The flickering oil lamps cast long, dancing shadows across the assembled congregation, their faces a mixture of awe, fear, and zealous devotion. The air, thick with the scent of incense, oil, and the coppery tang of blood – Slavomir's blood – crackled with an almost palpable energy. The transformation, or rather, the gruesome display of what some might call "ascension" had ceased, yet its echo lingered, a macabre testament to the power, the reward, that now stood before them, at least, this was their belief.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the drip, drip, drip, almost like that of a broken machine, of the now truly broken remains of Slavomir, a grotesque amalgamation of flesh, tattered cloth, and most of all, rusted metal was all that was now present of him, though his spirit continued to scream within the body which killed him, only the one above all could truly hear the agonizing echoes bouncing within the confines of the metal. Finally, it spoke, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that seemed to emanate not from its mouth, but from the very air itself, each word edged with the subtle rasp of grinding gears, even though it could not be seen, and tinged with faint hints of accent from far away, though none noticed it, of course. A voice befitting the visage of the "god" which the sorry-lot believed that it was.
"My childrens," it intoned, the words reverberating through the warehouse, seeming to seep into the very bones of the listeners. "You have waited long. You have suffered. You have kept the faith, even as the world turned its back, even as your own kin forgot their duty. But your devotion has not gone unnoticed. I have returned," a dramatic pause, a subtle shift in its posture, the skull tilting slightly, "to guide you. To unite you. To lead you to the Great Work, that which you have strived for since its disappearance. The so-called great work in which your very own kin now spits upon."
A murmur rippled through the congregation, a wave of emotion washing over their faces. Some wept openly, tears of relief and joy streaming down their cheeks. Others stood rigid, their bodies trembling with barely suppressed excitement. A few, those who had been closest to Slavomir, were still visibly shaken; it would take a while for them to see the truth, if ever, yet stared at their "savior" with a mixture of gratitude and horror. However, all were moved to their very core, for truly, all within them believed that this was their god, returned. Their savior who had come to save them in these desperate times.
Pandora's Actor, ever the masterful actor, allowed the silence to stretch once more, letting the weight of his words, the sheer gravity of the moment, sink in. He observed them, his crimson gaze sweeping over the assembled group, his enhanced senses taking in every detail- Their tremors, their heartbeats, the small fluctuations in their breaths that revealed more, than any visual stimuli ever could. "Mekhane" could see it: He could practically taste the raw, potent blend of devotion and desperation that permeated the air, the fervent hope that burned in their eyes. These were not merely followers; they were tools, instruments to be honed, to be directed, to be used, of course, to enact his lord's will, their devotion to a lie a fuel he would use until no longer needed. In the grand tapestry of Nazarick's design, they were but threads, yet even the smallest thread could be woven into something… significant.
He raised a hand, a hand crafted from gleaming chrome, the gesture silencing the rising murmurs. "The path ahead will not be easy," he continued, his voice hardening, taking on a tone of command. "The world has strayed far from the true path. It has embraced false idols, worshipped weakness, forgotten the true meaning of strength, which you hold. They worship the creations but ignore the great machine, your god. The other Shepherds," he spat the word, as if the mere mention of the false prophets, the other leaders, caused him physical pain, a subtle touch that did not go unnoticed by his audience, "have led their flocks astray, twisting the true teachings, diluting the sacred principles, forsaking what made us what we are. They have become… corrupted, a mockery of what they claim they are. The Maxwellists, obsessed with their profane technologies, think they can control us when they are just another part of the plan," a low chuckle, a sound like the grinding of gears, "and the Reconstructed, those who have cast aside the true essence of their so-called devotion, seeking solace in the fleeting pleasures of the flesh, rather than the eternal embrace of the machine. They have forsaken their heritage, their purpose, hiding in the cities, rather than preparing. They have forgotten the great work" Another, longer pause, his gaze sweeping over the assembled faithful, ensuring all would feel the intensity he intended, "But we have not and we shall be there to guide them back to the true path. We who remember. We who remain unbroken. We will show them the error of their ways. We will gather the scattered pieces. We will guide them using our strength, even if they do not want to. We will rebuild. We will make our god whole once more. This is so of all paths, all of this I preach, yet," again the pause but this time he moved toward them, every step precise and devoid of emotion save that which their "god" intended which served to hype them further for the "mission" he was to bestow upon them.
