Click, click, click— bang! That was four. Two more bullets remained in the cylinder. He spun it again, allowing the recently shined silver to reflect rays of light into his eyes as it did so. Yipqay simply allowed the cylinder to continue spinning as long as it felt like doing so— which was, by his count, approximately fifteen seconds. He carefully lined up the front sight with his target, and began again to fire. Click— bang! There was little to no wait this time. And now there remained only one— at least as far as bullets went. The bottles he had been using as targets were all now nothing but glittering dust and sharpened fangs of glass. He had hoped this would dissuade himself, seeing just what the bullets would do if they had found their mark.

He grit his teeth and spun the cylinder again. He had had no such luck— in fact, he found himself more jealous of the bottles than sobered by their destruction. Today was the day he would finally kill himself. The spinning stopped, but his heart sped up as if inheriting its momentum. Cold metal pressed against the side of his head. Yipqay took a deep breath, and shut his eyes. What do I say? Is there something I should say? If a soon-to-be-dead-man says his final words in the woods, and no one is around to hear it, were they ever said? He bit his tongue to stop the thought. "I ain't waitin' no more." He growled, and pulled the trigger. Click. The gun replied, mockingly.

"Now why would you want to do that?"

The sudden intrusion upon Yipqay's quiet brooding nearly made him pull the trigger again as his body instinctively tensed up. He stood up and looked around frantically— but no one was there. The same voice spoke again, it was soft and oddly reminded him of incense with the way the words floated into the air in wispy, twirling, tendrils. "Isn't there something— or someone— for you to live for?" The voice seemed to twirl somewhere behind him now. "Or maybe...I can give you a reason?" He felt as if the voice was smiling.

He turned towards the space where he felt the voice trailing. "There ain't nothin' for me out there. They've all gone and run off t' greener pastures, ain't nobody waitin' for me back home." His free hand curled into a tight fist. "My girl ran off. My folks're gone— an' now I...I'm all alone." He took a deep breath, tried to unfurl his fist, but only tightened it again with resolve. "I ain't shoppin' for any more reasons— they always end, in time. No more waitin'. No more fantasizin'. Only doin' what I says I'm gonna do." With his fist still tightened, he used his knuckles to spin the cylinder again. He watched it intently as the voice began to speak once more.

"Allow me to give you somethin' to live for." It twirled around his head, and leaned in close to his ear. "Give me your body." As if it was aware it had been mentioned, his body became more sensitive to all that it felt. The feeling of the dry forest air, his clothes, his dirt-dusted feathers— and of course, the voice. The voice clearly noticed this, and seemed to laugh— if the rapid twisting sounds it made could be called laughter, that is. Yipqay's eyes narrowed. "A detached voice speaks t' me right as I'm tryin' t' kill myself and asks for my body." A bemused chuckle vented through his nostrils. "An' I'm s'possed t' believe I ain't already dead?" The cylinder stopped spinning. "Let's pretend for a moment that I believe ya— now why, pray tell, would ya want my body of all those t' choose from?"

"Why, you performed a miracle." The voice spun around to the other side of his head. "They dug a pit, and filled it with hundreds of empty bottles— except for one. One that contained my spirit— and enchanted so I could never leave." The soft, smokey voice grew heated— as if something foul had been thrown onto a fire. "They wanted me to suffer." It floated around his head again and leaned into his ear, speaking softly once more. "Until you came. You just happened to select my bottle. Better yet— you shot it. You freed me." Yipqay narrowed his eyes. It was a bit strange to find so many bottles buried in the woods— though also incredibly convenient for him. A plentiful stash of targets, without needing to drink through them himself. He raised his head a little. "That don't quite explain still— why would ya want to take my body if I helped ya?" The voice giggled.

