"That's a lotta' money fer a kid like you." The greasy, pale-eyed man shifted his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, thin mustache dancing.

Cecil leaned back in his chair, trying not to look terrified as he ran a finger around the rim of his beer bottle. He didn't usually drink, not too much. His budget barely covered his medications, let alone possible hospitalization. And like hell he was going to his mother. "To a good cause," He did his best impression of confident in the Master Plan. "Just to get the place kick started. Buy the building, get started with the merchandise." His palms were sweating, and the dark-haired man across from him motioned to murmur something to his cohort.

"We might have a space for ya', Cee-cee. If you run into trouble with the rent... we'll see how we might settle things fairly."

Cecil tried his best to not look petrified. This was what he wanted. This was the plan. He had moved to the city on his own, after all. What better way to ensure protection than to make sure you're on the right side of the right people? His own store-front, and a loan was promised.

By the time operations had been set up, he was positively beaming. People knew who not to mess with on this block. There would be no men with guns rushing in his front door to rob him. There was, of course, whatever they were up to in the basement, but that didn't matter- he had opened his very own bookshop - a used bookshop and the smell of the ancient paper was intoxicating. And what better place than right here? The community had actually *embraced* him and the quaint atmosphere, or maybe because they were used, it felt like a classy step-up from the cheaper Library option.*

The illicit activities generally going on downstairs were none of his concern. The real operation was going on upstairs in his attic. There was a reason he had gravitated toward this side of town. People were afraid here. Already he had seen a shadow creep into the alley next door, cling to the bottom of cars, creep along the fire escapes... The place was rapt wit paranoia and related emotions... it had to have been a connection.

Up in his loft, Cecil was able to study. To read. To learn. There were power in words. Poets twisting emotion, of course there was always that, the effects of communications of ideas to Human Nature, but there was more to it than just that. Ofuda scrolls were often used by Buddhist monks to banish evil spirits. He practiced his calligraphy. The gypsies had their talismans against the Evil Eye, protective symbols against demons- they joined the crucifix above his doorway. It seemed the more he stalked them, the less he saw of them. Experimentation had been non existent, and so he made sure all of his bases were covered at any given time. Every culture had some sort of defense against the forces of darkness, and he spent much of his ill-begotten money from his side jobs on more and more ancient and unique tombs.

He must have been on to something. So far, it seemed they had been far more interested elsewhere, creeping and crawling in and out of the gutter of the city, keeping busy on better prey. He wasn't afraid. He had every possible protection in tact, how could he be anything from confident? As the months crept on, he noticed them more frequently and closer. Before, they had known to keep moving and ignore him, pretend they hadn't seen him and as he figured, pretend he hadn't seen them.

One night, there was a crash in the storefront, books thundering to the floor, jarring Cecil awake. Merde, merde, MERDE, just not that stupid, slimy William again, trying to get into the basement... "Si ce est vous, William, je vais te casser les jambes sales!" With a grunt, he pulled on his Jacket and glasses, fumbling to the stairs, this time with a baseball bat in hand.

What he found slithering among the bookshelves was not a wandering addict. It had teeth and glimmering eyes and a black shifting tongue.

Cecil held his breath. He was not afraid. He was protected. He had even gotten that tattoo.... but the creature didn't seem to care about said tattoo. Nor did it seem to notice the symbols that had been painstakingly painted at the ends of the bookshelves, disguised as decoration.

"Holy s**t, man, you scared the s**t out of me!" Somewhere beyond the coils of massive creature came the last voice he wanted to hear. The creature curled like smoke as the greasy William swayed toward him through it as though it wasn't there. b*****d had been drinking, too. "The hell's up with you, pipsqueak?"

"Va te faire mettre and get the ******** out," Cecil sidestepped as the creature ignored him, taking an experimental snap to see if he'd jump. It's testing me, the thought seared through his mind with a rising feeling of disgust.

William's head rolled, eyes narrowing as he scratched at his beard, swaggering closer. "You been in the basement? Boss wouldn't like it if you been in the basement."

