Young Writers Society

"Now you see the whole picture, prophets," the old man whispered, his voice shaky and, for the first time since they were all summoned there, he sounded tired.

"Now, according to my calculations, you all have roughly... fifty days before Nether Ressurects. And I must make myself extremely clear. You must not let that happen. Nether must die."

Something in the atmosphere of the room shifted, and the old man glanced to nothing in particular, like he was lost in thought, or heard something they all couldn't. "Ah, it's time. I had hoped to steal a bit more time, but I fear Aether has spared me all the time she could. With this, I leave the world and it's future to you six. Find the others. Lead the charge--"

Before he could continue, they were all snapped back to their physical bodies. Railyn and the others watched as the scimitar finished its journey through the old man's body and back out, and he fell to the floor in a clumped pile of blood and cloth. They were then, in the blink of Railyn's eye, back in the cave.

The night after she got the assignment for Operation: Leviathan Rising, Sarah Stanfield received additional instructions from Commander Furia, via a disposable holo-letter that was left under her doormat, with no return address or any outside markings of any kind. It was only a simple manilla envelope, but there was nothing simple about what was inside. At this point, though, Sarah was used to Furia's methods of communicating. Furia did switch it up every so often, but not only were the tell-tale signs telling, but even the switch ups became noticeable after a period of time.

"Agent Arsenal," Furia's voice crackled through the holo-letter. What a piece of junk. And Sarah rolled her eyes at Furia's mention of her operative name. Yeah, yeah, she got it, security reasons or whatever. "For Operation: Leviathan Rising, I'm appointing you as Squad Leader. And as Squad Leader, you'll receive additional instructions and expectations..."

The call time was five in the morning, and suddenly Susan was reminded why she quit her previous job as a mail lady. She hated mornings. Getting up at three in the morning was her own personal hell, and she showed up at the checkpoint with nothing less than three coffees in her system and one in her hand, which she refused to relinquish as they pulled the hood over her head to move her to the classified location, or, well, probably one of many classified locations before she met up with her squad. She was content with begrudgingly sipping her coffee through the fabric of the mask rather than dumping it out. The ride was bumpy and long, and on more than one occasion, she spilled the coffee on herself more than she drank it.