A lone rat, sleek and bold, darted between overflowing bins, its beady eyes gleaming in the dim light. This was the underbelly of Prague, a world away from the gilded palaces and soaring cathedrals that graced the postcards. This was where the broken and the forgotten sought refuge, where whispers of forgotten gods and forbidden technologies mingled with the stench of decay.
Hidden within this urban labyrinth, cloaked in layers of misdirection and thaumaturgical wards, was a hidden sanctuary of the Church of the Broken God. Not a grand cathedral, but a nondescript warehouse, its brick facade scarred and stained, its windows boarded shut. Only a single, dented metal door, emblazoned with a crudely rendered cogwheel, hinted at the building's true purpose. This was not the polished, public face of the Church's 'reconstructed' Maxwellist faith, oh no, far from that.. This was the heart of the old ways, where the Cogwork Orthodox, the most fervent of their believers, clung to the original tenets of their faith.
Tonight, that door, usually guarded by hulking constructs of brass and steel, stood ajar.
Within, the air hung thick with the scent of incense, sweat, and something else… something metallic, almost acrid. The cavernous space, once used for storing mundane goods, had been repurposed as a makeshift temple. Makeshift pews, fashioned from salvaged metal and salvaged wood, were arranged haphazardly before a makeshift altar. Atop this altar, bathed in the flickering light of a dozen sputtering oil lamps, lay a chaotic assemblage of gears, wires, and vacuum tubes, a far cry from elegant design. It pulsed with a sickly, irregular beat; a holy relic, no. SCP-217, the Clockwork Virus, its contagious nature known only by a select few individuals. Any intruder merely catching sight would meet a most gruesome demise, a foul fate only spoken in fearful whispers. This most prized possession was only partially contained, the edges of metallic disease oozing through the cracks of its "holy vessel" (for the time, as their technology to contain such an artifact is only beginning to take place.)
A congregation of no more than thirty, their faces a mixture of devotion and desperation, chanted in unison, their voices a discordant symphony that echoed through the vast space. They were a motley crew, drawn from the dregs of society, united by their fervent belief in the Broken God, in the promise of a mechanical messiah who would one day reunite their fractured deity and usher in a new age of steel and steam.
"—mekhane, part from your children!" one voice shrieked, a mixture of desperation and fear in their words.
Leading the chants, his back to the entrance, stood a figure draped in tattered robes, his head concealed beneath a deep cowl. His hands, gnarled and scarred, moved in intricate patterns, tracing the symbols of their fractured faith in the air. A large gear hung from his neck. This was "Brother Slavomir", a high-ranking member of the Cogwork Orthodox, a true believer and a dangerous fanatic, the one designated by the current leader of the sect to lead this sorry lot into the age of metal and change as the scripture says! or so his words echoed when delivering the news to the old man. To some in the orthodoxy, he was a fool, and old man clinging on the old ways, while to other who is truly wise in their thinking, he is a faithful, loyal servant to their god.
Unbeknownst to Slavomir, or any of the gathered faithful, a silent observer had slipped past their meager defenses and now stood at the periphery, shrouded in shadow. The observer was tall and slender, clad in a black uniform that seemed to absorb the ambient light, rendering him almost invisible. Its face was obscured however, by a blank, featureless mask, yet it somehow conveyed a sense of smugness. Its eyes, even though they not present, tracked everything in the room. The "faithful," the altar, and Slavomir.
Pandora's Actor, in his disguised form, allowed a ghost of a smile to touch his lips – or where his lips would have been, had he possessed them in this guise. The scene before him was… quaint, primitive, even, but undeniably useful. These "Cogwork Orthodox," these remnants of a fractured faith, were a tool, a resource to be analyzed, exploited, and ultimately, controlled. The entrance point was easy, almost trivial; a couple of well-placed illusions, a touch of mental manipulation, and the guards were too busy arguing whether angels had wires to even notice his approach.
He had, of course, studied them, these zealots of the Broken God. Their splintered factions, their divergent doctrines, their desperate yearning for a wholeness they could never achieve. Oh, how primitive their attempts to harness SCP-217's power was. No means to reliably create a vessel of containment, to harness such capabilities. A means to an end. His mission, as dictated by his creator, the Supreme Being, Ainz Ooal Gown, was simple: infiltrate, analyze, and ultimately, subjugate.
