Area 11: Shipping Docks
The Docks - Midnight
The shipping docks lay shrouded in darkness, disturbed only by the occasional overtime worker and the methodical patrol of security guards. Two dock workers moved cargo containers through the amber pools of streetlight, their crude conversation echoing across the empty wharf.
"So I told Number Eleven, 'Perhaps you should search the rice paddies for your missing mother,'" one worker sneered. Both men erupted in callous laughter at their xenophobic jest.
"These Elevens certainly are—" The worker's words died as a metallic object struck the shipping container beside him with a sharp thunk. A throwing knife protruded from the steel, its blade gleaming with fresh crimson.
He turned to find his companion clutching his throat, dark arterial blood seeping between his fingers. The man collapsed, drowning in his own vital fluid.
"Dear God! Tanaka, what's—" A leather-gloved hand silenced him before snapping his neck with the clinical precision of a trained assassin. The sickening crack echoed across the deserted dock, leaving only the distant murmur of waves against the pier.
A security guard patrolled the perimeter, assault rifle at the ready, unaware of the small canister that rolled to his feet until it detonated in a cloud of choking white smoke.
"What in blazes—" he gasped, but his indignation transformed to agony as cold steel pierced his chest from behind. A gloved hand muffled his death cry.
The disturbance drew another guard from his post. "What's all this commotion?" he called out, sweeping his torch beam across the shadows. He caught fleeting glimpses of movement—figures that vanished the moment his light found them.
"Bloody nerves," he muttered, continuing his patrol. A sound behind him made him whirl around but found only darkness. Fear crept into his voice as his hands began to tremble.
"What the devil—" A razor-thin wire caught the light for an instant. The guard's eyes widened as a crimson line appeared across his throat. In his final moments, he glimpsed figures emerging from the shadows—professional killers wielding traditional weapons with deadly grace. Two stood apart from the rest: one clad in pristine white, the other in midnight black.
The assassins moved with the fluid precision of dancers, their work complete. They scaled the nearby warehouse and vanished across the rooftops like phantoms, leaving only corpses in their wake.
The Dragon's Palace Casino
The Dragon's Palace stood as a monument to vice and excess, its neon facade promising fortunes won and lost. Inside, the gaming floors buzzed with activity—baccarat tables, roulette wheels, and private rooms where the stakes transcended mere money. Tonight, one such room hosted a different kind of game.
At a mahogany poker table sat a distinguished gentleman in an impeccably tailored dinner jacket. His silver hair was perfectly groomed, and a faint scar traced from his left temple to his jaw—a souvenir from past adventures. Behind wire-rimmed spectacles, his pale blue eyes held the cold intelligence of a predator.
This was Ernst Stavro Blofeld, though tonight he wore the mask of respectability under the alias "Number One."
As cards were dealt with practiced elegance, Blofeld examined his hand—a royal flush. Fortuitous, though he rarely left such matters to chance.
A heavyset Yakuza lieutenant broke the tension: "So, Number One-san, you seek passage through our territory to the settlements. This is... unusual for a European businessman."
"My requirements are quite specific, I assure you," Blofeld replied, his cultured accent lending weight to each word. He placed several ivory chips on the green felt with deliberate precision. "Your cooperation will prove most... profitable."
"It's not the money that concerns us," another crime boss interjected, matching the bet. "It's the potential complications. Our organization values discretion above all else."
"Gentlemen," Blofeld adjusted his cufflinks with practiced nonchalance, "I represent interests that make your concerns seem rather... parochial."
The yakuza members exchanged glances as an elegant woman approached the table. She moved with the predatory grace of a panther—raven hair cascading over bare shoulders, emerald eyes that promised both pleasure and danger. Her black evening gown hugged curves that could start wars, and her smile held secrets that could end them.
She placed a leather attaché case beside Blofeld and leaned down to whisper in his ear, her lips barely brushing his cheek. "Your package, darling," she purred in a voice like aged whiskey and silk. As she departed, every man at the table followed her with hungry eyes.
Irma Bunt—though she went by many names across many continents.
"Gentlemen," Blofeld opened the case with theatrical precision, "if you've quite finished your juvenile gawking, perhaps we might discuss business."
Inside lay a single vial containing an opalescent liquid that seemed to shift and flow of its own accord.
