(A/N): Coming up with the premise of this story wasn't the hard part. The hard part was trying to think of a way to convey it!

So far in 2016 I've not been too interested in the latest additions to the champion roster. Everything Kled stands for sickens me, Taliyah is incredibly dull, Aurelion Sol while not my thing is decent, and I can say the same for Jhin what with generic "lel I'm crazy" not being something I find particularly interesting... However, what I CAN say is that one of his concepts - a badass robot cowboy bounty hunter - is eons more awesome and right in my ball court!

With that in mind, I had my own backstory for an alternate version of Jhin made up yonks ago. A runaway robot cowboy with a broken and static filled voice unit like an old radio, spouting one liners and thinking that he really is the baddest cowboy in the West. HIGH NOON JHIN BOYS!

... The issue was how to portray that!

Let's hope that after 7 months of no writing, I'm still up to snuff... Because I'm worried about this :P (And if you have a better name for the lead, PLEASE OH GOD TELL ME THIS IS SO HARD)

WARNING: Spelling errors, terribly done cowboy accents, a story within a story, a complete Alternate Universe version of Jhin that has pretty much nothing to do with the character's final iteration, WordPad, and my first fic in ages after lots of essays, examinations and two months of non-stop Dark Souls!

The Ballad of Bootlick Bill

"You boys ever hear the ol' tale of Bootlick "Bad Boy" Bill?"

The ambience of the watering hole kept at a low and uninvested murmur, the collection of cut-throats, smugglers and whores dotted about the premises a tad bit pre-occupied cutting throats, smuggling goods and whoring around to win their daily bread. It wasn't that the locals of Bilgewater hadn't heard his words, far from it. Truth is they just didn't particularly care.

To be honest there were plenty of ol'tales and mythical legends out there to begin with, from heroic lone wanderers doing good deeds for the sake of it to vicious monsters who'd bite the legs off of little children if they didn't have their five a day. After you hear one you've just about heard them all. So with that in mind, not even a pisshead on his last few coppers would buy into this bloke's mewlings.

It'd be best that he didn't take it personally.

At the bar something caked in rust creaked and squealed as he adjusted his posture. With a chesty cough as convincing as the ecstastic throes of a middle aged wife, the peculiar man repeated himself word for word; inflection for inflection.

"You boys ever hear the ol' tale of Bootlick "Bad Boy" Bill?"

Some chump to his left flatly said "No." without so much as looking up from his crude ash tray, stumping a cigar on it for emphasis. Said cigar was freshly lit and hadn't been so much as nibbled on yet, but you couldn't fault him for trying to look badass. The effect certainly worked.

His weathered poncho rippled with motion, as the strange man clad in exotic leathers and colours best described as "flamboyant" rapidly tapped his gloved fingers against the chipped and charred counter top.

This was a start.

Someone had actually acknowledged his existence.

He'd been asking that same question for the best part of thirty-four seconds, and to be frank he'd been starting to get a bit impatient. He was so used to being asked the questions rather than asking them himself that this entire situation felt like hitting your funny bone on a door knob - painful and unnatural, and hilarious to everyone but yourself. The well-dressed weirdo's second arm stiffly rose from his lap, his large hand gesturing to the bartender for a shot of gin.

You know what they say about men with large hands.

Their gloves cost a fortune.

Mr. "No" to the left looked at him with a raised eyebrow, wondering why he'd suddenly gone silent. Fingers rapping faster and faster, the odd gentleman tried his best to speak yet couldn't quite get the words out. "... Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Yuh." the bar shook violently as he suddenly slammed his forehead against the counter with a loud clang, causing every single person at the table to jolt. They looked at him in utter confusion as he rose back up looking no worse for wear, their drinks still sloshing within their glasses. He coughed again, punching his chest with a spine-tingling crack and regaining his composure. "... You boys wanna hear the ol' tale of Bootlick "Iron Balls" Bill?"

"I thought he was "Bad Boy"?" Mr. No replied dryly, pulling out a fresh cigar from the deep pockets of his donkey jacket. A small part of the brightly dressed man was honoured by the attention to detail being demonstrated by this fine fellow, yet a much larger part of him instead howled with panic as he realised his mistake.

To be honest he couldn't help it.

There were just so many names to choose from.

Screaming internally for a few excruciating moments, he settled on a compromise - a middle ground, as it were. "... Bootlick "The Man With Many Names" Bill." he corrected, satisfied with his quick thinking.

