Shit, shit, SHIT!!! Before Bill had a chance to come to terms with the undesirable situation he was being forced to take part in, the concussive booming of multiple gunshots shattered the air around him. Six deafening thunderclaps reverberated throughout the room, their jarring echoes mingling with the acrid scent of burnt gunpowder.

The high-pitched ringing in his ears wasn't overly surprising, although the smell struck Bill as strangely familiar, reminiscent of cheap fireworks. But with the way the walls seemed to focus and amplify the miniature explosions, the sensory overload was much more than any Bottle Rocket or Cherry Bomb could create. Startled by the unexpected severity of the enclosed outburst, Bill's isolated spirit form recoiled defensively, poised to flee, as if there was somewhere for him to go. To his dismay, situated as he was in the depths of an intangible mental space, there was no escape from the impending danger.

Although every fiber of Bill's common sense urged him to duck down and make himself as small a target as humanly possible, he had no real option but to bite back a girlish shriek as the self preservation-less moron controlling his body just stood there, a haunting grin on his reflection as he calmly gazed into the mirror. Bill was utterly dumbfounded by the confidence he could see glittering in his eyes despite the sheer terror setting off blaring alarm bells in his mind. We're both going to die!!

All Bill wanted to do was curl up into a ball and squeeze his eyes shut. That was usually all it took to wake him up from uncomfortable dreams. And while the pain coursing through his haggard form was all too real to be a simple dream, this entire dilemma was, most assuredly, a nightmare. Bill was seriously beginning to resent being forced to participate in a situation far beyond his ability to control.

Astoundingly, the drunken sheriff's rapid fire shots missed their mark entirely. Each bullet sailed wide. Most peppered the walls and ceiling rather than striking their intended target. One even shattered the glass chimney off an unlucky oil lantern way over on the far side of the room. Remarkably, Bill's aching body remained untouched by even a single lead projectile, just as his country fried alter ego had promised. It was as if the future had already been predetermined, the outlaw's intense belief somehow guiding the path of the bullets away from their shared vessel.

A surge of anxiety coursed through Bill's mind, not to mention a powerful sense of disbelief. The uncanny accuracy of his alter ego's split second judgment left him reeling. A tense stillness tried to settle over the room, but was interrupted by an unexpected flood of wheezing laughter tumbling out of his mouth.

"See! Whut did I tell ya?" He croaked out, chortling with undisguised glee even though it worsened the cramping in his guts. "That yella belly coward couldn' shoot his'self in the prick from point-blank range!" Bill was fully aware of his body's lightheadedness, and all-around desire to drop dead. Thankfully, his willingness to surrender temporary control kept him from having to physically carry the burden of the brown death that was hard at work breaking down their organs.

His first attempt an undeniable failure, the sheriff retreated from the doorway, his hasty footsteps sending vibrations shuddering through the floor, all the way to where Bill stood. Just how fat is this guy?! He wondered, watching as the wall visibly bent inward where the overweight sheriff was quite obviously leaning his weight. The sound of heavy breathing reached his ears, soon followed by the tell-tale noise of reloading. Metallic clicks, like a key turning a lock, a round of solid thumps as the weapon was banged against something solid, once, twice, three times. Finally, he heard the sheriff snap a new cylinder into place, followed immediately by a grunt of satisfaction. Bill found it peculiar that he recognized these sounds, despite never having held a gun himself, let alone reloaded one.

"You really are a damn pacifist aint'cha!" Wild Bill's voice erupted with undisguised fury, his face scrunching up into a scowl. I keep forgetting he can hear me in here…

"Mus' be nice, standin' all comfortable-like on the sidelines, thinkin' yer hands is clean. Well, let me tell ya somethin' boy, those who sit on their worthless rumps and watch the city burn are just as bad as them who's lightin' the matches!"

What?! Since when do outlaws care about what's right and wrong? This was all happening too fast. Bill had to admit that perhaps this other guy's personality was more complex than he let on. Mind sagging under the weight of countless questions, suddenly facing down a pissed off, and equally intoxicated sheriff armed with a rusty old pistol that likely weighed over five pounds, Bill's wholehearted desire to disappear was only matched by his need to understand who exactly this sheriff was. How did some unknown police officer know his name? And where did he come up with the 'Wild' part? Someone's been reading too many dime-novels…

Within the confines of their shared consciousness, Bill's uneasy voice echoed out over the void. Hey, uhh… You. Sorry to interrupt, but… Do you have any idea how this guy knows my name? How does he even know about me in the first place? We haven't talked to anyone at all…

Wild Bill's gaze remained fixed on the reflection of the empty doorway as he replied, his voice an amused whisper that grated on Bill's nerves. "Nah, he ain't talkin' 'bout you, partner. Far as I know, that drunkard's got no clue 'bout the useless fool trapped inside my head. You just go on and ignore him." He chuckled.

"Use yer noggin', boy, he's talkin' to me, obviously. 'Wild' is just a nickname given to me by my father-in-law, the man who kept me from goin' too far down the wrong path in life… It ain't nothin' important, don't you fret that empty hat-holder of yer's 'bout it too much… Wait… You mean to tell me that yer name is Bill? That would'n be short for William now would it??!"

