The Incident at the Assessor's Court:
Intelligence services across the world all arrived independently at the same fact – the Unbound Sons made no sense. Put quite simply, the numbers and resources that they had access to were significantly greater than they had any right to have. Of course, the Sons had territories of their own, and many of the Great Powers were assisting them clandestinely – the analysts knew that, but even so. And then there were the groups that no one dared help, such Erlik's Army, the Nihilist League, or the Legion of Publius Decius Musa. Where did they get their funding from?
Like all great mysteries, this question hounded the analysts and planners of numberless agencies, like a gap where a tooth used to be. Whether it was a factor they missed, or some a shadowy unseen force, they must have the answer.
Across the world, spies and killers hunted, fueled by desperate paranoia, gathering clues and snippets of information. From the glowing, debauched palaces of Antarctica, to the feral trading posts of the Great American Wastes, to bars and drug dens in every land, agents of the of every power exhorted information from contacts by force, murdered and stole, or otherwise overheard conversations and conspiratorial whispers. They had found the beginnings of an answer, something almost too vast and impossible to believe. The rumors and whispers spoke of a hundred hidden hands behind the events, guiding them, shaping them. The rumors spoke of proof too, in the Assessor's court, in <Redacted>.
The rain-wracked city of <Redacted>, was once said to be the greatest city in the world, a New Babylon. But not anymore. <Redacted> was a place of miserable, soulless creatures leading pointless, short lives beneath the lash of bureaucracy for all eternity. One day killers descended on <Redacted>. Some had arrived years earlier, embedded as ordinary men. Others slinked amongst the sewers and rooftop gutters of the grey, smoggy cityscape, hungry the answers which would be soon coming. They had each followed their own path to get to this place, each a long story of suffering and triumph. Guided by the clues they had found, they closed in on their target, the Assessor's Court
The Assessor's Court was the tallest building in the city, a great block of filthy concrete that loomed over the whole city. It was there that the City was ruled, there that the taxes were collected, and there that the valuables were stored – including the secrets that the Spymasters wished to find. It was too well guarded to quietly rob, and so they attacked, driven by the fury of those who knew that their hunt was almost over.
A thousand things happened at once. In one of the entrances, the heavily armored soldiers guarding the lobby were suddenly assailed by blood-drenched beasts from Malifi, fueled by crazed augmentation. In the another, teams of killers from Aztlani Military Intelligence and the War Prevention Bureau attacked with a storm of grenades and automatic fire. High above, the windows of the offices high within the great monolith splintered as high-velocity rounds punched through them, pitching scribes and clerks from their feet in puffs of blood and vaporized bone. Some killers followed their bullets through what was left of the windows, falling upon those who were still alive. On the roof, Soldiers of the Phoenix Empire piled out of their VTOLs, and began systematically clearing their way through the building. Inside, office workers turned on their own, pulling weapons from their desks and gunning down anything that got in their way. Though each of the teams thought that they worked alone, the fact that they all attacked at once meant that the building was quickly depopulated.
When the mindless fury was over, those who were left alive coldly began their search. They sought a hidden vault that they knew was there, hidden somewhere in that titanic labyrinth. And seek they did, tearing the interior to shreds, reading every schematic and document left intact, sparing nothing in their desperation to end this mystery. They knew that they all sought the same thing, and so the conflicts between them were suspended, at least for a time. At long last, they found it – a room that was on no plan for the building, behind a metal door hidden by a piece of art. The survivors of the fratricidal violence converged on the vault, spies and killers of myriad nations brought together from expediency.
They cut through the heavy doors with what tools they had left, at this point unconcerned with anything but finding what was on the other side. What they saw was a strange machine, seemingly attached to the air circulation system – with an LED display that began counting down the moment the door was opened. A few of the hunters knew what they were looking at, and fled the building as fast as they could. The smarter ones joined them. The stampede tore through the building, through the doors that blocked them, the corridors which restrained them, the debris that blocked at them. Some even leapt from the windows in their desperation.
The Assessor's Court detonated with a great thunderclap. The cities cloud-filled, smoggy sky was illuminated with the light of a new sun. For a moment, night had become day.
Miraculously, a few of the Agents sent in to the court survived. They tore themselves from the burning rubble, near the crater that was once their dream. A few were simply stunned, speechless from the shock or the pain of their injuries. Others howled in rage and defiance, while others thought only of escape, and a few pondered what this meant – was this a setup? However, each was drawn, one-by-one, to the black-clad, gas-masked figures that had surrounded them. A few moved for their weapons, or flee, or to surrender.
It made no difference. With a single fluid motion, the strange figures lifted their weapons as one, and began to fire at the survivors. The survivors died, one and all, cut down by the figures with a cold and unnatural efficiency.
Only one of the figures did not fire – a creature which appeared to be a man in an American-style suit and square sunglasses. There was a small red pin on its lapel that none of the survivors could make out, nor would they have grasped its significance if they did. It was a creature of a thousand faces, like water, formless, shapeless, untrappable, and unstoppable.