Dodger made her way over towards him, when shots began to ring 
out. People started to scream, and she brought her arms up and 
dropped into a crouch. She quickly rose, heading for the derelict 
pickup truck. She started sucking in deep breaths, feeling her throat 
start to clench on her again. She couldn't concentrate any longer on 
finding the man— by the time she reached the truck, he was gone. 
She could barely see straight. Every breath she took was somehow 
just not enough to sate her. 


"Listen to me," A voice called out near her. Her eyes darted about, 
and she sat upright, as hands came down on her, holding her still. 


"Listen!" It was the young man, "Were you shot?" 


She blinked, and looked down at herself. Mud caked her pants, and 
someone had tried to steal something from her bandoleer. 
Otherwise, she didn't see anything to indicate she was hurt. 


"It's fine— I'm fine!" She swatted away more hands that were 
coming towards her belt. 


"You should not have come out, you only made things worse." 
She furrowed her brow at him, "I just asked that guy a question!" 


"You nearly got yourself hurt. Men were looking at you, some as if 
you were a fine cut of meat." 


"Oh yeah?" She'd never had any trouble with the locals before, none 
of them haranguing her or leering at her. Why now? 


"You are with the Charitable Foundation, yes? My name is Yasir. 
Come with me, you must see." 


Dodger got up, her breathing still strained, but at least she wasn't at 
risk of being trampled or shot. She kept struggling to keep her 
breathing steady as Yasir and his companions began leading her 
away. 


"| Know what the Manna Charitable Foundation has been doing 

here, this is not my worry. No problem, you understand? People look 
for any excuse to demonize a foreign operation here, especially with 
whites like you. Most people don't care. You come, you give food, 
medicine, they will take it. Something has happened now, people 
are losing trust in you." 


"| noticed," She kept her hand over her face, hiding her nose as she 
pressed it up, expanding her nostrils to ease her breathing. 


Before she could ask what, they stopped. They had brought her 
beside a large shack, with a strip of chicken wire hastily duct-taped 
over a corner where the shack met the wall of the shack beside it. 
One of the men approached, waiting for Yasir's nod, before peeling 
off the tape and lifting the wire up. 


Dodger had been watching him, waiting for an explanation. The 
explanation shot out from under the chicken wire. It was a cat... or 
what should have been a cat. It was on a leash and collar, and 
gaping at her with big, almost sad eyes. Its ears were gone, and it 
had chunks of fur missing from its body. It was also missing a back 
leg. 


"So... what? It's a feral cat." She noticed just as she finished 
speaking, and just as the man tugged on the cat's leash, turning it 
over to show its left side. Its ribs were exposed, and what she had 
thought to be dirt or mud was actually blood caked in its fur as the 
cat's organs threatened to slide out from the gaping hole in its side. 
The cat seemed not to notice. It was purring affectionately, trying to 
come closer to her. 


"So... what? It's a mutilated cat... what's this—" 


"This is not the only one. Days ago animals begin to appear in the 
village. Big ones, you understand? Not only dogs and cats, but 
jackals, wildcats, even monkeys. We hear one village twelve 
kilometers away, a lion appears, but the lion does not attack anyone. 
You know what the lion did? It did what all the animals that appear 
here did. You know what that is?" 


Dodger looked at the cat again. She couldn't put together in her 


head what that thing could have done to end up with its guts 
hanging out and still living... and happy, "Am | supposed to know?" 


Yasir sighed, pressing his lips together firmly, "If you don't know, 
then this is a problem." 


"What did the lion do? What are all the animals doing?" 


"Not all the animals, only some," Yasir clarified, and started shoving 
the mangled cat back under the chicken wire. It didn't resist, even 
trying to rub against his foot as he pushed it away, "The animals 
come into the village, they lay down and show us their bellies. Then 
they do not move. They will stay laying until someone comes by and 
cuts them. They will let us cut into their bellies. They are happy for 
us to cut their bellies open. They want us to cut them all over, to cut 
off pieces of them." 


Yasir said something to the man nearest the cage, and he lifted it 
again, pulling the cat out by its collar. It didn't protest, but mewled 
lazily as he turned it over onto its back, showing Dodger its hind leg. 
The other was half gone, showing dried bone at the end. 


"This leg, here," Yasir pointed to the stump, "We cut it off 
completely. Completely, you understand? Yesterday, we find this,” 
Again indicating the leg. 


"Meaning its leg is growing back?" Dodger offered. She didn't think 
they would be lying. The cat should've been dead anyway with the 
gaping hole in its body. 


Yasir nodded, "It is growing back. Look here," He indicated a 
hairless patch of skin on the cat's stomach, "Come closer, look." 


