Vox Populi, Vox Dei

Link to article: Vox Populi, Vox Dei.

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**[http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ralliston-s-authorpage More by this author]**
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In the heart of a thrice-nailed Empire, D.C. al Fine stands at the cusp of eternity.

She puts her hands behind her back as her sigh rings like a scream inside the empty halls of Saint Peter's Basilica. She breathes again, and considers her surroundings for the twenty-sixth time since she has begun her wait.

It is a cold morning in the center of the Vatican, made only worse by the white marble and beige travertine surrounding her from every side. The simulacra of holy men, captured upon canvas and wrought from stone, are certainly of no help either. Even the centerpiece of the Vatican's collection, the //Madonna della Pietà//, cradling her humiliated and murdered son before al Fine's eyes, only serves to remind her of the hypocrisy of the place. There is a tremendous beauty to it all, al Fine has to admit, to all of the treasures of faux-righteousness and pretend-divinity gathered under the careful watch of the papacy; an ephemeral kind of grace one would think is reserved only for truth, only for glory. She would certainly blame nobody for being enamoured and ensnared by this propaganda of propriety -- it's a display worthy of a god.

She hates it all with the kind of passion its caretakers would think reserved only for themselves.

If she had her way, the whole of the Holy See would be partitioned and put up as a display -- both of pride and excess, a lesson for all the empires-to-be about how fragile power truly is. Written under each of its treasures would be a sign declaring all of the crimes needed to bear the weight of such splendour, of such glory. Of such cowardice built upon years of comfort. She lets a grudge turn again in her guts, heavy after more than a century of marination, and the memories of Pius XII flood her brain once more: of cowardice against inequity, of a white flag waved by white robes -- of humanity surrendered on an altar to Baal in the south and Moloch in the north. Of the look in his eyes when they stood before him, she and all of her men, and he had to stare down from his walls at men who served and died for the comfort of his neutrality.

She sighs again.

For all of her contempt, she suddenly realizes, she stands as a cruelly fitting piece amidst the hall of the basilica. Though today she wears an [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marjorie_Cameron actorial face meant as an insult to her hosts that no doubt would escape anyone but her], her black-and-white dress makes for a good echo of the stones used to build this temple. She inadvertently plays a role similar to the piece in front of her -- between the shape of her dress and the shape of her face, she remains akin to the eternity captured by Michalengelo's chisel.

It's a cruel kind of eternity, of course. The kind reserved for decadent powers lingering only by the power of convention, and empires in decline against their own riches and their own power -- for an inevitable and permanent surrender to time and fate.

An eternity that, in her heart of hearts, al Fine fears her and her Coalition could soon come to know. One that reminds her and her contemporaries that no matter the strength and certainly no matter the age, time erodes and perverts all: even hierarchy, even empire. An eternity that right now, in the wake of the most recent leader of this particular empire closing his eyes to at last meet his god, makes itself known especially strongly.

Al Fine sighs for a third time, but before she can regain her rhythm the sound of heels that are not her own hits the cold, clean floor and ripples throughout the hall. She turns her head away from the sculpture and towards a tiny man in a dark robe, slowly making his way towards her.

The man nods. "Undersecretary General, Madame," the priest says, his hands clasped before his body. "The last of the members has arrived -- ah, Master Wilhelm, I believe?" He smiles faintly. She cannot tell whether it's sincere. "The Council and the Council are awaiting your presence. They are to begin."

She looks at him for a second, something between frustration and relief plastered on his face, and then nods back. "Very well."

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For what is most likely the first time in history, the saints gathered on the walls of the Sistine Chapel find a similarly varied clique of sinners gathered right beneath their feet.

The tables below the great painting are set just as they were when al Fine first arrived, more than eight hours ago, when the only intruder on holy ground was she herself -- what //has// changed, however, are the people sitting next to them. The robes of those gathered under the careful watch of Adam and his god are no longer only white and red, for among them now stand a hundred and eight additional trespassers. At once, all of the men -- and women and everyone inbetween, much to the dismay of their hosts -- that represent the primary ruling organ of the Global Occult Coalition stand up as al Fine enters through. The age of the cardinals allows them a similar gesture only seconds later.

