Large spacious office. A gray-haired man sits at the table and writes something. Voice behind the scene:
"You were not beautiful. But exactly what I intended for you. Accurate, strong, powerful, as far as feminine nature allowed. You had very strong hands. Which easily crunched the cervical vertebrae of people you disliked."
People called you "Technogirl".
You did not know about the great power inherent in your nature. Technical. Mechanical cyber power.
I created you to fight the dark knight, my illegitimate son. People called him "Omen".
It was the product of a dark matter called the Black Apple. Or Black Apple.
In my dreams, you often appeared to me even before you were born. Small, freckled, naive.
When you were born and we were driving from a hospital in the suburbs of Odessa, you laughed all the way, even though you were very small. Probably, this is how a person who was born to defeat evil should be.
It's amazing that everyone who has ever come into contact with you will later say that you carried the pure energy of the sun within you. Maybe because of the atomic battery that replaced your heart, maybe because of the clear and dazzling smile, but you really were 100% solar.
True, the battle that lay ahead for you when you become an adult was not nearly as sunny as your smile. The OMEN was terribly dangerous. In his arsenal were hypocrisy, cunning, deceit, while in yours only: goodness, sincerity and charm.
You had to fight with virtue, his lack of it.
And I knew that he would win. This world is not for kind people who are burdened by injustice. This world is for the dark knights, for those who buy and sell. I could not forgive myself for condemning you to death, condemning you to defeat, condemning you to all this without the right to choose. Just because you are my daughter. Just because I have no one but you and could not have. And I could not fight with anyone but you.
I couldn't fight the darkness. I was just the Absolute. And you – you were fragile, tender and strong at the same time. Vulnerable, bright, cynical when it comes to difficult choices. I idolized you. Sent to death. I adored, and let go into this world without the right to choose. Forgive me. Daughter. Your dad, your creator. Architect Demyan Shailov. "
The person finishes writing, carefully seals the letter, gets up, puts on his jacket, goes outside, and tosses the envelope into the mailbox. After that, turning, he looks at his house, then lifts his head to the sky:
Your mission will soon be completed, daughter.
Tona: Let go!
Anton: I won't let go!
Tona: Let go!
She almost shouted it.
Another boy from his brother's company grabbed her other hand and began to twist it. – Go to hell, moron! – Tona's face was distorted by a mask of disgust.
Brother smirked insolently: Let's see how you get out this time, you stupid chicken! – Anton slightly tickled Tona, after which, despite the pain, she began to laugh.
Tona: Antoshka! How many times have I said?
Torment someone else! I'm tired of your games! They are stupid, you know?
Anton chuckled and released her hand.
Tona angrily glanced at Oleg, her brother's friend, who was still holding her.
Tona: And he? she snapped.
Anton busily folded his hands in a protective pose, portraying either the director of the company, or the head teacher of their school.
