My fellow Arthenians,

Okay so obviously my summary was rather lackluster, but I was lacking inspiration for it. I'll likely end up writing a better one for you guys at some point, but for the time being you'll have to deal with this one.

But anyway, here's how this is going to go:

SPOILER ALERTS. LOTS. OF. SPOILERS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

I'm basically going to be writing the story from the beginning, but with my own personal touches on it. If you're a subscriber and/or longtime reader of mine, you probably know what that means, but if not then eh. You'll figure it out eventually. Hint wink nudge. (It's sex, people. Come on.) And there's going to be a lot more cringe-worthy jokes, explicit humor, and sexually tense situations. But if that's not why you're here, then I think you might be in the wrong place, friend.

Urgently screaming was the alarm system, and it droned its morbid message without end, hell-bent on doing its job: letting its pilot know that the plane was going down, and fast. A cursory glance out of the side of the cockpit confirmed the worst. The engines were shot to shit, and smoke was billowing out from them like some sort of oversized chimney, contributing to the haze of fog that hung thickly in the air above the sea not two hundred feet below. It had appeared literally out of nowhere, the fog. One moment there was just a light gray clinging to the sky that signaled that perhaps it was either raining elsewhere or was going to be raining shortly. The next, there was a fog so dense that the extent of the line of sight for the spy in the failing plane was only a few feet in front of him. If it weren't for the fire that slightly illuminated the wing of his aircraft, there was no way he would have been able to even see that anything was wrong.

Taking a brief glance over his shoulder, Steve Trevor immediately felt stupid. What could he possibly have expected to see when he looked? That it was suddenly clear, only behind him? That was perhaps the only positive to his current situation: If he could manage to escape his downward-bound plane, he would be completely and entirely untraceable by the German subs that were probably a fraction of a mile behind him at that point. Even as his altitude continued to lower, perpetually lowering toward a watery grave, his thoughts somehow drifted to the book that he had picked up, that had led him into the deathtrap that he was in. Was it even worth it to swipe the book, and lose his life? What actually were the odds that there would be no other copy of the work that he had stolen? Couldn't Doctor Poison just replace the notes that he had taken with him? And if not, didn't she likely already have examples that she could use to inscribe another iteration of the notebook?

His focus returned to his altimeter, watching as the number plummeted. It was odd, because not only did it seem like he was quickly approaching the crash, but it also seemed as though time was dragging along, and refused to allow him to reach the climax of his unplanned decent. If it weren't for the solid block of water vapor that seemed to be all around him, he would probably have tried to find somewhere safe to crash land at: perhaps a field on an allied piece of land, or even just an uncharted island. As far as he figured, if he were to land in the center of the ocean without any concept of where in the body of water he was, he was as good as dead. He would more than likely be knocked unconscious by the force of the impact, as water attains properties of a solid upon high speeds, and would shortly thereafter drown. An unfitting, rather nondescript end to the life of the man who wanted nothing more than to help people.

"What the hell…?"

All at once, the fog cleared. It was like he had not only moved forward in space but perhaps also time, maybe even something else, something that he couldn't explain. The altimeter was below fifty, and adrenaline was beginning to set in. His eyes were taking in an overload of information, but his brain was managing to process all of it. He was completely wordless as he simply sat in the cockpit of the quickly grounding plane, absorbing the orgy of visual stimulus that was making itself readily available to him. Never before had he ever even heard of a place such as the one before him, much less actually witnessed such a wonder with his own eyes. There was a sneaking suspicion in the back of his brain that told him that he had gone into shock, or that he was already unconscious, and that he was imagining everything in some kind of fever dream.

Real or fake, though, the sight before him was breathtaking. Luscious green growth creeping down the sides of the beautiful high rock cliffs of what seemed to be a completely untouched oasis at first glance, but upon further inspection it could be seen that built seamlessly into the natural structures were manmade ones, buildings constructed of what appeared to be the same rock that decorated the cliffs. Water that sparkled with an unnatural light poured down the sheer sides of the mountainous terrain and collected in the sea underneath. There was a single hill, or more accurately a single mountain, that sprouted from what seemed to be the center of the outcropping of ethereal land, a circular dish that held the water that fed all of the waterfalls that contributed to the euphoric appearance of the island. What part of the world had he been flying in, that would be so unaffected by the storm that was plaguing the rest of the sea around him, and could possibly seem so entirely untouched by the war effort that ravaged the shores of nearly every country on the globe?

Steve didn't have time to contemplate this, however.

At last, the altimeter dropped below ten, and drew the attention of the pilot. He was entirely helpless. All he could do was watch as the numbers dropped down, ticking away one at a time, until zero was reached.

The plane smashed into the surface of the water, scattering errant chunks of metal across the gentle waves.