Physically and mentally drained beyond anything he had ever experienced, Bill found himself growing impatient as he tried to process the baffling level of ignorance displayed by the owner of the body he now inhabited. How could someone be so clueless?! It was a simple concept—antibiotics were antibiotics. There was little room for simplification.
As he contemplated a way to further dumb-down the already basic information, Bill tried to ignore the persistent tug at the back of his mind. The other occupant of this body was anxiously demanding to regain control so he could do… something. He seemed to think it was vitally important, but the man's thoughts were so scattered and distant that it was difficult to tell what he was actually thinking about.
To say that Bill was grateful for the division that was keeping his consciousnesses from blending together with that of a stranger would've been an understatement. Yet, he was having difficulties acclimating to the sensation of existing within someone else's head.
It almost felt as if they possessed two independent brains, separated by an ocean of empty space. He could sense echoes of the other person's surface emotions wafting across the gulf, however, getting a sense of his underlying thoughts was next to impossible. It felt like sticking his head into a raging river to get an idea of what the fish were thinking.
Seeking clarity, Bill concentrated on the faint impressions of the other's presence. His target located, he tried to forge a mental bridge across the vast distance. The outcome was a mind-bending sense of disconnection, followed almost immediately after by a short lived, but searing jolt of agony as the very essence of who he was collided against a steely consciousness that was all hard edges and teeth.
Before this domineering presence, Bill felt himself wholly eclipsed, as if he were standing in the oppressive shadow of an active volcano. He was awestruck by the aura of unyielding defiance that seemed to billow from it like clouds of scalding ash.
This was a man that, once determined to do something, saw it through to the end with a crooked smile and a tip of the hat. Failure wasn't even a consideration. Success was preordained, even if that success came at the price of burning it all to the ground around him. Himself included, if that's what it took. Even death was made to wait in line, as evidenced by his uncanny ability to resist the corrosive sickness eating away at his organs with little more than willpower and stubborn refusal to back down.
Bill was only given the span of a single breath to take his co-inhabitor’s measure before he was abruptly ejected back to his designated space. He wasn't upset, that fraction of a second was already too much to handle. Any more and he feared his consciousness would've been broken down into fundamental components and used to fuel the oncoming eruption he felt brewing in the distance.
“Oww… That… was a bad idea…” he groaned. It felt like he'd been shot out of a cannon only to miss the safety netting and land face first on a concrete slab. The jarring impact left Bill disoriented, his feelings of inadequacy making him hesitant to try again.
A cold steel barrel pressing into the bottom of his chin, and the sharp click of a hammer being pulled back provided Bill with more than enough motivation to gather himself together. “Woah! Hold on a minute man!“ Bill sputtered, struggling to recall when he'd pulled his gun. More importantly, why was he aiming it at himself?
Quit tinkerin' around in my head before I go and do somethin' drastic. Bad enough I gotta share my body with a freeloader, I'll be damned if I let you take my mind too. You'll only be gettin' the one warning. A man's thoughts are nobody's business but his own. Comprende?
Confusion and fear battled for supremacy over his troubled thoughts as Bill struggled against himself, with little to show for his efforts. It took everything he had to remove his finger from the trigger, but no matter what he tried, holstering the weapon was well beyond his capabilities. His arm refused to respond to his urgings, this body seemingly impervious to his will.
That'll be enough of that, ya' hear? I've got the high ground here. You studyin' to be a half-wit or somethin'? I'm gonna set one thing straight with you right now, this is MY body. I may not be able to force you out, but make no mistake, you so much as take one more peek into my head and they'll be scrapin' bits of both our brains off the bottom of heaven. Now, nod once if'n you agree.
Bill gulped and nodded slowly. See there! Maybe you ain't so dim as I feared! He cackled maniacally. Bill unconsciously shuddered as he felt the nerve-wracking pressure digging into his chin recede. A familiar weight settled on his left hip as the clunky pistol slid back into its holster.
Now, I'm gonna need you saddle up and stay the hell outta my way for a spell. I've got me a score to settle with that oafish lawman lumberin' around outside that door, and I need my wits about me if you plan on livin' long enough to worry about finding them ant-y-botics, or whutever you called em'. And most importantly, we're gonna need to find a new hat. Can't call myself a man without the proper attire. Wouldn't be fit for my own funeral…
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Reluctantly, Bill agreed to relinquish control. Although he knew it was a risk to trust that his crude alter ego wouldn't try to screw him over, he wasn't exactly comfortable withholding his loaner body from its rightful owner. More importantly, he couldn't deny that it was probably for the best. As things currently stood, he didn't have the faintest clue just how much of a shit storm he was caught up in the middle of. He assumed it was bad. All this talk of being pursued by the police was about as far out of his comfort zone as it could get.