The Undersecretary General eyes all of them, then tightens her lips, and moves to join her fellow reprobates, towards the only chair still unmanned, standing right at the end of the chapel. The doors behind her close with a weight appropriate for the situation, and she takes her place beneath the Last Judgment, ready to render her own verdict.

The symbolic key turns, and the counsel begins.

Al Fine clears her throat. All eyes fall on her.

"Delegates, cardinals," she begins, taking the papers before her and stacking them neatly. "We are gathered here, first and foremost, in mourning. Mourning for both a great man and a great lineage that has suffered so much in the months since his passing." The words only barely come through her gritted teeth. She takes a deep breath, and remembers that just like in appearance, tonight she must also be an actress in behavior. "I remain saddened that our presence here is necessary, but similarly remain glad that you have found within you the wisdom we knew you to hold. That you turned to your true allies, when the hour called.

"I believe I speak for all of us when I say that we are honored to find ourselves here, in such a place and during such a time. That today we have the opportunity to extend our aid to a new theatre. That we may again be given the chance to uphold what we both consider an utmost sanctity: the continuation of our predestined order."

Some of the cardinals exchange uncertain glances, but the spark in their eyes immediately gives place to surrender, to reason; to an understanding that, however painful, this is necessary -- both for the good of themselves and the world at large.

Al Fine continues, "I once again can only give my sympathies for the loss of the man that Jorge Bergoglio was. There is no doubt in my mind that, even given the difficulties he has faced in the last years of his service, the time he has spent as leader and guide will be remembered fondly by all those grieving around the globe. There will certainly be none like him again.

"No, no man will replace the soul that he was -- but a man must replace the man that he was. The line of Peter must continue, no matter the troubles which have faced the promise of its persistence in the days of its vacancy. And it falls upon us to fulfill this promise -- both of us, no matter our personal wishes."

A pregnant silence overcomes the room.

"Now," she says, putting down the papers and once more looking at all of the gathered. "Let us begin."

The cardinals all look at each other, unease in each of their movements, and they themselves gather their own notes in a fashion befitting their role and indeed their duty. She knows that they don't want her here -- that they don't want any of her ilk here -- but she similarly knows that they're aware they have no choice. That they're aware that if this fails, so will they.

She hears a frustrated sigh echo from somewhere amidst the clergy, but she lets it be -- it doesn't matter that they think her a trespasser, that they think her an enemy. She's already grabbed the heart of their decadence. Besides: it isn't as if she's here as an actual intruder. After all, they //did// invite her in; they have had bigger fish to fry than the Coalition, in the last couple of years.

The Holy See has known many far greater enemies than the GOC since the [[[no-return-hub|Veil fell]]] not four years ago. Though the final shift in the status quo did not break the Faith, it most certainly shook the foundations upon which it has built its power. The guidance of the previous bishop of Rome, though not always the most pragmatic, has mostly offset the immediate fallout of the masquerade's end, but it would take a fool not to admit that the global population of the faithful has not taken well to Veilfall.

There is certainly a lot that al Fine could say about the golden pigs holed up in the Holy See, but even now with all of her distaste she cannot say that they are fools. They are familiar with the weight of their own power -- they have carried it for so long that they know it better than their own souls -- and they knew what had to be done, the second the last man standing between them and total chaos had uttered his final prayer. When the myriad candidates for his position were finally free to push their claim in an unstable world after years of waiting, with Francis no longer there to stop them.

That they knew there was no other beast that could take down the far worse monsters claiming Bergolio's throne than the Coalition.

