Mick Davies loved this country's weather.
It was the very opposite of Chesire's drab, gloomy, rainy climate. He was actually going to complain about it once they've landed, but found himself mesmerized by the shine of the sun.
In fact, that urged him to go on vacation to Miami because he heard that the weather there was even nicer.
The food was splendid, too. From exotic cuisine from the Caribbean to the most back-mountain snacks from the redneck woods of Alabama, San Diego's platter was more than enough to let him fill his stomach.
Of course, England had its fair share of exotic food too, but he chalked up the exuberance to being out of the country and away from the grapes of the Men of Letters.
The sights to be seen made up for the rude tourists that illegally threatened to expel him from 'their' country and return him to his own.
There were also other kinds of sight, one that was passing by him at this moment.
"Sandra, is that what they call a thong?" Mick asked, quite scholarly.
Sandra scoffed for the umpteenth time, glaring at him for a moment before returning to her laptop. She had been working hard in the past month, eager to note and compare the monsters and cryptids held within the land.
Although they were ordered to stay in the area, their security expert, Robert, was more than grateful enough to be ordered to capture a few American werewolves and vampires.
Under the orders of the Elders, Mick was assigned Sandra Ong, a cryptologist and weapons technicians from the Men of Letters' Cellular Enucleation Division, and Robert O' Learry, a field agent and Legacy Scottish hunter with twenty years of field experience.
Although the Eye of Akatosh, the organization's intelligence department, showed no signs of any impending calamity or danger within their mission, the Greythorne's rather violent tendencies over the century caused the Elders to send an elite agent with him for protection.
"It's been almost a month, Sandra. Don't you think he's either dead or he's never been here from the get-go?" He asked the technician.
She jabbed a paper straw at his chest. "It doesn't matter. As long as he doesn't show up, we won't show up. That was your plan."
"It's a damn good one, too. But from the moment we assessed the manor from afar, we found no traces of supernatural activity. Well, except for the witch and the hunters and the psychics." Mick counted off.
A series of dull thuds resounded behind them, causing both to seize up and up their guards before the metal door banged open. A middle-aged man with graying hair and muscular features revealed himself to the two, lowering their guard for a brief moment before looking at him with curiosity.
"I got a hit from AMRI. Scaling past Web 3," He reported with a gruff voice, motioning for them to follow him upstairs. "Get your gear!"
Like a well-oiled and well-trained machine, both Sandra and Mick moved upstairs with Robert and entered their studio apartment, where they had been staying for almost a month and a half. They were initially entrenched in a five-star hotel, but found that doing so would invite more scrutiny to their purpose here.
After all, they were not the only supernatural organization in the world, and broadcasting they were here would be detrimental to their mission.
That was why it was decided that it would be best to rent an apartment using fake IDs and forged documents. Easy enough to do with Sandra Ong under his command.
"Sandra, check the reading. Robert, take the generator out of the lockbox." Mick began changing into a leather armor engraved with esoteric sigils capable of defending against an onslaught of angel attacks.
"What's the code?" Robert asked.
"Shit. Scales are increasing!" Warned Sandra as she watched the AMRI buzz like a horde of wasps.
The Atmospheric Misalignment Radar Imaging was a device used to predict and locate cosmic interference within Earth, powered by a hundred satellites owned and operated by the Men of Letters and its subsidiary companies. Its sole purpose was to isolate and capture images of the atmosphere within the satellite's sphere of influence. Each image was then compiled, compared, and checked in real time for any abnormal anomalies using a predictive algorithm created by an Elder who died from erotic asphyxiation.
If any were to be found, it would then be analyzed for signs of either demonic and angelic activities within what its creator calls a "web of influence". Each string of web within the web of influence was an exponential threat to the safety of the world. That was why it always almost turned on and under the watch of every field agent in the world.
A first web, or Web 1, was a sign of a demonic omen in or around the web of influence. It could be either a demon passing through or an unnaturally large legion of ghosts which could create a drop of temperature within a massive area.
The third, or Web 3, however, was vastly different that the first two. It meant that there was a highly possible chance of an angelic entity or a powerful demon descending or ascending onto Earth and using its powers to affect reality. Such an act could cause unforeseen damage to the world and its denizen and the protocols in place effectively mandates that any agents of the Men of Letters within the web of influence do what they can to stall or stop the influence from increasing.
"Uh, Mick…" Sandara kept bugging him as he input the code on the lockbox.
"What is it?" He asked, annoyed at being interrupted.
"I just got a call from Headquarters," She said, face pale and hands trembling. "We got a Web 5 in Hawaii. Casualties are up to seven thousand and still rising."
●●●Azazel's Base●●●
Dark clouds veered over the horizon of a small town, along with were rolling thunders and pillars of lightning that threatened to destroy any living matter that gets caught up in its webs.
What had once been a sanctuary for peace, justice, and the American way was now a den of sniveling, bloodthirsty, chaotic demons. All one hundred seventy-four citizens of this town were spread out evenly six feet under the ground, whereupon their restless spirit would witness history in the making.
A rogue dark cloud went off course as it crashed into the ground, revealing the smoking-hot form of Meg, a demon under Azazel's employ. Her meat puppet's face and torso were burned down to its bone, sloughing off at the softest touch.
She gazed around the town with utter contempt in her eyes before trudging towards her master.
Unlike Dagon, Azazel employed only demons in his personal army. Partly to monopolize the limited amount of demons in the surrounding continent, but also because the Prince of Hell just felt like it.
Frankly, to Meg, most of her father's decision was based on a whim. Meg felt that most of her father's decisions were seemingly based on a whim. Everything in service of their ultimate master.
She needed to inform her master of his sibling's fate before her meat puppet succumbed to her injuries. Although she had left the moment the angels began their attack on the monsters on the island, the most powerful of them still noticed her malevolent presence.
The angel had landed an attack on her and the bastard's grace was raining destruction upon her meat puppet and, soon enough, her corrupted soul.
She arrived before the saloon where two of Azazel's highest ranking demons were guarding the swinging double doors. She glared past them as they silently mocked her appearance and entered the establishment with haste.
Her eyes adjusted to the light indoors, whereupon the sight caught her in surprise. Next to Azazel was a well-renowned demon, even under the scope of the Prince of Hell and extinct Knights of Hell.
Meg dropped to the ground, kneeling to both her masters. "Lord Azazel, Lord Alistair!"
"Oh… Meg?" Alistair, Hell's Grand Torturer, greeted.
"What happened to you?" Asked Azazel with a light chuckle, downing his glass full of blood.
A habit he picked up during his years-long desecration of an ancient vampire clan in the Baltics. It had caused quite a stir in the Old World, calling it the Last Plague in the Baltic Region.
Meg forced herself to stand up, feeling her meat puppet's bone crack under the might of the two demonic powerhouses' mere presence. "Lord Dagon's forces–"
"Why do you think I'm here, dear?" Alistair asked rhetorically. "Although her death has no bearing on the grand plan, she was still our lord's first child…"
"And my sibling." Azazel said with venom in his tone.
Alistair nodded. "As such, we will take this as the dove's declaration of war."
"What does that mean?" She asked.
"It means, my dear, that after we break the first seal," Alistair grinned as his eyes clouded. "We kill all the angels on Earth!"