I love cheap ice cream sandwiches.

"I don't think it matters," Ruby said, because of course she did. She and her team sat in their room, all on their various bunks and in their pajamas. The light was out and they should have been trying to go to sleep, but the buzz of the day's concerns left them wakeful.

Ruby herself had just returned from some alone time with Jaune. It had been simple, just the two of them up on the roof. She had congratulated him on team JNPR's victory, because of course they won. Between Pyrrha's honed skill, Nora's power, Ren's agility and Jaune's keen fighting experience, they were able to mop the floor with their opponents. Despite that, Jaune had not managed to muster much of a smile for the cameras afterwards. Ruby had expected him to be at least somewhat excited. Perhaps he would have been under normal circumstances.

The specter of whatever had happened between him and Sarah Lyons, however, still seemed to haunt him. Not only that, but he had told her that Qrow wanted him to open up more about his past—his past was one thing that they had all learned not to ask about.

Their time together up on the roof had been… not pleasant. It had not been unpleasant, either. It had simply been numb of feeling. Jaune was not all there. He bit his lip, fidgeted with his hands and looked around nervously. He was distracted at every moment. She had given him a big hug and held on tight; despite that, Ruby had gotten the distinct feeling that the person who had been in her arms had not really been there at all.

Then she had returned to her room, only to learn some things that made it all the more complicated.

"I do think it matters," Weiss said. "I think it matters a lot that he is apparently enemies with a specialist and former Legionnaire."

Weiss had explained her revelation earlier in the morning. She had also told them that, during a brief meeting with her sister, she had discreetly managed to shift the topic to the other specialists who accompanied Winter (purely out of curiosity, of course). She had managed to learn that the one with the large claymore had been recruited straight from the Legion recently—Weiss had not tried to push her luck and ask for more information.

She had just informed her team of this, and that had led to an unhappy Ruby Rose.

"What, you think we should be suspicious of him?" Ruby asked with a scowl.

"Not at all," Weiss replied. "I'm just frustrated that, for whatever reason, he doesn't seem to trust us enough to share important things."

"What even is the Atlas Foreign Legion?" Yang asked from up on her own bed. She leaned on her side, looking down at her teammates across the room. "Is it something special?"

"As I'm sure you're all aware," Weiss began, "Atlas is a heavily militarized country. We place great value in it for pride and social cohesion. It is a core part of life for many, giving good benefits, education and prestige. It is not only native Atlesians, however, who can take advantage of military service.

"Atlas is an insular and admittedly somewhat xenophobic place, being on a continent further removed from the rest and relatively isolated. Opportunities for new arrivals are fairly limited—aside from workers for baseline industries that can be brought in. It is very difficult for them, however, to get citizenship. One can live and work in Atlas for decades without becoming a citizen. You also need at least one citizen parent to be born a citizen, so even being born in Atlas isn't enough, although that will make it easier."

"Alright, and what does this have to do with the Foreign Legion?" Yang asked.

"I'm just giving some background information," Weiss said, holding up a hand to signal for patience. "It's important to understand that it's very difficult to become an Atlas citizen. There's only one reliable way to get it done quickly."

"Marry someone?" Yang asked.

"Not even that," Weiss said with a dismissive wave. "The number one fastest way to become a citizen is five years of service in the Atlas Foreign Legion.

"It's a branch of the military that entirely comprises non-citizen soldiers, with recruitment stations across Remnant. People from Vacuo, Vale and Mistral are brought in to serve. Only the best of the best are allowed.

"Their trials for admittance are grueling. Nobody knows exactly what they are, only that they are utterly brutal. Days on end with little rest, food or water. Constant physical and mental strain in the form of running, lifting, marching and yelling and degrading. The trials for passing into the Foreign Legion supposedly put normal boot camp to shame. Some reports even allege that serious injury and even death is not uncommon.

"But then even if you get in, the Foreign Legionnaires never catch a break. They're constantly given the more dangerous missions and the worst jobs. They have to dig ditches and latrines and serve as cooks and janitors, all while being expected to take up arms and rush into battle at a moment's notice. Being in the Foreign Legion is absolutely brutal.

"But after five years, they get citizenship?" Yang asked.

