Names are a powerful thing, particularly in the technological age. A name is all you need to find out everything you need to know about a person, their entire digital identity is out there, waiting to be found. With that information comes more power, if an enemy knows your past, all the events that shaped the person you are today, they know which buttons to push and how to twist your metaphorical arm. So, how does one avoid this particular weakness?
One must give up their name.
Formed by Anthony Stark back when he was merely the Chief of Metahuman affairs, the agency have no names. Recruited for their specific skills, all of them underwent plastic surgery and genetic manipulation in order to completely disappear from the record books. Deaths were faked, names were discarded, and the agency was born. Each member is assigned a number, in order of their rank, and that is it. Outside of their number, the agents have nothing. Since their inception, the agents have been working behind the scenes, manipulating events around the world in subtle ways, nudging the nations of Earth toward peace. Lacking the budget of their acronym-loving counterparts, the agency disagree with the notion that a giant gun in the sky is the best way to ensure the survival of the species. Humanity, they believe, requires a more gentle touch...
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"I said hold your fire, dammit!" Agent Two yelled at her laptop, as she sat alone in the backseat of a Ford Fiesta. Vans were too obvious, too conspicuous, so the agency had instead opted for a modified Fiesta, with windows that disguised the true contents. Passers by would just see an empty car, apparently shouting at itself.
"It wasn't me!" Five replied, responding to the voice in his ear as he lay perched on a rainy rooftop. Pulling his head away from the scope of his sniper, his head swivelled around, looking for the origin of the gunshot.
"My fault," Three smiled, waltzing out of a nearby alleyway with a smoking gun in his hand.
"Three, I swear, if you shot someone important I'm gonna have Five shoot you. Stick to the plan!"
"It's my plan, Two," the agent replied, stuffing the gun into his coat pocket and pushing his glasses up his nose, "and it wasn't working. Don't worry, I fixed it."
As part of their mission to slowly nudge the earth towards world peace, the agency was in Europe, having received intelligence that there was a potentially dangerous bill circulating the continent. A Hungarian businessman by the name of Janos Miklos was attempting to pass this bill in the European Union, using all sorts of unsavoury tactics in order to do so. Agent One had come across this information and decided that his team needed to do something about it. None of the other agents knew the exact nature of the bill or why it was seen as potentially dangerous, they merely trusted One's judgement. Up until the point that Three had walked into an alleyway and fired three bullets into the air, the plan had been fairly simple: wait outside Miklos' building until he leaves, then take him to the extraction point. So simple.
"I'm sorry, can you explain to me exactly how the plan wasn't working?"
"He called for extra security. Clearly, he knows something is up, and the more bodyguards he has the lower our odds of success are. All I did was redirect some of that manpower."
As the agent explained himself, his alteration to the plan began to fall into place. Miklos was escorted out of the building by three bodyguards, as three others cautiously approached the alleyway, the agent having long since cleared the area. The businessman was bundled into his car by his security staff, two of whom joined him in the backseat as the driver set off at a quick pace, whilst the final one surveyed the area with one hand on his holster.
"Don't say a word." Two grumbled, as she could almost hear Three's smug satisfaction over the comm link. "Three and Five, you're done, head back to base. Four and Six, you're up."
The car was quiet as Miklos and his men cruised through the streets, his bodyguards nervously caressing their firearms. Their vehicle was custom made, big and bulky, with more than enough room for all three of them in the back. Miklos faced the front, his eyes squinting through the tinted glass that separated them from the driver, trying to keep his eyes on the road in order to alleviate his motion sickness. His bodyguards were facing him, perched on seats that faced towards the back. There was a strange stillness in the air, an invisible fog that filled the space and put all of them on edge.
"That tie is truly hideous," a rather bored British accent sighed from the corner of the car, as Miklos suddenly noticed he was sitting next to a woman with killer heels, a tight black dress, and a gun pressed up against his temple. Now that he had seen her, he realised she had been there the entire time, somehow lurking in the corner of his eye, visible and yet... unnoticeable. Before he could question why his guards were not responding to this new threat, the car came to a sudden stop, and his security unbuckled their seatbelts. With glazed eyes, they each opened a door and stepped out into the stormy outdoors. "Looks like it's just you and me, sweetie. Oh, and the driver." Agent Four lifted a hand from the steering wheel and waved through the glass.
"Where are you people taking me?" The businessman asked quietly, seeing no immediate escape options.
"I can't say. It would spoil the surprise."
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"Not much of a surprise, right? Big scary room, blank walls, no windows, just a door. One table, two chairs, and a mysterious man in a suit sitting across from you." The agent smiled at his prisoner, sitting upright in his seat while Miklos slouched angrily in his own, glaring at his captor. "Usually I avoid cliches, but it seemed to fit in this case. You're used to this sort of room, aren't you Mr. Miklos? Only normally you're on the other side of the table." His remark was met with silence.
"If you have a point, please get to it." The Hungarian grumbled, spitting at the floor.
"Sure. I'll start with the good news, that we're not going to kill you. So don't worry too much, you'll be out of here soon. And I know that, when you do, you're going to want to find out who we are so you can hunt us down and put us in a big scary room with no windows. Well, that's not going to work out, because we don't exist. My team have no names and no history. Except me, you can call me Greg, and feel free to Google that if you like. You won't find anything interesting."
"So you kidnapped me to tell me that you do not want to kill me?" Miklos laughed, a harsh and empty laugh.
"Right, there was the other thing. You've gone to some pretty fantastic lengths recently in an attempt to pass a bill through the European Union. We'd like you to stop doing that, please."
"And why should I do that, Greg? You have already promised not to kill me, so you haven't much to threaten me with."
"Well, I did ask nicely. Of course, if you refuse to co-operate, then my telepath friend is going to have to make you co-operate. I'd prefer not to personally, brainwashing is a pretty morally grey area and I like to avoid it. My team agreed to give me an hour to try and convince you to drop the bill on your own, before Agent Four has to make you do it. It's just us in this room, there's no-one listening in, no-one with a gun to your head. It's just you and me, two human beings locked in a room together, with nothing to do but talk. So, let's talk." Greg flashed a sympathetic smile at Miklos, his eyes practically begging him to reconsider his position. "Nice tie, by the way."
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The agents had given their leader the time he'd asked for. An hour locked in a room with the prisoner, with no interruptions. An hour to offer Miklos the chance to redeem himself.
Miklos denied that opportunity quite spectacularly.
When the allotted time was up, Agent Two opened up the door to the interrogation room, expecting to see her boss with a look of disappointment on his face, having yet again failed to complete the mission his way. She found exactly what she had expected to see. Only with a lot more blood.
Greg Robertson was leaning back in his chair, his posture perfect even in death. A single bullet hole began at his forehead and had tunnelled through his skull, the wound had been open so long that his brain was entirely drained of blood. Miklos slouched on the other side of the table, clutching Robertson's gun, having blown his own brains out in a similar fashion.
Two fell to her knees and cried out, as the other agents came running into the room. She looked upon the lifeless face of the man who had redeemed her, stared into the empty eyes of the one who had offered her a new opportunity to live a life worth living. He was gone. The agents were without a leader.
And yet, it wasn't quite that simple. It seemed as if the Hungarian had seized his opportunity to kill the agent, and then inexplicably made the decision to kill himself. A rushed, unplanned crime. So, what made little sense, was the inscription on the formerly blank wall behind Robertson, a message spelled out in his blood, a message that spelled doom for the remaining agents. It was not just a message, but a threat:
'ONE DOWN.'
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