There was always the option of trying to talk his way out of this mess, but he didn't realistically expect that the local sheriff would be willing to listen to his side of the story. What would he even say if an unlikely opportunity to do just that were to present itself? “Oh, no sir, you've got the wrong guy! I know I look like your fugitive, but I'm actually not him at all. I'm Bill, Bill from Idaho! Uhh, go Vandals?“ Fat chance. Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that even if this was the same Earth he was born on, which he certainly wasn't convinced of, Idaho might not even be recognized as a state yet. It felt crazy to think that football might not exist.
Although he was trying not to think about it, there were too many oddities piling up for him to continue to pretend nothing was off. The itchy clothes and old fashioned gun belt, the outdated way this body's owner spoke, the use of open flames for ambient lighting and, most of all, the apparent lack of common antibiotics. Everything he had thus far witnessed seemed to have been taken right out of an old wild west themed movie. When taken individually, there was a fairly rational explanation for everything, but when examined as a whole, Bill was having a hard time reconciling the many inconsistencies.
With a weary sigh of acceptance, Bill allowed his own consciousness to retreat to the comforting recesses of his mind. Assuming a passive role in his own existence, Bill observed from within as the other persona surged forward to take his place. It was a peculiar sensation, akin to being propelled backwards on a horizontal elevator that led to an undisclosed location inside of himself.
Bill felt like a marionette, dancing to the tune of an unseen puppet master behind the curtains as his body stood upright. Reduced to a mere passenger, he watched himself mechanically examining the gash on the side of his head with narrowed eyes. A look of disgust flashed across his weathered features before being replaced with resigned stoicism. The actual wound itself was of little consequence, but it seemed as if this body's owner was sickened by the idea that he'd slipped up and allowed himself to get shot by a lawman.
“It ain't right I tell ya!“ He said, as if listening in on Bill's thoughts, which, now that he thought about it, was very much a possibility. “I'm better than this. Never woulda' happened if'n it weren't for this wretched hip of mine makin' my reactions slower'n molasses…”
Relegated to the background, Bill ignored the boastful complaining, instead taking the opportunity to study the head wound's placement. When his body leaned forward, he noticed that the trajectory of the gash was in perfect alignment with the glowing hole in the mirror's center. There's no way, Bill whispered soundlessly into his mental partition, dumbstruck by the undeniable connection.
That thing that hit me in the neck… it was a bullet? Am I really supposed to believe I got hit by the same bullet that failed to kill this body? How is that even possible? Is this mirror some kind of a Stargate?
Despite his instincts urging him to look away, Bill no longer had any control, his eyes remained fixated on the mirror. Only now they were focused beyond his reflection, where a wide saloon-style doorway on the opposite side of the room stood propped open, as if in a failed attempt to let in the nonexistent breeze. A dim orange glow shone through the threshold, leaving Bill to assume it was either early morning, or the last embers of sunset.
His body suddenly felt hollow and emotionless, as unfeeling as a robot. There was an undeniable significance to this moment, a sense that something profound was about to unfold. With a simple exhalation, Bill's alter ego had somehow erased all traces of worry and anticipation. Even the pain was little more than an annoying tingle. Bill couldn't explain the sensation he was feeling, the mental isolation both a blessing and a hindrance to his physical awareness, but the moment he laid eyes on that entryway he knew something was about to happen.
Eager to avoid this unsettling premonition, he tried to talk his body into diverting its gaze, but he may as well have been reasoning with a cactus for all the good it did. His eyes remained fixated on the mirror, as if waiting for it to don the robes of a scholar and unveil the abstract truths of existence. Time seemed to slow, the seconds stretching into hours as Bill grappled with his thoughts, desperately seeking out answers.
A bloodthirsty grin spread across Bill's lips as his puppeteer spotted an imperceptible motion just outside the door. His calm facade cracked; a storm of undiluted adrenaline surged through his veins like a bolt of lightning as a meaty fist suddenly protruded through the doorway. On closer inspection, it was clutching an ancient, oversized pistol that would've made Wyatt Earp proud.
Despite his body's insistence that his highly rational fears of getting shot were unbecoming of a man, and thus unworthy of notice, the weapon nonetheless sent a chill trickling down Bill's metaphorical spine. Unable to stop himself, he tried to talk some sense into himself. He needed to get the fuck out of the line of sight before it was too late! What are you waiting for! Look out! His warning pierced the silence of his mind, but it was the other occupant who responded, his voice practically oozing with amusement. "Quit yer bellyachin'. That Mail order sheriff couldn't hit a bull's rump with a handful of banjos," he taunted, confident in the sheriff's impending failure.
Bill's train of thought derailed, and proceeded to plunge directly off a cliff when he spotted a pair of bloodshot eyes peeking around the corner, immediately locking eyes with his reflection. “W.. Wild Bill Wolfe!" The intruder hollered drunkenly, “Ain't nobody left to save you boy! Stand and face your reckoning! For the crimes of murder, theft of slaves, and being a no-good race traitor, I hereby condemn you to death!“
With nothing more to say, the room erupted with the booming retorts of six thunderous gunshots.