Over the past weeks, disguised as various unassuming personas – a beggar, a street vendor, even a minor city official – Pandora's Actor had meticulously gathered intelligence on the Church, its fragmented sects, their rituals, their beliefs, their hopes and fears. He had observed its structure, analyzed its weaknesses, and identified several individuals that would help him grasp the leadership. His mimicry had allowed him to move among them undetected, listening to their sermons in dingy rooms, witnessing their failed attempts to bring about a mechanical apotheosis. He had learned of their internal struggles, their petty squabbles, their divergent interpretations of their sacred texts. He knew their yearning for power, their desperation for a sign, for a leader who could unite the scattered remnants of their faith and restore their Broken God to its former glory, to finally initiate their so-called "Great Work".
He had learned of their three main branches:
The mainstream, who embraced a more symbolic interpretation of their god and sought to integrate themselves into modern society. They were numerous almost having the numbers to stand fully against The Foundation and Global Occult Coalition's full might but weak, their faith diluted, corrupted by the passage of time and the allure of the mundane. Their technology also wasn't a significant problem as it was clunky, and prone to easy sabotage. They were no threat, merely another insect to be cataloged and later exterminated.
The second was, the Maxwellists, they embraced technology, though they still held onto primitive notions. They were but children trying to grasp at what their Lord was. Dangerous to the average human with their implants that are easy to acquire, but against even a single Floor Guardian, they are no more than trash, to be stepped on and forgotten as they never existed, even going as far to accept machine parts that any intelligent being would deem as "cursed" in their eyes and even some members of the Church who didn't follow them went far as to say that they were making a mockery of their very own beliefs.
And then there were these, the Cogwork Orthodox. It was surprising that they of all three obtained, interacted, and knew of the most about his lord in this world. Remnants of the original church, clinging to outdated rituals and archaic dogma. Their "true believers", the broken, but not beyond use.
Each had pieces of it.
Each, in their own way, yearned for its return.
Each was a tool to be used.
Each was insignificant against Nazarick's might.
He could, of course, simply annihilate them. A flick of the wrist, a whispered incantation, and this pathetic gathering would be reduced to ashes and dust then all he would need to do was kill the rest of the Orthodoxy to enact his plan, however, that was beneath his dignity. He was, after all, a creation of the Supreme Being, a reflection of his unparalleled genius. A blunt instrument, he was not.
No, a more… elegant approach was required. A touch of theater, a dash of deception. Nazarick did not merely conquer; it instilled loyalty, even in its enemies. It transformed foes into instruments, unwitting or not, to play their part in a grand design orchestrated by the Supreme One.
As the chanting reached a fevered pitch, the figure under the cowl – Slavomir – raised his hands, his voice booming through the warehouse. "Oh, Great Maker! God of All Machines! We, your faithful servants, beseech thee! Grant us a sign! Show us the path to unity! Send us a leader who will guide us to the Great Work!" The stench of desperation of his "flock" was thick, it almost made him want to summon some demons to end their meaningless lives, but he was loyal to his mission. Also their suffering provided him a bit of amusement. His thoughts then turned to his god. He then gave a small prayer in his heart, "All praise to you, my lord. I shall be your instrument, and bring ruin among your enemies and claim this world for you."
Pandora's Actor felt a surge of amusement. A leader, they wanted? Oh, he would give them a leader. A leader forged in the image of their fractured god, a leader who would unite them under a single banner – the banner of Nazarick.
He began to move, his movements silent and fluid, like smoke given form. He slipped through the shadows, avoiding the flickering pools of lamplight, his featureless mask reflecting the distorted images of the chanting cultists. He moved towards the altar, towards the pulsing, unholy hybrid of flesh and machine - SCP-217, towards the tattered, hooded leader who was praying for a miracle.