It might've been a painful decision, but in the two-millenia-long scheme of things, it wasn't a new one. [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_papacy_(1048%E2%80%931257) There was precedent] -- and though the Coalition was neither holy nor Roman it was most certainly an empire in the most platonic sense of the word. The duty would now fall upon al Fine and her kin; only the Coalition could muster enough legitimacy before the public to stop this crisis, lest it spiral out into total oblivion. 

Seven official antipopes and tens of lesser claimants in the span of three weeks was enough. High time has come for just one more man to be presented before the //sancta sedes// -- this time legitimately and permanently.

Al Fine clears her throat. "We shall start with the candidates closest to our assembly—" She quickly glances at the others. "—unless there are any objections to this schedule."

Once again, nobody protests. This time, though, the silence isn't the symptom of necessity -- it's a full agreement that something must be done with the seven men, seven products of their own cliques, who pushed their claim to the papal throne directly from inside the Vatican. That they are the first ones that should go, if the conclave is to put together a coherent plan for the future.

"Excellent." She turns towards the nearest cardinal, an older man with fair skin -- something Prevost, she thinks? -- and puts her hands together. "Now, are any of our seven claimants--"

"Eight as of this morning, General," he interjects.

"Are any of our //eight// claimants of any actual significance or legitimacy, or are they all mindless vandals?

A shocked murmur goes through the crowd. One man -- this time of darker skin and younger age -- stands up to confront her: "They are all men of faith, we do not doubt; but they are also misgui--"

Al Fine waves her hand, causing something akin to frustration to fly through the cardinal's face. "Mindless vandals all, then. Excellent. We may move to more seri--"

"Actually, Undersecretary General," yet another voice interrupts al Fine, this time coming from inside her own crowd. **Lord Marcus Crowley of the United Church of Satan, Scientist** himself stands up, putting his hands behind his back and smiling a sly grin. The cardinals don't even honor him with disgust. "One of the claimants has real merit, for which I can personally vouch."

Al Fine raises an eyebrow. "Elaborate."

"The man who now calls himself Peter II -- the man this lot has had imprisoned—" He gives the priests a thunderous look, again to no reaction. "—is one of mine, Undersecretary General. He is wise and experienced, and still he was thrown in jail like the common crooks declaring themselves for a title that is his by the right of truth--"

"You cannot be serious!" The man that stands up has darker skin (Philippe something, she believes?) this time around. He points at Crowley, then at al Fine, his hand shaking. "This man is an insult to the terms we have agreed upon. A heretic claiming truth in the house of God? How dare he scold us! How dare he try to usurp us! This man has no right to speak about the will of Peter's line -- he is here for self interest only, and--"

"I am most definitely //not//, //your excellency//," Crowley snaps back through gritted teeth. "I am following through the duty with which the Text has left all of us with: the preparation of the Earth for your Lord's second arrival, under terms which would benefit man." There is a zealous fire in his eyes, now, a feverish kind of determination. "Under Peter II's guidance we //would// be prepared, and we //would// see Him return again with an end hastened so that we may secure a triumph for our own side, our own will, the sole duty that our Coalition has been founded with, and--"

The priest scoffs. "Pah! You speak of a Second Coming, you... //you//. You speak of it as if the arrival of final Judgment lies in our hands -- as if it is a duty that we bear. No man shall know the hour, Mister Crowley, which I'm sure you would remember had you read that which you claim to represent."

"As you would also know," yet another priest chimes in, this time presumably Polish, judging by his accent, "that our Church has refuted and rejected all of His presumed second comings as nothing but heresies and overinterpretations, even amidst the mystical. We have all agreed upon as much with you and the former Foundation." He puts particular emphasis on the last word, as if regretting it is no longer there to put the world back into his predestined order.

He continues, "Neither [[[garfield-timeline|James Davis]]] nor the one your absent collaborators had called Sophia have changed this approach -- and neither will this. I will not permit our Church to fall into such madness."