"Exactly, and for many, that's worth it. And the people who do manage to make it through all five years can't be disputed in their skill and resolve. If they don't keep moving up through the military, then they can definitely get good jobs in private security."

Blake scoffed. "More like they cash in as mercenaries for a while before retiring. Back in the White Fang, we were trained to spot the Foreign Legion right away. Even after graduating from it, a lot of legionnaires keep wearing their Legion markers if they're hired by the SDC or whoever. They were the nastiest, not just because they were vicious fighters but because of what they would do to you if they caught you."

Weiss cleared her throat awkwardly after Blake finished. "Indeed," she said. "The Foreign Legion has an… unpleasant reputation. They are stereotypically known for being a bunch of brutal foreigners."

"And you said that Sarah Pride is one of them?" Blake asked. "That fits the story. Jaune said she was originally from Vacuo, but now she looks all Atlas."

"Yes, but she's no longer in the Legion. She's a Specialist. That means she's among the best of the best. Winter only told me that she was a recent recruit, so for the last five years she's been serving in the Legion.

"And Jaune said he fought with her in Vacuo over a year ago, which means she must have been in the Legion still at that time," Weiss continued. "I believe he said they fought the Enclave together.

"So if that's the case, why was the Enclave a mystery to General Ironwood and the others?" Weiss finished.

"What do you mean?" Ruby asked.

"If they already had forces in Vacuo fighting the Enclave," Blake said, scowling pensively, "then they definitely already have information about the Enclave and where they were. They shouldn't really have to bother Jaune at all…"

"But they don't have that information, so that means Sarah Pride has shared as much with them as Jaune has. That is to say, nothing," Weiss said. She crossed her arms and huffed, frustrated with how confusing everything had suddenly become. "So aside from wondering what exactly Jaune did to make her so mad… you have to wonder just what kind of situation they were involved in in the first place. Jaune has always been incredibly vague about his past fights…"

"Because it's difficult for him to bring up," Ruby said firmly.

"I'm not trying do delegitimize that," Weiss said. "I'm just saying that now… I don't know. It just seems like that whatever mess Jaune was involved in is bigger and stranger than I thought it was."

Blake leaned back on her bed and scowled up at Yang's bunk. Jaune was only making her all the more displeased. It appeared that he was engaged in all sorts of bizarre, secret activity. From some mysterious dealings with people outside Mountain Glenn, to a rivalry with an unknown and dangerous person. Sarah had called him Maxwell, as had Bishop; he had explained before that it was an old alias you used to go by. Just how many other people from his "Maxwell" era were going to show up? More likely than not, "Orion" was one of them, whoever he was.

Frustratingly, Blake could not let the others know about her findings in Jaune's desk. At the moment, she heard Ruby defending Jaune relentlessly, making excuses as to why his past is his to tell or not or how we couldn't trust Sarah's word or background. She would be absolutely to learn what Blake had done.

Blake turned on her side, leaving her back to face her teammates as she looked at the wall beside her and thought things over.

Jaune's bizarre and haphazard research, as well as his worrying fascination for conspiracy theories, had led her to legitimately question his mental health. After all, was it unfeasible that, after everything he had been through, he had become somewhat delusional? He was already seeing a therapist, but what if there was more that Peach had not yet caught on to? What if there were thoughts that he hid from them? He had spent the day walking around like a tired zombie, clearly distracted and perturbed—by what, he would not tell them. Had Sarah told him something about that dealing around Mountain Glenn? Or something from further back?

Jaune now seemed like a pit of secrets, too deep and dark for Blake to see into.

Arthur walked into the room with a scroll pad on which he had downloaded recent news and information for the Commander in Chief to review. He shut the heavy steel door behind him, sealing away the hall outside. Down it lay the rest of the compound with other Enclave operatives, none of whom even knew that their Commander was here, convalescing.

Arthur looked at Bishop and raised an eyebrow. The young commander sat up on the side of his bed, rubbing his forehead. His eyes were closed, and he did not even look up as Arthur neared him.

"A headache?" his subordinate asked.

"Something like that," Bishop replied. He groaned and pressed his knuckles into his temples. "It was that strange one again, the one where I was a like a giant. You know, the one I've had on and off for years. Like always, I was very mad in the dream. Very, very mad. That's something they all have in common. And I was big like usual, at least eight feet tall.