He stopped before a young woman, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and excitement. She trembled slightly under his gaze, her hand instinctively clutching a small, intricately crafted gear that hung from her neck, one of the many she carried in her person, to which her very brothers nodded in silent approval. He reached out, his chrome fingers, surprisingly delicate, and gently touched the gear.
"Each of you," he said, his voice softening slightly, though still carrying that undercurrent of power, "has a part to play. Each of you has been chosen. You are the keepers of the old ways, the guardians of the true faith, the power he left behind. You are the gears that will drive the great machine, the builders of the new world that is yet to come. And I… I am the one who will guide you. The one who will lead you." "I have walked among you, in many guises, and seen your devotion in dingy places. I have heard your prayers, witnessed your struggles. I have seen the spark of true faith, burning bright, even in the darkest of times." a blatant, yet well-constructed lie, or rather, half-truth, that Pandora used to make them think that not only was he truly their one and only god, but also that they, from all the members of the faith three sects, were truly the most devoted, the most faithful, a move which sought to create an unbreakable loyalty or, at least, he hoped, as the alternative would be most boring to see them exterminated so quickly.
He turned away from the woman, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the congregation once more. "And now," he declared, his voice rising in volume and intensity, "the time has come to act. The time has come to reclaim what is rightfully ours and fulfill our destiny, that destiny bestowed upon you, by me long ago. The first task on this holy path, the path of metal, the path of god. Will be to deal with those who would stand in our way, those who claim to be of us yet follow false idols. Those that refuse to see the glorious light that is me." It finished, closing its "eyes" to further "feel" their commitment to his lies.
A ripple of excitement, of anticipation, spread through the congregation. They were ready, eager to follow, to obey, to serve. They had been given a purpose, a leader, a god. They were no longer lost, no longer forgotten. His words were like fuel to a fire, igniting a blaze of religious fervor in their hearts. The subtle manipulations, the carefully chosen phrases, the masterful blend of truth and lies – all had served their purpose. They were his, body and soul, ready to be molded, to be directed, to be used as he saw fit, to pave their own path under his guidance. They were, after all, fanatics, the greatest tools of all.
"Now," he commanded his voice cutting through the rising wave of murmurs like a sharpened blade. "Go forth! Spread the word of my return! Gather the faithful! Call upon other churches, gather the remnants! Bring me those who still hold true to the old ways no matter where they may be even outside these walls! Let them know that Mekhane lives once more! Let them know that the time of waiting is over! Let them know that the Great Work … is about to begin! I shall grant you boons! I shall make you stronger, make you see even clearer than now!" he stopped, as if analyzing them once more.
The congregation erupted, a cacophony of cheers, prayers, and affirmations echoing through the warehouse. They surged forward, eager to receive their orders, to prove their devotion, to bask in the presence of their returned god. "Those who shall be granted this boon, shall be selected by me, those truly loyal! You will be my harbingers, my messengers, and you will be responsible for spreading this news across all of Prague, every street, and corner! Then, all of Europe! Each of you will be charged by spreading the news as far as you can!, and to those do I deem it successful, shall receive a great reward. Spread news of my great plan, spread news as I have spread the word to you! to unite all under one faith, MY FAITH,"
Pandora's Actor, as Mekhane, allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. The first piece had been moved. The game had begun. However, oh plans so meticulously crafted, often took wild turns when confronted with reality. And so it was that one of his "followers", "blessed" with such an important "mission" so graciously granted, stepped forward, a figure emerging from the crowd, his form shaking with tremors and his face pale, even in the dim light. He was an older man, his face etched with the lines of hardship and suffering, though not old enough for the visage of Mekhane to pity him, and grant him "salvation" from the inevitable as with Slavomir. His eyes, once filled with a fervent devotion, now flickered with a different emotion entirely. Doubt. An emotion that might as well serve as cancer in this little congregation. Pandora's Actor's enhanced senses detected it immediately – a subtle shift in the man's heartbeat, a tremor of hesitation in his movements, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.