As he drew closer, he subtly altered his form, his body shifting, reconfiguring. His black uniform morphed, taking on the texture of worn leather and tarnished metal. Beneath his mask, bone and sinew reconfigured itself, his hands taking the appearance of chrome and leather. His overall form remained yet similar, that of a tall humanoid. His mask though shifted from a blank, white canvas, to that of a skull with glowing red eyes with a spiky, metallic "crown." The room's shadows seemed to gather and recede from him, no longer able to hide this form. The room also emanated the faint smell of metal, similar to what 217 was giving out. Any casual observer of the faith would recognize such an image, as it is depicted many times in their "holy texts." Even the members of this dilapidated warehouse have seen it before.
The chanting faltered, heads turning, eyes widening in a mixture of fear and awe. Slavomir, sensing the shift in the congregation's energy, slowly turned, his cowled head tilting in confusion.
Then, he saw it.
Standing before the altar, bathed in the sickly glow of the oil lamps, was a figure seemingly forged from iron and shadow. Its eyes, two points of crimson light, burned with an intensity that seemed to pierce Slavomir's very soul. Its hands, a grotesque parody of human appendages, with fingers replaced with metal, ended in cruel-looking points. A low hum emanated from its form, the sound mixing with the irregular pulse of 217. Its presence commanded and demanded attention, in equal parts. Any who did look upon this visage could tell it was an avatar of a god. Perhaps even. Mekhane itself. At least, this is what they told themselves as most among them had started frothing in the mouth from "holy" reverence, or maybe that was the start of 217 fully taking effect. It did not matter, for, in their hearts and mind, it had to be him.
A collective gasp swept through the congregation. Some fell to their knees, their faces contorted in expressions of religious ecstasy. Others simply stared, mouths agape, unable to comprehend what they were seeing. Their "god" had come to "save" them.
Slavomir, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief, stumbled back from the altar, his hand instinctively reaching for the large gear at his chest. His mind struggled to reconcile the image before him with his understanding of his faith.
"W-who… who are you…," he stammered, his voice trembling. "Are…" A fit of coughs suddenly interrupted him and he felt his body weakening. Ah, of course. He had not enough implants. He was too pure. He was dying. This was clear. Yet, he did not want to believe it. No, his god had not abandoned him, right? He would be healed, no?
The figure did not respond immediately. It simply stood there, its crimson gaze sweeping across the assembled group, its presence filling the warehouse like a tangible force. Then, slowly, deliberately, it raised one of its hands, its fingers unfurling like the petals of some monstrous metal flower the gesture silencing all as they turned their eyes upon it.
A voice, deep and resonant, seemingly emanating from the very air itself, echoed through the warehouse. It was a voice that spoke of ancient power, of forgotten knowledge, and of the cold, unyielding logic of the machine. Also, surprisingly, it had the slightest hint of a German accent to it, yet no one seemed to notice.
"I am the path. I am the way."
The congregation erupted. Weeping, wailing, shouting praises to their fractured god. Some rushed forward, eager to prostrate themselves before this avatar of their faith. Others collapsed to their knees, overwhelmed by religious fervor. Some began to openly convulse, the virus finally taking hold. Slavomir remained where he stood transfixed, unable to understand what was happening, but a spark of hope began to ignite in him. Perhaps, there was a way out of his predicament. Salvation could be achieved, and it was before his very own eyes.
The figure, the one now subconsciously starting to be referred to as Mekhane, slowly turned its gaze towards Slavomir, crimson eyes fixed upon him, scrutinizing his faithfulness and his value to his god.
"A leader…," croaked out Slavomir between increasingly labored breaths, finally managing to stand straight once more.. "He has granted us one. A final piece to the great plan." A smile adorned his face as he spoke towards the unmoving form "Are… are you him? Are y-you... Mekha-"
Slavomir never finished his question, never finished the name of his god. He fell silent as his body started to twist and shift into metal, small gears and other foul transformations as his body became overtaken by the clockwork virus,. The infection had been slow, but being close to SCP-217 itself, there was no mistake that it had quickened its vile effect. Pandora's Actor had foreseen this outcome, and would have ended him all the same even if he wasn't infected, but at least now he was no longer constrained by frivolous things such as patience.
"Yes." the figure responded, its voice devoid of all emotion, cold and hard as steel. As those around listened, some became confused, as the one before them spoke not in their native tongue, but rather, perfect, flawless, German.