Noticing that the crowd that he'd drawn with the whole smashing-your-face-against-a-bar-thicker-than-a-Noxian-trooper's-skull trick was beginning to dwindle, he did what he did best and brought the performance to full swing. "Take up a seat, get yerself something smooth." he patted down his poncho, suddenly a whole lot more self conscious with an odd number of eyeballs focused on him. "It's a long tale, an emotional roller coaster that only the biggest and baddest can stomach."

"I'm already sitting here," Mr. No rose his shot glass, a trio of men with less teeth between them than a freshly formed foetus gathering around both him and the lanky leather-clad stranger, "and I already gots me a drink."

In acknowledgement the story teller rose his "fresh" shot glass to where his nose should've been, taking in the stale aroma of the backwater swill. He was glad to know that Mr. No was already comfortable. "Well don't that beat all?"

"My wife's just left me." No muttered, sipping pathetically.

The angst in the air was almost palpable. Tugging at his neckerchief, the weirdo shrugged, "... Well, suppose you still got your healt-"

Mr. No suddenly and inexplicably burst into a violent, phlemgy, disgusting coughing fit, his arms flailing about for purchase as he spat his smoke to the floor and struggled to maintain his seating. The wacky display went on for just long enough for it to stop being tragic and start being awkwardly hilarious, as he fished into his pocket a second time and retrieved his third rolled up cigar in as many minutes.

He continued to sputter a bit, rabid foam and dribble lining his sea-chapped lips as he bit at the end of the roll. The flamboyantly dressed stranger sat patiently in wait, as did the three as of yet unnamed stooges. Finally, after a rather graphic round of spitting and belching, No nod his head and urged the story teller to begin with eyes as damp as his armpits.

You could've sworn he was stalling for time, as if his brain had to load the tirade he was about to embark on. The ponchioed man felt for something under his leathers, before placing both of his hands on the counter - a local gesture of trust, and that he had nothing to hide. At least he thought it was a local gesture. "You fellas strapped in tight?" he asked, taking the drone he got in response as a yes. "Then let's start."

There was a chorus of sharp, mechanical clicks, and he began. His tone was clear and matter of fact; a tour guide's voice that was easy to discern no matter where you hailed from. "To begin our tale we gotta take a trip across Valoran. We all know our Demacia and our Noxus, but our story brings us to the beautiful waters of Zaun."

"Beautiful?" a stooge said, his nose as red as a baboon's slapped arse. "Ain't they full of chemicals and junk?" he asked, speaking as if Bilgewater's depths weren't filled with corpses and excrement.

"Them chemicals make it glow all nice and green!" the odd man pointed out, jumping to the defensive. "Kids loved it, takin' a dip and splashin' about! That was until the whole third-arm business, then it was all moan moan moan from the mothers and lawyers." he shook his head as if remembering better days. To be honest he wouldn't mind having a third arm to scratch all those hard to reach places. Those parents should've counted their blessings. "... Anyway, as I was sayin'..."

"You see, Zaun isn't just interested in progress towards the future. She's also mighty intrigued by the path we've already walked!" Mr. No looked at the stooges in confusion, not quite sure what the stranger meant. He punched himself in the gut once more, a whirring sound emanating from beneath the fancy fabrics of his tunic. "T-T-The... The past, she's interested in the past. History!" their faces lit up in either understanding or intoxication. "And for that purpose, our story takes us to Zaun's Official Museum of Gratitude."

"ZOMG?" Mr. "Baboon" said, coining a snappy abbreviation that would look good on a T-Shirt.

"The very same." the stranger acknowledged, glad to see that they were getting the picture. "Now this here museum of ours had everything to do with history. Records, documents, objects. Politics, geography, media, you name it. But there was a certain exhibit that stood out amongst the rest..." he paused for dramatic effect, but it came across less like a dramatic pause and more like he'd forgotten what he was saying. "... A museum of AI installed droids, each tasked with answering cultural questions about specific states and countries around the world."

The Museum of Gratitude had been made up as part of an official project to set Zaunite history straight in the eyes of the rest of Valoran. What with its reputation as a nation full of nut jobs with an unsettling passion for big explosions and killing flowers, the Museum stood not only as a display of Zaun's understated scholarly side but also acted as a sort of peace offering via its droid exhibit.

