"Well, you get the idea then, gentlemen." Frank and Olympe stood 
to attention again. "We will be leaving in a matter of hours because 
there is an emergency someone must cover and there are no other 
Groups to spare. We are closer to the place than anybody else. The 
Marere Programme will be handled by our associates and the 
AMISOM... it's a shame they won't be having our assistance, but 
they'll get over it. I'll be sending you travel plans over the next hour. 
Check your phones. Questions?" 


"I've been trying to reach Lindsberg-" 
"That's not a question, Skipper." 


"Sure-it-isn't-will you let me finish!?" Sarah spun, turning away from 
the fussed Frank, while laughing a diaphanous laugh. She stared at 
Olympe, who tried to hide his own grin as much as he could. Opal 
stood at attention before him. 


"How about you, soldier? Questions?" 
"No, ma'am." 


She plays us like if we were fiddles, dammit, Frank thought, amused 
despite himself. He praised himself for her reaction and started 
talking again. 


"| do have a question, Sarah, please-don't-come-closer-thank-you. 
It's a simple question. What is that emergency? And why is the 
WPhO-" 


He stopped. Sarah had become suddenly serious. She was playful 
even while assisting births, and now she was looking pensive. When 
she talked, she talked in a soft, firm voice. 


"It's a potential Sour outbreak, Frank. Near Laascaanood. Mission 
Watch warned us yesterday." 


Frank's eyes opened and his eyebrows arced in that way, he was 
sure, that they did when he felt repugnance, fear or both. The 


Sour... 
"Crap. Laascaanood... that's thirty thousand people, isn't it?” 


"It hasn't started yet. Mission Watch is pretty certain most affected 
people will only be latent carriers by now, so secondary prophylactic 
measures should be enough for starters. We did bring Prometerine 
for a reason," she stated. "Albeit | didn't expect it to be happening 
this close to us, it's a great chance to make a difference." 


Frank saw the light in Opal's eyes as she said those words. He liked 
that fire. "Right, it makes sense they have to send us," he admitted. 
"When do we leave?" 


"In... two hours and a half now, as ordered. No time for delays!," she 
said, consulting her phone. Immediately afterwards, she pulled one 
of the scrunchies she accumulated on her wrist and began the 
delicate and topologically-advanced task of tying her hair back into 
her usual bun. "You will be overseeing and coordinating with the 
AMISOM guys who have to escort us, Olympe," at the sound of his 
name, the ex-soldier briefly saluted and moved into the multitude of 
officers in the administrative tent, "and you, Frank, you will go first 
and do your magic." 


"Got it, Opal," he answered. He didn't like that part of his job all that 
much — since, for all intents and purposes, it consisted on scouting 
ahead, knowing who was the right people to talk to and their 
respective prices. But he tried to share the atmosphere of optimism. 
"I'll try to not strain our bribe budget." 


The mop had already collapsed into a surprisingly elaborate braid. 
Underneath it, Sarah snickered kindly. "Shush, you. Ah, and one 
other thing, Skip. You'll act as the escort for that auditor person." 


"Oh, sh-aha." 
They always did that. They always gave him bodyguard duty. 


Frank's right hand collided against his already furrowed brow while 
the other one uselessly looked for the comforting shape of his 
holster. He ended up putting his hand against the bulging pocket 


where he had placed the notebook. It wasn't the same. Can you 
suffer from phantom limb if the limb you've lost was a firearm? 


"Say what?", he finally managed to spout. 


"It makes sense, too," she calmly started, paraphrasing his previous 
words. "You are the best suited person we have, and you do have 
training for that sort of thing. We need Olympe and his squad to 
keep the peace within the camp, so it's you or no one. Besides, you 
are good at public relations! Better than the credit you give yourself 
for it." 


"| thought | helped them do the peacekeeping thing, Opal." 


"Right, help. They can handle a small camp, it's gonna be a few 
hundreds the first days, and then we will get reinforcements." 


"You said Laascaanood, right? Do you realize it is one of the more 
difficult areas in all of Puntland? It could go to Somaliland the day 
after tomorrow, and | can't do my job if | can't talk to my contacts 
over there. | can't play babysitter while meeting clan leaders, and if 
anyone decides to move over here, | won't be able to cover all our 
activities!" 


The bun was almost finished. "But most of them are rather civilized, 
are they not? We are talking about Laascaanood, it's a large town. 
Mission Watch will fetch you phone numbers and money whenever 
you need them, don't worry about that." 


"That may work for city residents, but bandits and lowlifes don't have 
registered phones, Opal," Frank grunted. "I have to meet their 
leaders in person, or at least by proxy. | can't do that from a 
desktop, nor while leading a pencil-pusher by the hand!" 


