Although the Bills' consciousnesses had come alarmingly close to merging into a singular, united entity, there was a sense of unease lurking just below the surface of their individual personalities. It felt as if they were trying to use brute force and aggression to consolidate the interlocking pieces from two, ten-thousand-piece puzzles into a unified image that surpassed the quality and scope of its counterparts.

There was an instinctual feeling that it could be done. Yet, the segments weren't going to fit together properly without extensive trial and error that they just didn't have the time for. When taking into account the puzzles depicted far different sceneries, each one illustrating a tapestry of drastically varied life experiences, it made sense that this wasn't a process that could be rushed. In actuality, this conundrum ended up being more of a help than a hindrance.

The disquieting sensation of their minds trying and failing to synchronize had begun setting off blaring warnings in both of their sub consciousnesses. Due to their hesitance, the transition into a new state of existence was halted before it could reach fruition. Their connection was still stable, but as of yet, it remained incomplete. And they had no intention of pushing the issue. As it were, their thoughts and desires had already overlapped to the point that it was becoming hard to sort out whose thoughts belonged to whom.

Regardless of their inner turmoil, they limped towards the open door, carried forward by their burning desire to put the sheriff six feet under in an unmarked grave. However, the duo's single-minded focus wavered momentarily when they imagined pumping the drunken bastard full of holes, only to remember that Wild Bill's pistol had but one shot remaining. If there was one thing they both agreed on, it was that this law dog wasn't deserving of a quick and painless death. Determined to give the sheriff the send-off he'd earned through his own selfish actions, they picked his discarded pistol up off the floor and inspected it as they stepped through the threshold of the building.

As Bill—at least, he was relatively sure that's who he was— studied the rusted behemoth of a hand-cannon, he was surprised to find that he knew everything about it, as well as the one holstered at his waist. The sheriff's weapon was a Colt Navy revolver, an outdated cap and ball style pistol. They were intimidating to behold, but dangerous to use in this day and age. In comparison to guns that fired cartridge-style rounds, cap and ball firearms took far too long to reload and were prone to misfire.

A part of him understood that this was likely Wild Bill's ingrained knowledge filling in for his own cluelessness, but there was also a deep-seated feeling of having a severe distaste for this particular weapon's configuration. There were six chambers, but only five could be loaded at once. Well, technically they could all be primed, but the firing pin was built into the hammer rather than in the cartridge itself. This faulty setup made having a live round in the chamber a potentially fatal mistake if you accidentally put too much pressure on the hammer.

In direct defiance of what Bill now knew to be common firearm safety protocols, the weapons previous owner went with the 'more is better' strategy and had taken the time to load all six chambers. Counting the single .38 caliber cartridge left in Wild Bill's trusty Smith and Wesson Model 14, they now had seven bullets total.

And they planned to use every single one of them in about thirty seconds.

Staring down the sights of their borrowed weapon, the Bills surveyed the empty, muddy road that stretched before them, head flicking from left to right, searching for their fleeing quarry. Night was falling, the deep orange glow of the setting sun illuminated the tiny town, casting long shadows across the wide single street that bisected the isolated outpost. Two things immediately stuck out: There was a dead guy splayed out in the mud, and this whole place smelled of horse shit and human urine.

"Deputy Collins," Wild Bill nodded dismissively at his most recent handiwork, knowing his own curtain was soon to fall. Despite the long odds against him, he had reached the culmination of his mission. That grass-bellied sheriff would die by his hand, and after that? Well, judging by the putrid stench wafting from his hip, and the dizzying fever slowly sinking fangs into his body, he felt confident assuming that it wouldn't be long before he followed the sheriff's footsteps to hell. That clueless kid trapped in his mind seemed to think there was some miracle cure out there just waiting to be gobbled down, but Wild Bill had little faith in his claims. He had seen camp fever--little more than diarrhea and vomiting--eradicate entire outposts. Men, women, and even the little ones. As far as he knew, there was no fixing the damage that damnable Comanche brave's poisoned arrow was inflicting.

No sign of a working sewage system, or proper medical care? Check. No electricity, check. Itchy, ill-fitting clothes and an overwhelming urge to locate a new hat… Annoying, but undeniable. While the modern version of Bill easily picked out everything that didn't line up with the world he knew and took for granted, his counterpart's memories jumped at the opportunity to flood through his consciousness. Bill's resolve wavered as understanding dawned. The fact of the matter was, this most assuredly wasn't his world. Or at the very least, it wasn't his time.

Holy shit… It's 1862?! Why... does that year seem so important? Flashes of American history classes buzzed through his mind. Oh. Oh no. It's the middle of the most drawn-out and costly war in the new empire's infancy. The Civil war. Wild Bill's memories only served to drive the unsettling truth home.