"I haven't been near the damn basement, and I have a feeling he wouldn't like YOU in the basement either," He snapped, eyes darting from the creature back to the oblivious and incorrigible problem. His baseball bat, unfortunately, still was quivering in his hands.

The crony's hand suddenly lashed out, ripping the weapon from him before bringing it back around to knock him sharply against the jaw, stars dancing as his glasses went flying. "Don't gimme' no lip, buddy."

The monster took this moment to lunge while Cecil had staggered to the ground, scrambling for his eyes but all he could see was a massive black blur that leaped into sudden focus- at his blood curdling scream, Bill seemed to panic. "SHUT UP! I SAID SHUT UP! s**t, you lying piece of-" No sooner had the little man tried to crawl away from both assailants, the baseball bat came down again, this time on his arm. There was a terrifying snap. He couldn't breath, he couldn't breath, but he couldn't blink, he had to get out while he still could... or at least up to the safety of his nest, but the moment he tried to get to his feet, the bat was swung again, and the monster leaped to snap inches from his face.

Bill finally dropped the bat, stained teeth exposed in a jealous sneer, "You're ********' trippin' balls, aintchoo?" He sniffed instinctively, rubbing his nose as his free hand curled into a fist, "How much you take? Huh?" Cecil was wheezing as he was dragged upright by his pajamas before the fist slammed hard into him.

He couldn't breath.

"Imma' gonna' tell boss exactly whatchoo did," He snickered, shoving him back across the front counter, sending the cash register crashing down beside him, raining them in one dollar bills. "Aint no way you'd keep this stupid place open without our help, bitin' the hand that feeds ya', that's what you're doin'-" As the hand went down again to clamp on his skinny throat, panic and instinct worked in and Cecil's assailant tried to pull back, screaming as teeth clamped down on the soft part between pointer finger and thumb, blood drawn.

"YOU LITTLE s**t! You better start PACKIN' when I get back- s**t!!" Bill was panicking as a siren could be heard outside. "You called the COPS? You stupid-" But he had already let go, staggering backwards towards the fire exit.

Cecil panted and wheezed as he heard the door slam behind him, but the sirens faded. Some other call. At least he just had one thing to worry about- glasses... glasses... he couldn't breath... his lungs felt like they were caving in. The shadow of a creature was still there, and he could swear he could sense it laughing at his pathetic, sprawled out form. His hands found the letter opener he kept on the table, laying on the floor now beside him, and his hand clamped around it.

"Y-you... you stay back if.. if you know what's good for you!" He hissed, although his vision was swimming. He couldn't breath. The monster reared back, ready to strike-

Distantly, he could hear the front door jingle, and there was the sensation of something large and heavy slumping to the floor with a flash of light.

"What..." Was all he managed, gasping for air frantically as he saw a blurred figure approach him over the dissolving shadow that seemed to dissipate like smoke.

It was a woman's voice that spoke. "You're on the right track, Mr. Moore. But you're reading the wrong books. How would you like to read the right ones?"

------

And there were books. More books than he could dream of. Mostly ones he had never heard of. He was to be a Hunter. A Life Hunter. It was here he learned about the Runes.

The bonding to a weapon had been the single most amazing thing in his life, and also the most annoying. The Fear shield had helped limit his asthma attacks and other physical limitations, but it didn't completely rid him of them... but with this new life, new health, he was given a fresh start. He could do this RIGHT.

He could properly study them with no fear whatsoever. Metaphorically speaking. Emotionally at least. With his new partner, he now WAS Fear.

And he liked it.

He took his research seriously, diving in as a trainee all the way through his arduous training. He was a Life Hunter. The physical wasn't as important as the mental. There were other brutes to do the fighting for him. He liked the protection, the feeling of comradeship that meant there were always plenty of walls of fellow soldiers between him and the enemy.

He didn't return from many missions with many Moons in-tact. But he was ok with this.