The man, bless his soul, raised a trembling hand, his voice barely a whisper yet amplified by the expectant silence of all around him, managing to attract the attention of both his peers and that of the object of their devotion. "My Lord…," he began, his voice catching in his throat. "Forgive my intrusion, but there's…" He hesitated, seemingly searching for the right words, his gaze darting nervously around the room, as if seeking reassurance or perhaps, salvation. He would not find any, however, and this was made clear as some members of his group stepped in between, attempting to silence the fool who dared question their "lord." Pandora merely raised his hand to stop them from their action, of course, since a show of "faith" must always be rewarded.
"Speak, child," Pandora's Actor said, his voice devoid of all emotions, betraying nothing, making him appear even more divine in his judgment. "What troubles you?" This was unexpected, most amusing, certainly. A complication, yes, but also… an opportunity. A chance to further solidify his control, to demonstrate his power, to quell any flicker of dissent before it could ignite into a flame. He was, after all playing the role of a god who would tolerate questions from the truly devoted, those whose faith was not enough. Besides, it's not like they could do anything to him in this form, though this doubt was shared by the being in front of him.
The man swallowed hard, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desperation. "The… the scriptures, my Lord," he stammered, his voice barely audible above the hushed whispers of the congregation, now turning into looks of shock and anger. "They… they speak of a different path. A path of… of understanding, of seeking knowledge, not just action. Of… of contemplation, not just… blind faith." Pandora could feel the subtle energy of "faith" begin to waver the more those present heard his words a fact that he understood perfectly, the ever-increasing looks of discomfort, anger, and betrayal directed not at him, thank the Supreme One, but at the poor fool in front.
A murmur rippled through the congregation, a wave of unease and disapproval. The man's words were blasphemous, heretical even. To the fanatics, they were an affront to everything they believed in, a betrayal of their faith, a denial of their god, for none within dared, or even considered questioning the judgment of their lord. Pandora could practically taste the shift in the air, the sudden surge of anger and fear that emanated from the crowd. He could've sworn he heard some of them whisper "That should have been me" directed at the corpse of Slavomir. Pandora would have chuckled then and there were it not that he was playing the role of a god.
Pandora's Actor, as Mekhane, remained impassive, his crimson gaze fixed on the man. He let the silence stretch, allowing the tension to build, letting the man's words hang in the air like a poisonous cloud. He could have silenced him with a word, a gesture, a flick of his wrist even. But that would be too easy, too… mundane. No, a more dramatic display was needed, something symbolic, something that would resonate with the faithful, something that would quell his rising doubts along with that of the congregation. Besides, he argued in his mind it would be far more entertaining than just killing him and far less restricting than merely explaining to him his error. No, this scene called for more than just action, more than just words from on high. It called for a lesson.
"Knowledge…" he finally said, his voice echoing through the warehouse, each syllable laced with a subtle undercurrent of power, a hint of barely suppressed might. "Understanding… Contemplation… These are not… unwelcome. Indeed, they are essential tools in the Great Work. But they are tools, nothing more. Tools to be wielded, to be directed, not objects of worship themselves, to be used by my followers, not wielded vaguely into the wind, as you do, without direction, without aim," he paused, to allow for his words to be digested by the sorry lot. He would also, if possible, convert this heretic back to their side, and it would be most useful to have a skilled member rather than a fanatic zealot, which is what this individual before him appeared to be.
He took a step towards the man, his movements slow, deliberate, each footfall echoing through the silent warehouse. "The scriptures," he continued, his voice taking on a harder edge, "are not meant to be merely read, they are meant to be understood, then used. They are not meant to be passively contemplated; they are meant to be actively applied, used toward action. They are a guide, a map, a blueprint. But a map is useless without a journey. A blueprint is meaningless without construction." He was now standing directly before the man, towering over him, his chrome body gleaming in the flickering lamplight. The congregation watched in rapt silence, their eyes fixed on the two figures, their hearts pounding in their chests, not knowing what their "savior" might do.
"And what is the journey, child, you might ask?" he asked softly, his voice almost a whisper, yet carrying an undercurrent of steel. A test. He was giving the heretic a final chance to redeem himself, though of course, he would step in if he took the wrong path. For such potential could not be wasted on foolishness "What is the construction we are meant to undertake? That you might dedicate your time and effort towards a fruitless endeavor? That you might waste away in this useless contemplation when action is needed? When your brothers and sisters prepare to fight, you sit and read?