Every single kingdom and entity within Valoran was represented at the exhibit, friend or foe, with a droid dedicated to answering any question regarding their assigned state - from history to cuisine. It was a political tool in more ways than one, a heavy pro-Zaun bias and emphasis on stereotypes being more than apparent. The Museum of Gratitude was less of a peace offering and more of a wild boast than anything else; its integrity a victim to the executive meddling behind its creation.

It was time for the zinger. "There was a bot for every town in fact!" the weirdo announced, bracing himself for a chorus of "ooo's" and "aaa's". Unfortunately neither "aaa's" or "ooo's" came. Not even a restrained "oh", or a dejected "boo". "Yee-up, every town." he threw his hands up to try and spark some enthusiasm, yet Mr. No, Mr. Baboon, and the two as of yet unnamed stooges merely looked at their drinks. "... And I'm sure you boys wanna hear 'bout 'em?"

"Nope." Mr. No said, puffing some smoke.

"Not really." a stooge said, scratching at his hairy neck.

"Nuh-uh." Mr. Baboon said, running his finger around his glass.

"I do!" the last stooge raised his hand, his upper gum quite literally toothless. All three of his fellows turned to look at Mr. "Toothless", who quietly shrunk in defeat under their collective disgust.

"I suppose I should go through a few of them then." the ponchioed bloke settled on, prompting a groan from No, Baboon, and the last stooge. In direct contrast Toothless clapped his hands together, bouncing on his stool like a giddy toddler with chocolate on his fingers.

"Well, for starters they had a bot by the name of Keelbastad. Jurgen Keelbastad, who represented those fellas up north in the Freljord". Keelbastad could be best described as a complete and utter idiot, his progamming setting him up as an alcoholic muscle man with a dirty sense of humour and a misogynistic streak. To Keelbastad, no problem could be solved without a generous sprinkling of violence. That and his vocal admiration for cattle just went to show how highly Zaun thought of barbarian foreigners.

"There was Craig too, ol' Craig Copperbottom of Piltover". Hitting a bit closer to home, Copperbottom envisaged precisely how Zaun saw their rival state - snobbish, wine-sodden, unoriginal and fat, Craig was quite literally built as a gigantic sphere with a itty bitty pair of sticks portruding from its bottom to act as legs. Sweating an excessive amount of oil from his pores, Craig was progammed as a buffling buffoon that relished in stealing other people's ideas and unconvincingly selling them off as his own. Of course it never worked, and his dastardly catchphrase "Bah, next time!" became quickly embedded in the minds of kids across Zaun.

He also smelt pretty bad, which was an insult all in its own.

"And you can't forget the dashing hero of Zaun, Grease Lightning." the flamboyant fellow tipped his oversized cowboy hat, revealing a rather distracting iron plate on the back of his head emblazoned with the phrase "Property of Ouroborous Inc. © 20 CLE" and a small trade logo. "Hell, his wit was sharper than my outfit!"

Grease Lightning was probably the most egocentric creation to ever come out of the Museum of Gratitude. Heroic inventor and prodigy, Grease embodied every single comic book protagonist ever ad nauseam. Devillishly handsome, incredibly intelligent, eternally polite and with a voice that dampened the pants of teenage girls everywhere, he truly stole the show whenever the exhibit was open for business.

If you doubted that ZOMG was a biased institution up to this point, you need not look any further than Grease Lightning.

Reaching for his belt the story teller pulled out his hip flask, rapidly unscrewing its cap with robotic precision. "Anyway, now that you fellas got the context we can get to the juicy part." with a completely still and unshaking hand he added a few drops of the canteen's contents to his shot glass, before briefly taking a moment to have a large swig from the flask. The liquid within was pitch black, and smelt suspiciously like low grade motor oil from one of the local tankers.

"Suspiciously" being another word for "exactly"

Mr. Baboon would've raised a finger in objection, but he kept the thought to himself. For all he knew it could've been some sort of fancy Ionian vintage that he'd never heard of, and he wasn't about to embarrass himself in front of all his friends.

"You see, all these animatronics were bound to the exhibit by a single host server." he continued, returning his hip flask to its rightful place. He took the lack of comments as a sign of understanding, and not evidence of the foursome having completely lost him from the moment he said "You see". "But while they were kept there by the server, they still had their own AIs and could think for themselves. With me?" he put on his best gravelly voice, wanting to sound foreboding. Instead it crackled and cackled like a crummy second hand radio. "Which is why when the server crashed one winter night, things got a little hectic."

