There are alligators in the sewers, cults in the brownstones, all that and more. Since New York's founding, freedom of religion has guaranteed its inhabitants freedom to experiment. To create new philosophies, new magic, new masters. When the city opened its arms to the huddled masses, immigrants flocked in from the hidden places, too. Occult influences shaped its growth into a new powerbase for the secret world. The Illuminati, scenting that power, moved in from the New England colonies. They took Manhattan, then bought out everything else. This is their town now, but their control is discreet, hands-off – while still reassuringly expensive. They planned the new urban landscape of black glass towers, golden capstones and energy field-disrupting sculptures. They pull the strings of credit and industry from Wall Street out to JFK. Look for the puppetmasters, though, and you'll only find their trace in the uncaring black eyes of CCTV cameras, in hieroglyphic graffiti left on underpasses. Embracing the faceless corporate age, the Illuminati have remained where they began: underground. Off the East River, in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, one of many nondescript warehouses opens into the Labyrinth. This sprawling, high-security tomb, removed from the distractions of human life, has been a gathering place for the order's movers and shakers for hundreds of years. Entrance is strictly invitation-only, but a small occult neighbourhood has grown above it - taking advantage of real estate that has been forever condemned, never redeveloped. A ghetto for conspiracy theorists, magical burnouts and deadbeats, there's a thriving trade in occult knick-knacks and paranoia here. Members of other secret societies are neither welcomed or forbidden by the Illuminati...at least, above ground. The 'diplomatic incidents' resulting from encounters with the Labyrinth's military-grade hardware and Rockefeller wards have become urban legends of their own.