"All of this aside, actually," says **Chevalier Ludwig Bernard of the Holy Order of Knights Templar, Reformed**, the steel ornaments sewn to his clothing clinging against the table, "why would we choose someone who, as you claim—" He looks at Crowley. "—would wish to immanentize the eschaton at the earliest possible convenience? It is the primary duty of this Coalition to stand against any such Armageddon and prevent it for as long as we can, no?"

Crowley clears his throat, somewhat thrown off track by Bernard, a man most frequently in agreement with him both in conservatism and opinion, publically going against him. "Well, yes, we //are// here to protect, which can only be brought about after we triumph and bring about the end of our servitude to--"

"I would argue that 'Protection' would be better served by us keeping the fire at bay instead of playing in its ashes, and--"

Al Fine snaps, her voice thundering throughout the hall: "I have heard enough. I believe we all have," she says, garnering many nods from the rest of the conclave. She has no sympathy for any of the cardinals, but she needs them by her side -- and Crowley is certainly not a player important enough to risk their approval on. "The eschaton shall not come my watch, I can guarantee you that." 

She silences Crowley with a gesture of her hand before he can speak again, then turns back to the cardinals. "Criminals and apocalypticists notwithstanding, are any of the eight actually noteworthy in any capacity beyond their apparent lack of respect for our common order?"

"One of them would certainly like to say so, actually," says an Italian priest from the other side of the room with the kind of cadence reserved only for an unwilling insomniac. "Perhaps a little bit too much, in fact."

Al Fine crosses her legs, and skews her head.

The Italian corrects his glasses. "Sometime after your Masquerade had fallen, one of our own was travelling through the city of Vegas—" He silences the unsaid question with just one look at the other attendees. "—when he was unfortunate enough to learn of its, ah, true //[[[scp-4661|folly]]]//. More specifically, he learned it directly from one of its new citizens, now free to roam both planes as he pleased.

"The man claimed he was [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pope_Stephen_VI father Stephen VI]. Long story short: though our own man was most skeptical, the marks around the neck and very specific knowledge the Stephen was in possession of certainly matched what would be expected -- that and his, ah, destination, so to speak."

"...Which is of what relevance, exactly?" al Fine asks in a somewhat bored tone.

"Well. He claimed -- and still continues to, now more strongly and to a larger audience than before -- that since the man sitting upon the Throne is changed only once the previous occupant passes, this should mean that the current Bishop of Rome is illigitimate and that his authority should indeed be passed to himself, seeing how he is technically still alive and has at last found his way back into baseline reality." He skews his head. "Even given his... admittedly //perished// and quite horned form."

Al Fine sighs. "I had rather explicitly asked for serious contenders, your excellency. Not those who can't even do as little as learn of Benedict XVI."

The man smiles a sorry smile. "As I find it important to note, General, the man has gathered quite the crowd down in Nevada in the last few weeks and he does not sound like he is about to stop."

Again, al Fine waves her hand. "First of all, as is public ICFP dictate, mortal succession laws do not apply to re-animation or any other cases of post-mortem activities -- a standard enforced worldwide, I made sure. We are //not// going to put //his corpse// on trial, [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cadaver_Synod too]. I would not grant him that farce.

"Besides, as you said -- the man //is// a demon." A few uncertain murmurs go throughout the crowd, but do not interrupt her speech. "The last time I checked PENTAGRAM is fully authorized to take care of any hostile tartareans on US soil, the second they become actual threats. I say let him be -- if he does not back down soon, he will not be ours to take care of. Which means, as I said, that the eight are not of any concern to us."

This most certainly was not the wording that the cardinals had hoped for, but it //is// the end result they would have liked to see, and thus say nothing. The only man that //does// protest is **Bernard of the //Ordinis Occulti Luminis//, tiebreaker for the Horizon Initiative's Tribunal**.

"General, now that I consider it, 'eight' is perhaps a misleading number."

Al Fine furrows her brows. "What now?" Had she her way, the lanky robed man would most definitely not be here -- but, alas, he has every right to. His ilk have more than earned their observer status on her Council through blood and sweat spilled against the common enemy, almost a century prior. She might not like him, but she cannot take away his deeds or indeed his rights. Still: he //is// a bitch.

