Late at night, a city sleeps. In the back alleyways a few souls with wandering eyes are awake, if not alert. Streetlights cast lonely circles of light onto the pavement below them. A girl walks down the sidewalk alone. Her dark eyes are hidden behind glasses and obsidian curls fall into her face. As she walks her hands are in her pockets, and she stares at the ground. She seems lost in thought as she passes vagabonds on the corners, oblivious to their presence. Her name is Maricel, it means one lost to darkness. It is an appropriate fit for this girl who seems almost a shadow herself.

Someone shouts out and she turns her head to see a group running towards her. She runs. Down the street almost for an entire block until she ducks into and alley. A minute ahead of her pursuers she reaches the other side of the alley only to find it's a dead end. The alley is dark, the light broken years ago and forgotten. It is the type of place one would expect a Law and Order scene to unfold. She looks around her, almost in desperation. Seeing no fire escapes to climb nor any windows to jump through, it seems she is stuck. She can now hear her pursuers approaching. She glances towards the opening of the alley.

The group turns into the alley only to find it empty. Discarded newspapers flutter about in a lone breeze. Where did she go, they wonder. She went down this alley, and there is no escape. How did she get past them. Unknown to this group that did not mean Maricel well, she is high overhead now. She has unfurled her wings and flown to her own version of a sanctuary. Her wings are similar to the sky above her, black as night and yet seeming to reflect the stars. They are leathered and thin, like a bat's. Double jointed, she inherited them from her father. She does not like to be reminded.

On the horizon, the sky is a faintly lighter shade, hinting at the sunrise. The dawn of day approaches as she flies away from the sunlight, staying in the dark that is her comfort zone.

Deep in a forest still undiscovered by mankind resides a boy. Tall and sturdy, like a tree, he rarely strays into the world of man. Living alone, seemingly, in the wilderness by choice. His hair reaches past his shoulders and is a dark golden brown, nearly bronze. His skin the same color as the dirt beneath his bare feet. His eyes seem old as time itself, a foreign sight on the face of one so young.

This boy lives a simple life. He distances himself from the world. He was raised in a time where the earth was sacred, and holds firm to that belief. Birds sing above him as they fly about, all the colors of the spectrum. The leaves rustle in a slight breeze. He feels at home. A branch snaps. He glances towards the sound. A hunter, skin pale and covered in dirt. Not a hunter, but a poacher.

The boy is not happy. He does not allow poachers in his forest. The poacher has not yet seen the boy. Good. The boy moves around the poacher, more silent than a tree without a breeze to ruffle it. Soon he stands behind the poacher. The man has raised his gun, aiming at one of the magnificent birds overhead. The boy reaches out and grasps the barrel of the gun. He clenches his hand and the gun breaks. The poacher is so startled that he stumbles and falls. He looks up at the boy.

He asks who this boy is. How he could have broken the gun with his bare hands. The boy does not answer. His skin darkens a bit, to the color of damp earth and the smell of soil becomes overwhelming. He lifts his own set of wings, also leathered, but far more rough, like bark. They are a mottled green and brown, and would seem to camouflage the his surroundings. The poacher is speechless. The boy only tells the man to leave. Should he ever come back he will never leave alive. The poacher runs.

The boys name is Laurel, and he is the son on the forest. His father was a hunter, but he knew the laws of nature that poachers ignore. He is the balance that nature requires, and he will keep it that way.

In a skyscraper in the middle of a bustling city sits a boy. He seems to be barely out of his teens, yet he is the head of the company that owns the building. He is the mastermind behind each of their inventions and holds thousands of patents dating back to the first ones ever issued. He is hunched over a table with circuit boards and other pieces of machinery strewn about. In his hands he holds tools to piece together some new gadget. On his face sit goggles. His office is nearly made of nothing but windows. Everyone can see him working, but none can hear him. He's designed the room that way.

The boy is a genius, many have said. It is true. He can see the ways the circuits could connect to make it better, he can see how to improve anything with technology. He has ear-buds in and techno music blares loud enough to destroy his eardrums. He lightly nods his head in time with the music, his face a mask of concentration. He has drawn a small crowd, as happens often. He has finished the gadget and holds it up to examine it further.

It seems to be a watch. He pushes a button and a small hologram comes out. He speaks to it and the image changes to answer his question. He has made Siri a visual now. He strolls to the door to his office. As he leaves he tosses the watch onto the desk of the head of tech production. Figure out how to reproduce that, he says. He heads to the elevator.

Coming out on the roof, he walks to the edge and leans his arms on the railing that runs around the edge of the building. He has pushed the goggles up onto his head, pushing back his electric blue mow-hawk. The strip of blue is flanked by hair bleached blonde and cropped close to his head. Numerous piercings line his ears, as well, his eyebrow and tongue are pierced. Tattoos peek out underneath the edge of his t-shirt, which sports a graphic of some band.