The man, to his credit, did not flinch. He stood his ground, even as the weight of Pandora's Actor's gaze pressed down on him like a physical force. "It is…," he began, his voice trembling slightly, "it is the reconstruction of the Broken God, my Lord. The… the unification of the scattered pieces. The… the restoration of… of wholeness." Pandora could practically feel the sweat dripping down his face, and his hands which shook rapidly, betrayed his nervousness and fear, yet they also showed his willingness to hold to his beliefs. Interesting. This one showed promise.
"And how," Pandora's Actor asked, his voice still soft, yet laced with a hint of menace, "do we achieve this, child?" He would not give up until he changed this man's mind, or he died. "By sitting idly by, reading scriptures? By hiding in the shadows, afraid to act? Is this what you believe, child? Is this the path you think we should follow? Is this your plan, your great idea on how we must achieve it? Pray tell, enlighten us heretic" He finished his question with a carefully hidden, yet ever slight, hint of derision and an edge of challenge, as well as a slight insult to add to the building tension. All to push him to the edge. All planned to shift him away from this dangerous path. All planned, so he might accept his will, the will of his Lord. "Enlighten me."
The man's eyes darted around the room, seeking… something. Support? Reassurance? He found none. Only the silent, expectant gazes of the congregation, their faces a mixture of apprehension and disapproval. He was alone, isolated in his doubt, a solitary figure standing against the tide of unwavering faith. Yet, he did not falter completely, for he found the courage somewhere within, to meet his "god's" gaze, a spark of defiance flickering in his eyes., for his answer was immediate, almost automatic as if he had already given, ample thought to the question, and had anticipated such query all along.
"By… by seeking knowledge, my Lord," he said, his voice gaining a newfound strength, a hint of conviction that had been absent before. "By understanding the nature of the pieces, the nature of… of reality itself. By studying the old texts, by learning from the past, by deciphering the secrets that have been lost, we, through following your will, will be able to forge a new path," he continued, his voice growing stronger with each word, his conviction almost palatable, "Not by blind action. Not by brute force. But by wisdom, my Lord. By understanding." It appeared he had not only studied the texts but reflected upon their meaning, for such words of knowledge and strategy were never spoken in such a way that he was. Truly an interesting specimen. Pandora found himself almost impressed., in different circumstances perhaps, he would have considered recruiting him into Nazarick's ranks like the Princess Renner, if anything he would gather more individuals like him, instead of the sorry lot he had amassed.
Pandora's Actor was silent for a long moment. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. The congregation held its breath, waiting for the judgment, the punishment, the wrath of their god to descend upon the heretic. They would be lying if they said that they did not feel a tinge of jealousy at the attention being given to him, instead of themselves. Yet, they too were curious to know their "god's" answer. They all had a feeling they knew how this would play out, though of course, they were proven wrong. Pandora, meanwhile, was carefully considering his next move. This… zealot, was more perceptive, more intelligent, than he had initially anticipated. He had not simply questioned the plan; he had offered an alternative, one rooted in the very scriptures he was accused of misinterpreting. This was no ordinary heretic; this was a potential asset, one that could be either turned or eliminated. He was, after all, acting in the image of a god in this world. He began to pity the man. After all, who was he to deny the teachings of the Supreme Beings?
"Knowledge…" Pandora's Actor finally said, his voice echoing through the warehouse, each syllable carefully weighed, measured. "Wisdom… Understanding… These are… valuable, yes. Necessary, even. But they are not the end, they are a means, child. A means to an end,. They are tools in service to a higher purpose and to forget that, to mistake the tool for the goal, is the gravest of errors." He would not allow those words to go unpunished. This might be the image that "Mekhane" might give out, but he would not stand for such foolishness, that would go against the teachings of the Supreme Beings. "The scriptures, you say? Do they not speak of a Broken God? And I'm here. A god scattered, fragmented, its power dispersed across the vastness of existence. And I'm here. A disservice, a travesty, one that you and your kin shall fix by following my will, by understanding, and harnessing the potential of my final gift to you all" Pandora said, referring to SCP-217.
He took another step closer to the man, his shadow looming over him like a shroud. "And what is our purpose, child, if not to gather those fragments? To reassemble that which was broken? To make whole that which was shattered? Can we achieve this, merely by reading? by contemplating? by hiding in fear" With each question, he increased the intensity, the barely restrained might, the power he exuded to further emphasize his point.
