[b]Prologue[/b] The year 2015 was a good year for humanity. Stock market prices were rising, world economy was reemerging from a crisis and recent conflicts in eastern Europe were ebbing away. The United Nations signed fresh charters of peace with newly established countries and three new species of snakes were discovered in the rainforests of Uganda. It was a truly good year for humanity in every aspect. Until the Hatching. On September 1., 2015, in a remote part of Johannesburg, South Africa, an egg, approximately the size of an ostriches egg, was found seemingly lying abandoned on a seat at a hardly commuted train station. The only remarkable things about the egg were its texture that seemed knobbed and gnarled like that of an old tree and its peculiar, bilious green color. After a short news flash on a local TV station, the egg was left where it was to be whatever it wanted to be. Three weeks later, Johannesburg had disappeared from the world map. Another two weeks later, humanity was at war and the world as we know it had ended. --- [Center][b]~The Hatching~[/b] [b][i]We are still here[/i][/b] [img]http://i.imgur.com/mxDvLD8.jpg[/img][/Center] 2031 AD. The world is a different place. Sixteen years after the demonspawn had first emerged into our world, humanity is struggling to hold its ground against the unlikely invaders. The event that would come to be known simply as “The Hatching” was just the first of many to come. Shanghai, Cardiff, Malmo, Las Vegas, only to name the first ones to go. The eggs didn’t appear choosy where they spawned. It is unknown where they come from and what happens at a hatching. All that would be left some weeks after a sighting would be radio silence and a new domain of the demonspawn. In this humanity’s darkest hour, the gods returned. --- [Center][b]Chapter One[/b] [I]Rookies[/I][/Center] [i]The shrilling sound of an alarm clock going off was quickly silenced by the large hand coming down on it a little too hard. Heavy eyes blinked between half closed lids at the glowing neon. 6:30. Way too early to get up. John Johnson closed his eyes again turned his back, groaning as the springs beneath him squeaked in a deafening manner to his hungover mind. Trying to get back to sleep, some part of his drowsy consciousness attempted to discern the reason the alarm had gone off. It hadn't gone off in years. After a few minutes of blissful ignorance, realization came. The yellow spit in the sink was slowly sent down the drain as cold water poured over it. Stubble scratched against rough hands as the freezing fluid splashed on a wrinkled face. Scrubbing strongly as if to rub away the piercing headache, the man bent over resting his hands on the cold ceramic and sighed. Dim light flickered from the broken light bulb and sent fractured shadows through the small bathroom. As John raised his head, pale grey eyes stared back at him. They wandered over an old man's face. Furrowed brows. Stray strands of once black hair falling greasily over a high forehead. A large nose above tightened brittle lips. Broad chin, once handsome. Was a man in his early 30s supposed to have grey hair? A sudden jolt of anger flashed through him as he stared at the visage of an elderly that wasn't supposed to be his own. A swiss army knife in his hands, the man started scratching away on his cheeks as if it could reclaim some of the lost dignity. Red drips joined the spit. He was out of shape. Once you were in the service, you learned to shave with anything you've got. When all hell breaks loose around you and your worst nightmares blow green fire over any barricade you might've built and slice open your friends next to you, you're happy about every night you can spend in a hole whimpering and shaving. Looking at the white cross in the mirror rocking up and down he wondered briefly if they still made those. Probably not. Geneva fell a few years back. That's when anything that had remained of the Red Cross ceased to exist. After that, the vigils took it upon them to be the merciful Samaritans. Of course they sucked. Like they sucked at everything. More red dots landed painted the drain. He couldn't wait to get back to them. The suit made things better. So did shaving his head to the short ten centimeter cut he had back then. He could even act as if the grey strands were fashionable. Tightening his tie in front of the mirror John remembered the last thing to do before leaving. The way there was short. There was only one room apart from the toilet and it was bedroom and kitchen at the same time. John never needed more. For the second time today the bed squeaked as the man lowered his weight onto it. Had he put on some pounds lately? Brushing the thought aside, a grip at the box beneath the mattress and a pulling motion revealed an elongated dusty box. A scrapping sound was heard and for the first time today John's mouth twisted into something faintly resembling a smile. [b]"Hello old friend"[/b][/i] --- [Center][img]http://i.imgur.com/GbTnDkj.jpg[/img][/Center] The morning sunlight was flushing through the spacious main hall of Vigil Headquarters. Circular as it was, the large pillars didn't block the view in any way and the impressive flights of stairs to either side leading up to the higher levels were populated by countless members of the order bustling about. The marble plated floor echoed any steps taken on them and rushed conversations could be heard everywhere. At one side of the main hall, right next to a pillar, there was a wooden two sided door. The door was beautifully ornamented, and on the pillar next to it there was a hastily drawn picture of a blue arrow that degraded the clean marble stone and pointed towards said door. Behind the door there lay a room. To anyone daring to enter it would appear to be a waiting room. Neat, some rugged carpets on the floor, paintings on the walls and plants in the corners. Chairs and sofas arranged for comfort, and a single spacious desk standing opposite to the door, with countless paper, pamphlets and dossiers scattered across it. The room was nice, quiet. Yet the atmosphere seemed a bit forlorn, as if the room had been neatly decorated and then left there, forgotten to the ones who prepared it. It was in this waiting room that the champions this story will tell of were told to gather. No matter how they were first contacted by the vigilantes, be it a phone call, a letter, or a courier in person, they were all pointed towards this waiting room to arrive and await further instructions at precisely 9 am. The vigilantes were supposedly a punctual people. And delay was not something to be tolerated.