The three Satanist sisters made different faces of outrage. "That's 
impossible!" Garziel managed to articulate, but Alba drowned in her 
typical guffaws any other response. The volunteers had been 
conferring about their past lives, and Priss's cover was too limited to 
include most of the intimacies they had been sharing. She felt she 
had only escaped this scene for days thanks to Westinghouse's 
ungodly working hours and Olympe's preference for patrols before 


socializing. 


"Goddamit, Garziel, it's not so strange!," Alba laughed. "Not 
everyone has a bike, or even likes it!" 


"Whatever. It should be a tenet of the Church," the Satanist Scientist 
said with a snicker. "Of every Church. But really, Locke, never? 
Ever?" 


"No. My-", Priss coughed. "My family was really, really strict.” 
And Alba added, in a fake solemn tone: "There ain't justice." 


Priscilla finally breathed as she saw them laughing. The tension 
partly dissipated. That had been a very useful excuse for all the 
more puzzling differences between herself and the locals — that 
was, every person in the universe, her coworkers included —; one of 
the few times Westinghouse had really come through with a 
suggestion. 


Mirra and Garziel kept laughing, albeit softly, while Poitriburg 
nodded and answered. "My family was sort of serious like that, yes. 
They never understood what our philosophy means, what our beliefs 
actually entail. It's not all animal sacrifice and orgies," she shrugged 
and smiled sweetly. "Don't worry, Locke, you are among friends 
here. And, were we to find a motorcycle, you'll be the first to give ita 
try!" 


Alba looked mildly alarmed and came ahead of Priscilla herself in 
pointing out how imprudent that acually sounded. "Uh, Poitri, if she 
is not used to it-" 


"Nonsense, it's all practice! She would be great at it, I'm sure." 
"What is?" 


As Priss recognized the voice, she suddenly felt out of place again. 
Not him. 


The women looked up and happily raised to greet the newcomer, 
with the exception of Priscilla herself, wno suddenly felt sullen. As 
she dedicated a vacuous look at the screen of her phone to fake 


humor leaks out, more mycelia appear. 


At this stage, the eye begins to rot entirely, a process sped up by the 
fungus. However, it seems to protect the rest of the eye socket and 
the nerve, preventing infection by other pathogens in eighty to ninety 
percent of test subjects. By the time the eyes have gone entirely, the 
sockets are filled with the fungus, with a thick mass of mycelia 
hanging from the empty sockets. This process takes approximately 
two weeks from the time the ulcerations appear. 


Once the eyes are completely gone, mycelia invade the sinuses, 
where they trigger increased mucus production, which the fungus 
appears to feed upon. 


At this stage, the fungus becomes mobile, the individual threads 
gaining motility. They move around the subject's face in seemingly 
random patterns. 


Once the fungus begins moving on its own, subjects report their 
vision returning. The fungus appears to have photosensitive cells, as 
well as a currently poorly-understood ability to interface with the 
optic nerve. Subjects describe normal (and in some cases improved) 
eyesight, except for a much wider field of vision. 


However, whenever a human with apparently normal eyes enters 
their field of vision, subjects experience visual hallucinations (fires, 
dangerous animals, sudden tilts in the floor) that seem designed to 
drive them in the direction of the uninfected. Once they are in range, 
the mycelia reach out to touch the uninfected human's eyes. This 
appears to be a reproductive strategy for the fungus. 


Curing the condition has so far been possible only in the earliest 
stages of infection. Once the sclera changes, the only treatment is 
surgical intervention and cauterization of all tissue in the socket and 
sinuses. 


Additional test subjects to explore the lifecycle and reproduction of 
SCP-679 are requested. 


« SCP-678 | SCP-679 | SCP-680 » 


some urgent business, Priss noticed how tired and irritable she was. 
The four volunteers had made her forget for the past minutes. 


The Rabbi came closer. He was saying something. Priss's reaction 
was shutting off and to try not to listen, and felt as bad as she 
expected to when she realized it. 


The man had appeared between two of the cubes closer to the 
hospital, where he worked all day, and was carrying several boxes. 
Following him closely, a couple of local volunteers who were 
heading towards the closed 'mess cube’, as they had come to call 
Afwerki's prefab kitchen, with a large crate they carried together. He 
seemed to be in a hurry to go back to the hospital, which was in its 
final stages of growth and took all his attention. 


However, Escudero seemed positively ecstatic by his visit. And that 
was what made him take a seat along the five who were already 
there, as the two other volunteers busied themselves with boxes and 
Afwerki's kitchen. 


Priscilla stood up. "Well, it's been a lovely evening-" 


"Oh please, Locke, don't go!" That was Mirra. The little freak was 
taking a liking to her. "Just a while longer-" 


"| need to sleep." 


"It is okay, miss Locke. But | heard you were telling tales!," Torres 
said, with that jumpy smile of his, as he got comfortable a seat away 
from Priss, with the small shape of Mirra between them. "I'd like to 
get to know you, these past days... well, we haven't been able to 
meet at all these past days! | heard you were on patrol with 
Olympe?" 