"Behold," Blofeld's voice dropped to barely above a whisper, "a pharmaceutical marvel I call 'Nostalgia.' One dose allows the user to relive their most treasured memories with perfect clarity. The psychological dependency is... absolute."
"What makes this superior to our current pharmaceutical ventures?" the Yakuza boss inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"Elementary, my dear fellow. Law enforcement agencies maintain extensive databases on existing narcotics. This compound, however, represents an entirely new class of psychoactive substances. You would possess market exclusivity until the authorities even recognize its existence—by which time, of course, you'll have established an unshakeable distribution network."
The crime bosses exchanged meaningful looks. Without speaking, they folded their cards and regarded Blofeld with newfound respect. "Grant us exclusive rights to this 'Nostalgia,' and we'll provide unfettered access to the settlement districts."
"Then we have achieved a most satisfactory arrangement," Blofeld revealed his royal flush with the satisfaction of a chess master declaring checkmate.
The Reckoning
After the transaction concluded, Blofeld retreated to a shadowed alcove overlooking the gaming floor. Irma joined him, having changed from her evening gown into more practical attire—black leather that would conceal bloodstains.
"Must we really proceed with this charade while Q is handling the European operation?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
"Q's talents are best utilized where they won't be... compromised by sentiment," Blofeld replied. "Besides, you've never shied away from necessary unpleasantness."
As the two SPECTRE operatives surveyed the casino's decadent revelry, Irma's expression grew troubled. "This Nostalgia compound—you understand the psychological devastation it will cause?"
Blofeld watched the gamblers below with the detached interest of an entomologist studying insects. "Consider the broader strategic picture, my dear. When addiction becomes epidemic, the populace will demand government intervention. When conventional treatments fail, they'll become desperate enough to accept... alternative solutions."
"Solutions that only SPECTRE can provide," Irma concluded. "Public gratitude transforming into political leverage."
"Precisely. Though I confess, the method leaves something to be desired."
Irma placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. "This troubles you, Maximus. That's not like you."
The use of his given name drew his attention. "Warfare has always demanded moral compromise. If we must become monsters to birth a better world..."
Their philosophical discussion was interrupted by the approach of armed men led by a corpulent figure known in criminal circles as "The Black Dragon"—a man whose cruelty was matched only by his stupidity.
"Ah, Number One-san," the Dragon smiled with oleaginous confidence. "We must discuss your failure to deliver certain... entertainment as promised."
Blofeld's jaw tightened. The Dragon had requested young women from the settlements for his personal gratification—a request Blofeld had pretended to accept while harboring no intention of fulfilling.
"I'm afraid human trafficking falls outside my moral parameters," Blofeld stated with icy precision.
"Moral parameters?" The Dragon's smile curdled. "In this business, honor is a luxury we cannot afford." His men drew their weapons with practiced efficiency. "I'm afraid this represents what you Europeans might call... checkmate."
Rather than displaying fear, Blofeld began to chuckle—a sound more chilling than any scream. "You know, Dragon-san, everyone I encounter seems obsessed with chess. My colleagues at Oxford, various adversaries, and now you. But I've always preferred a different game entirely."
The casino's lights failed in perfect synchronization with the cessation of music. In the sudden darkness, only Blofeld's voice remained audible.
"I much prefer dominoes. Particularly the moment when they begin to fall."
The Dragon's End
Outside the casino, pedestrians noticed the power failure and wondered at its cause. None observed the figures who had severed the electrical mains, nor the shadows that descended from the surrounding buildings like avenging angels.
In the casino's security center, guards frantically worked their radios. "Command, we've lost primary power! Backup generators aren't responding!"
They failed to notice the figure already among them until steel whispered against leather. The security chief turned to find a man in an impeccable white suit, his face hidden behind a traditional oni mask. Twin blades caught what little light remained.
"Bloody hell, it's some kind of—"
"I am death incarnate," the figure spoke with cultured precision before moving with lethal grace.
Meanwhile, in the gaming room, the Dragon pressed his pistol against Blofeld's temple. "You orchestrated this, didn't you?"
"I strongly advise against that course of action," Blofeld replied with unnerving calm. "You might find the consequences... explosive."
A suppressed pistol coughed, and the Dragon's hand erupted in crimson. He screamed as Irma blew smoke from her Walther PPK's barrel with professional satisfaction.
"Kill them both!" the Dragon shrieked, clutching his ruined appendage.