"I don't know where I was or why, but I was fighting. Killing things. And I was very mad. Always am."

"Just a dream," Arthur said, no further comment.

"It's just weird that dreams like this are recurring," Bishop said. "I'm big and angry and… I don't know. I can't remember the faces of the people in those dreams or who they are what was said. I just know there was violence."

"Just dreams," Arthur said again.

"They're just so vivid," Bishop said. He wiped a hand down his face and sighed. "But they're not lucid, not at all. I don't have any control over what's happening. I'm just… experiencing it. I always wake up with chills from these sorts of dreams. Not nightmares, I would say. They aren't scary, just…"

"Just dreams," Arthur repeated. "Best not to linger on them when more important things are going on." He held out the scroll pad of information.

Bishop scowled, then nodded deftly. "You're right, absolutely right." He took the scroll pad from his most loyal, long time companion and looked through it.

Arthur drifted away and leaned back against the wall, waiting for Bishop to finish reading the reports. They were mostly summaries of world events, briefs from different cells, spreadsheets of information about supplies, schedules, plans, list of possible recruitments and summaries of various correspondences. All thoroughly dry and logistical.

Bishop keenly swept through it, making notes that would turn into orders and advice for the rest of his Enclave. As he did, Arthur pulled out his scroll and read a book he had downloaded on it.

Eventually, Bishop got to the downloaded videos. While it would suffice to have only the summaries of world events, it definitely helped to break the monotony of "lie in bed and wait for your aura to recover."

Just as the videos began, however, Bishop noted that the pad's charge was low. He got up from bed, walked across the room and plugged the charger into the wall.

"Nice to see you up and about again," Arthur remarked.

"It feels nice," Bishop replied. He took his scroll from his pocket and checked his aura rating. "After whatever happened, I'm back in the green now. Still not quite a hundred percent, but very soon."

"Good to hear."

Bishop glanced to Rubra Mors—it dutifully leaned against the wall by his bedside. The loyal sword had been silent and patient throughout his convalescence. Bishop knew the blade was just as excited to get back into action as he was.

For now, however, he turned his attention back to the scroll pad in his hands. He plugged it in and turned on the videos. There was a list of downloaded files that he went through in order. Mostly they were clips from the news that had interviews and coverages. There was also, however, a full pirated episode of the latest version of one of Bishop's favorite tv shows from Remnant: it involved contestants having to try and outwit each other by telling lies and truths about themselves, having to guess who was being deceptive and who was being honest.

Bishop liked to occasionally spend a bit of time simply enjoying something.

He would watch that later, as at the moment he turned to the last video file. It was labeled as being about the Vytal Tournament. That put a frown on Bishop's face.

"Maxwell's fighting in the tournament, yes?" he asked.

"Yes," Arthur replied.

"Good, we can crush him along with everyone else."

"The tournament ends in just a few days. We'll be ready for it."

"I will be, as well."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"I will," Bishop said impatiently. "The doctor's last visit a few days ago confirmed I was in perfect physical shape, and the drain on my aura is hardly holding me back. I'll just need to spend tomorrow exercising to warm up again. Then I'll be ready."

"Glad to hear it," Arthur said.

Bishop looked up and smiled at him. Arthur smiled back.

Bishop looked back at the scroll pad and hit play on the last file, which began thusly : "Here we have team JNPR victorious!" announced a fat, mustachioed announcer. "Another victory for the heroes from Beacon!"

Bishop looked at the screen and sneered.

"Oh, I thought that was edited out," Arthur said.

Bishop did not respond. He stared down at the scroll as the video continued. It was a wide shot of Maxwell's team winning the first round of the tournament. They stood in the middle of the arena, triumphant. Around them were thousands of fans cheering and waving. Thousands and thousands more from all around Remnant must have been doing the same.

One of Bishop's eyes twisted. He felt something hot and mean suddenly gush out into him like scalding water from a burst pipe.

"So he gets to be a hero, huh?" Bishop said in a low, shaky, dangerous voice. "He gets to have friends and crowds of loving fans? The race traitor gets that? The killer gets that?" He scowled viciously, and his hands began to shake. "The degenerate gets to have fun, gets to be a celebrity, gets to live the good life, and after everything I've had to…"

Bishop crushed the pad in his hands. The cheap glass cracked and shattered pathetically. He dropped the remnants of it to the floor.

