confidence in it. The way his red eye tracked every twitch of movement.
Ashveil’s skin prickled.
Fine. Then no more hesitation.
He flicked his fingers forward, sending his voracity companion charging again—this time he sprinted alongside it. As they closed the distance, Ashveil thrust his cane forward. The air around its tip cracked and warped, thickening with raw, gluttonous energy that pulsed outward in a violent ripple.
The shockwave struck Boothill squarely.
For the briefest moment, the cyborg stiffened. His systems misfiring, boots grinding against stone as he hesitated.
That was all Ashveil needed.
The amulet at his wrist flared to life, casting a sharp glow against the alley walls. He snapped his fingers. Wind detonated outward.
A spiraling column of air tore down the alley, slamming into Boothill and wrenching him off his feet. Debris and dust followed in its wake as the force flung him skyward.
Boothill twisted midair, mechanical joints whirring as he torqued his body to keep Ashveil in sight—
—but the detective was gone.
A blur.
Milliseconds later, Ashveil reappeared above him, gloved hand blazing with concentrated energy. He drove the strike into Boothill’s midsection, channeling the tornado’s momentum straight through him.
The impact cracked like thunder.
Boothill was hurled sideways, body smashing into the alley wall hard enough to crater brick. Stone splintered and rained down as he hit, a guttural grunt ripping from his throat—pain edged with unmistakable frustration.
Dust settled slowly between them.
Ashveil landed lightly, cane tapping once against the fractured pavement.
“Better enough for you, cowboy?”
It takes Boothill a few unsteady seconds, but he forces himself upright, boots scraping against the pavement. He spits a mouthful of royal-blue blood onto the concrete, the color stark and almost luminous under the streetlights.
“You motherfucker…” he mutters, voice rough — equal parts pain and reluctant admiration.
He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blue across his knuckles, and tilts his head up to glare at Ashveil. Blood trickles from his temple in a thin, stubborn line, slipping past his brow and down the sharp angle of his cheek.
Ashveil stiffens under that look. His breath catches. For a split second, something flickers across his face — surprise, maybe, or the sudden awareness of how close they are. His eyes widen, and a slow.
The air between them hums, tight as a live wire.
Ashveil suddenly throws his hands up, pacing a half-step before stopping short like he’s arguing with someone only he can hear. “No! You— you listen to me!” he hisses under his breath, eyes darting sideways as he scolded his compainion. “And my order is for you to bind him—” He cuts himself off sharply, face going red. “No! Don’t bind him like that!”
His voice drops to a harsh whisper, jaw clenched as if wrestling control back from whatever presence had just surged forward. A faint flicker passes through his expression. A dark aura, something not entirely his before it retreats, folding back into him like a shadow slipping behind a closed door. Ashveil adjusts his amulet on his wrist.
Boothill blinks.
He slowly raises one eyebrow, blue blood still drying along his temple. “Well,” he drawls, brushing dust from his jacket, “This is officially the strangest standoff I’ve ever been in.”
He studies Ashveil with open curiosity now, irritation giving way to disbelief. “You plannin’ on fightin’ me,” he gestures lazily, “or arguin’ with yourself till sunrise?”
Ashveil whirls back toward him so fast his coat snaps with the motion. He jabs a finger straight at Boothill, eyes blazing — though whether from fury or fluster is anyone’s guess.
“You shut up!” he snaps, voice cracking just slightly at the edges. “I’m trying to think properly.”
The accusation hangs there, absurd and indignant, especially considering he’s the one who’d been arguing with thin air moments ago. Boothill glances down at the finger nearly poking his chest, then back up at Ashveil’s burning face.
A slow, crooked smirk tugs at his mouth despite the blood still drying at his temple. “Thinkin’ usually works better when you ain’t shoutin’ at ghosts,” he mutters.