The command died with his hand as a throwing blade severed it completely. From the ceiling dropped a figure in midnight black—a wraith-given human form, moving with supernatural grace.
The guards opened fire, but their target had already begun his deadly ballet. The first gunman fell with his throat opened to the spine. The second died as reinforced knuckles shattered his cervical vertebrae. The third found eighteen inches of steel protruding from his sternum.
Within moments, the Dragon's men lay dead or dying. The surviving criminals discovered every exit blocked by figures in traditional garb, their weapons gleaming with lethal promise.
The Dragon attempted to crawl away but found his path blocked by the white-suited figure, who removed his oni mask to reveal features carved from marble and eyes like winter storms.
"Please," the Dragon whimpered. "I have money, influence—"
"You have nothing I require," the assassin replied, driving his blade through the crime boss's skull with surgical precision.
The two killers approached Blofeld, who straightened his bow tie with characteristic composure.
"Excellent work, gentlemen. Punctual as always."
Both assassins bowed with formal respect.
"Number One," the figure in white intoned with deference.
When that title was spoken, the remaining civilians gasped in recognition. They now understood they were in the presence of SPECTRE's supreme commander.
As the quartet prepared to depart, Blofeld addressed his lieutenant: "Signal the others. Complete operational security protocols."
"No witnesses?"
"None whatsoever."
The command rippled through hidden communication devices. Throughout the casino, SPECTRE operatives revealed themselves and began their grim work with professional efficiency.
The gaming floor became an abattoir as screams echoed through marble halls. A fleeing cocktail waitress found her escape blocked by a figure who opened her throat with clinical precision. A businessman's flight ended when a blade found his heart with surgical accuracy.
Blofeld walked through the carnage with the detached air of a theater critic reviewing a particularly violent drama. He paused before a young Japanese woman in a bunny costume, her arm severed, eyes wide with terror and confusion.
"Why?" she whispered through tears of pain and betrayal.
Blofeld drew a Luger P08 from his dinner jacket and placed it against her temple with almost gentle precision. "Because, my dear, paradise cannot be built upon foundations of compromise."
The pistol spoke once.
As SPECTRE operatives continued their methodical elimination of witnesses, Blofeld holstered his weapon and adjusted his cufflinks. "The greater good sometimes demands the lesser evil. If we must damn ourselves to save the world... so be it."
Incendiary devices began their work as the last witnesses fell. Soon, the casino would burn, taking all evidence with it—save for one calling card painted in blood upon the wall: an octopus whose tentacles embraced the world.
Scotland Yard Arrives
Hours later, the doors burst open to admit Britannian security forces led by Princess Cornelia. She had expected to find evidence of Zero's terrorist activities.
Instead, she discovered something far more disturbing—a message written in the international language of professional violence.
"Dear God," she breathed, surveying the systematic carnage. "What manner of organization could orchestrate this?"
Several of her officers were violently ill. The scene spoke of meticulous planning and ruthless execution—hallmarks of an enemy far more dangerous than any terrorist cell.
On the blood-painted wall, an octopus symbol declared the presence of something that operated beyond national boundaries, beyond conventional warfare.
SPECTRE had announced itself to Area 11.
The Docks - Dawn
At the shipping docks, a queue had formed around containers bearing innocuous shipping manifests. The first batches of Nostalgia were being distributed with pharmaceutical precision, each transaction monitored by hidden cameras.
From a warehouse rooftop, three figures observed the operation's success. Blofeld had exchanged his evening wear for a charcoal overcoat and homburg hat. Beside him stood his lieutenants—Death and Shadow personified.
"Phase One proceeds flawlessly," Blofeld observed with satisfaction. "Soon, the addiction will spread beyond these docks to encompass entire districts."
In the queue below, a middle-aged domestic servant with tired eyes exchanged currency for chemical oblivion. As she walked away clutching her purchase, she whispered a prayer of self-recrimination: "Forgive me, Kallen. I am weak, and weakness demands its price."
She found a shadowed corner beside a container marked with SPECTRE's octopus logo, prepared her dose with practiced efficiency, and surrendered to artificial bliss.
Above, the architects of her destruction watched their web expand across Area 11, one soul at a time.
Ernst Stavro Blofeld smiled beneath the rising sun, knowing that before long, this district—and then this nation—would dance to SPECTRE's tune.
The game, as they say, was afoot.