Nothing to anyone

 

Another day was ending. The red disk of the sun slowly left one side of the earth to move to the other. Clouds, though few in number, roamed the sky like a herd of wild, galloping horses. Man had never fully tamed either, unable to do so despite his "great" methods and magnificent, gleaming devices. People thought too much of themselves and what was happening around them. They only did things for themselves. They even exploited their friends and family. Of course, there were always a handful of others. Those who felt deeply and weren't driven solely by money, those who had true feelings and lives. However, such people were never important. The higher the position, the more one had to abandon one's ideals and beliefs. One had to cross the line to the side of those who exploited. With power, a good man would eventually die...

Their sat in a low-class bar in Edinburgh. He was drinking cold coffee and eating an old sandwich they offered on the spot. He felt a certain nostalgia for this place, even though it was located in a down-home neighborhood. Workers came here, sometimes the homeless if they'd scraped together a little money for something to eat. The interior resembled a tattered old antique shop. But very cheap ones. The seats were old chairs that creaked and moved with even the slightest movement. Almost every day, the bartender took one of them back and repaired it using his mysterious methods. The tables, scratched and deeply creased, probably had seen better days. A gray lace tablecloth, though it should certainly have been white, rested on them like a rag.

The MacKay family had run the place for many, many years. They must have had a different, and quite substantial, income, as they were contributing to the bar. But what sentiment...

Their put on his coat and an old hat. He dressed rather oddly, like characters from detective novels from the 1920s. Even though it was 2002. People always glanced at him in the street and quietly snickered. Mothers would show their children Theirs and tell them he was a ragtag boy and that they should learn to avoid looking like him. This is how a generation of ignoramuses was growing up. More to race for money, but not power... because if you have the first, the second will come naturally, or you can buy it. But he didn't care. His head was down, hiding his face, his collar was up. The only thing truly visible was his long black hair flowing over his clothes.

Little Littlet was playing in her yard. She was different from five-year-olds. She hated dolls and other similar toys. The only toy she loved was a teddy bear. A plain brown teddy bear with black eyes and a nose of the same color. The girl sat on the windowsill in the apartment of her parents, who worked from morning till night. To deceive themselves, they hired a nanny who would shoulder the enormous burden of raising her. So that a few years later, Littlet's parents could brag about their daughter, how well-behaved, well-behaved, and so on. At charity banquets, where costumes with as many diamonds and gold as possible were required, they would display diplomas and other "wonderful" achievements of their child. Everyone would admire, perfunctorily applaud, and fake smiles, usually with silicone lips. And then gossip about everything and everyone behind their backs. Yes, but as we know, few nannies pay attention to their charges. This time was a bit different. A woman named Temuera. She seemed out of this world. She walked around dressed entirely in green, her eyes azure. She spoke of demons, good and evil. Of ages where forests replaced all buildings. Ancient rituals and mysteries were performed. Druids led the tribes. These tales continued for many days and evenings. Until one day, she disappeared. She was never heard from again. Her employers didn't care much, saying, "It's a shame it happened after this month's paycheck." That's how businesspeople are. Only money, a loss of feelings. Work, meals, and sleep, they care almost nothing else. Well, except how to annoy others at work and get a higher position. Who to snitch on, and who to snitch on, and the morning pleasure, and slander those working for less in "lower professions." They themselves were becoming the evil demons of modernity. Those who consume blood, like vampires from legend, they took the good and dignity from others.

They walked the streets again. The path was occasionally illuminated by streetlamps. Every so often, you have to understand at least one in five. Homeless people lay under buildings begging for donations for the cheapest alcoholic beverages. Sometimes crippled, sometimes good-looking individuals. They could even work if they tried hard enough. Finally, Their stopped. A young man in a leather jacket stood before him. Jeans on his feet. Polished heavy boots. He looked like a typical metalhead. Of course, his long blond hair was an added bonus. He stared at the wall with his green eyes, as if he were mad, or at least a little crazy. Maybe he was simply lost, who knows. I guess no one will ever know what truly lies deep within the soul. Not even the owner himself. Sometimes something might come to us in dreams, only to disappear later. Such is the unfortunate fate. Although one might sometimes think that suicides have discovered this something and, unable to bear it, flee this world. But who would ask a dead suicide? It's unlikely.

"Hello, Young Wolf, I see you've lost something. Which turn is it? Maybe they'll forgive you." The young man looked at him, his eyes flashing with pure fury. He instantly clenched his fists and moved forward, his lips straining. "Their, you can't exist, that's contradictory. You only do evil. So many of our people died to get you. Do you have no feelings, no thoughts?!!!! I forgot. Fallen Angels have no feelings; they only exist to destroy. To bring the world to its destruction, to hand it over to him. Well, let's see. Are you what they say you are?" He was about to swing, but froze in place as if his feet were glued to the asphalt. A split second later, he was running up the ladder to the top of the building. He began jumping over buildings. No one had ever seen such a run. A run and a jump. To the nearest rooftop, and back again. He covered several blocks like that. He jumped against the moon. He stood on a single-story building. He stared at the street. A young woman stood in the middle of the street. An unmarked car was heading towards her. Headlights off and speeding fast. The angel knew he wouldn't make it in time, but he jumped down anyway. He called out his master's name. A bright glow formed wings that allowed him to land safely. People around him pointed at him. Surely, the next day, a flock of humble grandmothers would arrive to prostrate themselves. Crouched like a cat ready to spring, he witnessed the accident. He could only watch.

Darkness ran from the other side of the street. If anyone had had the time and opportunity, they would have seen that it was humanoid in shape. It gave the impression of floating through the night. All sounds disappeared. The woman's scream, not the distant sounds of the fire department, ambulance, or police... A great silence. Darkness ran into the street and pushed them away like a woman with superhuman strength. She flew straight into the Young Wolf's arms.

The car struck Their with tremendous force, throwing him many meters away. At that moment, the sounds returned. The screech of tires as a car turned onto another street, a woman's wail. And lightning. Suddenly, a storm came. But without rain. Lightning cracked somewhere in the distance. Thunder followed thunder. Perhaps murmurs of discontent, but from whom? No one knows.

The wolf quickly set the woman down carefully and ran to the fallen Their. He was mangled. His cloak was ruined, revealing bones and flesh. His hair was bloody. And a face was visible. For the first time in centuries, the face of a fallen angel was visible. It was indistinguishable from a human. A proud countenance and noble features. Dark eyes, in which you could see stars. But he was still breathing, for the hiss of breath was audible. He smiled faintly and began to speak in a surprisingly strong voice

, "Young Wolf, it's not true that They control you; you can always choose for yourself. They won't force you to do what you truly don't want... Remember, nothing..." His breath trailed off.

The angel watched as the shadows took Their, to shatter him into tiny pieces, to make him suffer until the end of time. To make him know what he had to suffer for. He rose from his knees, lifted his head, and finished,

"...you're not to blame!"

And Little? She was alive and had escaped into her own world. She had locked herself away in a small circle of forests. In her head. For six months, she had been locked in a psychiatric hospital. They administered various colorful medications and IV drips, the drips flowing into her veins. After that, she went for her first walk. She stood before the only tree in the park. It was terribly fenced, under the watchful eye of cameras. After all, a living tree is a unique phenomenon that must be protected. She nimbly jumped the fence. She ran to a branch and nestled into it. Like a child clings to its mother. Slowly, slowly, she was growing bark. She was returning home.