On a dark and stormy night, the winds howling like a chorus of restless spirits, Vice President Paul Landon's calm was shattered by the sudden intrusion of soldiers into his luxurious residence, nestled in the heart of Washington D.C.'s elite neighborhood. The grand mansion, with its marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and lavish furnishings, was usually a symbol of power and prestige, but now it felt like a fragile sanctuary under siege.
"What in the world is happening?" Landon thundered, his voice echoing off the high ceilings as soldiers burst into his study, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. "Mr. Landon, we're relocating you to a safe house," General Patrick Bowers explained, his voice firm but cautious, his eyes scanning the room with a mix of urgency and disdain.
Paul Landon, now acting president in the absence of the missing president, slammed his fists on the ornate wooden desk, his face reddening with rage. "I don't care where you're taking me, you fool! Tell me what's going on!" General Bowers hesitated, his expression revealing a hint of disdain for the vice president. "To be frank, sir, the Arrysians have declared war on us, and their forces have already attacked several cities across the country."
Landon's face reddened further with rage. "That treacherous Dmitri! He'll pay for this betrayal, despite the treaty we signed twenty years ago." But when General Bowers urged him to evacuate to a safe location, Landon's expression turned defiant. "No, I won't hide away like a coward! I'll face this crisis head-on, like a true leader should!"
General Bowers' eyes widened in disbelief. "Sir, with all due respect, this is not a time for bravado. Your safety is our top priority."
Landon's jaw set in determination. "My safety is not more important than the safety of this nation. I will not cower in fear while our people are under attack. I will go to the Situation Room, gather our military leaders, and coordinate a response to this aggression. That is what a true leader does!" However, In the mean time General, mobilize our troops, alert our allies, and prepare for war. We're going to take down Arrysia."
—_—
"Tragedy struck last night as a devastating explosion rocked the Sage Bridge, resulting in the loss of 84 lives, with 32 individuals critically injured and 15 reported missing. An eyewitness who narrowly escaped the disaster reported seeing a missile strike the bridge. Avery reporting live from Eaton, for Penny Danvers and World News."
Rosita sighed, shaking her head. "What's happening to America, Lord have mercy... I don't feel safe anymore."
She gestured to the TV, where news of missile strikes and bombings in multiple cities filled the screen. "It's not just the US, Mitch. Africa, Europe, Asia... it's like the end of the world."
Rosa stood in the living room, surrounded by the familiar comforts of her home. The worn-out armchair, the faded couch, and the coffee table with its scratched surface all bore witness to countless family gatherings and lazy Sundays. The TV, an old behemoth with a cracked screen, hummed in the corner, broadcasting the dire news of the world outside.
Mitch, her 64-year-old husband, rubbed his belly, oblivious to her distress. "Honey, I'm starving. Can you make me something to eat?"
She glared at Mitchell, her husband of thirty years, who slumped on the couch, his belly spilling over the worn cushions. His friends, just as idle and graying, lounged beside him, their eyes fixed on the TV as if mesmerized by the endless stream of bad news.
Rosita's eyes rolled in frustration. "Really, Mitch? Now?"
"Yup"
"Listen, Mitchell Andres Giovanni, if you're hungry, make yourself something," Rosa said, her voice laced with exasperation. "I'm not going to wait on you and your friends hand and foot. It's like I'm your mama, for crying out loud!"
Mitchell sighed, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Aw, come on, Rosa. Can't you just make us some sandwiches?"
Rosa's frown deepened. "Sandwiches? You want sandwiches? You've been sitting on that couch all day, doing nothing but watching TV and eating chips. You're lucky I didn't throw you out with the trash!"
The room fell silent, except for the murmur of the TV and the creaks and groans of the old house. Mitchell's friends shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between Rosa and Mitchell. Finally, Mitchell spoke up, his voice laced with resignation. "Hey boys, the wife said no."
—_—
Metatron charged through the dark-red hollow valley, his sword slicing through the demonic horde. The air was thick with the stench of brimstone and death. The valley resembled a human version of Mars - barren, desolate, and unforgiving.
As he beheaded another demon, a telepathic call pierced his mind. "Metatron, you are summoned to the Council of Angels."
He growled in frustration, "Not now!"
But the call persisted, "Metatron, do not ignore the Council's summons. Your presence is required."
With a final swing of his sword, he vanished from the valley and reappeared in the Council Chamber of the Golden City. The elder angels looked up at him, their eyes expectant.
Metatron frowned, unhappy about being summoned from the battlefield where he had been annihilating demons. He enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, the screams of horror as he beheaded them, and the realization that they would cease to exist - proof that Lucifer had lied about their invincibility.
"Why am I here?" Metatron asked, his tone sharp.
Saraquiel raised her cold blue eyes to his. "You weren't the only one summoned, brother."
Metatron corrected himself, "Do not waste my time, sister. Why are we here?"
Zadkiel intervened, "Sit down, Metatron."
Metatron sat on his designated seat, his name inscribed on it. He listened half-heartedly as Ishael rambled on, unsure what he was talking about and not caring.
Ishael finally got to the point, "She's accused of conspiring with demons, working with Samael and Beelzebub, and planning World War III, which would destroy all humanity."
Metatron protested, his anger righteous, "You can't be serious! I know Caz would never do such a thing!"
Tediel, an elder in the Golden City, spoke up, "Azrael must be stopped. She's causing destruction and imbalance on Earth. I believe she has fallen."
Metatron's anger intensified, "That's impossible!"
"So was Samael, and you vouched for him too!" Famiel, another elder, implied, "And look how that turned out."
Metatron yelled, "You can't run a trial without her present! I demand a fair trial!"
Uzaron, an angel of his order, countered, "We've already decided. Castiel will be punished according to Enochian law."
The other angelic elders nodded in agreement.
Metatron spread his wings and flew out, leaving the sanctuary behind, his dark skin a testament to his anger and resignation. "I wash my hands of this!"