Dodger crouched down to get a better look, as the man beside Yasir 
crouched beside her, pulling a knife out and starting to cut into the 
cat. It didn't stop its affectionate purrs. Fresh blood poured out of the 
wound, staining its already grimy fur. 


"See this, in here?" Yasir pointed as the man opened up the skin, 
ripping it open further to expose more bloody flesh. Dodger had a 
strong stomach for this sort of thing, but the way the cat just lay 


there purring made her want to cry. It was beyond disturbing. 
"What am | looking for?" She asked wearily. 


The man kept pressing his fingers in deeper, wiggling them as if 
stirring a pot of warm soup. Then he pulled out a hunk of flesh, cut 
into a cube. 


"That piece, we leave behind two days ago. Yesterday, the cat is 
healed up again. So we cut it open again, and find that piece still 
there." 


And now they found it a third time, Dodger realized. She got up, not 
able to stomach the cat's cheerful purring anymore, before turning to 
him, "What's this have to do with the MCF?" 


"| don't know. Only thing | Know is your hospital is finished last week. 
Next day, these animals appear. Starting here. Then they appear in 
villages two kilometer away, three, then ten. All starting here." 


Three hours after waking, her body still stiff from that awkward 
seated position she'd taken, Priss still felt drowsy. Her vision blurred 
every time she blinked, and she had to move slowly, lest a sudden 
movement send stabs of pain through her head. 


At least the sight was pleasant enough. An underground lake, not 
yet filled, looking like a brand new luxury swimming pool. From their 
vantage point right over the reservoir, they could take it all in— the 
Rabbi and Opal, giddy and chittering about the artificial cavern of 
concrete they had managed to pull off; Westinghouse, asking things 
like weight distribution, pillars, and insulation; and herself, resisting 
the urge to just sit down where she stood and staring vacantly at the 
pristine white ceiling until she was comfortable. 


She looked down at the dufflebag in her hand. She'd almost 
forgotten about the Anabasis. Her arm had gone numb from its 
weight, and prickling sensation had abruptly returned. 


The bowl-like reservoir was hollow and about thirteen meters at its 
deepest. Ladders connected to a high platform positioned directly 


over the center of the bowl. Niches in the bowl would open up as it 
filled with water, covered with metal gates. When the reservoir 
started overflowing, the niches would open, and clean and dirty 
water would flow out and in to the reservoir, respectively. The niches 
were open, with Torres' volunteers adjusting and checking the 
piping, making sure the Vestan sewage system that drained from 
the camp had fused correctly. By tomorrow or the next day, the 
Hippo would be brought in, and then she would make it rain. 


"What | don't get — | mean, Rabbi, don't get me wrong," Opal's 
voice came in over the low murmuring of the group, "it's impressive 
and all that... but why do we need this whole place? The Vestan 
seems to be a perfectly good filter system, and the camp uses 
Vestan-grown sewage and drains. There's no risk of contagion from 
the Sour." 


"Well, we planned this place when we got here, and we didn't know 
that at the time. Besides, I've been running tests and we might have 
a bigger issue... there's a chance that some of the piping is lead." 


Priss grinned, and started to laugh to herself. It was inappropriate, 
but she couldn't help herself. 


"What?" Frank ignored Priscilla, staring intently at Jacob. 


"The Vestan piping. We thought it would be mostly plastic, but... it 
wasn't. There's lead pipes down there. And there's more." 


Frank rubbed his eyes as Opal crossed her arms, looking about to 
explode, "We've been poisoning our beneficiaries, Jacob? Tell me 
we haven't." 


"It's not a problem!" Jacob looked frustrated, as if he hadn't just said 
it was a problem, "We're replacing the outgoing pipes. Incoming 
shouldn't be a problem, since the Hippo should be able to handle 
any pollutants. Also, related issue..." 


"More?" Frank put in. 


"You know how like, sometimes when you make fruit punch, you 
don't fully liquefy the fruit, and some of it collects at the bottom? 


begin to move of their own accord and set themselves to a unique 
setting seemingly “tuned” to the object in question. Furthermore, the 
filament will become increasingly warm, eventually growing visibly 
hot. The rest of SCP-680-1 and -2 will become otherwise temporarily 
inert. 


After a period of approximately three minutes, a series of clicks will 
emit from various parts of SCP-680. Four sources of clicking have 
been discerned: 


—From both eyepiece adjusters, 
—From the additional magnifiers, 
—And from within SCP-680-1’s right (unblocked) eye socket. 


This will continue until the filament reaches a maximum temperature 
of _, after which all action ceases and the skull “powers down” for a 
period of approximately three hours. 