He had his research. And there were... other wonderful distractions.

The very best thing about the island was that it was an island. Sure, there were missions that had sent them out and about across the world and pocket universes, but at the end of the day (or the end of the mission) you came home to a finite amount of people trapped together in a very small amount of space. Hunter Women had to be toned, slim, in good shape. They had to be or they didn't come home. A culling process of the most lustrous of huntresses, all lonely, trapped, traumatized... looking for a way to cope. He was more than happy to help. Maybe it was his own coping. But here on the island, he had never felt so alive.

He'd receive giggles rather than slaps for his attempts at seduction more often than not, and when he was rejected, there was always next time. And then there were girls like Em. She was... amazing. And she never said no. That was Cecil's favorite and least favorite thing about her, but she filled a void in his life he had always known was there. Sure, it was him and anything else with an ounce of testosterone in their system and equipment to back it up, but he was always welcome... She always said Yes.

Yes. It was definitely a more favorable operation than the one he had left behind. Here at least you knew the whores were clean. And there had been progress in his research. So much progress.

Almost immediately upon his arrival at the complex, he had made what he considered to his dying day to be his best friend. Brother in arms. The one man he would honestly miss should he never return... and he always returned. Alright, so Andrew never really had his back, and had a habit of reorganizing his desktop and he'd come back to find the history in his computer's browsers mysteriously deleted, but he knew Mr. Wickett was only looking out for him.

He was fat, he was a little creepy, he was quiet, but he was a sense of familiarity Cecil adored. He was also a fan of ties, which was a plus in his book.

"THERE you are! I brought something for you!" He was beaming as he trotted to where once again, Andrew had taken over his work station. Whatever he was looking at was instantly closed as his cool grey eyes leveled on him as though expecting something painful or disgusting.

Cecil was not deterred, grinning as he offered out two small boxes, "Voila!" And they were thrust upon the somber, portly man.

Wickett's eyes narrowed. "It's not going to explode is it."

"Not unless you want them to," Cecil plopped down in the next chair, giving the man a wink. "Open them! They are, if anyone asks and by all intents and purposes, runic daggers. Er. I mean, after what happened last mission I thought..." He cleared his throat, "Well, I wanted to see if it would work, you know? Had to do a lot of late night work under the radar, but if they DO work, then you bet your a** I am taking them to the superiors. I'll probably get a commendation!"

Wickett opened the boxes, "They're playing cards."

"Well, master-card-thrower, I thought they'd be perfect!"

Wickett's expression was, as always, unreadable, but Cecil knew he loved them.

He felt like he was king of the castle. Alright, so he was a glorified librarian at best, even after promotions and various assignments, but he was in his element.

At least when he wasn't sent to battle.

He hadn't even been able to say good bye. The radios had cut short. The lines were dead.

And then he was crushed and bleeding, a smear on the roof.

He couldn't breath.

He could taste blood.

Did he have regrets? Many of them. Not enough protection. Not finding a particular girl to win the heart of- just him and her. Being a superficial a*****e most of his life.

Did he regret being a hunter? Never. This was bigger than bad ideas and bad connections, bigger than gangs and a silly fancy of his own business.

Had he made a difference? Would he be remembered?

Probably not.

As he sucked in what air he could through a gurgling, broken nose, eyes watering and unfocused. Ultimately it came down to one thought.

Did he care?

He had done what needed to be done. And he had survived for so long... against medical set backs, against physical set backs, through the bad luck of poor circumstance, through bloody training and how many missions against all odds...

It was only a matter of time.

His hand moved over his wrist where his partner had vanished into it's watch form. He was his. He was Fear. He had studied Fear. He had captured it, controlled it, helped do his part to push their research ever closer to perfection...

Even if they didn't know his name, he was a part of something larger, something greater... for once in his life, he really *did* think about the common good.

He couldn't lift his head as the convulsions took him.

And on that roof, Cecil Moore died.

But he died happy, knowing he would forever be part of the Words.