One: "The First Beckon."

All was still in the capital. Men, women and the like were dressed in cutting black suits that gave off the impression that underneath the sea of fibers, cloth and circulative materials lay the bare skeletons of fools without the common sense to enlist in a normal job like a fruit vendor who was blissfully unawares. The air was cool, whistling around almost hauntingly with a certain sting that rocked any poor fool to their very core as if it were laughing at you for daring to stand within it's presence. None of them wanted to be there. The place where they all sat in creaking wooden chairs set in a almost cult-like circle was a spherical building with no roof to allow both parties to freely feel like they were conjoined, at least according to those who one might ask in which the public never actually learnt.

Eventually a man stood up to interrupt the stagnant silence that burnt a hole within the nerves of the crowd. He was a rather tall, exaggerated man who was yet distinguished in motion and presence. His hair was tall and erect in a way that drew attention from even the blindest of eyes which those close to him swore could glow in the dark from all of the augmented hair gel infested in his jovial schism of hair upon his rather pointy head.

"Look, I don't know what's taking them so long but you all can't act nervous when they arrive! Millions of cameras are going to broadcast this all over the world and our guests could easily sever our spines from our very backs for just looking at them funny so just please. Don't fuck this up, okay? I have a image to protect and an America to keep alive."

The exaggerated man spoke, fidgeting with the small flakes of nail which awkwardly hung off the ridges of the ends of his fingers. His name was Marco Saulworth Teach, otherwise known by his almost criminally appointed role: Mr. President. Marco's tone was bouncy, almost as if he was out of breath by even standing there despite his youthful demeanor that screamed "Surfer Bro," and he knew that fully.

He peered over his shoulder, sending his glare to the man on his left,

"Howl." He beckoned.

"Y-Yes, sir!"

The man stood up, saluting the president with a expression of cautious shock. He visibly looked dizzy just from standing up too fast. Marshall Howl was a rather plump man in stark contrast to Teach. His limbs were rather pudgy and shapeless as he stood unbalanced between his legs.

"Notify Virve and Jupiter that they're safe to come up now. The summit should start soon."

He added, crossing his left leg over the right as he tilted his head back.

"Y-Yes, sir! Right away!"

Howl responded, pushing himself off of his chair with such condensed force that it gave his short legs enough strength to get a running start down the stairs which led to the open-roofed building. The summit in question was the tradition that the entire world settled their differences on every decade at exactly 12:45 in the afternoon on the second day of January. It marked continued peace between the mortals and the gods and cherubs and such holy spirits and sprites they prayed to in order to have continued protected between them ever since they gave intervention in human conflict fifty years ago on the very same day at the very same time.