Ashveil’s jaw tightens. For a heartbeat, it looks like he might actually lunge again — but instead, he inhales sharply, shoulders rigid, eyes squeezing shut as if trying to physically wrestle his thoughts into order. The street falls quiet around them, tension coiling tighter with every strained breath.
The silence snaps.
Ashveil moves first.
There’s no warning this time — no argument, no flustered stammer. One second he’s rigid and fuming, the next he lunges forward with startling speed, coat flaring behind him like a dark wing. His fist cuts through the air aimed straight for Boothill’s jaw.
Boothill barely turns in time. The punch grazes his cheek instead of breaking it, the impact still sharp enough to sting. He pivots with it, boots grinding against pavement, and drives his elbow toward Ashveil’s ribs in the same motion.
Ashveil twists. The elbow clips his side but doesn’t land clean. He retaliates instantly — knee snapping upward.
Boothill catches it mid-thigh.
For half a second they’re locked like that — breath mingling, muscles straining, hands gripping fabric and bone.
“Thought you needed to think,” Boothill mutters through his teeth.
Ashveil’s eyes flash. “I did.”
He wrenches his leg free and shoves forward hard. Boothill staggers back two steps — just enough for Ashveil to close the distance again. A sharp jab. A second. A third.
Boothill blocks the first. The second lands against his shoulder. The third clips his lip, splitting it fresh. Blue blood beads again, stark against his skin.
Boothill grins — feral.
He surges in close instead of retreating.
His hand shoots out, grabbing Ashveil by the front of his coat, dragging him in. Their foreheads nearly collide before Boothill swings a brutal hook toward his side. It lands solid this time. Air rushes from Ashveil’s lungs in a harsh gasp.
But Ashveil doesn’t fall.
Instead, he grabs Boothill’s wrist mid-retraction, twisting sharply. Their bodies shift, momentum flipping — suddenly Boothill’s the one forced off balance.
Ashveil steps in, sweeping his leg low.
Boothill hits the pavement hard.
The impact rattles through him, but he rolls immediately, avoiding the downward stomp aimed at his ribs. Ashveil’s heel cracks against concrete instead, splintering it.
Boothill uses the opening.
From the ground, he lashes out, hooking Ashveil’s ankle and yanking. Ashveil drops with a sharp curse, catching himself on one hand before his face meets the pavement. Boothill scrambles up with him, both of them rising in the same breath — close again, too close.
Ashveil throws a headbutt.
It connects.
Boothill stumbles back, stars flashing across his vision. Blue blood drips faster now, sliding from his temple down his cheek.
Ashveil presses forward relentlessly — palm strike to the sternum. Elbow toward the collarbone. Fingers reaching for his throat—
Boothill traps the wrist midair.
Their chests collide.
For a moment they strain against each other, hands locked, muscles trembling with effort. The fight has shifted from sharp strikes to raw force — pushing, grappling, trying to overpower.
Ashveil tries to wrench free.
Boothill doesn’t let him.
He pivots, dragging Ashveil sideways and slamming him against a brick wall. The impact echoes down the alley. Dust shakes loose from mortar lines.
Ashveil hisses, but his hand shoots up, gripping Boothill’s collar and yanking him down with him.
Their noses nearly brush.
Breathing heavy.
Sweat and blood and adrenaline thick in the air.
Ashveil’s knee drives upward again — this time landing square in Boothill’s abdomen. Boothill grunts, grip loosening just enough.
Ashveil shoves him off and swings.
Boothill ducks.
He retaliates with a spinning backfist that catches Ashveil across the cheek. The crack of impact rings sharp. Ashveil stumbles sideways, boots scraping as he fights to regain footing.
Neither of them pauses.
They collide again mid-step — fists flying in brutal, efficient arcs. Knuckles split. Fabric tears. Each blow lands heavier than the last as fatigue begins to creep into their limbs.
Ashveil catches Boothill with a sharp strike across the temple — reopening the wound. Blue blood spills freely now.
Boothill answers with a body shot that forces Ashveil to double over for half a breath.