"You wish for death already— what's the harm in giving your body to someone else if you were done with it anyway?" They made a good point, he had to admit— but there was just one glaring flaw with that plan. "Yer plan ain't foolproof— I can't help but notice the part where I don't die. Even if yer controllin' what I do— I won't want to be there!" He thought he heard a sigh of sympathy from the voice as it leaned in to his ear— so close it made his body shiver once more. "I told you, I can give you a reason to live. And you can be sure you'll never be lonely again." These last words echoed in his ears as the voice pulled away slightly, before continuing. "I have work to finish, revenge to enact. I think you could learn a thing or two from me— what would you do if you had the power to make those who wronged you suffer?" This last word was given a certain smoky emphasis, lingering in the air for a brief moment.

Yipqay thought of his brothers, their sickening betrayal— and the deaths of his parents as a result. His blood boiled as he did so. But did he want them to suffer? After all— they were family...and he'd been told he had to love them through thick and thin. Whoever had coined the phrase must have never truly experienced "thin," he thought. In Yipqay's case— there were liars, thieves, and dead bodies. A sharp pain in his palm made him realize he'd curled his fist too tightly. If he were to continue with his suicide— the thin wouldn't end, he would simply see no more of it. Silence held the moment by its throat— as Yipqay sat there pondering, fuming, and weighing his options. He could still feel the smoky presence of the voice somewhere beside him— and for a brief second he thought he felt a soft puff of air reassuringly rest on his shoulder. Yipqay took a deep breath, allowing the tension in his body to relax— at least, as best one can in such a moment.

"It's yours." Just as the words had escaped his beak— he shuddered, and fell to the ground as tendrils of invisible coiling smoke found their way into his body. It was a strange feeling— one of both cold and warmth. He began to panic as he felt control of his body coming from another place— another mind. Trying to shut his eyes as they were forced open, choking as slow, heavy breaths were forced from his lungs. The voice spoke, this time, from within his own head— though it was still distinctly wispy and smoke-like. Not his own. Calm down. Breathe. It'll be ok. It became harder to fight, and before long, he stopped attempting to. Breathing in, and out. In, and out. Slowly, calmly. His heart finally slowing from the speed of a locomotive, to a nigh natural state. See? Trust me. I know what's best for you. Thought the voice.

Yipqay responded. What's best for me? You said nothing abou— He was cut off in the midst of thought-speak, by the voice's own thought-words. It was quite a jarring and uncomfortable feeling, one that was significantly more insulting than the normal-speak equivalent. 

Let's start with a lesson; shooting yourself is a terrible idea. Trembling, a hand reached for the revolver, pulling out the cylinder to spot the single bullet, before setting it swiftly into place and aiming it at his foot. He fought as his index finger began to tighten on the trigger. 

Oh no— no don't— He was cut off yet again. 

Sweetie, you need to understand how foolish you were being. Shut up and learn. He was unable to stop himself...or the voice-self, from pulling the trigger. The voice hadn't intended to gimp their new vessel right at the start, of course, and had aimed at the very edge of his foot. Regardless, it still hurt like hell. The voice allowed Yipqay to grasp his foot as he cried out in pain. Second lesson— we share this body now. I am its master, but you may do as you wish if I allow you to.

He stayed there on the floor for a good while, cursing at the voice. It suddenly struck him that he didn't know what name to curse. Before he could ask, they answered. Wilaawaq. And before you ask— yes, that Wilaawaq. The Scarlet Bandit. This she said with pride. Yipqay recalled stories of the bandit's exploits— none of which painted her in a particularly wonderful light. Though, none of these stories mentioned her being trapped in an enchanted bottle— she had died at the hands of another saawkamut— a spellslinger— in a duel. Wilaawaq Tsaq growled in Yipqay's mind. They were no hero— they wanted me to suffer, trapping my spirit before I could reach the afterlife. Even if the stories of her exploits were true, thought Yipqay, such a fate seemed too cruel.

