She felt her own existence. Her name was Lola. She had no sense of time, but she could understand that before her lay a worn-out playground. The slides and play structures were rusted, and wild grass had twisted around them. She was lying among the yellowed blades of grass. It was autumn. The wind occasionally ruffled the ground, stirring the brittle stems. From the moment she sensed her existence, the sound of a plastic bag dancing in the wind had echoed in her ears. The bag was tangled in the crooked metal fence a little further away, and with each gust of wind, it whispered to Lola:

  "You exist."

  Lola didn’t know if she was supposed to do something. Could she even do anything? Nothing gave her the slightest motivation. She liked this state of being — a quiet existence. She and the plastic bag had stability. Would it last forever? Until that night, Lola wasn’t sure.

  That night, the wind turned against her. The plastic bag’s dance became a battle, and its gentle song transformed into a scream. The rusty fence could no longer hold it. The bag broke free and was carried away, and Lola never heard its voice again. The voice she could no longer hear left her with a single lingering thought:

  "Nothing stays the same."

  A wave of anxiety crept into Lola. The seed of doubt had been sown. For the first time, she began to sense the passage of time. It built slowly, and her awareness sharpened, until one day, a bird’s dropping landed directly on her face.

  Lola sat up abruptly. She was filthy. The crow responsible for the offense flapped its wings and landed nearby, laughing.

  "Why did you do that?" Lola asked, wiping at her face.

  The crow tilted its head. "No particular reason. I usually do things like this. Maybe if I’d known you existed, it wouldn’t have happened."

  "But I know I exist."

  "Sure," the crow replied, "but until you leave a mark on your surroundings, you don’t exist to others."

  "How do I do that?"

  "For a start, maybe try moving."

  Lola wobbled as she attempted to stand. She took a few shaky steps. Her pace quickened, her balance uncertain, until she stumbled against the base of a park bench. She gripped it tightly, turning to face the crow.

  "Well? Have I left enough of a mark now?"

  The crow cawed. "Yeah, I can definitely feel your presence more now than when I crapped on you."

  Lola frowned. "And what do I look like to you?"

  The crow gave her a long, examining gaze. "You're a doll. A rag doll. Alive. My guess? Some kid left you here years ago."

  Lola felt some new form of satisfaction. She had a shape, an identity. Eager to explore her existence further, she walked on. The rusted playground greeted her with its silence. She approached the old swings. One chain had snapped, leaving the swing dangling crookedly. Lola climbed onto it, using the broken chain for support. She swayed gently.

  "Can you dislike someone’s existence?" she asked.

  The crow paused. "Actually, I know someone like that. Hates everything. If you want to meet him, follow me."

  Lola tottered after the crow, who flew from perch to perch, waiting for her to catch up. They passed abandoned buildings until they reached a patch of overgrown land. A crumbling wooden fence encircled it.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "Going any further is dangerous," the crow warned.

  A faint hum filled the air. A plane engine in the distance. They ignored it.

  "Why dangerous?" Lola asked.

  The hum grew louder. The crow’s feathers bristled. "There’s a beast. A wild creature named Barnabas who—"

  But before he could finish, the crow snapped his head toward the sky.

  "Gods help us. It’s him. Run!"

  Lola turned to see an old crop-duster plane descending toward them, barely holding itself aloft. Smoke sputtered from its engines. Thick green gas poured from its tail. The crow shot into the air, flapping desperately.

  The plane began to fire. But not bullets. Corn kernels rained down like projectiles, thudding into the earth around Lola. She crouched, covering her head. The plane roared above her, trailing its poisonous mist. The green haze closed in, choking the air. Lola clasped her hands over her mouth.

  Through the fog, she saw the crow. He spiraled down, struggling to fly. The gas had weakened him. He crashed to the ground. Lola ran to him, her chest tight. The crow had been hit.

  Lola covered her mouth with one hand and used the other to drag Crow across the ground toward a pile of scrap metal. They hid behind a metal sheet. Crow was coughing, blood flowing from his wing, staining Lola’s hand as well.

  "Don't breathe," Lola whispered. "You'll get poisoned."

  Crow struggled to suppress his coughing and replied, "I'm done for. The bleeding won’t stop, and I’ve inhaled too much toxic gas. But you need to get out of here. Go to the Headquarters."

  Lola's heart ached. Right before her eyes, another current was being cut off. She fought back her tears and said, "But I can't leave you here."

  "Yes, you can. If you stay, you won’t live to take revenge on that wretched Barnabas."

  Lola’s decision became harder with every second. Crow’s coughing grew worse, and she, too, felt a burning sensation in her throat. She pressed her arm against her mouth, trying to suppress her thoughts, but they struck her like a train. It hurt, pushing her away from there, forcing her to run.

  Tears streamed down her face as her legs moved on their own, carrying her away from the dying Crow—the first talking one she had ever communicated with.

  Beyond the fenced thicket, an old water tower stood tall. At its top, a flag bearing the symbol of a black feather waved in the wind.

  Exhausted and realizing the immediate danger had passed, Lola stopped and bent over to catch her breath. Then, she looked up at the tower. The headquarters was right there, and several crows were circling it.

  Lola made her way to the concrete platform at the base of the tower and leaped onto it. She began climbing the ladder, jumping from rung to rung, gripping the metal bars tightly as she ascended.

  Two crows swooped down, circling her in flight. They wore green military uniforms and helmets of the same color.

  "You’ve entered a military zone," one of them said. "State your status."

  Lola held up her bloodstained hand and declared, "I’m on your side. I’m here to avenge one of your fallen comrades against Barnabas."

  The second crow nodded. "Understood. Enter the tank and report to the commander for your assignment."

  The crows soared up toward the tower’s roof while Lola reached the tank’s balcony. She walked around it, surveying the land below.

  On one side stretched a vast plain, and on the other, she could see the ruins of buildings and an abandoned park where she had first realized her existence. Beside the plain lay a fenced-off field, overgrown with wild plants. In some areas, traces of plowing were visible. A house stood near the field, its walls crumbling with age.

  The sound of an aircraft drew her attention to a distant part of the abandoned thicket. A crop-duster plane flew low, spraying only within the fenced area. That was why the water tower—and Lola herself—remained safe.

  A crack in the water tank’s side opened, and a crow emerged, saluting.

  On the roof, a squad of crows stood in formation. Upon seeing Lola, they pulled up the black masks that had been hanging from their necks. The masks covered their beaks with a metal-bladed mold, featuring perforated white panels on the sides, likely to protect them from the plane’s toxic gases. Above the mask, tight-fitting goggles shielded their eyes. They also wore green combat uniforms and the same military helmets.

  At a signal from the crow who had stepped out of the tank, the entire squad took flight, charging toward the aircraft.

  The plane retaliated, firing kernels of corn. The crows scattered in midair, but none could land a blow with their masked beaks.

  The aircraft and the crow soldiers veered apart, preparing for another clash.

  From the water tower’s balcony, Lola watched it all unfold.

  Then, she witnessed it—a powerful, well-aimed strike from one of the crows against the plane’s body. The impact was so strong that the crow’s mask was torn from his face.

  Exposed to the poisonous fumes, the crow struggled, coughing and flapping his wings as he searched for an escape route.

  Suddenly, the plane emerged from a thick cloud of gas, its spinning propeller shooting corn bullets straight at the crow.

  From a distance, Lola saw him fall, swallowed by the green smoke.

  Two other crows swooped down, lowering their altitude to retrieve their fallen comrade.

  Lola clenched her fist.

  She was an avenger now.