"And I'm tired, and Westinghouse is taking me on a ride tomorrow, 
can't you get it?," she snapped. There was a short silence. 


The Rabbi, shocked, answered in a stuttering tone. "Oh. Oh, sure. It 
is kind of late-" 


"That was uncalled for, Locke." 


Westinghouse came out from his cube. "Skipper, you've been there 
the whole time?," Mirra, who apparently could not get a clue, still 
was trying to mount a party. "Come here and talk with us!" 


"Sure! Our little expedition leaves tomorrow in the afternoon, after 
all," he said, Priscilla trying to murder him with a look. The man 
looked at her, looking amused. "What, didn't | mention that part?" 


"Great," Alba said. "Cause | have to know, what were you guys 
carrying down?" 


"Oh! Bread!" Torres went for one of the boxes and pulled out a small 
bun of what, for all intents and purposes, looked like a perfectly 
round piece of bread. It even smelled of recently baked bread. Mirra 
fished for it and took a tentative bite. Torres smiled when she 
happily hummed her approval, and took other pieces of bread out. 
"We've been working on a formula that allows us to extract the 
Laviano Grid out of the Mason Mold cell and introduce it into other 
cells. | hope our benefactors don't mind, but this process allowed us 
to obtain a leavening agent-" 


"Wait, Jacob.” Mirra said. "What am | eating?" 


"A single, overgrown, dead cell of Saccharomyces cerevisiae from 
which we extracted the Grid organelle. With two grams of wheat." 


"Ah, alright. For a moment | was afraid | was eating mold or 
something." She kept nomming. Poitriburg and Garziel took tentative 
bites, enjoying them as much as their younger sister in Satan did. 
Alba just glanced at it. 


"Rabbi, you are telling us these are made of... yeast?" 


"Baker's yeast. Not even that, really, think of it as an analogy for 
cooked meat-" Torres stopped as Frank moved away from the 
bread. "What? You gluten intolerant?" 


"I'd handle two grams of wheat in a three hundred grams loaf of 
bread, Jacob," the ex-agent stated. "It's just that | don't like the 
Mason Mold enough to eat it. Actually, | feel disgusted enough to 
puke when I-" 


And then Priscilla noticed something in the Rabbi's look. The way he 
moved his eyes, that she always found unpleasant. Shifty, but not 
doubtful. Squirrel-like. 


Like a rat. 


Torres nervously laughed at Frank's comment, bringing her back to 
the conversation. 


"Ah, you have a point there. But in contact with human beings, the 
Grid becomes completely inert. Consumption itself is no problem." 


"Are you sure?" 


"Pardon?" Torres looked at Priscilla, confused and clearly nervous. 
Shifty. She gently pushed again. 


"Are you sure it is inert, Rabbi?" 


The Satanist Scientists, the young teacher and even the two 
volunteers who had carried the boxes down were now listening 
closely. Priscilla had gotten used to that. She reported to an 
organisation with a seat in the International Board and connections 
all across the UN. Her word was not law, but it would be whispered 
to ears that certainly belonged to it. 


The Rabbi, squirrely as ever, looked stranged and anguished under 
that scrutiny. "Oh, of course it is. The World Parahealth Organisation 
Focus Research Group did its work on that one, did you not? | base 
that one statement on their findings!" 


"Findings that you might have furthered, like, let's say, turning a 
builder mold into a baker mold, is that not correct?" 


"Completely different. Besides, the yeast is not even a saprophyte, 
unless you have AIDS or a missing spleen, you'd be fine!" 


"What are you hiding, Jacob?" 
"| don't know what you're-" 


"Locke." 


Priss looked at Westinghouse. He had his legs crossed in a neat, 
comfortable position and had taken Alba's loaf. He was staring at it 
intently. 


And then he stared at her. Intently. 


"Think for a moment. Do you really think that is necessary? | hope 
you're not trying to cover for some mistake the Focus Group made, 
back in the day..." 


Priscilla noticed how the ambiance had changed. The three robed 
sisters looked at her as if it was the first day she arrived in the camp, 
still a stranger. Alba looked at her, pensive. The two volunteers, 
Ahmad and Haji, every part of their bodies standing in all but open 
hostility. 


She stood up, carrying her backpack with her, and uttering a small 
apology she left to her cube. 


"What was that about?" Ahmad asked. 


Frank figured it was her turn to cover for Locke. "A bit of an old habit 
of hers. See, she used to be a Wolf Hunter." 


Garziel made a grimace. "Oh, dear, she doesn't know about Lila, 
does she?" 


"| don't think so. It's just that old habits die hard, you know. They are 
a honestly disturbing bunch, Parahealthers, but they try." 


Frank looked at the Rabbi. He was trembling. 


"Hey, Mirra," the ecSec said, "do you still have that cocoa powder? 
Now would be a good time to-" 


"Right, yeah." She left to the cube she shared with the other two 
Satanist Scientists. 


"Are you sure it was just that, Frank?," Alba casually asked. 