"I'm ready. I'm ready now," Bishop said. He rolled his shoulders back, straightening up into his perfect military posture. Grim anger was etched onto his face.

"Ready for what?" Arthur asked, already knowing the answer.

"Ready for service," Bishop replied. He gripped his hands into tight fists.

"If you're sure you can—"

"Rah!" Bishop shouted suddenly; with that, he punched the wall of their basement hideaway. His knuckles collided with the concrete slab in a heavy thud, and the struck concrete quickly cracked and shattered pathetically. Bishop drove his fist straight into the wall, then had to pry it out again with a poof of chalky dust.

Bishop stepped back and glared at his handiwork. The wall looked like it had been shot with a cannon.

"Yes, I'm sure," Bishop said. His voice was dangerously low as he spoke; he looked down at his fist, covered in concrete dust. He slowly opened it, flexing out his fingers. He saw the muscles in his palm stretch and flatten as he splayed out his hand. "I'm very sure."

Bishop strode across the room with long strides; his bare feet thumped against the ground. He reached under his bed. He fetched a duffel bag and a box. He ripped the zipper of the bag open and hauled out an entire black Enclave uniform that had been fitted for him. The helmet, the jacket, the pants, the boots, the gloves, the belt—all like a special forces commando.

Arthur, meanwhile, rushed to the door when some concerned knocking came from it, undoubtedly one of their subordinates from within the base who had heard Bishop's punch. He yelled through the door that everything was alright, knowing that the man would recognize his voice and accept as much.

When Arthur turned back around, he saw that Bishop had thrown open the box and pulled out what was inside: a plasma pistol.

Other than Rubra Mors, it was the only single thing that Bishop still had from Earth. It looked odd, like a glass cylinder with steel frames and tubing coiled up along it. Given it was small and seemingly frail, many would think it weak. A single shot from it could turn your head into a goo.

Bishop scrutinized it sharply. His eyes were sharp and intense, quickly tearing through every consideration, every pro and con about bringing it with. The greatest con, Arthur knew, was that the pistol had but one charge left in it with no extra fuel cells. Once someone pulled the trigger, then that would be both the first and last plasma shot ever fired on Remnant.

"No," Bishop said quickly. He placed the pistol back into the box and slammed it shut again. "I'm saving that for something special."

"What would that be?" Arthur asked.

"I have no idea," Bishop replied. His words flew out feverishly, clumsily. His mind was moving faster than his body, thinking forward into the future even as he was stuck in the present. He was already running over plans, ideas, priorities and details.

With practiced ease and speed, he pulled on the entire outfit. The pants, jacket, gloves, boots and finally the monstrous helmet with the inhuman face.

"We head out this instant," Bishop said, his voice terribly warped through the helmet's built in gas mask. "I want to talk and prepare."

He snatched up Rubra Mors, and the sword trembled in his extraordinarily tight, angry grip. Shaking as it were, one might think that the blade was jittery with excitement for finally being able to kill again.

"Commander, we should really first notify—"

Bishop marched straight past Arthur and kicked the heavy steel door. Arthur winced at the loud boom of the door getting a hardy dent and the loud crack of the hinges being shattered. The heavy, reinforced door flew out of its frame, clattering loudly onto the cement floor. Bishop had done it with ease.

Bishop marched on, noisily trampling the ruined door as he stomped down the hall.

Arthur stood back in the room, looking on as his Commander and Chief stormed off. Other Enclave personnel were rushing to see what the clamor was now, only to freeze when they saw Bishop. They could not see his face, but the sight of him and his sword was still immediately recognizable to the loyal soldiers. Bishop wasted no time in barking out orders.

Arthur watched as his commander turned the corner and got out of his sight, though his angry voice still resonated easily.

The soldier sighed heavily. He looked at the box on the bed, unlocked. Bishop had carelessly left a mysterious, otherworldly device alone. Arthur walked to it, clasped the locked and picked it up. It wouldn't do for this to be left alone.

Arthur scratched the salt and pepper stubble on his chin and looked back down the hall. He still heard Bishop's shouts of commands. Then he glanced back at the ruined scroll pad on the ground. He scoffed contemptuously.

