Cellbit walks. And walks. He hears his hollow footfalls, echoing off of dead buildings. Gravel cuts his swollen feet, oil leaking into his wounds. His wings drag dully through the oily, muddy muck, and weigh him down. He hears his master talk to another, and his leash goes taunt, and he stops. They start walking again, and he feels something brush by his hand. ..another hand..? ..an angel. The first he's ever felt. Then, it's gone.