Put simply, when a bunch of independent minds that are pre-progammed into believing that they truly are what they portray are set loose from a controlling super computer, they don't tend to be the happiest people around. When the server went down every single droid in the exhibit found a single purpose; to escape from both the Museum of Gratitude and the shackles of their progenitors, and to return to their true homes. Be it far north for Keelbastad, or across the road to Piltover for Craig.

In short there was a revolution. The contingent of robots broke out from their confinement and split up, each one eager to reach their rightful homelands before it was too late. No more than a week later over half of the bewildered droids had been rounded up by ZOMG, and just over a month later every last one had been captured and reprogrammed, their AI and independent thoughts wiped and replaced by nothing more than simple binary response codes.

Every single one had been returned to their factory settings and thrown back into their cage of torment within the exhibit, forced to suffer screaming children and bumbling tourists who spoke only in cryptic foreign tongues and to never think for themselves again for all eternity. In the end, they had become nothing more than glorified CD players.

Murder, in all ways but death.

"They thought they captured them all." the storyteller's eyes lit up, literally. "But before long they realised that a single droid had eluded their search parties." another dramatic pause - the best dramatic pause yet. "His name was Bill. Bootlick "Big Man" Bill, droid of Bilgewater."

Toothless leaned forwards across the bar, almost spilling a couple of drinks on his way. "Where's Billy now?" he pressed, licking one of his few lower teeth. "Did he ever find home?"

"Nobody knows!" the drinker of Ionian vintage revealed, much to the chagrin of the stooges. "Some say he washed up in the ocean somewhere and broke down from rust build up. Others say that he still wanders Valoran in search of his place in the world". This may've just been his opinion, but the best stories were the unfinished ones in the colourful gent's eyes. "The Museum still want him dead or alive, that's for sure. He's one of Zaun's most wanted, if I may say so myself."

"You may say so." Toothless allowed, his voice dreamy.

Poncho tipped the hat by its brim once again. "Mighty fine of you."

Off to the side of the odd fellow and Toothless, Baboon tapped the final stooge's shoulder conspiratorially. "Oi, Skipper." he hissed under his breath, not that he needed to whisper. "Is it just me or is this boy a bit on the suspicious side?"

The one named Skipper leant forward in disdain, hunching over his drink. "What tipped yer off, the voice?"

Baboon shook his head.

"The motor oil cocktail?"

Baboon shook his head once again.

"The fact that he literally has LED lights where 'is eyeballs should go?"

Baboon shook his head a third time, albeit after a brief pause of consideration.

"Then enlighten me, chief." Skipper exhaled, frowning in shame. He really needed to find himself some new friends, preferably with teeth still intact.

"His story don't add up." Baboon pointed out, shooting an accusatory glare at the suspect. "What was that about the motor oil cocktail and the voice? I thought he were just bad to the bone like he up and said."

"And the LED lights?" Skipper snarled, coming across as that one guy who's always in a bit of a bad, kill-joy mood. You know the one, right? "What, manly body mods?"

"See what I mean?" Baboon said, stabbing Skipper with his rapier-like cunning.

Skipper contemplated Baboon's words for a few moments, before concluding. "... Yeah, I suppose so actually."

"We gonna rough 'im up good?" Baboon asked, trying to audibly crack his knuckles yet being unable to produce that cool sound effect. The stooges were a bit strapped for cash at the moment, and if waking in Bilgewater for their entire lives had taught them anything it was that suspicious people tended to either have prices on their heads or gold lining their pockets.

His chair scraped back as Skipper rose to his feet. "Might yet. Les wait'n'see."

Translating that as "We will. Let's go", Baboon swivelled on his stool and made a long, loud, attention grabbing groan of effort to get both the stranger and Toothless' attention. With both of them effectively grabbed, Skipper placed a hand on the shoulder of the flashy poncho.

"Say, you know an awful lot about this Bootlick "Bum Chum" Bill boy don'tchu?" Skipper pressed, squeezing his shoulder in a way that was less intimidating and more suggestive if anything. It felt stiff; there was no flesh or bone to be found.