They separate at the same time.
Three feet apart.
Both breathing hard.
Ashveil’s lip is bleeding. His cheek already swelling. Boothill’s face streaked blue and red, hair disheveled, chest rising and falling fast.
They circle.
Boots scuffing.
Neither willing to yield.
Ashveil feints left.
Boothill doesn’t fall for it.
He steps in instead, shoulder-checking Ashveil straight through a stack of metal crates. They crash down in a deafening clatter, both hitting the ground in a tangle of limbs.
Ashveil flips them mid-fall — somehow — ending up on top. He pins Boothill’s wrist to the pavement, forearm pressing hard against his throat.
Boothill growls, straining upward.
Ashveil leans closer, breath hot and ragged.
“Yield,” he demands, though it comes out more breathless than commanding.
Boothill smirks — even now.
“Make me.”
Boothill twists violently, hooking his leg around Ashveil’s and rolling them again. They slam into the pavement once more, positions reversed.
Now Boothill pins him.
Hand at his collar.
Forearm pressing down.
Their faces inches apart.
Both exhausted.
Both burning.
Neither backing down.
The fight pauses there — not because it’s over, but because they’ve reached that razor-thin edge where the next move decides everything.
Boothill’s grip tightens in Ashveil’s collar, knuckles white, forearm firm against his chest — not quite crushing, but close enough to make every breath deliberate.
Ashveil doesn’t struggle.
Not immediately.
His chest rises sharply beneath Boothill’s arm, breath warm against Boothill’s jaw. The world narrows — the alley, the shattered crates, the distant hum of the city — all of it fading beneath the thunder of blood in their ears.
They’re so close their noses brush when Boothill shifts.
Ashveil inhales — and freezes.
Boothill feels it. The hitch. The change.
Their eyes lock.
Ashveil’s lashes are darker up close, clumped slightly from sweat. There’s a smear of blue across Boothill’s cheekbone where Ashveil must’ve grabbed him earlier. It streaks down toward his mouth.
Without thinking — or maybe thinking far too much — Ashveil’s gaze drops to Boothill’s lips.
Boothill notices.
His smirk fades.
Something quieter replaces it.
The hand fisted in Ashveil’s collar loosens just a fraction. Not enough to free him. Just enough that the tension shifts from violent to… charged.
Ashveil swallows.
Boothill’s thumb, still gripping fabric, brushes against the warm skin at the base of Ashveil’s throat.
Neither of them moves away.
Their breathing falls into the same rhythm — ragged, shared.
Ashveil’s hand, which had been braced against Boothill’s shoulder to push him off, instead curls slightly into the fabric there. Not pulling. Not fighting.
Holding.
Boothill leans in a fraction — barely noticeable.
Ashveil doesn’t retreat.
Their foreheads touch first.
A slow, accidental press.
Boothill’s voice drops to something rougher, lower. “You still plannin’ on takin’ my head off?”
Ashveil’s lips part to respond — but no words come.
Instead, his gaze flickers down again.
This time Boothill follows it.
There’s only an inch between them now.
Heat coils tight in the space where their mouths almost meet. It would take nothing. A breath. A tilt.
Ashveil’s lashes flutter.
Boothill’s hand slides from Ashveil’s collar to his jaw not rough, not gentle either. Just steady, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone where it’s beginning to bruise. For a suspended heartbeat, the fight disappears.
There’s no dominance. No orders. No violence. Just the sharp awareness of each other. Ashveil tilts his head — just slightly. Boothill’s breath ghosts over his lips.
And then—
A sharp flicker passes across Ashveil’s expression. That same internal tension. That presence stirring beneath his skin, he stiffens. Boothill feels it instantly. Ashveil jerks his head away at the last second, turning sharply so Boothill’s mouth brushes the corner of his jaw instead of his lips.
The contact is brief.
Accidental.
Burning.
Ashveil shoves him off — not violently this time, but urgently — scrambling to his feet, breathing uneven.
