Penetrating the neck of Donovan Plat with a tranquilizer dart, Nephilim quickly jumped up from his crouch and threw his rifle upon the bed.
     Standing in front of the bathroom's half shattered mirror, he turned the knobs of the leaky faucet and splashed cold water upon his face to wash away the warm perspiration from the moments aggression.
     Each time that Nephilim shot his rifle, he found himself questioning himself.  “Was it truly worth it?  If Grace knew what I did, would she as accept the aid I give her?”  Thoughts like this flooded his mind after every shot he fired since he'd joined up with the Morose organization.
     In exchange for his soul, they had offered him the opportunity to save the only person in the world who could evoke any sort of emotion in him.  His sister, Grace, had been the only one able to reach him after those months in the institute following the war.  Now, though, it was his time to help her.
     Wiping his face on the dusty motel towel, he threw the rag to the ground and returned to the bedroom.  Efficiently removing each section of the rifle, he placed them once more in the hollowed out bottom of the leather suitcase Piotor had given him.  Suitcase in hand, Nephilim exited the door and walked down the motel hall as screams of agony and ecstacsy assaulted his ears.
     “So this is hell?”  He thought to himself.

     Whenever Nephilim sat at the Cat's Craddle Pub, his past came shooting back at him faster than any bullet he had every fired.  The flash back always started during the Gulf War.  He would see himself sitting atop the dunes, overlooking that town in Iraq whose name he couldn't recall, firing at anything that moved below, be it man or woman, child or grown up.  With his marksmanship, entering Nephilm's sight was the equivalent of a death warrant.
     Time would then fast forward.  He would be sitting at home with his girlfriend, talking about the war and how happy he was to be home.  He would watch as he slowly cut off contact with her and then the world.  He would watch as on a chilly September morning that van pulled in his driveway and the men took him away.
     It was at this time he recalled the “Home” and treatment.  Nothing worked.  Nothing stopped the sorrow, the regrets, the anger.  That was, at least, until Grace had come to visit.  Putting her hand on his shoulder and squeezing him ever so tenderly, she would whisper into his ear that she would always be there, that she would never leave him, that there were things to live for.  Eventually, these words were enough to bring him back.
     Five months later, the diagnoses would come.  Though there was a cure for Grace's disease, it would not be cheap, and the insurance would not cover it.  It was around this time that Nephilm had been approached by the Morose organization in regards to his “training” in the war.  The offer would be made and just as he accepted, he was suddenly snaped back to reality, staring at the collection of bourbon behind the Cat's Craddle's rotting bar.