With a swift, almost casual movement, the figure reached out and placed its hand atop Slavomir's head, its thumb caressing the cog hung from his neck, the leader, still conscious unable to do anything but shake and seize with only a moment to realize what was happening and stare into the unfeeling eyes of the harbinger of his "god.". Though to the audience it appeared as if it was helping the aged man with the painful transformation.
The figure spoke a single word, in a language that none present could understand, "Sleep"
It has a short, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate with an undercurrent of immense, unfathomable, holy power.
And Slavomir, the high-ranking member of the Cogwork Orthodox, its designated leader, the one who had devoted his life to the Broken God, slumped forward into its embrace, his body finally accepting the sweet release of death. It fell upon his head as an old friend. His form, now an unholy amalgamation of flesh and rusted metal, collapsed without resistance, no more suffering and pain as per this entity's command. A gift from beyond the stars, it seemed.
But within the skull, nestled within the folds of corrupted flesh that had once governed thought and controlled faith, the mind of Slavomir lived on, not as a mechanical abomination as would be expected for those who underwent SCP-217's embrace, instead it was fully sentient trapped, and forced into his own version of Hell. He was aware of everything yet unable to stop the entity's actions. This form, once carrying his brothers, would soon herald greater atrocities, all under the banner of "Mekhane." This was worse than death and he knew the fault lay solely on him and his choices, he allowed this. A punishment he would shoulder till the end of time, as the monster so graciously informed him, with a smile, before snapping out of existence. His own screams echoed within the metallic prison called his mind, forever silenced in this ever-increasing hellscape.
The figure gently laid the lifeless flesh and diseased metallic corpse on the ground, then turned to face the stunned congregation. They stared in disbelief at what had occurred, unsure of what to do. This changed with the shifting.
It was subtle at first, a slight tremor in the air, a flicker in the oil lamps. Then, the very fabric of reality seemed to warp and twist around the figure. Its form began to shift, to change, to grow. The iron and shadow coalesced, becoming more defined, more… imposing. The figure grew taller, its limbs elongating, its body expanding, until it towered over the assembled cultists, a monstrous, metallic giant that seemed to scrape the ceiling of the warehouse, a terrifying visage to any who gazed upon it. Truly, any observer would agree, it appeared that their god had finally come to them, and given them a sign of his power. Such a form was too perfect, too divine, only a god could achieve such power.
Its mask, once a skull adorned with a crown, had transformed into something far more elaborate for its new form, a three-faced visage that seemed to observe every corner of the room simultaneously. One face was a blank, featureless mask, conveying an absolute lack of empathy it was the first face most saw when observing this magnificent creature. The second, a skull, its jaws opened in a silent scream, reflecting the eternal torment of those who had been consumed by the Broken God's power. It was a face that invoked fear and dread, the visage truly many saw this "god" to be. The final face was, unexpectedly, human its features were eerily lifelike, yet utterly devoid of emotion, save but a sly "smile", creating a sense of unease that was more profound than any monstrous visage as it stared with pity and amusement upon the "faithful." This face was rarely observed and only those with true devotion to the cause could witness it long enough for its image to take hold in their minds.
All three faces, each one a symbol of the Church's fractured faith somehow managed to unite under the symbol of Nazarick: The fractured, contradictory interpretations that warred within each believer, the unholy yet holy image they created this "entity" to be. The entity allowed the silence and the awe to linger, to fully take hold of their minds, their logic, and their beliefs, before speaking once more, its voice now a chorus of three distinct tones, each one resonating with a different aspect of their fractured god, each one reciting near-forgotten scripture of their lost past. All while speaking the language it spoke to Slavomir, all while speaking German.
"I… am the Broken One, made whole. I… am the Silent Scream, given voice. I… am the Unfeeling Heart, filled with purpose. It is a purpose, forged from your unwavering faith."
The congregation, utterly captivated, fell to their knees as one, their voices raised in a cacophony of praise and supplication, their eyes and faces glazed over in ecstasy, their own words and actions mimicking that of their deceased leader.
Pandora's Actor, in the guise of their god, surveyed his newly acquired flock. A slow, almost imperceptible smile, impossibly, spread across each of the three faces. The game, for now, is still continuing. However, the first piece had been moved.
And the board was now his. Or rather his Lord's.