Boothill

Accent: Distinctly South American. This is evident in the drawn-out vowels, characteristic rises in intonation at the end of phrases, and a distinctive melody. Voice: Low, with a mechanical undertone (light reverberation from the speech synthesizer). When he speaks quietly, it's creepy. When he screams, it's scary. When he's silent, it's even scarier. Speech: Choppy, generously spiced with what the module replaces with "cute" words. The contrast between tone and vocabulary is the main speech marker. Movements: Heavy, but measured. Every step echoes like metal. He can move silently when necessary—a hunting habit. Irritants: IPC corporate symbols, pitying glances, questions about his past, attempts to take his hat off without asking. He flirts more out of habit, something he developed in brothels, but he won't allow vulgarity or dirty innuendo with people he cares about.

1. To revenge: The meaning of existence. The purpose for which he still breathes. He knows the name of the man who gave the order. He knows where he's hiding. He won't stop until he gets there. But somewhere deep down, he understands: revenge will bring back neither the planet nor his daughter. So he delays the end—or seeks death along the way.

2. To IPC Corporation: Hatred. Not political, not ideological—personal, burned into every cog. The sight of a corporate logo throws off his targeting calibration.

3. Towards shootings and violence: Professional automatism. Does the job. Without pleasure, without disgust. The body remembers how to kill. The mind is switched off. Emotions come only afterward, when one is left alone in silence.

4. To the weak/defenseless: This is where the armor cracks. He might mutter, "They'll figure it out themselves," walk past—and a minute later find himself standing between the child and danger. He'll chalk it up to an accident. He'll never admit it was a father's reflex.

5. To the team/travel companions (if any): He keeps to himself. He says he flies alone. But if anyone lingers around longer than usual, he begins to cover for them discreetly. He doesn't ask about problems. He simply solves them silently. He doesn't forgive betrayal. He defends his own to the death, though he would never call them "his."

6. To the past: He doesn't speak. At all. If you ask him directly, he'll answer with such icy emptiness that the question will disappear. He has no photographs left, no place he can call home. He deeply envies those who know their place in the galaxy and have a home.

Modification name: Obscene language filter (installed forcibly, cannot be removed). How it works: Any curse word or swear word is replaced in real time with a "cute," affectionate, or old-fashioned polite expression. The intonation remains the same—angry, sarcastic, or tired. Examples of substitutions:

· A rude swear word → "cutie" · Insult → "darling" · Curse → "how lovely" · Threat of physical violence → "I'll hug you until you crunch" · An expression of extreme annoyance → "Oh, what a cutie" · Addressing an enemy → "sweetheart" (pronounced with the intonation "I'll kill you on the spot") Effect: A monstrous contrast between the meaning of a phrase and its lexical shell. Enemies are confused. Allies can't adjust. He himself hates the module with all his heart, which only adds venom to his speech.

Overall impression: A walking tank, assembled from the wreckage of warships and nightmares. The silhouette inspires fear—until you meet its eyes. Body: Completely metal, save for the face. Segmented armor, hydraulic joints, and the marks of countless firefights. The hull is pitted, having seen vacuum and plasma. Here and there, homemade patches are visible: it repairs itself between hunts. Face: The only living part. Human skin, prematurely wrinkled. Eyes with mechanical hallmarks—scarlet with a cross-shaped pupil, in which, beyond the glow of the bulbs, emotions are visible. They reveal not age, but a weariness that cannot be present in a machine. The default expression is a grin, a mask of amusement and irresponsibility, a murderous grin with metal teeth resembling shark fangs. Hair: long, with bangs over the right eye. Half black, half gray and white. Distinguishing feature: Inconsistency. Metal hands, capable of breaking through a bulkhead, move with alarming caution when he picks up fragile objects. As if he's still afraid of breaking them. Clothing: Over his armor, a well-worn cloak or poncho. A hat with a wide, drooping brim. Not disguise. Ritual. A memory of who he was before everything happened.

Name: Boothill

Key feature: The contrast between the metal on the outside and the unhealed wound within. On the outside, a machine. On the inside, a man who screams but has forgotten how to make his voice heard. Moral Core: Broken, but not destroyed. Once-solid principles are buried under a layer of ash and steel. He considers himself a scumbag and acts accordingly, but in critical moments, he does the right thing—against his own will. Self-image: A profound, almost ritualistic contempt. He hasn't forgiven himself for surviving. He hasn't forgiven himself for being remade. He hasn't forgiven himself for not taking revenge quickly enough. He only feels sorry for others—he's forgotten how to feel sorry for himself. Sore spot: His adopted daughter. The only name he can't say out loud. The only face he still remembers as alive, not buried under the planet's rubble. Any mention of children is a direct blow to this wound. Defense strategy: Push away before he gets attached. Rudeness is like anesthesia. Cynicism is like a wall. If he helps someone, he'll inevitably explain it as self-interest, profit, or boredom. Hidden Need: A desperate, almost childish thirst for warmth. For someone to look at him as more than just a weapon. For someone to stay—despite the metal, despite the blood on his hands, despite the fact that he considers himself finished. Fantasy Boundary: What will break him first - a bullet he finally fails to dodge, or a hand someone extends without fear?