"Though she has not officially pushed her title, by definition [[[scp-5529|Joan II of Minnesota]]] should also be considered amongst our, ah, //antipopes//."

This time, al Fine //does// let a tired exhale leave her lungs. "Come now. I had hoped we had taken care of this particular case when we invented a meme against the whole nonsense."

The Initiative's Bernard nevertheless continues: "We had taken care of it in our own circles, true, but similarly to our previous consideration, there do exist large groups worldwide that still believe in her being the rightful bishop of Rome. To such a degree, in fact, that some could claim the perseverance of the anecdote against our own attempts at disproving it may be proof of its divine truth--"

At once, as several of the cardinals stand up, their words quickly devolving from protest into nonsense -- "Those Americans will think of anything!", "A Woman? Pope? Over my dead body!" and some such. They are only stopped by the hand of **Olivié Gwyneth, Head Archivist of the Sidhe Lounge** striking the wood before her loudly enough to be heard all around the hall.

She stands up, and looks at Bernard, then at al Fine. "With all due respect, General, this is a farce. I realize our presence here was requested, but seeing how this session is proceeding so far, I would argue it is not //needed//. It is clear that our own machinations do not align with that of the Holy See, and indeed our own considerations go against its ability to quickly elect someone to put an end to this whole crisis." This spawns a few unexpected murmurs of agreement, both from the cardinals and the whole spectrum of political stances amidst the Council of 108. "If anything, I would propose a better solution to be the conclave finding its three or five best candidates and then pointing them to us as means of final selection, instead of giving us directly the power to choose for them. We should represent democ--"

"No," al Fine says, flatly. Gwyneth raises an angry eyebrow, so the Undersecretary General continues: "We do not have the luxury of being an observer, of being a judge. In case you have not noticed, Head Archivist, these are perilous times -- harder than we have seen since the Wall has fallen. We //need// someone we ourselves can trust to handle them." She tightens her lips. "We cannot afford a weak man occupying a throne that oversees the opinions of billions. Not unless we want a war that will push us back into darkness -- a war that will break our own custody over the safety of humanity.

"What would you do, say," she asks with a nasty grimace, sick of such self-nailed Martyrs of truth as Gwyneth. "If, god forbid, we experienced a global eschatological event during our time? One with symbolism enough to capture the hearts of the billions that trace their lineage back to Abraham? Would you entrust a man we know nothing about -- one whose whole See we do not know if we can trust -- to handle such a crisis along with us? Would you trust him to address the public with a truth we can no longer hide?

"No matter our own will, we have always stood a //katechon// -- and that we shall remain, especially here, especially //now//. I will not permit minutiae to break a front I need united. I will not permit it to take away a pillar upon which the peace we owe humanity rests."

Her words give way to silence, then to a wave of agreeing nods. Between those that support her stance, al Fine finds many she had expected would take a similarly hardline approach (neither the Universalist Order of the Æsir nor ICSUT surprise her in their judgement) but others still she would have never expected to take such a pragmatic approach to the apostolic succession: that both the Sisters of Perpetual Vigilance and the Sons of Phomet follow along her line of logic almost makes her raise an eyebrow in its own right.

Still: she most definitely does not complain about the majority that she sees she now has in her favor -- a majority that soon forces Gwyneth to sit back down without a further word.

Al Fine almost regrets her thoughts when she sees the Knight Templar stand back up in her stead.

"Thus we postulate, in agreement with the General, that a man from inside the Church itself as we know it here and now is the only way forward," he speaks his truthism, spawning a few more nods.

Not enough, it seems: **Illuminated Master Wilhelm of the Bavarian Illuminati** speaks up, "How do we know that we //could// trust the See, even if it was guided by someone we had deemed worthy, though?" Some of the cardinals raise their hands in protest, but he continues: "No offence, your excellencies, but you know all too well just how often we disagree. That, and the first man of yours that we have come to know has been... well. I do not believe I must speak much about Pius XII."

