This couldn't be the fuckin' end for him. No goddamn duel, no one gettin' him on the draw. Shot in the back like a fuckin' dog. Like a fuckin' animal, something to be hunted down. And Mike wasn't prey—he was the one doin' the hunting, the chasin'.

He didn't even get a chance to see who did it. And the worst part—the fuckin' bastard did a shit job of killin' him. Mike's been on the ground for hours, his damn legs paralyzed from the shot to the spine. His horse has run off, and he's got... Maybe half a canteen of water? And he's in the middle of the godsdamned desert, the heat already making him delirious. The sand burns against his exposed skin, and every breath feels like inhaling fire.

The water lasts 'bout half a day. He don't even drink it all—it fuckin' evaporates. He swears there's something unnatural about this heat, but who the fuck knows? He's been dreaming, dreaming while he lies there with his eyes open. Sometimes he hears his mama. Sometimes he answers her. His tongue his heavy in his mouth, and there's not a damn drop of water for miles. The sun beats down relentlessly, turning the landscape into a shimmering mirage that mocks his thirst.

He mighta made it two days. Shit, he'll give himself the third because it's dusk when the air starts to feel heavier. He's half lucid, mumbling some dumb shit about not wanting to die like this. The temperature drops rapidly as night falls, the bitter cold now torturing him as thoroughly as the day's heat did.

Stupid fucker shoulda just passed on. Woulda been a mite more peaceful. But no... When the goddamn voice spoke to him, he answered. Mike laughs now, knowing he might as well have made a deal with the damn devil. But he said yes, begged for another chance for a hunt. And with a blast of green energy that smelled like ozone and jasmine, he changed. The pain vanished, replaced by a power he didn't understand and instantly resented.