"Well, it will have to do, Skipper." 
"No, see-" 


Sarah Desjeux faced him and shouted. "Skipper! If you can't, you 
can't. Enough with the worrying, we have been in worst places. We 
have gone completely blind into missions before, and it turned out 
fine!" 


Frank was about to rebuke the multiple fallacies in those statements 
when he saw Sarah's eyes. They said it all. 


He had forgotten that. He kept forgetting it. The reason why so few 
actual, life-long members of the Charitable asked for security 
positions, and the reason that those positions were filled by people 
used to anomalies. Sarah's lips drew a beautiful smile, but her eyes 
were filled with desperation. 


People needed her. Children needed her. And she had the means to 
help them. 


She had to go there. 


The bun was finished, and thus, his boss looked at him from half a 
meter down, concern in her face. Desperation went down under her 
usual mask of amused grins, now tempered by a just a hint of 
compassion. 


"Look, Frankie... don't worry, seriously. We will make do with 
security. The AMISOM and the Transitional militias will secure the 
camp, and we are not going to do any trips to the town without 
escorts. | promise. But an auditor-you know they are part of the 
Coalition. And you know how serious the Coalition gets when 
abnormal assets are involved, and more still in an area this hot." 


Frank let out a heavy sigh. He knew that too, and a freaking hippo in 
an aquarium was not worth the effort. Normally, the Charitable 
wouldn't even bother reporting to the Global Occult Coalition, the 
militant branch of the hidden occult communities recognized, ratified 
and supported by the UN; however, in an area with such a volatile 
mix of dangerous factions and splinter groups, certain people might 
find anomalies more than worthy of their attention. Certain people 
who would be more than willing to pay handsome figures and spare 
no expense to acquire MCF methods, equipment or assets, or even 
persons. 


Some other NGOs had to worry about being kidnapped and turned 
into exchange chips for fellow insurgents or criminals, or being killed 
in a dusty back alley so far away from home. The MCF had to worry 
about being kidnapped, tortured and murdered by the other 


Foundation. Or a number of other groups with access to forms of 
cruel and unusual execution he didn't want to imagine. 


That made the current agreement between the Charitable and the 
Coalition, that gave them a seat in the Regulation Group of the 
International Board, rather advantageous to both parties; Coalition 
assessment teams had received more than one tip from MCF 
Mission Watch personnel which had assisted them in their ‘five-fold 
mission’ more than once, and Work Group volunteers had the 
guarantee that, even if something went terribly, violently wrong, at 
least the Coalition had to listen to them. 


And, after all, they both used abnormal methods to help humanity. 
They were polite enough to disagree in everything else, but 
similarities were surprisingly enough. 


Of course, it did not make Frank's work any easier. The World 
Parahealth Organisation, formally a member of the Council of 108 
that founded the Coalition, was just an advisory and research 
institute formed by shamans and witch doctors, the miracle workers 
of the old world that had learned about the methods of the new; 
namely, lab coats and the scientific method. 


In a way, they reminded him of the Foundation, but he would be 
extremely careful to not mention that opinion out loud in front of 
either parties. 


"So what, they are staying with us for the whole tour?" 


"For as long as they have to.' That's what Lindsberg said." Sarah 
placed a hand over Frank's forearm and kindly caressed it while 
dedicating a sad smile to its owner. "Don't worry too much, Skipper. 
Besides, you can leave them around the camp if you have to go on 
a trip, we'll take good care of her. These Phoo people are usually 
just a bit stuck-up and they think field work happens exclusively to 
other people, but they get used to it pretty quickly. They are healers, 
after all. Consider them..." she looked for a word, murmuring for a 
moment before remembering it: "Oh, right, an intern!" 


Frank simpered at the statement. He was almost certain Sarah was 
just trying her best to make a joke. 


yet, SCP-675-1 instances have never engaged in any hostile 
actions. 


SCP-675's secondary anomalous effect is a hallucinogenic effect 
manifesting in individuals who remain in Observation Post 9010 for 
longer than approximately 45 days. Subjects who remain in the 
proximity of SCP-675 for longer than approximately 45 days become 
convinced in the malevolent nature of SCP-675-1 instances. The 
longer that subjects are exposed to SCP-675, the more extreme 
these hallucinations become. Subjects report that SCP-675 is a 
gateway to another dimension that is populated by SCP-675-1 
instances, and that these instances seek to invade this dimension 
and "cleanse it." 


Subjects will reiterate the need for individuals to prepare for the 
coming invasion by SCP-675-1 instances, and will seek to ensure 
that SCP-675 remains closed at all times. Subjects also report that 
SCP-675-1 instances will attempt to communicate with them, and 
that the content of such messages is often disturbing in nature. Ina 
few instances, subjects will report that the SCP-675-1 instances are 
preparing for a trans-dimensional invasion of the Earth. Such reports 
are unsubstantiated, as audio surveillance currently reveals no such 
sounds. 