She spent sixteen years trapped in a world that consisted only of an empty glass bottle. Had she tracked the time? Or had the days blended into one, glass-covered moment? To this thought, Yipqay received no response— she must have lost count. He felt himself stop cradling his foot, as Wilaawaq tore a strip from his pant leg and tied it tightly over the wound. We are going to leave now. Yipqay barely had time to mentally prepare himself for the surge of pain that followed as his body stood up, and began to walk outside the door. 

Where are we headed? Thought Yipqay.

Wilaawaq responded with a giddy, wispy thought. We're going to find something better than that hunk of useless iron. She nodded to the revolver, which sat on the floor in quiet protest. Yipqay felt no love for the object, and offered little in the way of protest as the pair-in-one set out towards Wilaawaq's unnamed destination.

It was a strange sensation, someone else controlling his body like a puppet on strings. Only, instead of a silly little play, joke, or thinly veiled and frankly trite political commentary— this was his new life. One foot forward, one pushing back, one forward, one back— it was, on the surface level, the way he'd always walked. But, having experienced his own gait firsthand, Yipqay knew this stride was entirely different from his own. There was a certain quality to it that seemed to say "I haven't walked in decades" and "if you laugh I will shoot you immediately." It gave him some trivial comfort to know that both he and his newfound passenger were adjusting to their arrangement. Passenger. The word echoed through his mind, though only through his own thoughts— Wilaawaq stayed silent as she focused on re-learning how to walk.

A passenger is not in control of the vehicle. Yipqay was not in control of this vehicle— his body. Therefore, he thought, I'm a passenger in my own body. He braced himself for the inevitable feeling that would accompany this revelation— that of his stomach sinking. Yet, instead, he experienced something far stranger. His stomach, as he predicted, began to sink— but it felt as if a hand had risen from beneath to catch it. 

You are a passenger in your own body, but you'll learn to love it. Wilaawaq's voice carried a sweetness with it that somehow evoked the feeling one gets after a good laugh. Was she coaxing these emotions from his body, like a fisherman sat within the lake of his mind? Or was Yipqay somehow growing fond of his situation? To this thought, Wilaawaq simply responded. I am in control.

By the time they arrived, Wilaawaq had gained mastery over walking, and Yipqay had grown mildly used to being in the passenger's seat. He felt his eyes fall upon the worn iron filigree of a particularly small, fat building— its wooden walls buckling outwards as if it had had one too many baked goods. Bullet holes, spell holes, and what appeared to be the residue of an acidic jam decorated the walls no matter where they looked— to Yipqay, this clearly seemed a dangerous place to be. 

Don't worry, wilaawaq's voice swirled assuredly. an old friend resides here— and she owes me a life-debt. She approached the door, and thrust it open. A startled cry sounded from a figure slumped over a workbench. If the bullet-ridden facade had not told him the tale, Yipqay could now tell from what filled the room that it must be the workshop of a gunsmith. Materials, raw and scrap, were strewn about myriad tables, and shoved into dishelved cabinets and drawers. Guns hung from the ceiling like carcasses being bled, some even appeared to bleed— leaking gunpowder and dust onto the floor. The figure appeared as a tall woman, covered in thin brown feathers, some of which broke the predominantly white coloring of her head, creating the illusion of comically large, perpetually angered, eyebrows. In this particular moment, the eyebrows matched her mood. Before uttering a single word she swiftly stood and aimed a rifle at her unexpected guests.

Wilaawaq spoke. Taawlan Paq, old friend! It's me! Wilaawaq! Or, more accurately, she thought she spoke— she had become so accustomed to speaking to Yipqay within his mind that she had forgotten others could not do the same. As she thought and gesticulated she simply stared silently at her former friend.

Taawlan Paq readied the rifle. "You've got only secon's 'fore I blast ya t' smithereens."

