The Guardian

“Harry Styles, take a seat,” a woman in a dress suit spoke, sat at the end of a lengthy dining table, with seemingly enough room for over twenty. Now, the Divinity is possibly not how you imagined it. Just like you wouldn’t imagine an angel such as myself to be dressed in leather and skipping school and just like you wouldn’t imagine the guards to be dressed like something ripped off the film ‘Men in Black’, the Divinity was a being.
I did as I was told and sat as far away that I could from her, fiddling with my thumbs.
“I presume you know why you are here?” She asked, more of a rhetorical question. Her attention seemed to be based on the paperwork she filled in, scattered all over the table, a very ‘Godly’ thing to be taking part in.
I nodded and cleared my throat, “I ate from the tree?”
“Among with many others, Mr. Styles, yes.”
“Others?”
“It’s hardly a forbidden tree, Harry, just frowned upon. That is certainly not the reason you are here. Like always, you have an assignment.” I sighed in relief and discontent. I wasn’t to be banished from the gardens, but I was to have yet another assignment of completing chores that the good for nothing guards wouldn’t do. Papers were pushed to my end of the table, stopping directly in front of me. On the front page, a cliché red stamp marked ‘classified’ over the sheet. As I turned to the second page, a picture of a girl filled every corner of the sheet. I looked up to the Divinity and back down to the sheet of paper, she spoke up. “Jessica Whitmore recently moved to Ireland. Your assignment? Protect the girl.”