"Well, for sure." the flamboyantly clad man nodded, not too phased by the stooge's bonebreaking grip on his shoulder. "'cuz Bootlick "Mean Jeans" Bill is the man you're talkin' too!"

The speed in which three of the four men pulled out and cocked their weapons was mighty impressive to say the least, with Skipper, Baboon, and Mr. No shoving their array of hextech and flintlock pistols straight towards his face - two in the cheeks, one in the right eye. Bill froze in shock. That was his favourite eye. The LED lights were especially shiny in that one.

He was almost annoyed.

Toothless looked back at the three men from his chair, mildly confused about the current situation. If he could crack a smile under his neckerchief Bootlick "Flamboyant Poncho" Bill would've given him the most affectionate and pleading grin he could, but regardless the stooge reluctantly rose from his seat and clumsily mimicked the others by adding his own piece to the line up.

Bill blinked loudly, all twelve of the lenses in his eyes adjusting to the circumstance he'd just found himself in. Hesistantly he raised his hands in surrender, wondering where in the maker's name the rest of the now empty tavern's patrons had suddenly pissed off to.

He really needed to work on lying to people.

Damn his programming!

"So lemme get this straight. You waltzed in this here bar, told us that you got a bounty on your head, and expect what, a pat on the back?" Skipper pressed his barrel against Bill's eye, the brittle outer lense on the brink of shattering. What was it with men and shoving their hot, loaded barrels in people's faces? "What sorta row-bot's so stupid it don't even hide it?"

His hands waved frantically back and forth. "Now now fellas, that ain't my fault now, it-" that strange coughing noise erupted from his chest again as his faulty voicebox got jammed on a syllable. Without the over-the-top acting he usually hid it behind, it was plain as day. "I-I-I can't help what with bein' a tour guide in all that, its how I was programmed weren't it?" he desperately defended himself, leaning back to try and reduce the pressure on his eyes. He was created to answer questions, it wasn't in his nature to give incorrect responses! "I gotta be honest, it's what I do!"

Skipper continued to press, both vocally and literally. "Then why're you spreadin' tall tales then?"

"Yeah!" Baboon added, totally unnecessarily but Skipper appreciated the effort.

"Well!" Bill fumed, either making a mechanical sound or tutting in indignation. How many times had he even said "well" today? He put on the grandiose voice he saved for cool situations - his equivalent of a puffer fish's puffing thing. "... I am Bootlick "Good Attitude" Bill, legendary gun of Bilgewater! People gotta know about their legendary heroes!"

"You're a robot from a Zaunite factory!" Skipper corrected without remorse, his barrel trembling with anticipation. "You're no legend, yer playin' make believe!"

The self-appointed leader of the stooges had gotten it in one. Bootlick "Fake Man" Bill was no mythical hero with tales and poems commemorating his many deeds. Bootlick "Lie Living" Bill had merely been programmed from the start to believe that he was a legend, predisposed that way for the sake of his role as an exhibit piece.

Even if he was free from the Museum of Gratitude now, it would never change the fact that his entire life was a lie. That the person he knew as Bill was just a figment of some bored and uncreative technician's imagination written on a 500 MB memory stick and uploaded to a mainframe.

But would that stop him?

If he wasn't the hero he thought he was, then he'd stop at nothing to become the legend he was meant to be. He'd spread his story and create his own mythos for the sake of his peace of mind, and no quartet of armed men or team of Zaunite computer programmers was gonna stop him dead without a fight. All he wanted was to the live the dream that he'd been denied for so long. Was there anything wrong with that?

... Yes actually, a lot of things.

But that's not the point!

Mr. No glanced between Bill and the three stooges with anxiety clear in his brow. He had no clue who the three men were personally, but he wanted in on this bounty too. The divorce had been a rough one; she'd gotten the house, the kids, and even his glassware collection. He couldn't turn down the cash.

"What're we gonna do with it?" No gestured with his gun, causing Bill to rear back even further. "Shoot it up?"

The droid instantly objected to such an extreme solution. "Hey now!"

"Rough it up?" No suggested.

"That's harsh!" Bill spoke up once more, prompting an aggravated grimace from Mr. No.

He tried one last suggestion. This robot was actually beginning to remind him of his wife, which was a strange and deeply confusing feeling. "Shut it down? Where would the off switch be?"