His name is Nimbus. He is known by many names, most often Nim, Tric and Volt. He is an electric storm and has only found his calling once electricity was harnessed. It is his lifeblood, what he is. Knowing he is alone he lets his wings out. They almost mirror his eyes, but for the thin veins of pale almost yellow, almost blue white that faintly run through them. His wings are feathered, like a bird's, though are double jointed. He smiles as he feels the first raindrops of a storm.

In broad daylight a girl strolls down the street with multiple shopping bags dangling from her arms. She has on heels almost four inches in height and white rimmed sunglasses. Her hair, a light brown, is down and is slightly billowed by an unnoticed wind. As are her clothes, a skirt and loose top. Her entire outfit ranges in the tones of pastels. She is smiling and seems to be having a grand time spending money and seeming to all the world the rich girl.

Her name is Isobel, yet she prefers to be called Belle. She is oblivious to all others on the street, only conscious enough of them to avoid them. She looks down her nose at the, as she says, dirty urchins, and goes on her way. She makes it to her car, a silver convertible with the top already down. She throws the bags in the back seat and slides behind the wheel, turning the car on and pealing out of the parking space.

She flies down the road going well above the speed limit. She pays the numbers no mind, she only wishes to feel the wind in her face. And feel wind she does. A short while later she pulls up to a veritable mansion and climbs out of the car. Carrying the bags to the house and dropping them in what seems to be her bedroom she strolls out to a balcony overlooking the ocean. Her house is built into the side of a small cliff, on the coast. Featuring a balcony on each level that runs around the entirety of the house. She leans on the railing, relishing the feel of the sea breeze on her face.

Taking a breath she unfurls her wings. Feathered and white, they are the vision of an angel's. The white is not pure, they hold many shades of gray and are nearly translucent at the edges, as if the feathers themselves were hollow. The wind blows her hair back and she sighs contentedly.

Another girl, nearly half a world away, is almost elbow deep in dust and dirt. She is helping to restore an old library that has nearly fallen apart. Her long dark reddish brown hair is pulled back in a braid to keep it out of the way, though strands have escaped. Her clothes are as dust covered as the rest of her, making the purple of her shirt seem almost red and her jeans match the ground. She is sorting and stowing the books to that they are out of the way and protected while repairs to the building are underway. The town she is in is not advanced, it is remote, but she has found that it feels like home, and this is why she helps.

A satchel is slung across her body, in it are a few keepsakes she takes with her everywhere, for she has no true home. She roams and helps people wherever she lands. She is a source of inspiration and imagination to those around her, and loves to see smiles. Her name is Samara. Often she has been hassled for sharing a name with the ghost from The Ring, yet she holds true to her name. It means imagination, something she spreads like wildfire. Everywhere she goes she teaches people to think for themselves, along with anything else they may want to know. If she has the knowledge, she'll share it, but only if you ask.

Often going by Sam, she has traveled since she was first sentient. Her violet eyes have seen many sights that most mortals would kill for, or hide from. Yet she always wears a smile. A child and dog walk near her. The dog has a rope tied to it's collar, in lieu of a leash, which the child holds. The dog runs over to her and could almost be said to be smiling. The child is shocked, the dog does not like anybody, he says. Sam says that she has never met an animal who did not like her, a fact she is thankful for. The child also smiles, just being near her.

As the boy and the dog go on their way she slips into a nearby building, a church that had been abandoned years ago. Sunlight streams through the stained glass windows, some of the panes broken. It is bright in the church, but empty. That was what she hoped for. She opens her wings, stretching them to their fullest, a large smile upon her face. They are feathered, but far from what one would think an angel's to look like. Blocks of the feathers are hundreds of different colors, mimicking the glass around her. Transparent, the light streams through her feathers, throwing blocks of color to the floor, mingling with the light from the windows.

It is an inspiring sight, were one to behold it.

At a soup kitchen across the globe a boy dressed to kill seems to be slumming it. He looks completely out of place in his expensive garb, surrounded by the poor he is helping. An old woman scowls to herself. A young seemingly rich man such as this boy could never understand what these people go through on a daily basis, let alone sympathize. She believes he has no years on him, that his life has been nothing but easy and is only helping because he needs to for some school credit or another. She reaches the end of the line for food and the boy scoops soup into a bowl and hands it to her.

The cynical woman glances at his face as she grabs the bowl from him and her jaw goes slack. Though his face and body are very young, this boy's eyes are centuries old. The light gray-blue holds eons more than the woman could ever achieve. He asks if something is wrong, a kind smile on his face. She shakes her head no. He turns his smile to the next person in the line. He does not judge, he knows that they are not here of their own choosing, for the most part. A little girl, clinging to the arm of a woman worn down by life asks him if he is an angel, he's so nice and kind looking. He chuckles and tells her no, not quite.