Wilaawaq held Yipqay's arms up to show she meant no harm, realizing her mistake, and attempted to speak normally. "I...Wall...Wallorwag..." The words choked out of Yipqay's mouth, in a voice that was his own and yet wasn't. As if some strange creature had crawled into his mouth, confidently believing it could speak just as he did— and failed horrendously. Tell her who I am. Wilaawaq spoke much more eloquently within his head. Yipqay could feel himself gain control of his mouth, and promptly began to speak.

"I...I know this is gonna be hard t' explain, but...I'm Wilaawaq?" He could feel Wilaawaq tense his muscles.

Taawlan Paq squinted at him, silently looking him over, before breaking out into a fit of laughter that filled the room. "Yeah? Pffff...yer gonna have ta..." she attempted to suppress another laugh, and failed, "Have ta...prove it!" She let herself laugh again.

Tell her 'The proof is in that hole I plugged in your thick skull, roundfeather.'  Thought Wilaawaq.

Yipqay quickly relayed the message, though he was hesitant to use what appeared to be a personal nickname. He'd only just met the woman, after all. "The proof is in that hole I plugged in your thick skull, roundfeather."

Taawlan Paq seemed shocked by this, and gingerly ran a finger over an area on the side of her head where her feathers grew sparsely. She furrowed her brow in confusion for a moment, before gripping her rifle more firmly and holding it's business end closer to Yipqay's face. "Who told you?"

Yipqay stammered out a reply, which Wilaawaq chose not to stop. "I-I— Wilaawaq told me! I'm...I'm not her...but she's...inside me." Wilaawaq pointed Yipqay's hand at his head.

"Look, it may be that nobody should know 'bout that scar— but I ain't gon' believe ya 'less ya can show you've got 'er spirit in there." Her beak opened slightly, as if to grin. "Alright. 'ere's a test." she stepped back a few feet, keeping her gun trained on her guests as she did so. "I'm gon' shoot ya." Yipqay turned pale. "Wh-"

Wilaawaq removed his speaking privileges. If you so much as flinch I will break your fingers one by one, in four different directions each, understand? Not that she really needed to worry— Yipqay was then paralyzed with fear— but one could never be too careful, she thought. She brought up her hand, making a gun with her fingers, and pointed it at Yipqay's head. 

No, no, no— Yipqay screamed mentally as the gun was fired. A bullet passed harmlessly between the finger-gun and his head, leaving a gust of warm air in its wake. It burst through the wall behind him and whistled gleefully into the night air. Finally, it was freed from its bondage.

Taawlan Paq stared in shock, her feathers on end. "It really is you..." Her rifle finally found its nose pointed away from Yipqay, now left to sniff what appeared to be a soup stain on the floor.

Wilaawaq finally allowed his shoulders to relax. "Talg...diffiguld..." She began, before prompting Yipqay to speak once more. Yipqay, however, was still processing his near-death experience, and remained silent.

Taawlan Paq shook her head vigorously, as if trying to wake herself from a dream. She cautiously opened her eyes again, closing them a brief moment later, before carefully opening them once more. She took a deep breath. "I think...I understand? Clearly this ain't you— ain't yer hands nor yer face." She shook her head again. "But yer in there, somehow. As if yer spirit's gone inta a new body..." She stepped back and shakily leaned against a cluttered table, sending a box of springs clattering to the floor.

Wilaawaq slapped Yipqay's face. Stop standing there and explain this to her. She hissed in his mind.

He replied angrily. How am s'possed t' do that if I don't even understand it?! To this, Wilaawaq simply slapped him a few more times— as Taawlan Paq stared in confusion. Yipqay finally relented. I got the message, ok?! I'll try! He was allowed to speak once again, and stumbled over his words as he began. "We're...I'll...it's...uh...." Wilaawaq slapped him again. He yelped. "Sorry! Ok— your...friend?" Taawlan Paaq hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Wilaawaq had 'er spirit...taken, 'fore she could see the afterlife. Sealed in a bottle, and buried— til I...accidentally found and shot it." Yipqay looked at the floor, tracing imaginary lines between the bullet holes that graced it. "I was...'bout t' shoot m'self. She convinced me otherwise an' took over m' body."