The current video surveillance and rotations were enacted due to 
several breaches in which researchers constructed fortifications and 
preparations for the believed invasion by SCP-675-1. In one 
extreme case, a researcher constructed an elaborate series of anti- 
personnel traps designed to kill or seriously maim any individuals 
who attempted to enter the house. 


« SCP-674 | SCP-675 | SCP-676 » 


"Thanks, Sarah. I'll do my best to... well, to protect them, | guess. 
Who are they, anyways?" 


« Change The World | Hub | Who Are You? » 


Who Are You? 


Priscilla Locke was a tall, willowy woman, perhaps in her early 
thirties. Her gruff, detached expression remained shielded after a 
pair of sharp shades. Her movements as she left the black van were 
filled with a trained, balanced indifference close to arrogance. The 
simple yet functional field clothes and a large backpack more akin to 
those of a fighter than a healer's or a scholar's. She could handle 
herself in a fight, Frank thought. 


He also noted, prominent in the sepia-colored field vest she wore 
over a grey T-shirt, the white UN symbol that marked her as their 
auditor delegate. 


Under the UN symbol, less prominent but clearly visible, dangled an 
ID card that sported the initials for the World Parahealth 
Organisation. Those were accompanied by the iconic globe of the 
UN which was, in turn, crowned with the two coiled serpents and 
half of a laurel wreath. The discreet yet unmistakable symbol of the 
WPhO. 


A couple of men in the brown-on-brown fatigues of a GOC team 
accompanied her. Both of them scanned the area with hawk-like 
looks. Frank spotted at least a third one, dressed as a Red Crescent 
volunteer, whose body rested in a relaxed but alert stance near the 
van they had used to come into the camp. In their favor, they didn't 
sport any obvious weapons inside the camp limits, as politely 
requested by the MCF International Board. 


However, them being Coalition operatives, that only meant they had 
concealed them under their clothes. 


Frank grimaced. He did not believe for a moment that woman was 
just an auditor. 


"Welcome, delegate!" 


Sarah hurried towards the auditor, her fellow ecSec closely following 
her. While all other Executives were rushing to get the few assets 
the Work Group had in the area ready for transport and the mobile 
storage units ready to roll, Sarah — their boss — was the only one 
already done by the time they had arrived. Frank suspected she was 
feeling rather lonely at the time. 


She nervously shook the delegate's hand. "I hope you had a 
pleasant trip." 


"You must be Sarah," she said. Her voice was a dry, grave 
monotone. 


"Right!," she merrily intoned. "But you may call me Opal, or Sarah, 
or Doctor Desjeux, or Desjeux, or Opaline, or whatever you want to 
call me, it's fi-ine!" 


Frank closed his eyes for a second and looked away. Sarah tended 
to be so far removed from most social conventions that he wondered 
frequently how could she be so well-liked. Actually, he wondered 
how could she not come across as an obnoxious dimwit to pretty 
much every single person who met her for the first time. That singing 
voice certainly was a matter of concern for him. 


He decided to venture a look, expecting the delegate to be annoyed; 
or worse, angry at such a breach in due protocol. 


He could not find a change in the delegate's expression. Her face 
still looked like she had been carved out of stone. 


Well, | had never expected to meet the polar opposite to Desjeux- 


"Oh, that's right, Frank! Frank, Priscilla." Frank noticed she was 
actually moving her hands, "Priscilla, Frank. Frank Westinghouse is 
our ecSec, the Charitable's equivalent of a security officer!" 


"Stop that." The woman abruptly stepped back. "| Know who he is. 
And you can just call me Locke." 


Sarah stared at the delegate, apparently startled by such a clear 
rebuttal. Her face still looked like it a stone effigy. And Sarah, who 
was starting to come to her senses again, would certainly try a 


clever and disagreeable retort. 


If Frank read the situation correctly, they couldn't have that. "Em, 
anyways," he quickly intervened, putting his hand forward, "call me 
Frank." 


"You're my bodyguard?" 

"Bodyguard might be a bit of a strong word. Escort?" 
"Sorry, not in my budget, and you're not my type anyways." 
"Hah!" 


Both looked at Opal. She was short of breath and attempting, 
fruitlessly, to burst into laughter. Instead, she began to stutter. 


"G-good one!" Concerned, Frank palmed Sarah's back before she 
choked on her amused self. "Really, really good-!" 


The delegate did not waste another second on her. 


"| have to speak to you as soon as possible. There are possible 
security concerns we need to address." 


Ah, even more security concerns, then? 
"Opal, just... just get back to the tents, okay?" 


"Oooh, dear, s-s-so chivalrous of you," Frank felt a gigolo joke 
coming. He raised his hand to get the attention of a young Somaii 
volunteer they had recruited four days ago as a translator and a 
trainee, Yusuf. As he came closer, Opal tried to keep talking. "I-I 
hope your kindness-s-s-"