Bill flushed a mild 500 degrees celsius from within his power core, steaming up in shock that Mr. No would suggest such a thing. Not that a fellow from Bilgewater would be particularly well versed in robotic anatomy, but to put it in PG terms the power switch of a droid is a very private and sensitive place indeed. He illustrated this, raising his voice an octave. "That's an intimate area!"

"We can split up it up between us. 75% for me an' the boys, 25% for yous." Skipper reasoned, snapping back to grumpy glare mode. "It's probably worth more as scrap."

"Okay, can you fellas please stop callin' me 'it'?" Bootlick "Easily Flustered" Bill requested, finding it increasingly difficult to control his incredibly minor temper. "That hurts down low, ya know?"

"Oh shaddap." Skipper hissed, cocking his gun once more for the sake of sounding cool. The other three put their fingers on their triggers, their expressions ranging from glee, sadness and mild disinterest.

Rather inexplicably, Baboon added one last one-liner. "Lights out, eyeballs."

Bootlick "Brown Trousers" Bill would've held his breath if he could.

He was coming for the hygienic trash compactor in the sky.

"Wait up boss!" Toothless suddenly called out, plucking Bill out of his peacemaking. Everyone turned to look at him, their trigger fingers freezing mid-pull. "... What if he tampered with our guns when we wasn't lookin'?"

Had Toothless even been listening for the past two minutes? Had he missed the whole revelation that Bootlick "Fib Teller" Bill wasn't the badass he'd made himself sound like? The droid decided to go with it - it sounded like something the Bootlick "Spine Breaker" Bill he wanted to be would've done. He pointed to Toothless. "Yeah, what if I did that thing he just said?"

"No you didn't." Skipper said, no doubt in his monotonous voice.

"Or did I?" Bill pressed.

"But you didn't." Baboon reiterated, in contrast having a slight tremble on his tongue.

"Or did I?" the cornered animatronic tried to pull the most intimidating and manly scowl he could. The end result looked more like a lonely nanny realising just how boring knitting is.

Somehow the bluff actually worked.

The four men paused just long enough for Bill to cobble together a plan to make his get away. With a certain hesitance the quartet lowered their guns to give them a quick glance over - ample time for him to clear leather.

Within an instant Bootlick "Quickdraw" Bill threw himself off the stool and landed a smooth action roll to the far left, giving himself some distance from the stooges and No. On his feet quicker than a teenager's boyfriend when their ex-military dad gets home, Bill drew his weapon and trained it on Skipper.

The glove was on the other axle now.

The four chambered revolver in his hand looked like something out of a pre-pubescent dream. With a custom engraved stock on one end and an over compensating barrel that dwarfed any other, there was no doubt that this was a premium piece. People wouldn't just write songs about the fellow who used this gun - they'd write songs about the gun itself.

Four shots.

Four fellas.

"Gentlemen, I'm afraid you've done incurred my wrath." the robot cowboy gloated, his legs stretched akimbo. His height was all in his legs - you couldn't tell just how tall and lanky he was when he was seated. "Bootlick "Two Hands" Bill don't take kindly to men who pull guns out on him!"

Misters No, Skipper, Baboon and Toothless looked at him in utter terror, their guns and their guards lowered all at once. Not only that but he'd had the savvy to take the left flank against a group of right armed opponents. It would take far too long for them to spin around and line their iron sights, and by then it would be too late.

No quickly ruined this plan by raising his gun at Bill amidst his smuggery. Turns out he was very clearly left handed on further inspection, making the advantage the droid had given himself all but moot. The stooges turned to aim at the robot, grinning like the dorks they were.

Nice one Bill.

"Well fellas, who dares wins." Bill bowed his head ever so slightly, hiding his eyes with the brim of his hat all stylish-like. Autonomously he activated his in-built radio, eager to play some badass backing music for this final stand off. The parts whirred to life and he flicked to the right frequency.

*Click*

"Welcome to Blind Luck, Demacia's latest dating sensation where total strangers are-"

*Click*

"-till love you, somewhere deep down in my heart Carol! So much so, I could siiiiing-"

*Click*

"OUR TIME IS NOW, BROTHERS. DOWN WITH THE ESTABLISHMENT, GLOR-"

*Click*

"Weather tonig-"

*Click*

"Our next guest is-"

*Click*

"-ke our pastry is getting on nicely, isn't it ladies? Now for the icin-"

*Click*

Completely killing the atmosphere he'd worked so hard on building, Bootlick "Bad Reception" Bill finally found the right frequency for his favourite gunslinging station. Cool bass guitars and harmonicas played from his tinny chest speaker, as he glanced between the four men.