“Don’t,” he snaps, though it sounds more like he’s warning himself than Boothill.
Boothill remains on one knee, watching him with darkened eyes, thumb absently brushing over his own lower lip like he’s memorizing what almost happened.
A slow grin curves back into place — but softer now.
“Wasn’t me leanin’ first,” he murmurs.
Ashveil’s ears flush crimson again. The fight hasn’t ended, but something has undeniably changed. They stand several feet apart now. Bruised, bloody, breathing slower, but still wired. Ashveil adjusts his coat with stiff, precise movements, trying to reclaim some measure of dignity. There’s dust on his sleeves, a tear near the hem, and a faint smear of blue across his collar. He pointedly avoids looking at Boothill for a moment adutsing his pants slightly.
Boothill leans back against the brick wall they nearly shattered, thumb brushing absently at the split in his lip. He studies Ashveil with a look that’s no longer purely combative.
“Alright,” Boothill finally drawls. “We’ve established we can both break bones if we feel like it.”
Ashveil exhales through his nose. “You were trespassing.”
“You were plannin’ to drag me to the IPC.”
At the mention of the Interastral Peace Corporation, Ashveil’s jaw tightens. Silence stretches between them again but this time it’s calculated. Ashveil straightens fully, hands folding behind his back like he’s presenting terms in a boardroom instead of an alley full of broken crates.
“I don’t particularly enjoy handing people over to the IPC,” he says coolly. “But your bounty makes you… difficult to ignore.”
Boothill huffs a quiet laugh. “You’d never get paid. I wouldn’t let myself be taken alive.”
Ashveil doesn’t argue that.
Instead, he studies him weighing risk against reward. The Ashen Detective Agency’s reputation. Their funding. Their survival.
Finally, Ashveil speaks.
“You stay out of my operations. You don’t meddle in my cases. You keep Jade off my back—and don’t even think about coming near my agency unless I say so.” His eyes harden. “Do that, and I won’t hand you over.”
Boothill tilts his head. “That all?”
Ashveil hesitates — just barely.
“There will be compensation.”
Boothill’s brow lifts.
“You’ve already cost me property damage,” Ashveil continues, gesturing to the wreckage. “And reputation risk. I expect… reimbursement.”
A slow grin spreads across Boothill’s face.
“Well now,” he murmurs. “That sounds dangerously close to extortion, detective.”
“It’s a business arrangement.”
Boothill pushes off the wall and steps closer — not threatening this time. Measured. Considering.
“How much we talkin’?”
“A percentage,” Ashveil replies smoothly. “From your bounties. The less legal portion.”
Boothill lets out a low whistle. “Dirty money.”
“I prefer the term untraceable compensation.”
Boothill studies him for a long moment then laughs under his breath.
“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”
Ashveil’s expression remains composed, but there’s the faintest flicker of challenge in his eyes.
Boothill extends a hand.
“Alright. I slide you a cut after every job. You keep the IPC off my back. I don’t kill you. I don’t sabotage your little Ashen Detective Agency empire.”
Ashveil looks down at the offered hand like it personally offends him.
“…It is not little.”
Boothill’s grin widens.
After a beat, Ashveil takes his hand.
The shake is firm. Calloused palm against steady fingers. Not friendly — but not hostile anymore either.
“Cross me,” Ashveil says quietly, “and this arrangement dissolves.”
Boothill steps closer during the handshake — close enough that his voice drops lower.
“But I just found someone so interesting. I guess the same goes for you, detective.”
Their hands release slowly.
No more immediate violence.
No more immediate threats.
Just a dangerous truce built on profit, pride, and something far more volatile simmering underneath.
Boothill turns to leave first, glancing over his shoulder.
“Pleasure negotiatin’ with you.”
Ashveil watches him go, arms folding across his chest.
“…Inconvenient,” he mutters to himself.
But he doesn’t call the IPC.
And Boothill doesn’t look back again.