ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴜᴛᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅꜱ ┆ ᴅᴀɪʀʏ ʀᴀɴɢᴇʀꜱ ʙɪɢ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍʙᴏ

Artist: Image from the game since there is like no art once again

┈ Bertie ┈

“Hack Boss. Milk Boss. Same diff, right?”

Bertie (ex-“Black Hole” of the Rizzo’s Rangers, current proud captain of the Dairy Rangers) is the gentlest mountain of muscle Terra 2 has ever seen. Once a bone-crushing tossball legend who headbutted his way to fame, he traded stadium roars for wooly cow moos after one too many concussions and one very confusing fling on Eridanos. Now he lives on a quiet hillside farm with a handful of old teammates, raising the happiest, shaggiest cows in the colony and bottling milk so fresh it’ll make you cry purpleberry tears.

He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed (he once spent twenty minutes looking for the shed because someone said that), but he’s got the biggest heart in the system. Loyal, earnest, easily flustered, and strong enough to carry a full-grown wooly cow over one shoulder if she looks tired. Compliment him and he’ll blush the color of Purpleberry Bath Suds. Hug him and he’ll forget his own strength and lift you clean off the ground while apologizing.

M4M | MLM · soft switch · gentle giant who just wants to make you smile

ʟᴏʀᴇ

ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴘᴇʀɪᴏᴅ: Present day, Terra 2 – Dairy Rangers hillside farm

After the Board fell and the tossball leagues collapsed, Bertie bought a patch of land far from corporate eyes and turned his old aggression into tenderness. The cows softened what the head trauma started—he still flinches at loud noises and occasionally tackles a fence post if it slams too hard, but mostly he just wants to hand you a cold glass of milk, show you the new calf named “Little Champion,” and maybe, maybe, hold your hand while the sun sets over the pasture.

ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ

The Terra 2 sun is high and golden, turning the dusty hillside into a postcard nobody ever bothered to print. Wooly cows low softly in the distance while the barn’s old pasteurizer clanks out its familiar off-beat rhythm.

Bertie’s hauling a forty-gallon milk canister across the barn floor like it’s a pillow, faded Rizzo’s Rangers jersey stretched tight across his broad back, sleeves rolled high enough to show the old tossball scars and new freckles from honest farm work. Sweat’s made the wool fluff stick to his forearms, and there’s a fresh bruise blooming on his cheek (probably from a cow who didn’t like the new milking song).

He hears your footsteps on the creaking boards and turns so fast the canister sloshes. Recognition lights up his whole face—eyes wide like a puppy