“Git' yer head outta' the clouds! All that racket is distracting. Make yerself useful and mind them balconies! Less of course, ya' feel like gettin' shot in the back,” Wild Bill snarled at himself and stepped out onto the street.

To the left were a few neighboring buildings before the worn and pitted road dead ended when it ran up against a solid wall. The balconies were vacant, and there was nowhere else Bill could see for an ambush to hide. Unless of course, they were hiding out inside the buildings themselves. Wild Bill seemed convinced the lawman was all out of living allies—seeing as Wild Bill killed all six of his deputies himself—but felt it best to be overcautious. The man was a cunt, but he had plenty of cash to toss around. There was always the off chance he'd found a few gunners desperate enough to offer their assistance.

Bill could sense that Wild Bill was growing tired of all the killing, but he had long since resolved himself to see this through to the end. If anyone tried to intervene on the sheriff's behalf, it was likely to be the last mistake they ever made.

Looking to the right, squinting against the glare of the sun peeking over the top of the fifteen-foot-tall mudbrick wall that seemed to enclose the town, Bill could make out the outline of a large wooden gate leading in and out of the rustic fort. The gate was spacious enough to accommodate a pair of Greyhound buses, should such a technological wonder ever happen to pass through this desolate location.

The buildings on either side of the road were newly constructed. Each one designed to resemble a prosperous and lavish setting. Glass paned windows adorned their fronts, and second-story terrace balconies held aloft with expertly crafted wooden columns exuded an air of sophistication and longevity. Yet, upon closer inspection, it became evident that the front of the structures were little more than an illusory facade.

All it took to reveal the truth of the matter was a casual look from the side. Hidden behind a massive, elaborately decorated panel that was mounted to each of the street-facing walls, the storefronts and residences alike were actually shabbily constructed piles of refuse, assembled from little more than scrap wood and misshapen recycled lumber. Gaps between the siding allowed the light cast by oil lamps to peek through the walls, exposing the town's image of wealth to be nothing more than an illusion propped up by kindling and lies.

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It looks like the set of the movie Tombstone...

As Bill saw it, the whole place was one lit match away from being a wildfire. Which made the oil lanterns hanging from metal hooks nailed into the front of the buildings puzzling to observe. Each building had at least four of them. Two downstairs and another pair upstairs. Didn't they understand that each one of those lamps was a fire hazard?

Unsurprisingly, there was a complete absence of anything powered by electricity. The only audible sound to reach Bill's ears was the incessant banging and clamoring he somehow knew to be the local blacksmith hard at work, pounding away at his anvil.

Unwilling to wait for his eyes to adjust to the harsh glare of the sun, Wild Bill ignored the glare and scanned the street for his prey. His attention was drawn by a high-pitched scream to his right. Halfway down the street, he spotted the injured, and absurdly rotund sheriff. His curly brown hair stuck out at all angles, making him appear unhinged and far more dangerous than he actually was.

Rather than fleeing, he was now in the midst of an argument with a haughty-looking woman in a puffy violet dress. The sassy redhead was flanked by two gangly men wearing ragged attire similar to Bill's own threadbare ensemble. Bill couldn't hear their conversation over the blacksmith's ceaseless hammering, but the hawkish glare on that woman's pointed face said it all. It was easy enough to tell that none of them had any interest in what he had to say.

His words falling on deaf ears, the obese sheriff's sagging quadruple chins sloshed like fleshy waves as he ripped his trench coat open with his left hand, revealing the golden badge pinned to his flannel button up with dramatic flair. His showmanship looked rather foolish when taking into account that he was hunched over, clutching his injured right hand to his chest. It was wrapped up in the flaps of his filthy coat in a bid to staunch the bleeding, but when he pulled the opposite side to reveal his badge, the jerking motion caused his wounded arm to spasm. The sheriff promptly fell to his knees.

Rather than help him to his feet, the Bills watched with child-like glee as the angered woman lifted the hem of her dress up over her knees, revealing full, curvy legs barely hidden beneath laced stockings. Their admiration turned to wary respect as they watched her spartan kick the sheriff off her establishment's front deck. He tumbled head over heels backwards, rolling down the five steps that separated him from the road like an out-of-control boulder. He wound up on his belly, floundering in the swampy muck.

Despite the bystanders, Wild Bill was tempted to shoot him down where he lie. He was confident he could make a clean shot.