The mention of the pope's name lights up a spark inside al Fine's heart great enough to blind her for a second -- both to the fact that she cannot let the anger show itself and to the fact that the Illuminate most definitely isn't speaking without his own bias. She shakes her head, ready to re-collect her thoughts, but before she has a chance to cool down enough to speak her job is suddenly finished by Bernard of the Knights Templar.

"Wilhelm, friend, would you rather have a man that we at least partially know in the seat -- one that is already familiar with the mechanisms of the army he would be leading, that is already tested to be rational and reasonable -- or indeed one that aligns more with truth, perhaps, but is guaranteed to waver to its wind, should the time come?"

Wilhelm shrugs, admitting the point, and sits back down alongside the Knight Templar. Al Fine takes a breath to speak -- her best bet at letting the anger fully die out, she believes -- but she is interrupted //once more//, flaring the flame only higher. She affords the man speaking up a stare that would kill most, but her rage does not get through the thick Yeren skin of **Elder Brother Neztregh Dwovogh of the Sons of Phomet.**

"Truth? You speak of //truth//?!" he shouts at the top of his lungs as he stares at his fore-speakers, his roar making those sitting next to him flinch. "You have been gathered here to speak of politics, not of the validity of this madness. You are meant to be better than the hoi polloi, to show them the way into the light -- not to give into their shared delusions!"

Each of his words makes something flare inside al Fine. She grabs the edge of the table closest to her very tightly, making sure that nobody notices it, and takes one deep breath after another.

The construct meant as a **Speaker to Humans of the Silicon Nornir** suddenly agrees with the Yeren. It raises its mechanical finger: "{{These are harsh words, but they ring true: we should not surrender ourselves to subjectivity, when what we face is a peril most objective in nature. Governance should take precedent over doctrine; a clear and objective path forward should take precedent over faith.}}"

"In that regard, then," says **Brother Plantard of the Priory of Sion**, "if we truly should concern ourselves with realpolitik over however the faith may appear to those outside this hall—" He raises his voice to over the rising frustration of the cardinals. "—then isn't [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sedevacantism sedavacantism] the most pragmatic choice we may take? If we are to retain order at its highest possible strength—" Plantard looks at al Fine, with something like self satisfaction at his own perceived superiority plastered all over his face. At him at once raising the subjective importance of himself, with this observation, and his mission to install someone his organization could deem worthy as the Pope, after so many decades, almost to that of the Undersecretary General herself. "—then should we not return to the stability offered by the doctrine of the Church //before// the Second Council? To the doctrine of the Church held till the death of Piu--"

Something breaks inside al Fine. "Enough!" she shouts, banging her fist against the desk until her fingers start to hurt. "Enough." She is panting now, heavy breaths going up and down her body. She does not sit down -- instead, she shares the very same look she had first given the Yeren with the rest of the room.

This time, it does its job. "I was wrong, it seems, in entrusting this task to you. In assuming that you could speak with reason, that you could put your own nonsense aside."

Nobody speaks a word. All eyes -- some confused, most terrified -- are on her.

Al Fine points at Gwyneth. "I owe you an apology, Head Archivist. It is apparent you saw this lot for what they truly are -- for squabbling children that more concern themselves with their personal agendas than with the core of our mission. Than with the continued safety of mankind." Before Gwyneth can nod, al Fine adds: "Thus, I have decided our session requires a different approach. One that will guarantee we do not sit here for a month as the very thing we aim to preserve falls apart around us."

She stands up, slowly, and rests both of her hands on the table only by their fingertips. "I invoke my right as administrator of this Council of 108 conclave and as Undersecretary General of the United Nations, and state what follows: you all have already said your pieces, and I have already heard all that I need to hear from you to pass proper judgment.