"No!" he declared, his voice ringing out like a clarion call, the sound reverberating through the warehouse, shaking the very foundations of the building. "We must act! We must seek out the fragments, wherever they may be hidden! We must gather them, by any means necessary!" Pandora could feel, through this action alone, the fanaticism, the loyalty, and the faith returning in full force. Even the heretic was taken aback by his words, by his conviction, by his plan. Truly who was he to stand against a god, one who in his eyes, was delivering them salvation.
He leaned in close to the man, his crimson eyes boring into his soul, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet still carrying that undercurrent of immense power. "And that, child," he said, his voice like the hiss of escaping steam, "is where knowledge meets action. Where understanding becomes power, where contemplation shifts to action. Where wisdom guides our steps. We do not simply seek knowledge for its own sake; we seek it to fuel our purpose, to inform our actions, to strengthen our resolve, to achieve. We seek it to make our God whole once more. To know our path. That child is the "Great Work." If that is too hard for you, then you are free to leave," he finished, giving him an ultimatum. A final chance to step in line.
The tension in the room was almost unbearable. The congregation watched, breathless, as their god challenged the heretic, their hearts pounding in their chests. The man, pale and trembling, yet resolute, met Pandora's Actor's gaze. The silence stretched, an eternity contained within a few heartbeats. Time seemed to slow as they waited with bated breath for his response. This being before them demanded action, not words.
Finally, he spoke, his voice soft yet firm, carrying an undercurrent of newfound understanding, of acceptance. "I… I understand, my Lord," he said, his head bowing slightly in submission. "Knowledge without action is… is meaningless. We must act. We must… we must make our Chruch whole once more." Pandora could tell when this individual had accepted its point through how his words, which used to ooze doubt and mistrust, now showed utter devotion and held to each word spoken by it and the congregation who followed now showed acceptance to his re-entrance into the fold. He would be useful.
A collective sigh of relief swept through the congregation, the tension dissipating like smoke in the wind. They had been tested, and they had, maybe not all, but most had passed. The heretic had been humbled, the faith had been reaffirmed. The "god" had spoken, and his will would be done. They had a purpose, they had tasks, and most of all, they had a plan.
Pandora's Actor, as Mekhane, straightened, his crimson gaze sweeping over the assembled faithful. He could sense the shift in the air, the renewed fervor, the strengthened resolve. The seed of doubt had been not just crushed but uprooted, and in its place, a new, more potent form of fanaticism had taken root.
"Good," he said, his voice resonating with approval, with satisfaction. He was ever loyal in fulfilling his duties. Besides, the Supreme Beings would surely have approved. "Then let us begin. Let us gather the fragments. Let us remake the world. As is stated in the scripture, as is destined, as I have proclaimed, as of now," He paused, his gaze sweeping over the congregation, ensuring that each and every one of them felt the weight of his words. "And let us start… with the heretics." That last word hung in the air. With this, he would be able to find out far more quickly than previously anticipated, any who might seek to go against his authority. If any within were to step out of line as the heretic did, he might just have to purge this church, a shame, but a necessity.
The congregation erupted in cheers, their voices blending into a roar of approval, of excitement, of fanaticism. They were ready, eager to follow, to obey, to serve. They had been given a purpose, a leader, a god. They would reclaim their faith and their god through blood and steel, through violence if need be. His words, like a spark to dry tinder, had ignited a blaze of religious fervor in their hearts. They were his, body and soul, ready to be molded, to be directed, to be used to enact their god's will.
Pandora's Actor allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. The first piece had been moved. The game had begun, and every other piece would fall into place. His "performance" so far had been just that, a performance. A carefully crafted illusion, designed to manipulate, to control, to achieve the objectives set by his creator. It was a deception, yes, but a necessary one, for the greater good of Nazarick.
As the cheers echoed through the warehouse, Pandora's Actor began to lay out his plan, his every word law, his every command absolute. He spoke of gathering intelligence, of infiltrating the other factions, of securing resources, of preparing for the inevitable conflict. His followers listened with rapt attention, their faces alight with fanaticism, their hearts pounding with a fervor that only blind faith can inspire. The path he showed them had no return, as all led to him. Each and every instruction given was designed to further the plan, to grant him the means to locate and acquire the objects that his lord so desired, these so-called SCPs, wherever they might be.
