Sirens. Not much different from the ones that were made for bombs during the wars, this signalled the end of the day and that if you didn't get home quick enough, you would most likely be killed. There were few teenagers, arrogant yet brave, hiding in the shadows, waiting for Them to appear. They-the teenagers, that is-were situated at regular intervals in the alleyways that surrounded the town square, watching and waiting. A lot more patient than normal teenagers, it was not unusual to see them not glancing at their watches strapped tightly around their skinny wrists.
When at last They appeared, their decoys were sent out to distract them. A boy and girl, both aged seventeen, would walk out of the shadows and start to talk in hushed whispers. If this didn't work, they would start getting louder and louder, acting as if they were arguing about something or another, only stopping once they were fully surrounded by their targets. They would be threatened, an urge to go home, but they wouldn't-they would start screaming at Them until they all produced guns and various other pieces of weaponry. Then, the teens would pounce. They would swarm and jump on Them forcing the weapons to the ground and to surrender to their will.
The youngest of all the teenagers would sneak off while the fight was happening, and call their bosses for back up. They are agents. Every. Single. One.
The teenagers are secret agents. They are the Written Agency. And they want more.