"We will not vote on this issue, as I had hoped we would when we began -- it is clear you are unable to do so in a rational manner. Thus, each of you will instead write upon a sheet of paper the candidate you would personally support, no matter their place or indeed status within the Church or way outside it.

"When you are done, I will make the choice."

The room erupts into shocked and furious banter.

"You cannot be serious!" says the dark skinned priest from before, walking away from his desk and in front of al Fine. He crosses all the other protesters and points a finger directly at her. "How //dare// you dictate our ways, how //dare// you! You cannot--"

Al Fine steps from her booth, her head held high up. She walks up to the small man, each click of her heels against the marble striking like thunder, and she looks down at him with a fire in her eyes that the world has not seen in almost a century. "But I can. And I //will//."

She turns around the room, her face split in rage, and immediately all those she eyes fall silent. Each of her heavy breaths falls like a hurricane, and at once she reminds the gathered why she has maintained her position for as long as she has -- why she has won the War the Throne, and why she has the whole world in a grip befitting her title of Iron Lady. Why she is the only thing standing between civilization and total occult armageddon.

"You have invited me here, under the pretense that my judgment would render the chaos threatening the inevitable fall of your home obsolete! You have invited me here because you know, no matter what you tell yourselves in prayer, that I am the one thing that can hold you back from extinction. You have invited me here to hear and to listen to what I have to say!

"Then //submit to it//, unless you want to become undone."

In the eyes of the audience, the walking nuclear missile named Cassandra Elliot at her birth and Da Capo al Fine at her baptism grows thrice in size, and they speak no further words -- they suddenly realize that what she speaks of is nothing but the truth. It is between this and oblivion.

The cardinals first gulp, then are followed by the members of the Council of 108, and they all pick up their pens.

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It takes little less than an hour for each of the present to write up their candidates -- it takes a little more than an hour for al Fine to consider them.

Most of them bore her, some of them amuse her. Some -- though very few -- baffle her to such an extent that she somewhat worries about the integrity of the people suggesting them: that someone would fully sincerely write in the ghost of [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hong_Xiuquan Hong Xiuquan], brought back from his secret Abnormality Institute-organized resting place in Tibet by the recent unrest in China, makes her feel far older than she is.

Still: when all's said and done, she narrows it down to five options -- the only five that could save this decadent mess from collapsing within the decade, from surrendering to chaos in a Veil-less world and threatening Eight Occult War on a cultural scale hitherto unseen.

She considers her choices very carefully, though not for long, and then at last decides.

She clears her throat, and presents her verdict to the cardinal protodeacon upon a single sheet of paper, for the entire conclave to hear.

At first, he blinks twice, then looks up at al Fine. Her face does not waver, but his expression most definitely does; he stares back down at the page, then again at the General, and then, at last, at everyone gathered.

He tells them all that the one chosen to carry on the lineage of Saint Peter, the one to sit upon the throne of the Holy See -- the one to stand as light against darkness in these perilous times, and the one to shepherd the hearts of billions all around the world will be none other than [[[scp-3483|Reverend Doug Kaisen]]], formerly warrior against demons under the SCP Foundation, now turned missionary and spiritual leader in north-east Asia.

Reverend Doug Kaisen, //Velociraptor mongoliensi//, reanimated.

The shock breaks through the fear al Fine's previous display has gathered. "ARE YOU MAD?!" shouts one cardinal, joined by another, then another, //then another// in protest: "What are you //thinking//, Genera--"

She puts her hands behind her back, then bends over. "Do you know what happens to things that do not bend, cardinal?"

The shouting does not stop. "The Church has stood strong for two millenia, and--"

"--and it will break like the dying remnant that it //is//, unless you look up and see how deep a hole you've actually dug for yourselves." She turns to the rest of the protesting, finding out rather pleasantly that at least half of her one-hundred-and-eight are not among them, and continues. "You do not seem to truly understand the world you've found yourselves in, so let me clear it up for you.