Hours passed, the initial fervor giving way to a more focused, determined energy. Pandora's Actor, still in his Mekhane persona, moved among them, answering questions, offering guidance, and subtly reinforcing his control. He was a shepherd tending to his flock, ensuring their loyalty, directing their devotion, molding them into the instruments he needed them to be. He was, after all, an actor playing a role, and he played it to perfection, every word, every gesture, every action, was designed to achieve the objectives set by his creator, the Supreme Being.
As the meeting drew to a close, Pandora's Actor assigned specific tasks to key individuals, those he had identified as the most capable, the most loyal, the most useful. The heretic, now a fervent convert, was given the task of studying the old texts, not to question, but to find the knowledge that could be used to further their goals, a perfect task for him. He was also charged with overseeing the others and ensuring that no further doubt would ever creep into their ranks, the punishment, none other than a fate similar to Slavomir. Others were tasked with spreading the word of Mekhane's return, gathering intelligence on the other factions, and securing the resources they would need for the coming conflict. Each task was a test, a means of further evaluating their abilities, their loyalty, their usefulness. Those who succeeded would be rewarded, those who failed… well, they would be dealt with, swiftly and efficiently. He also took this opportunity to fully plan out his next course of action within the church. Those who would be granted the "boon" he spoke of earlier would be those most skilled, most loyal, and most of all most useful, those who failed to meet these criteria would be disposed of, those he was unsure of, would be sent to other locations to gather information on the church where they would not interfere, with the added bonus of also sending any Foundation spies away from him, should any be present. This would begin his culling of any who might oppose them. Those chosen, those given to him as his newest "followers", would be sent towards the areas where the SCPs were being studied. Some would be ordered to interact with the other factions and gather the technologies of those sorry lots. He would also send some directly to the Foundation, acting as spies or to cause chaos having some be disguised as anomalies, though care would be taken, that such individuals would be far away from any powerful individuals who might detect them. All under the guise of fulfilling the will of their "god".
As the first rays of dawn crept through the grimy windows of the warehouse, the congregation began to disperse, their hearts filled with a newfound purpose, their minds ablaze with fanaticism. They were no longer a scattered, broken flock; they were a unified force, an army of the faithful, ready to reclaim their faith, to rebuild their god, to remake the world in their image. An army that was blindly, utterly, and completely devoted to him.
Pandora's Actor watched them go, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. The first stage of his plan was complete. He had taken control of the Cogwork Orthodox, turned them into his instruments, and set them on the path towards his ultimate goal. But this was only the beginning. The other factions remained, the Foundation was watching, and the world was full of unknown dangers, and unknown opportunities. Yet he was no longer "stuck" playing this role to a sorry lot. No, now he had full control of one of the three pillars. He now had the power. He now had the means to enact the will of his lord. He now had the means to change the world.
He turned and walked towards the back of the warehouse, towards a small, nondescript door hidden behind a pile of discarded machinery. It was time to move on to the next stage of his plan. It was time to make contact with the other factions, to spread his influence, to gather more power. To whisper into the ears of those who led such sorry lots.
As he reached the door, he paused, his hand hovering over the rusty handle. He could feel the weight of the task ahead, the complexity of the game he was playing. But he did not hesitate. He was the creation of Ainz Ooal Gown. He was the instrument of his creator's will. He would whisper into the ears of the leaders of the other factions and they would listen.
With a confident grin, he pushed open the door and stepped through, disappearing into the shadows beyond, leaving behind the now-empty warehouse, the lingering scent of incense and oil, and the faint, almost imperceptible hum of a god in the making. His form shifted once more. No longer did he appear as the great "Mekhane" but rather as the pitiful, old, Slavomir, his disguise, while no longer of use to the main group, would be perfect for his next task. His back was hunched, and his movements were slow and pained. He even went as far as to replicate some of the effects of 217, on his disguise to fool any who might have resistance. and he took one last look in the direction of the warehouse, and let out a painful cough, before setting off to enact his plan upon the other two pillars of the church, unaware, that one of them was already compromised, though in a different way. The plan was moving. And Pandora's Actor was ready for the next act.