They called us angels

Imagine that an advanced species decides to adopt humanity as if we were their younger siblings. They educate them, protect them, forgive them, even when they’re attacked for no reason. For them, it’s an act of patience, a sacrifice, for the greater good.

But the closer they get, the more they learn. And over time they discover a force as ancient as the universe itself: love in the hand. Not an idealized love, but an offering, loyal and protective.

And when that love is betrayed, the angels who once cared for humanity realize their mistake—too late. Are you interested? Then you’ll love the following story.

⸻ “Ah, you couldn’t sleep again, son.” Sighed the father, looking at his little son, shaking his feathery head vigorously, pulling the blanket up to his eyes—what could he do? How could he make his son sleep without fear of what lurks in the dark? Ah, he already knew.

“Tell me, have I ever told you the story of how we met humanity and what became of them?” The energetic nodding of his head indicated that he hadn’t. “Do you want to hear the story?” he asked, looking at the little that was visible of his son’s face. A strange chirp came from his beak, and his eyes fixed on him seemed to say yes, so he began. “Very well, my son, listen carefully.” The humans were a relatively young species when we first encountered them. They were doing everything they could to avoid what they called World War III—a warlike species in every sense, striving with all their might to change.

What they considered their longest period of peace, though marked by small conflicts here and there, was worse than any war we had had, lived, or witnessed across the galaxy. The son’s eyes opened in disbelief, the father smiled and stroked his head with his wing. We were an ancient species, having traveled the stars for hundreds of millennia; we were wise and very patient.

Over time, we managed to guide them toward what they called salvation. When we met, we did not care that they had killed some of our ambassadors, nor were we upset by the hundreds of millions who doubted our intentions, who hated us or wished to harm us or kill us. We didn’t mind that they killed hundreds of our colonists on their planet, after their newly formed world government invited us to join them.

We weren’t even bothered when some of their extremists crashed a spacecraft into one of our cities, killing millions of us. The feathers on the son’s head began to tremble; he looked at his father in fear and pulled the blanket up a bit more. The father smiled, stroked his head with his wing again to calm him, and continued.

“They were young and ignorant; they didn’t know any better. Every time they attacked, we didn’t respond. We could have, but we only showed kindness and kept guiding them. They seemed incapable of understanding how and why we bore all that, but our efforts bore fruit, as their aggressions and hatred toward us began to melt away until nothing remained but gratitude.

In less than a decade, they came to love us—‘us,’ a concept we ourselves began to grasp slowly after meeting them. It’s something very powerful, capable of being incredibly beautiful or far more terrifying than what they called war.” The son looked confused at what his father was talking about. The father laughed and thought that was exactly his reaction at the time, but his son would understand it one day.

Maybe I wasn’t so good at bedtime stories. They called the period after meeting us the Second Avenue. By focusing all their minds together, they achieved incredible things, things that even surprised an ancient species like ours.

It took them just three years, with our help, to colonize the rest of their solar system and begin terraforming their planets and some moons. After a decade, they had already expanded to other systems. We were amazed by their willingness to leave the familiar behind and venture into the unknown.

Every problem they faced left us with a new technological wonder. Within two or three decades, they had expanded more than our species would have in its first millennium. The son had calmed down a bit and began to listen more intently; the father, relieved, continued the story.

Ah! How proud we were of them. Normally it takes at least hundreds of years for a new species to be introduced into the galactic community after first contact, but we didn’t even hesitate—they would fit in there.

Not after all the wonder they’d shown us. We were the only species they had known until then; our controlled systems were quite far from the galaxy’s center, and they even further still. They were eager to meet all their new friends, and we shared in that happiness with them.

The father noticed all of his son’s eyes fixed on his lips and felt very satisfied. With everything humanity was doing, the media had to be present to record it and show it to all of mankind. So it was no surprise that along with their ambassador came a camera crew—me and my five‑year‑old daughter.

During the time it took to travel to the galaxy’s center, where the meeting was held, humanity began to love my daughter. She was young and innocent and very youthful. Somehow it seemed to me that they were more excited about her than about the galactic summit.

They called her our little angel—whatever she did, the camera was always pointed at her, filming every move. I didn’t mind; I even felt proud. The blanket slowly slid down, revealing the boy’s full face; the fear was gone and he was listening to the story.

The father was glad for that and continued. The galactic summit happens every 6,?23 of their years. It was a place where hundreds of species gathered, along with an endless cycle of ceremonies that had formed over hundreds of millennia.

They talked about all kinds of events, politics, trade, and of course, new races in the galactic community. In retrospect, I probably should’ve told them about the ceremonies—they might have seemed strange. To us, they were normal, so I didn’t think about it; I should’ve.