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That… is exactly what it is, Bill replied, my father named me William Harvey Wolfe, after my grandfather, and his grandfather, going back as far as anyone can remember… I'm almost afraid to ask… but… do you have a middle name too? Bill's thoughts and Wild Bill's audibly spoken words jumbled together as they both began to ramble, each one determined to be heard, speaking over one another in a frantic outpouring of confused disbelief. It was impossible. Here they were, sharing not only the same body but also the same name—William Harvey Wolfe. Their minds struggled to comprehend the depth of this heavy revelation, the implications of their intertwined existence left them both struggling to accept the reality.

An uneasy truce began to form between the disparate souls inhabiting this one body. Bill understood that, at least for the time being, he was going to have to rely on the practical, real-world experience of Wild Bill. Even if that meant subjecting himself to the nonsensical whims of his unstable alter ego.

Bill's thoughts swirled, unease and cautious acceptance feuding in his thoughts. As Wild Bill reveled in the sheriff's remarkably horrid aim, Bill couldn't help but feel a tingle of apprehension about the dark path he was being thrust upon. Yet, in this unfamiliar territory, he understood that he had little choice but to find his footing with the assistance of… whoever this other Bill was supposed to be. My past self? Or maybe an alternate identity? Now wasn't the time for a sit-down, but Bill planned on having a long talk with this 'Wild Bill' character. Perhaps if they compared their memories, they could figure out what had led them to this point in the first place.

The sound of reloading ceased, causing Bill's spirit form to tense instinctively. In a startlingly fast movement, his right hand flashed down to the handle of the gun holstered at his left hip, guided by Wild Bill's urging. It was a fluid motion, effortless and decisive. The realization struck Bill like a hammer—this damaged body, when driven by the instincts of Wild Bill, was a weapon in and of itself.

From beyond the door, a gruff, deep voice bellowed in a caustic tone, the implications of his words sending chills down Bill's spine. "That was just a warning shot! But you best believe that I mean business! This is it for you, Wolfe..." He coughed, the disgusting sound of phlegm rattling around in his lungs unmistakable, even from where they stood.

The sound of the sheriff spitting out a wad of snot was followed by another round of insults, only this time, he decided to make it personal. Unbeknownst to all involved, his flippant insults were far more personal than he could've guessed. A storm of raw emotions began to brew as both Bills honed in on his words. “I'm feeling generous, so I'll even let you choose how you go." The sheriff bellowed. “You want a matching hole in your chest like I gave to that half-breed bitch you were plowing? Or should I just put one through the back of your head and get it over with?"

Bill felt himself growing furious, his emotions intertwining with the simmering rage radiating from Wild Bill. In that moment, a vision surged through their shared consciousness. Suddenly immersed in a shadow of the past, Bill saw a pair of wounded and bleeding wrists, their amber skin bound in rusted manacles. He saw his own pale, trembling hands unchaining those same frail wrists, heard himself choking back a sob. "I'm so sorry." A voice that, even when laced with conflicting layers of regret and relief, he instantly recognized as Wild Bill's, echoed through the dimly lit shack they stood in. “We will find Helen,” he promised, “I swear it by the gods above."

The memory shifted, and Bill's heart nearly broke as he saw himself looking into Sara's bruised face, her appearance mirroring the Sara from his own timeline. Stunned into subdued silence, Bill watched in horror as she confessed that their newborn daughter, Helen, had just the day before been put to death by the plantation master who had falsely declared her to be a runaway slave. “Just leave me to die, Bill." Sara demanded, her tone icy and without emotion. “There's nothing left of me but despair." She was broken, fueled only by a desire for revenge.

His soul crushed by the revelation, Wild Bill bit back his tears and pulled Sara close. “They ain't gonna get away with this." He swore, pressing his face into her unkempt hair.

The vision faded, leaving Bill shaken to his core. But before he could fully process the weight of his grief, a flash of movement in the mirror caught his attention. Unaware of the fury he had just invited, the sheriff stuck his gun back through the doorway, his intentions clear. Without hesitation, an enraged Wild Bill screamed out a heartbreaking roar thick with unrestrained emotion and made his move.

Lost in a fog of his own bitter regrets, Bill watched from the hidden recesses of his mind as Wild Bill acted with a speed that belied his physical condition, his body moving with a fluidity that Bill hadn't known existed within him. In a single swift motion, Wild Bill used the reflection in the mirror to aim behind his back, and then fired a bullet into the overconfident sheriff's wrist without ever turning around.

The wounded sheriff cried out in pain, his hand recoiling from the impact. Unable to maintain his grip, his six-shooter bounced across the floor, clattering out of his reach. Wild Bill's display of unmatched marksmanship left Bill perplexed. How could such a skilled shooter be a wanted criminal? Yet, the sheriff's words still echoed in his thoughts, igniting a surge of something unfamiliar deep within him. A primal fury awakened with a vengeance, demanding that he seek out retribution. Understanding settled into place. A loss of this magnitude would drive anyone to seek revenge, regardless of the outcome.

All at once, both Bill and Wild Bill's visions darkened to a blood red, their anger over past losses resonating with each other. In that fleeting moment, something clicked into place. Their anger, purpose, and wills synchronizing to the point they nearly became one individual. A single, united presence hellbent on destruction.

With determination in his eyes, Bill—now fully immersed in the violent thoughts churning through the depths of their shared consciousness—fell into step with Wild Bill as they stalked forward, uncaring of the daggers of pain that shot through their hip with each step.

There was no other way, the sheriff had to die.