Wilaawaq forced him to look back up at her old friend. Don't forget to mention my speech impediment, dear. 

"She's...still gettin' a hang of controllin' me. Walkin' took a while— s'pose talkin's a whole 'nother thing." Taawlan Paq nodded thoughtfully.

Wilaawaq spoke through Yipqay again. "Kilger. Alive?" Taawlan Paq shifted uncomfortably. My killers. Ask her where they are. There should be three of them. 

Yipqay obediently repeated the question, though with clearer pronunciation. "Is Wilaawaq's killer still alive?" Taawlan Paq stared at him for a brief moment— just long enough for the soft blowing of the wind outside to be heard, as if it were trying to fill the space left empty by the lack of words.

"You mean t' kill 'im?" Whatever tension had previously choked the room broke suddenly, as the woman clapped her hands together and said this with a hint of glee. This would have caused Yipqay to jump in surprise— if he could do so.

That's the gunsmith I know! Thought Willawaq. Ask her about giving us a gun. Yipqay opened his beak to speak— only to be cut off by Taawlan Paq.

"I only know where one'a his rats is holed up. He ain't no upstandin' hero no more, fella runs a gang these days. They go by the 'diculous name of The Forks." Yipqay's blood boiled— he knew the name. The same gang had burned down his family farm, shortly after his brothers had joined its ranks. "The rat's a courier, of sorts," she said, wagging her finger at the air, and turning around to grab something. "...but yer gonna need somethin' 'sides yer' hide if yer huntin' 'im down." She searched along the myriad benches and drawers of her workshop for something, quickly, so as not to keep her old friend waiting. Bolts clattered to the floor, rolling in lazy circles before finally stopping. Pieces of scrap metal clanged against one another, and hinges groaned in protest as cabinent doors swung open. A few minutes passed, during which Wilaawaq watched the gunsmith intently. By the end it seemed that each and every drawer, cabinet, and flap to be found in the cramped space was now opened. "'ere we are..."

She held up a mangled revolver, its black barrel bent, its grip dismantled, and its cylinder missing. "I uh...I forgot it was in such a sorry state." She winced and held up a defensive hand. "I didn' do it...entirely. I had t' pry the thing from one of them roaches— one a them's who helped kill ya." She watched for Wilaawaq's reaction, and seeing no immediate anger, continued. "I beat 'em t' death with the gun— thing was already missin' pieces when I got t' it."

Yipqay felt his fists tighten and relax, as Wilaawaq explained. I don't know whether to thank her or curse her. That was a fine arm, my Firebrand. Her thought-voice carried with it a great sense of sorrow— one would think she was speaking of a dear friend, rather than a gun.

Taawlan Paq turned back to the sorry heap of metal, which she held in her hands as if it were a newborn child. "Firebrand will still work— the important bits are still there. Sure it ain't gon' have its golden cylinder or engraved grip— but it'll find its mark— but it's specialty?" She laughed lightly as she tested its weight. "Why, you'd never even guess it'd seen better days." Yipqay had heard the stories. According to the stories, Wilaawaq's Firebrand was a custom build. Anything shot through it was joined by a halo of fire which could burn through any surface— be it wood, metal, or flesh.

Yipqay felt Wilaawaq laughing in his mind. Is that what they say? It can't burn through anything— but it sure leaves a mark.

Taawlan Paq began to clamp Firebrand into a vise. "This won't take too long, ya may want to check the back room though, there's something there I think you should have." Wilaawaq nodded, and walked into the cluttered room. Various shelves of diverse sizes lined its walls, each cramped with dusty boxes and knicknaks. She scanned them, passing her eyes over fired casings, odd stones, what appeared to be the charred remains of a boot, and various books. Finally, something caught her eye— tucked into the farthest, dustiest corner of the room, laid gingerly atop a cabinet all on its own— was her old hat.