"Glad I left that clip in," he muttered. "Over-emotional mutant needed a kick in the ass."

The old master finished packing his bag. There wasn't much that he needed, really. Just a travel backpack with rations and other necessities would do.

He sat on the edge of his bed in his sparse room at the top level of Shade Academy's ziggurat. He did not wear his mask. The room was dark, with just a single candle for light; that left his face still covered in shifting shadows.

He scowled pensively, thinking about what else he may have missed. He had no personal belongings that he gave a damn about other than his helmet or his sword. Perhaps the only other thing that came close was his personal library, but those were all going to be given over the school's library now. He didn't mind that.

The old master looked at his desk, on which stood the single candle. It had once been tall and sturdy, but now its fire had burned so long that it was all the way at the bottom. The wick flickered uncertainly, smoking slightly. It would not burn for much longer, could not.

The executioner of Vacuo looked into the little light.

A knock rung from the door, which opened just a moment later. Lamplight from the hallway streamed in, making him wince. The old master turned his attention to the woman who entered. The only person with another copy of his key. The only person comfortable with using it.

"It's been a long day," said the headmaster with sigh. She closed the door behind her, shaking her head. "Planning the Vytal Festival activities was already a hassle, but now we've had to organize your impromptu farewell ceremony, too."

"You didn't have to," said the old master. "I didn't ask for it."

"We give people what they deserve," Najin replied. "Honestly, you deserve more."

"For what?"

"For serving the academy for sixty years."

"Just doing what's right," he said gruffly.

"Master Ozymandias will be remembered for a long, long time," Najin said. "We'll carve that name into a wall somewhere around here, a plaque or something like that."

"I'm honored," Master Ozymandias said sarcastically. "I've always wanted a plaque."

Najin looked at him and smirked. "As much of a crotchety old man as you are, there are some things you can't avoid."

"Hmph." Ozymandias shook his head and looked back at the candle, silent.

Najin glanced at the dim, spluttering light. Her smile flattened.

"It would have been good, I must say, to have had more advance notice about this," she said. "But of course, your vision didn't give you advance notice."

"It did not."

"I just wish you would tell me what it was even about."

"It's just something I have to do," Ozymandias replied. He took Najin's silence as a sign of her displeasure. "It is complicated."

"It's not something I can help you with?"

"No."

"Not something the Brotherhood can help you with?"

"Certainly not." Ozymandias blinked, the words that were just said feeling surreal, even after all these years. He chuckled grimly. "And to think I'm a member of the Brotherhood of Steel..."

Najin raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"It means that many things have changed over the years. Many, many things have changed."

"Things always change."

"Oh, I think the breadth of the things I've seen is a special case."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Najin said. She crossed her arms and glanced back at the candle, not altogether sure of what to say to him.

"What's bothering you?" the old master asked.

"Several things," she said. "There's the frustration at you not telling us all of what's going on, but I can excuse that to an extent. What really has me displeased is how easily you seem to be giving this place up."

Ozymandias nodded despondently. "I hope it doesn't seem like I've made this decision casually."

"It does seem somewhat like that." Najin sighed, then strode up to Ozymandias. She sat down beside him. "It's not like you to make decisions so quickly, even when you've gotten a vision. Especially not a decision like this."

"I understand your anger. I've been here for a long time." Ozymandias sighed heavily. "I still remember when I had just become a master here, and then the next year I saw you show up. I knew the moment I looked you in the eye that you'd be something. Even though you were still a teenager, I said, 'this one is going to do things.'"

Najin smiled and said, "That's nice of you to say. Of course, I wouldn't be anything without you."

"True. You're welcome for that."

The two laughed then, but Ozymandias—after not more than a second—immediately fell into a coughing fit. His poor old lungs no longer liked to be used too much, especially not for laughter. He leaned over and coughed into his fist. Each cough sounded throaty and painful.

He wiped his mouth when it stopped finally, smearing some spittle. He breathed deeply a few times, then turned to Najin. She looked at him with a frown. Ozymandias looked away. The atmosphere had suddenly taken a darker turn.

"You told the others that you would return," Najin said.