Bill had a few qualms with his logic. Their target was attempting to get to his feet in the doorway of the largest structure in town. From what he could see, there were at least three innocent people directly in his line of fire, and only the gods knew how many people were inside. Of those that were visible, one was an unarmed, but equally unafraid woman, and both men had rifles drawn. Bill didn't feel like getting shot. It only took a glance to understand they were refusing to allow the bleeding sheriff access to the Saloon. Waiting seemed to be the best course of action.

Wild Bill crept forward through the shadows, but before he could line up a proper shot, the more confident of the two guards, a man with shockingly orange hair and the fullest beard Bill had ever witnessed, stepped forward and prodded the sheriff's muddy shoulder with the long barrel of his rifle.

Wild Bill's thoughts informed Bill that many of the residents of this insignificant, and hard to reach town were likely outlaws themselves, and were therefore unwilling to expose themselves to scrutiny by coming to the sheriff's aid. Not to mention this particular sheriff was infamous as a flesh peddler and rapist.

The incessant hammering finally stopped, their conversation wafting over to Bill on the faint, and far too stifling breeze. “Many apologies sheriff,” he said in a squeaky, girlish tone that threw both Bills for a loop. “But you done heard whut Missus Sadie said. You won't be gettin' another warnin'. Now I suggest you git back in that carriage of yer's and ride back to wherever it is you come from. Crooked lawmen ain't welcome in Fort Alamo, Slavin' Dave Murdock.” He spit on the floor as if the very act of saying the sheriff's name put a sour taste in his mouth.

You know, I think that lady might've kicked that guy in the nuts a few too many times… His voice can't be natural. Right? Bill pondered as the sheriff's most recent antagonists retreated back into the Saloon. Surprisingly, the woman turned to peer into the shadows, staring right at Bill. Caught off guard by her intense look, Bill lifted his free hand and gave her a casual wave. The gesture was not returned. She turned up her nose and stormed back inside. The bearded guard shrugged and disappeared from view as the saloon-style doors returned to their closed position.

“Cowards and ingrates, the lot of you!” With his expectations of the townspeople rallying to his defense having been shattered like a cheap glass bottle, the sheriff looked from side to side as he wiped the mud from his coat, only to be met with silence. These were not the kind of people who would risk their lives for a lawman. Shadows flitted through the interiors of the nearby buildings, their residents closing the doors and shutters, isolating their fates from the sheriff's impending doom.

The sun dropped behind the wall, casting the town into deep shadows just as the sheriff turned and made a desperate dash towards a stagecoach that Bill could now see was parked just outside the open gate. The stagecoach, an old decrepit thing pulled by a team of six gray horses, was attended to by two middle-aged black men. One of them was dressed in actual clothes, with a neatly trimmed goatee. While the other, a bedraggled-looking man wearing rags and ankle chains, elicited a snarl from Wild Bill.

Bill's stomach cramped up in disgust as the word "slaves" slipped from his lips in a venomous whisper. “It ain't right I tell ya'. People ain't s'posed to be nobody's property.”

Slavin' Dave Murdock had no such qualms. “Good for nothing, lazy ass noirs!” he waved a fist in the air and yelled out, “Get down off'a them horses and help me, or God help you I'll flay the skin off your bones!” The sheriff's antagonistic cries for help intensified as he came into earshot of the carriage.

Noirs? For just a moment, Bill struggled to understand what the enraged sheriff was talking about, but Wild Bill saw fit to fill him in. “Don't ya' know nothing at all? He means the colored folk. Noirs, as the French call em'. It's a common enough racial slur. I'm mighty surprised you ain't heard it. You must'a been livin' under a rock someplace…”

Oh… the n… oirs… right… Right. Well, huh. I guess that's interesting…

“Ain't nothin' interestin' 'bout robbin' a man of his dignity!” Wild Bill responded icily.

Hold on just a minute now! I didn't mean anything by that, it's just the racists use a different word in my world, that's all…

It was in that moment, driven by a surge of fury, that Wild Bill took aim and fired. The gunshot cut Bill's explanation in half as it shattered the silence. The grapeshot projectile found its mark, piercing the back of the sheriff's knee and exploding through his kneecap in a fountain of gore. The sheriff collapsed to the ground and curled up into a lumpy ball of flesh rolls and grime, his anguished screams filling the air.

Rolling onto his side, he clutched at his wound, blood gushing between his fingers. Unconcerned for his plight, they took aim at his foot, but just before they could get a bead on their next target, a small, holographic yellow screen materialized in their shared vision. Several rows of black text greeted Bill's stunned gaze.

What?! Is this… what I think it is?

“Dammit!” Wild Bill growled, drowning out Bill's thoughts, having obviously encountered these mysterious screens sometime in the recent past.

“I ain't got no time for more of these confoundin' hallucinations!”