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“Do you trust me?”
It was a simple question with a simple answer.
“I do,” Ford replied offhandedly as he went over the blueprints for the portal once again, tapping his pen against the desk, looking for the one mistake that had caused the entire project to grind to a halt over two weeks ago. He had gone over all the plans and formulae multiple times, both in the mindscape and in the real world, but he hadn’t managed to locate the error yet.
Neither had Fiddleford. His cup of coffee was still standing precariously close to the edge of the table, where he had slammed it down that evening in the middle of their shouting match, one of many they’d had during the past couple of days. Ford only had himself to blame. The lack of proper rest was getting to him, and with the frustration and anger came a feeling of hopelessness. Maybe they hadn’t made a mistake. Maybe he had to face the truth that his dream was impossible to achieve, even with the help of…
“I want you to prove it,” Bill said in his head.
Ford’s pen stilled.
“Of course!” he said, surprised but eager. “Just tell me what I need to do.”
Bill took over his body, allowing him to stay. “You’ll see.”
Bill used the elevator to get to Ford’s study, the room dedicated to him. Briefly, Ford wondered if Bill was planning on conducting some kind of ritual, but he went past the prisms and candles and stopped in front of the closet where Ford kept his weapons. He retrieved a revolver and three bullets.
Instantly, Ford became uncomfortably aware of the limitations that came with being a passenger in his own body. It didn’t react to his nervousness at all, didn’t let him react to it in any way. All he could do was let the tension build as Bill opened the cylinder and inserted three bullets – two in adjacent chambers, after which he skipped a one, then the third bullet. What had started as a fleeting suspicion now turned into a horrifying certainty.
“Are you sure about this?” he wanted to ask as Bill casually sat down on the rug. But he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. He knew that Bill would never seriously harm him. And yet…
“Yeesh, Sixer, calm down,” Bill said, twirling the gun around his finger. “Remember what I told you when we first met?”
“Don’t have a heart-attack; you’re not 92 yet?”
“Exactly!” Bill beamed. “You have nothing to worry about.”
Ford’s anxiety clashed with Bill’s utter calmness as he spun the cylinder. He waited patiently for it to stop and closed it without looking at it.
“What is your chance of survival?” Bill asked.
“Fifty percent,” Ford replied immediately. “But if we consider the weight of the bullets and-“
“Do you think you’ll survive?” Slowly, Bill raised the gun to Ford’s head.
“I’m… not certain,” Ford admitted nervously, suppressing the urge to interfere.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s just that-“
“Do you want me to stop?”
An image of Fiddleford finding his body in the morning appeared before his eyes.
Yes.
He pictured Bill breaking off their deal and leaving him.
“No.”
Bill pulled the trigger. The gun clicked uselessly.
“It was empty!” Ford exclaimed after a couple of seconds, inwardly sighing in relief.
“I told you that there’s nothing to worry about,” Bill said. “Now, your turn.”
He relinquished his control over Ford’s body without any warning. It caught up with his emotional state so suddenly that he almost felt sick. His heartbeat increased rapidly. The odds weren’t in his favor.
“You can spin the chamber if you want,” Bill offered. “But it won’t be necessary. You’ll survive either way. Or maybe you want to quit?”
Ford swallowed nervously as he stared at the revolver, sliding a sweaty finger across the cylinder. Quitting definitely wasn’t an option. And neither was distrusting Bill.
He pushed the muzzle against his temple so hard it hurt, as if that would stop him from trembling, as if that would help him push out the thought of Fiddleford contacting Stanley to tell him that his brother had-
He pulled the trigger.
Another click, another blank. A shudder went through Ford’s entire body as he took a deep breath. He had goosebumps all over. His heart was hammering in his throat, but he could feel a smile tug at his lips.
“I am sorry that I doubted you,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “Please, if there’s anything else I could do to prove myself…?”
He tried to set the gun down, but Bill stopped him.
“Let's continue.”
It took Ford a couple of seconds to grasp the implication of Bill's words. The next chamber would definitely contain a bullet. And the chances of it being a dud or the gun jamming were laughably, negligibly small.
“You’ll survive. Do you trust me?”
Ford looked at the tapestries hanging on the walls. Bill’s watchful eyes were trained on him, as always. It was a comforting sight, one that gave him strength. Everything in this room was a symbol of the bond he shared with Bill. And wasn’t that what that little game was all about?
He raised the gun to his head, his hand perfectly still. A strange, almost frightening sense of excitement was coursing through his veins, making him feel giddy and invincible.
“I do,” he said and pulled the trigger.