This was not what I had in mind when they said “redemption mission”.


“Watch and protect Danny Sullivan for a whole year and you’ll get your wings back, Uriah”.


That’s what the Arch said.


No further explanations or elaborations. No whys, no hows. Just, “do the damn thing if you want your wings back.”


So I didn’t ask any questions.


I didn’t really have much of a choice, anyway.

But I’m not complaining. I prefer straightforward and uncomplicated. I suppose I should count my lucky stars that I can get my wings back at all. Especially after all the shit Malone pulled.


Fucking bastard.


If I see his dimwitted face again sporting that stupid ass grin, it’ll be too fucking soon. But, in the meantime, I have to focus.


For my own sake.


Human surveillance for one year: that’s my mission, the only way I can get my wings back. Twelve months. Fifty-three weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five days and nights.


Danny Sullivan: that’s my human subject.


He turned twenty-one years old tonight; a huge landmark for North American humans, almost like a right of passage—only with copious amounts of alcohol and substantial vomiting involved, and not always in that order.


This is only day one, and if the other the hundred and sixty four nights are going to be anything like they were tonight, I’m probably going to end up wringing my own neck. And then I won’t even have any use for my wings.


A thud slightly echoes through the dark hallway, followed by a low, incoherent mumble, signaling that Kia Sullivan, the extremely wasted older sister of my current mission’s subject just accidentally bumped her head against the wall. Well, actually, that I just accidentally bumped her head against the wall.


She doesn’t say anything or make any other sounds, though. She’s pretty much out cold. I’ve never understood why humans feel the need to drink so much, and I probably never will. It’s not even her birthday, it’s her brother’s. And he’s the one I’m supposed to be looking after, not her.


I readjust her limp body over my shoulder, and she stays still, slumped and hanging off me with absolutely no idea that she’s being carried around by a stranger like a large sack of potatoes.


I sigh for the millionth time tonight. I’m getting too fucking old for this. I should be performing real redemption missions, not babysitting a drunk twenty-six year old who clearly can’t hold her liquor to save her life. I’d watched her drink herself to her current ruin, and predictably, it was because of some guy she’s obviously still not over.


Another sigh.


You’d think that with humans being so fucking predictable all the time, I’d be used to their annoying, irrational behavior by now.


Clearly, that’s far from the case. So, for the millionth time tonight, I ask myself…why the fuck am I here doing this? Why did I even put myself in this position in the first place? Why didn’t I just leave her to fend for herself and figure her own shit out? Why am I in her apartment carrying her motionless, knocked-out-cold little body to her bed?

As someone who prefers—no, requires—straightforward and uncomplicated, Kia Sullivan is one potential complication that I did not anticipate, and one I sure as hell don’t need right now.


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Read Part Six Here!

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