"In case you have not yet noticed, one fifth of the world's population consists of creatures your truth has not even begun to fathom or address, in the thousands of years that it has stood. One fifth more consists of people who hate you, or at least view you with contempt. One fifth //more// finds you pathetic. What do you think happens, when the remaining two find their arguments persuasive?

"You have inherited a world much different than the one you've shared since your inception, and though you and your kin have always been resistant to change, it was a luxury that you could afford. It was a truth which you could avoid because to most of your world you //were// the truth. But times have changed.

"You are no longer the dam, and you are most certainly no longer the river -- you are a ship, passing through the current just like everyone else, and though you may shout your wisdom at the remaining vessels, you are not an outside observer. You do not remain on the shore.

"You can either swim with the current, recognising that it is there, or refuse its existence and break upon the waves, trying to resist the river.
 
"This is the crossroads at which you stand: you can either bend to a new world that you cannot outrun, to jump in the deep now and emerge a capable swimmer before the tides cover you, or delay the inevitable and meet it with stubbornness great enough that it will sink you before you can take your breath.

"This is my wisdom. You can take it -- and you will take it, I will make sure of that -- or you can leave this room and show me you are no better than the man who was so afraid of action in a world that needed him that he remained under Mussolini's boot."

"Such is my verdict."

The second she stops speaking, the room explodes once more, but she knows that they know it does not matter -- the vote was cast, and for better or for worse history will trudge on.

@@ @@

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On a balcony some kilometer away from the Holy See, D.C. al Fine looks upon the rising sun. She takes a drag off a cigarette, reminiscing on pains and pleasures long since gone, and she lets out a very long and heavy sigh.

She no longer wears the same face or clothes as before -- they would never let her leave the city so quickly, had the others known it was her beneath the disguise -- but her temper remains the same. The same anger, the same frustration with those foolish men still brews deep inside her guts, but is now accompanied by longing, by worry.

She knows she's made the right choice, but still wonders regardless.

She has always fancied herself a realist, a pragmatist no matter the cost; a Bismarck for a time and age and culture that never had its own Iron Chancellor. She knows that, however it may appear, the decision she's made will prove the correct one, in the long run. That there will be five years of agitation that will pave the way for fifty more of stability; five years of anger that will shine the light forward, towards a generation that will remember the Veil as nothing but a bedtime story.

The decade will turn, the people will die, and civilization will carry on.

They will hate her for it, no doubt, but it won't be anything new. Between her own nature and indeed her status, parts of the world have always hailed her the antichrist. She does not doubt that the rage will only come more loudly, this time around -- but a fire that burns twice as bright burns half as long. She will endure. She always has.

They will hate her, when they learn of the new Pope in a few hours, for breaking their ways and forcing upon them something they have not yet taken up as their own truth. They will hate her as the one who's changed the infallible doctrine, this time around -- for setting a man they will say does not deserve it upon Saint Peter's Throne. 

But then again, the same has been said about John XXIII, then about Paul VI, and then about Francis; and they have all lived and ruled and died amidst order and peace.

They have all lived and ruled and died amidst a tomorrow they could afford to know.

She sighs again. They will make do. They will have to.

In a hundred years, history will vindicate her, when it turns back and sees two centuries without an Occult War. When it sees a world kept together by the pragmatism of one woman, when everyone and everything failed -- when it sees a present that could only be achieved through a path forged in iron.

The only alternative is calamity.

Al Fine takes another drag of her cigarette, and lets the smoke die on the cold, morning breeze.

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> **Filename:** Fotografia_oscura_en_el_Vaticano_12.png
> **Name:** Fotografía oscura en el Vaticano 12.jpg
> **Author:** Álvaro de la Paz Franco
> **License:** Public Domain
> **Source Link:** [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fotograf%C3%ADa_oscura_en_el_Vaticano_12.jpg Wikimedia Commons]

> **Filename:** GOC.png
> **Author:** [[*user Navla]]
> **License:** CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/navla-artwork SCP Foundation Wiki]
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