Another reunion? Asked Yipqay. Wilaawaq was silent, as she stared at the covering. It was an off-white thing, with a wide brim that came to a sharp enough point to draw blood. Dramatically puntuating its surface were various charred bullet holes— whether these were signs of close calls or were purposefully added, Yipway was unsure. Wilaawaq ignored his thought, and approached the hat, gingerly picking it up and dusting it off. She waited a brief moment, before donning it— finding that it fit surprisingly well on her new body's head.

It feels right, don't you agree? She asked. Yipqay felt a strange surge of pride well up inside him— as if this hat were his own. Of course you do, dear. Now, here's the plan. Her thoughts gained a newfound quality of pride now that the hat had been donned. We're going to find this 'rat' Taawlan Paq mentioned, if he's a courier— he's got to keep his letters somewhere. Yipay could hear her thoughts gaining momentum as she formulated her plan. We break in, after dark. Always makes for an easier time— during which we'll search the place for the letters, sort through them til we find information on my killer's whereabouts, and leave, her smoky voice cooled down, satisfied, like nothing happened. Yipqay felt excited for this prospect— here he was, about to track down the leader of the gang responsible for so much pain in his life. Perhaps revenge was the right call, he thought, rather than self-termination.

Taawlan Paq seemed as if to shudder as she saw the pair walk in. "Wow. The hat..." she paused for a moment "it looks good on ya." Wilaawaq nodded, and curiously leaned over the gunsmith to see how her former arm was coming along. "Jus' one moment. 'most there." Taawlan Paq hammered something, and held the firearm at arm's length, studying it, before bringing it back and hammering it again. "There!" She proudly handed the weapon to Wilaawaq.

This, too, feels right, doesn't it? Again, that strange pride— Yipqay hadn't been one to enjoy firearms much. Don't worry about it sweetie, this is my gun— of course it'll feel differerent. Something about those words made him uncomfortable. Don't worry, it can't bite you. Wilaawaq cooed, almost mockingly.

Taawlan Paq handed the pair a written note, detailing the rat's location. "You'll find 'im 'ere, jus' be careful, alright?" She looked at the body now containing her old friend with concern. "Are ya sure you'll be up t' it?"

Wilaawaq nodded. "'cors." She choked.

"Well, I've got t' git t' work elsewhere, good luck out there!" She said, and ducked somewhere behind a wall of hanging guns. She does bring up a good point— are you up to this, dear?

I ain't never stolen from nobody before, 'cept perhaps when I was a kid.

Wilaawaq laughed. Let's get some training in before we go, shall we? She moved towards the door, hovering around the workbenches. I'll give you control for a moment— you take one of these guns. — 

I— we can't do that! She jus' helped us! Wilaawaq moved to slap him, but restrained herself. There are two of us. We only got one gun, you should have one too, shouldn't you?

I...I guess? Yipqay replied nervously. He wasn't really sure of her logic, but wasn't in much of a position to argue.

Good. Shut up, and take one. She'll understand, she's my friend, after all. And my friends are now your friends, understand? Yipqay felt himself gain control of his left arm. Go on. Wilaawaq sounded almost like a parent teaching a child. He hesitated another moment, before selecting a blue-hued revolved towards the center of the table. It felt unnaturally cold in his hands, whether due to the gunsmith's work, or his guilt— he could not tell. He felt Wilaawaq take back control of his arm, and place the new revolver into their belt.

Will I be able to use it myself? Asked Yipqay.

Wilaawaq seemed as if to supress a giggle. Oh, sweetie, of course not. After all, you just tried to shoot yourself. Now, Wilaawaq's voice twirled around his mind let's find that rat.

As she heard the pair leave the workshop, Taawlan Paq breathed a sigh of relief, though this did little to assuage her anxieties. "She's back...'er spirit's come back from th' dead t' haunt me. I swear— this better be a dream."