"That was a lie." Ozymandias glanced at the sputtering little candle, flickering almost sadly. It was the sole source of light in the whole room, a lone force fighting against the darkness. It could not fight for much longer. All its time had been spent. "I can feel it. I know it."

"That's another thing that makes me angry," Najin said, though she did not allow her displeasure to come out through her voice, which she forced flat and reserved. "You deserve to die in a comfortable bed, surrounded by the people loyal to you. All the knights from across Remnant would come to honor you on your deathbed, from Ozma to Ironwood to Lionheart. You deserve a good funeral and celebrations. You deserve to be entombed here under the ziggurat with old the other masters and headmasters."

"Maybe you say that," Ozymandias said with a dismissive wave. "But I know what I deserve. I still have to fight."

"You told me once that you're seeking redemption," Najin said.

"I did."

"But you never told me for what."

"I haven't. Are you going to ask?"

"No."

"Then that's that."

"Does this vision have something to do with it?"

"Yes. There's someone I need to help, someone I wronged a long time ago—before I ever came here."

Najin opened her mouth, but she stopped herself from saying any words. Instead, she scowled and pressed her lips back together. She glared at him for several longs seconds, before then looking away. She closed her eyes, and after a moment more, she simply sighed, letting go of the unhelpful anger.

"We could help you," she said.

"There are reasons for why you can't. I have to go alone." Ozymandias kept looking at the little candle. "I always knew something like this could happen. I always knew there could come a day when I had to clean up old mistakes."

"Is that so?" Najin asked. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, still frowning. "Is that why you always refused to be headmaster?"

"Partly," Ozymandias admitted. "But really, I've had command before. I didn't deserve it then, and I don't deserve it now." He shook his head despondently. "You've done a fine job. I'm glad to know I'll be leaving this place in such capable hands."

"You would have been a great headmaster," Najin insisted quietly. "If it weren't for Ozma's semblance, you'd be the Brotherhood Elder."

Ozymandias scoffed once more. "Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel. That would be even more bizarre."

"How so?"

"In ways I can't quite explain."

"Can't or won't?"

"Won't."

Ozymandias did not miss Najin's scowl. He brought a hand up to his chest, feeling a guilty knot forming there. His whole life at Vacuo, all these decades, he had spent living on a lie. He lied to those he trained, those he protected, those he fought beside and now to his oldest friend.

He closed his eyes.

"There is a poem from where I come from," he said. "I wondered earlier what my legacy would be, how this place would go on without me. And it reminded me of that old poem."

"What was it about?" Najin asked.

He recited it thusly:

"I met a traveler from an antique land who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stonestand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,tell that its sculptor well those passions read which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,the hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: and on the pedestal these words appear:'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level sands stretch far away."

Najin looked at him, a pensive expression on her face.

"So that's how you chose the name," she said. "We all knew it was fake, but none of us could ever guess where it came from."

"It's an old poem, one of my favorites," he said. "But I never understood it correctly. Where I come from, there was great destruction. I believed myself to be capable of reversing it all, of bringing back the age of Ozymandias. I was wrong, of course." Ozymandias brought a hand to his forehead and pressed it firmly there, shaking his head slightly as he did. "I wish I had realized that before. I wish I had known the folly of letting the past rule you, of failing to reconcile with what's happened."

He opened his eyes and looked dead on at Najin.

"I'm glad I can leave this place in hands I can trust."

Fatu smiled.

"Thank you. We trust you, too."

Ozymandias balled his fists tightly. He had to look away. He breathed deeply, held it, released. The knot in his chest tightened. Decades and decades had gone on, and not a single soul on all of Remnant knew the truth of him.

He glanced at the candle again. It flickered precariously.

"Just how much do you trust me?" Ozymandias asked before he could think better of it.

"More than anyone else in the world," she said without hesitation.

"More than you trust Elder Ozma?"

Najin's lips pulled down into a frown. "I don't like where this is going."

"You shouldn't," Ozymandias said. He stood up suddenly, filled by a sudden nervousness the likes of which he had not felt in a long, long time. "Because the truth is that Remnant is in danger, and it's all my fault."

What will happen as Jaune and Sarah alike have their secrets questioned? What does Arthur really think of Bishop? Who is Ozymandias?

Heh, tune in next time!