Studies performed on SCP-680 have revealed that the “clicks” 
emitted by the SCP are actually messages communicated in Morse 
Code describing the “studied” item’s properties, including make, 
purported original assembler or team, function, and other items. 
Furthermore, particular pieces of “study” seem to come consistently 
from certain points of the SCP. For example: 


—Statistical component inquiries such as make, model, and 
craftsmanship are reported by the lens adjustment knobs, 
—Suggestions as to the material composition of the object are 
reported by the magnifiers, and 

—Particularly unusual properties are reported by SCP-680-1’s eye 
socket. 


Material composition data gathered by SCP-680 appears to be 
largely statistical, giving a list of item materials corresponding to 80 
(reported) out of the first 92 elements of the periodic table. Materials 
are usually given in the greatest percentage of presence, and 
subsequent spectral analysis of said objects usually confirm 
SCP-680’s analysis to within 10% (with notable deviations; see 
Addendum 680-2). 


Notes about specific make of the object studied match surprisingly 


There might be — well, there is — some fungi that isn't growing 
properly, and gets left behind in the pipes. It won't be an issue as we 
start cleaning out the pipes." 


Frank said nothing. Opal pressed her palms into her eyes and 
sighed loudly, "Last thing we need is people sucking down crap- 
filled water when we promised them clean and pure, then starting 
to... | don't know... sprout extra arms and legs or grow pipes in their 
bellies!" 


"| just said it's not an issue —" 
"Your exact words were ‘Also, related issue’ Opal nearly shrieked. 


"Well | was exaggerating! It's an issue now but it won't be an issue 
by tomorrow. Besides, it's not my fault. We might not have these 
same issues if we used it entirely as intended." 


Frank glanced up, "Unexpected effect from our manipulating it?" 
Jacob shrugged, "I don't know. Maybe." 


Frank shrugged, mirroring Jacob's gesture in a condescending 
fashion, "And we didn't bother to test this out before-hand. No big 
deal. After all, it's just Somalians. Mongrels, as the Nazis would 
say." 


Subhuman mongrel. 


Jacob went rabid, "Don't you start pulling that Godwin shit on me! 
You know that's not even close to what we'd intended! If we had 
more time we'd be able to iron these things out but we don't. We just 
don't!" 


Priss smirked — by now, she'd given up and was sitting atop the 
Anabasis, rocking gently back and forth and at a state of ease, "You 
know... back home, the Party for the Supremacy of Western 
Civilization would have tested all of this beforehand on some 
‘subhuman mongrels' as you put it. If the locals got uppity... well, 
that depended on the administrator. Best-case scenario, the locals 
would get a nice lecture about all the benefits coming their way, and 
the hope for the future. Most of the time, it was just curfews, 


crackdowns, and cracking heads if anyone protested too loudly. It 
was inhuman, but... when you've got thousands of people already 
living in such squalor, on the brink of death every day, it was a noble 
sacrifice." 


The others stared at her like she was a monster. She regretted even 
speaking up. She looked away, still rocking, "My sister called herself 
a'subhuman mongrel’. She considered herself one of them." 


Opal blinked. Then her expression slowly turned into a frown, then a 
cold grimace. She turned to Frank. 


"I'm not keen on world history, Frankie. Please, help me here. There 
has never been a Party for the Supremacy of Western Civilization, 
right?" 


"Opal-" 


"Never mind. | just don't care. You deal with her," she said, coldness 
permeating her every word. "You deal with her, you are responsible 
for her, whatever messes this one makes, it's on you." 


Opal turned for the ladder and started to climb it. Jacob and Frank 
stared back at Priss; the 'Rabbi' seemed disgusted, Frank was just 
tired. For a long while, their expressions didn't change. 


She hadn't saved herself. That would've been funny someplace 
else. But not here. You don't belong here. 


Just as Frank had sat down and started to settle in for the night, 
trouble came. 


"Oy prick!" Dodger called before she peeked into the cube, auburn 
hair looking black, as if she'd been caught in a thunderstorm. 


Frank eased back in his seat and crossed his arms, "Late night visits 
between Mission group members are typically frowned upon." 


The woman shook her head, smirking despite her words, "Ew, 
Frank. Ew. I'd think your standards would be much higher than that." 


"And so modest," He smirked in turn. Dodger was anything but. She 
didn't bother with makeup when out in the field, but she still stuck 
out horribly, looking either too young to be in her position, or too 
pretty to be someone expected to get themselves dirty with actual 
work. 


She produced a wad of paper, and slipped into the cube. She was 
actually dirty for once—shirt stained and pants smeared in dust, 
"Report from today. | forwarded a copy to Torres first. His team's 
taking a look at it." 


"More shit?" 


She came closer, and dropped it into his lap, "You take this nice pile 
of shit, and you eat it. Then you go to bed with a nice smile, and wait 
for another in the morning." 


"Wonderful," Frank held the report up, thumbing through it, knowing 
just what to look for and how to skim past the inane bullshit and 
prose Dodger tended to load in. As if her reports were going to be 
published as great literary works.