The first day of my stint as a runner began like any other - stalking people who know of my existence, getting my suit pressed, buying a new tie and some new shoes - when, several hours past noon, I was confronted by my old, blind friend. I greeted him like normal, for I did not know the ensuing conversation would be a dark betrayal.
"You're out," said he, before attempting to erase my memory of the Fears. I proved too slender, though, and his beam of forgetfulness completely missed and hit a nearby raven.
"I'm out? You can't kick me out; I am the original Fear, the OG, if you will," I protested.
He once again fired his decrepit ray of past-destruction, but I was once again too slender for him.
"Don't make me get the others," was his reply.
"Fine, fuck you, I'll leave," I retorted in an attempt at reverse psychology. It didn't work, however, for suddenly I was punched in the lack-of-face by a Camper puppet.
Reeling back, I turned and ran before the blue-haired, stringed being could attack again.
"This is not over," I called back at them, "I'll be back. I always come back."
And so that's how I began on my arduous, treacherous journey.
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