He stays and doles out food for hours. The woman in charge tells him to go home, he's been there all day. He grudgingly accepts and leaves the line of still waiting people. As he leaves the building he sees a man sitting on a doorstep, too proud to go in the building. Calais, for that is the boy's name, drops a bill into the man's lap, telling him to buy himself a cup of coffee and warmer clothes if he is hell-bent on staying outside. The man gapes as he sees that the one in each corner of the bill is followed by two zeroes. Cal, for that is what most others call him, walks away feeling light as air.

He walks to an alley that is deserted and stretches his wings out, ready to head home. The little girl was close, he wasn't an angel, but the son of one.

In a bar on an island paradise, a couple of about twenty-five years of age buys a round of drinks for the entire bar. Both blonde, they bear slight resemblance to each other, most likely they are siblings. The boy, taller that the girl by a few inches, has a pile of bottles next to him on the bar-top and another in his hand. His eyes, however are alert. The girl has a cigarette dangling from her fingers ad a cloud of smoke surrounds her. They are the life of the party, so to speak.

It is well past midnight and the bartender yells last-call. The crowd is still ready to party, the siblings call out that the party moves to their place. They hand out directions and their address, as well as phone number to any who may get lost. The boy calls a few cabs for the less sober members of the crowd. They strut out the doors, the rest of the bar in their wake. The girl slides into the driver's seat of an orange and black Maserati, that looks brand new. The boy climbs into the passenger seat and they floor it, leaving skid marks as they fly towards their home.

It is made for partying. There is a stereo system that has at least one speaker in each room of the house, so that music can be heard everywhere. There are bars in numerous places all over the house. There is a large pool, despite the beach being less than a hundred yards away. In short, it reeks of money. The siblings glide out of the car and light up the house. It is ready for the coming party in seconds, and a moment later the first guests arrive. Far more people than those that had packed the bar show. More the merrier, the boy says.

The party last until after the sun rises, bodies lay slumped over any available surface, asleep and sure to have hangovers upon waking. The girl has a headache, which is strange. Soon it pounds in her skull so that it feels as if it really is splitting. She walks to her brother, looking drunk the way she walks, but she's had nothing to drink. The boy takes one look at his sister and yells that the party is over. The tone in his voice makes each of the partygoers scatter, even those sleeping are dragged to cars by their friends. Dad's coming she says.

Moments later a tall man, similar in looks to the boy appears seemingly out of nowhere. He is dressed entirely in black and has hair almost ivory, though it is not white by any standards. He smiles at the siblings who greet him in return. He tells the girl she can go lie down, and she leaves the room. Her headache subsides a little. A few minutes later her brother joins her. They both sigh in relief that the man in black is gone. They both, almost simultaneously, unveil their wings. The girl's are a deep scarlet and are aflame. The boy's are a dark aqua, like the ocean at night, and light moves on them as if the were underwater. Both sets are identical in shape and size.

They stare at nothing for a time. The girl's - who's name is Pho - headache finally leaves her. Her brother - who's name is Finn - notices and offers her a cigarette, which she gratefully lights.

In a college dorm room sit two girls, identical but for their eyes. They look around twenty-two years, and have strawberry hair and tan skin. One has eyes black as ink and wears her hair in a pony-tail. The other, with eyes of the palest blue, has her hair falling in waves about her shoulders. The sky is dark outside and they seem to have no other roommates.

The ponytail looks to her twin and begs, can she please let her wings out, Alex? Alex sighs and concedes. Leah happily throws out a pair of wings the color of lapis lazuli. They are double jointed and leathered, but have a section at the top that is feathered. They fade to white at the tips of the joints. Seeing her sister's wings out, Alex decided to unleash hers too. Wings almost identical to Leah's unfurl behind Alex. Where Leah's faded to white, Alex's fade to black.

Leah says how happy she is that the past few decades, nothing had needed their attention. Alex says she is glad that they hadn't had to run in the past century. Leah muses about how their dad is doing. Alex says that he is probably doing fine. She adds that she is also happy that they had not heard from their mother in a long time. Me too, says Leah. A knock sounds on their door and the two instantly retract their wings. Come in, calls Leah. A girl pokes her head in, she says there is someone downstairs asking for the two of them. The girl leaves them to their business.

Alex throws on a pair of shorts and the two head down the staircase until they reach the ground floor. Alex feels a sense of deepening anxiety at the thought of who is there to see them. As they reach the lobby the twins catch a glimpse of their visitor. Alex stops in her tracks, her expression says that she is not happy. Leah puts a smile on her face, and is less hesitant to greet their visitor.

A woman waits in the lobby. She stands tall on a pair of high-heeled boots. A pair of sunglasses lay perched on top of her head, and dark maroon curls fall down her back. She throws her arms wide upon seeing the twins. Girls, she cries, a smile on her face. Mommy's here!