"Mostly, yes," Frank answered. "But I'm almost certain there are 


other reasons why she's so tense. Might have to do with family.” 
Well, that's not an outright lie. 


"Family?," Jacob raised his head in confusion. "| heard she was 
Rhiannon Locke's sister." 


Frank silently cursed. The others in the small circle of volunteers 
started to talk, fast and concerned. 


"Rhia's sister? No way!" 
"That Rhia? How did they turn so different?" 


"They were separated at an early age, people." Frank gritted his 
teeth. He would have to update Rhiannon on that development. "Not 
an easy life for Priscilla. Not that | know the details." 


"Ah, but it's tough all over." Haji said, angrily, as Mirra run past by 
him with a mug and a little plastic bag. "My mother died when | was 
seven, and Ahmad's sister stepped on a landmine when she was 
eight. Why does she have to suspect the good Rabbi because she 
had a hard life?" 


"Yes, why?," Ahmad echoed his friend. "He helped us all when we 
needed him! He is a good man!" 


"Not so good, Ahmad." 


Jacob looked a bit calmer, but he still trembled. Frank could see his 
impending beard, of a very clear grey, emerging from his grave 
semblance in the light of the bonfire. 


"Not so good. You don't know where | come from, | believe." 
"Argentina?" Haji said. Jacob smiled at him. 


"Sure, sure, Argentina. That is the place. The events, though, are 
the place from which we grow into who we are. | was born in 
Argentina, but who | am now comes from a different place." 


"| think I've heard this story," Poitriburg said, raising a hand. She 
smiled at the Rabbi. "And you don't have to do this, Jacob, you're 


part of us and we don't care who you were.” 


Alba nodded slightly, and Garziel kept silent, looking into the fire. 
Ahmad and Haji, albeit nervous, placed their hands on Jacob's 
shoulders, supportive of his friend and mentor. 


However, Frank felt like he was very far away. "Let him tell them." 
"Frank-" 


"No, no, everybody has a right to choose their own tales," he said, 
"to whoever they need to. He needs to tell his tale to make sure they 
know who he was. It will eat him away otherwise." 


All of them looked at him. Frank shrugged. "Believe me. | would 
know." 


Mirra arrived then, with a mug filled to the edge from which a sickly 
sweet smell emanated. The bright red mug, Frank saw, hada 
classic Satanist pentacle with the word "SCIENCE" printed 
underneath it. Jacob took it, seemingly resigning to talk. 


"Oh, well... dear, it's not a pleasant story, are you sure you want to 
hear it?" 


"It's your story, sir!" Haji said. In his child-like tone of voice, Frank 
saw admiration. "We want to know it!" 


Jacob offered him a sad smile. 


"Never lose that attitude, child. Well, here we go... Once there was 
a good man, a Rabbi, by the holy name of Jacob. He was a normal 
man. A family man. His daughters grew up, went to school and 
graduated. His wife passed away, her untimely death chalked up to 
God's choices. He was not a particularly lively man, but he was 
alive, and he was happy." 


He took a sip of the burning hot cocoa. He blew over it for an instant, 
but quickly filled the attentive silence anew. 


"And then, he heard of the miracles. Of the voice of God. Of the 
broken idols and living demons that plagued the land. And he chose 


to fight them alongside others like him. The man was a savant. A 
man with many secrets even before he joined the Horizon Initiative. 
You've heard of them, I'm sure! Well, this man was not a great 
warrior, but a savant, a scholar. A scientist. And he was called to 
serve God as an adviser on the many of God's lesser creatures. 
Moss. Bacteria. Protozoa. Viruses. So on, so forth." 


He sipped from the mug again. 


"He found his place with them. A place where he belonged. He kept 
his oaths of secrecy and learned to enjoy knowledge and praise God 
in His wisdom, for He had placed all of us, His servants together so 
that we may better serve Him and His children. That is, Haji, where | 
‘come’ from." 


"| sounds wonderful, Rabbi!," the young Somali said. Frank had the 
decency to stay quiet. 


"It was, wasn't it?" Jacob sounded nostalgic for a moment. "So many 
faiths, so many wise and lively people, all of them strong-willed and 
dedicated and willing to help each other out. And so it came to be 
that the Wolves called at my door." 


He sipped again, but the sweet drink couldn't erase the sour 
appearance that crept into his face. Jacob's voice turned to be as 
the one Frank first heard from him: cold, unyielding, cruel. 


A sharp rock slammed into a sinner's face. 


"| had heard so much of the Wolves, but believed so little. Let's just 
say that they were violent. Brutal, even. And they had a purpose. 
They called it ‘cleansing’, but as | watched their work... well, | came 
to know better." 


He took one more sip. Garziel and Poitriburg were held each other's 
hands as the story went on. 


"The Wolves wanted to murder a colony populated by the members 
of a small sect. Heretics at best, and | would have called them 
pagans outright, but mostly a harmless bunch who payed the bills 
and tried their best not to mess with others' lives. The Wolves found