The father’s face grew somber, but he didn’t stop speaking. When we arrived, the ambassador and the camera crew were awestruck by all the species present there. Some had been represented almost exactly in their science‑fiction media, others they couldn’t have even imagined.

Everyone marvelled in front of their screens; there was so much to absorb, so much to see. My daughter assumed the role of tour guide, showing them everything and explaining, in her innocent and child-like way. They worshipped and adored her even more.

The father’s chest swelled with pride, but the son noticed a sadness in his eyes as the story unfolded. After the first three days of open talks and preliminary meetings before the real galactic summit, the ceremony began. Representatives from all species were inside the enormous assembly hall.

A roll call was made of each species present. Their envoy and the recording crew were right there. They beamed with honor when they were allowed to formally declare, for the first time, that humanity was officially joining the galactic community as newcomers.

A slight smile appeared on the father’s face. The leaders of the galactic meeting were the “Screul,” a warrior race that had dominated the galaxy. They more or less looked like humanoid raptors, with many spider-like eyes and large wings, like those of a bat‑dragon.

It was custom, for hundreds of millennia, that one of the member species would offer a sacrifice before the leaders of the galactic meeting to show our respect and for them to demonstrate their dominance. This time the role fell to our species. My daughter knew what was expected of her.

She hugged me and then embraced the humans. She spread and shook all her wings, then walked toward the Screul with her tiny steps. My heart grew heavy, but I knew what was expected of me, and so did she.

It had always been that way. She stopped a few steps from the Screul. The hall fell silent; no sound was made.

Words grew slow and heavy until the father halted, sorrow in his eyes. But then he continues. The Screul saw her step forward.

His clawed hand shot out, ripping open her body from the stomach upward, cutting out her heart and killing her instantly. It was a merciful death, I was relatively grateful; it was like at all the previous galactic meetings, except for them. The face of the human ambassador turned red, covered in tense wrinkles, and he let out a scream so loud, it almost killed me.

He lunged forward and punched the Screul, whose nose exploded, sending him backward before he could understand what had happened. More punches—they hit him again and again. When the guards came to drag the Screul away, he was nothing but an unrecognizable flat mass, covered in blood.

They also arrested the camera crew who tried to help the ambassador. The galactic community was shaken, unable to believe what had occurred. When they took away the ambassador, he spoke to me as he passed by: “Don’t worry, she’ll be avenged.” His eyes seemed to shine, and his face hardly resembled what’s normally human—half fear. At that moment I didn’t understand it, but now I do.

The whole galaxy does. The father looked at his son and smiled. The son already knew what had happened to his sister, but never with so much detail.

After the incident, the Screul came to us to ask where the humans lived, intending to send a diplomat to discuss reparations for what had occurred. Not knowing what to do, we simply said nothing. Then, about two weeks later, a diplomatic ship from the Screul, with military escort, arrived in their home system—and never was heard from again.

A tired smile appeared on the father’s face as he shook his head. All of humanity had seen the galactic summit—no debates or polls were needed afterward. Everyone knew what had to be done.

The decades of peace were quickly forgotten, and their marvelous inventions became relentless machines of war and pure destruction. Every system where only Screul lived, their sun became a supernova. Their planets were cleansed of life by atomic explosions; their fleets were destroyed with faster‑than‑light engines installed on asteroids with surgical precision.

Each of them was exterminated by specialized strike teams. The race that had ruled the galaxy for thousands of millennia ceased to exist in just one year. All because of a little girl.

The son’s eyes filled with wonder; his beak opened and closed but no sound came out. “Ah! I haven’t yet told you how they loved us—they humanishly called us angels, the Screul they called demons—it seems they knew what to do. Since then no more sacrifices have occurred; the humans didn’t want any more, nor did they need them to demonstrate dominance.

Everyone understood.” “Son, tomorrow is your fifth birthday, and you’re still afraid of monsters under the bed. Believe me, you don’t need to be afraid.” “They are far more frightened of you—because if they ever dare to harm you, humanity will come for them.” “Now, sleep soundly.” The father stroked his son’s head with his wing one last time, turned off the light, and left the room. The son didn’t fully understand what his father had told him, but he knew one thing.

He was safe—and that was all that mattered. After his father left him to sleep, the son was left alone with his thoughts, reliving the events of the past once more. The humans called the Screul demons, but from what he could understand of their stories, THEY looked far more like demons than the Screul themselves.

But that was a thought he would never dare to voice. He even felt grateful to the Screul, because if they hadn’t dominated him for so long, his species would never have developed such patience; maybe they would have been a bit more aggressive and probably would have retaliated after the loss of their ambassadors. You wouldn’t even want to imagine what would have happened if they had turned on humanity against him.

Whatever happens, they must stay as his angels—so that they don’t turn into his demons.

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