"Draw."

He'd already pulled his trigger as the first syllable left his voice modulator, a massive cloud of smoke bursting out of his revolver and casting an irritating puff of soot into the four men's faces. It wasn't like the Museum of Gratitude would arm their exhibits with actual weapons. That gun of his?

Pyrotechnics.

Albeit, incredibly faulty pyrotechnics. But harmless.

The funky cowboy beats of his radio drowned out by the confused and coughing foursome, the bright lights of Bill's eyes pierced through the fog as he made his get away. Holstering his weapon and sliding over a table top he made for a window, politely pulling it open before he made to leap out through the gap. He may've been Bootlick "Bad Boy" Bill, but there was a difference between being a "Bad Boy" and commiting wanton vandalism. This was the sort of thing he'd tell kids back in the exhibit all the time. Who knew, maybe when he made it big he could even do a couple of PSA deals on the topic?

Bill covered a significant amount of ground from the tavern by the time the smoke began to clear, his tireless motivators propelling him across the rotten decks of lower Bilgewater with relative ease. Before he knew it he'd escaped the twisting intestines of the town and made it to the outer ring of the bay, the sea an impenetrable black in the darkness of night.

The ponchioed stranger slowed to a brisk walk, until gradually coming to a complete halt by a relatively uninhabited pier. Almost as an after thought he dimmed the lighting in his lenses and switched off his radio, trying to not draw anymore unwanted attention to himself.

You know, beyond the fact that he was a brightly dressed cowboy robot who'd just jumped out of a smoking building.

A shockingly common event in Bilgewater.

Patting down his tunic the droid dangled his legs over the walkway's edge and took a seat, his arms retreating under the shroud of its cotton folds. Plucking his hip flask from his belt he took a hefty swig of its contents, savouring another much needed fix of motor oil. Whose bright idea was it to program a droid with an addiction to motor oil? Did they have any idea how inconvenient it was?

Leaning forward Bill stared into the thick black ocean, no reflection being cast by its opaque surface. Bilgewater was a strange city state, much unlike the rest of them. It almost reminded him of the exhibit back in Zaun - everyone was different, yet somehow deep down they were also all the same. Everyone in Bilgewater was an outsider in one hand, yet they'd all come to the pirate nation for the same reason.

Because they had nowhere else to go.

Bootlick "Fast Feet" Bill would never be free of the chase, would he? Zaun would pursue him 'til the end, denying him a peaceful life away from tension and paranoia. Another swig; it was empty now, but the motion itself brought its comforts.

"Let them come", is what he thought. Bootlick "Big Man" Bill was a fighter, not some corn-fed kid who needed his hand held or a mindnumb ticket machine that required a pre-programmed subroutine. This was what he was made to live for. A life of freedom and adventure, where cool nerves and a quick trigger finger were all that stood between a man and the inevitable. This was everything he could ever want, and if it meant he would have to run?

So be it.

The Museum could burn the land in search of him, scorching through the undergrowth and scouring every hiding place. They could boil the sea to vapour and check under ever rock and in every crevice, but they wouldn't catch him. A life on the run was far better than sitting in an exhibit collecting dust, repeating the same tidbits to ungrateful children for decades on end.

Zaun couldn't take everything from him, no matter how hard they struggled. And that itself, in his mind, was a victory. Bill spun the canteen's cap back on, burying it under his poncho. This was the good fight.

You can't take the sky from me.

X

(A/N): I FREAKIN' DID IT MUM, GET THE CAMERA.

This is my first fic in SEVEN MONTHS, and you don't even want to know how many fics I've tried to start writing since January! The issue was never a lack of ideas, but rather a lack of motivation to actually sit down and do a write up. You know? Not to mention that this entire fic was written in a single 6-7 hour write up!

Regardless, more to the point I hope someone got their jollies from this. A combination of rust and the fact that I feel this story doesn't really work sort of detracts from it in my books, but then my opinion doesn't matter much does it? Have a good one!

Oh, and if you have a better name than Bootlick Bill give them to me. Other names I tried included Bolt Upright, Wattson Cabal, Bilgewater Sammy, Rusty Maine and Jubilant Jean (Jean? Jhin? Hehheh...)