SCP-1041 paused briefly. A grave error. For her, or for everyone? 
The unspoken distinction was troubling. She continued to fill the 
briefcase with the most relevant files available. The whole project 
would never fit in such a small case, but enough points of reference 
would allow Petrov's people to reconstruct it, in time. "I don't know if 
| have any children. | mean, I've claimed to be a mother sometimes, 
but there's never been any proof. | hope for my sake | am. | hope for 
anyone else's sake that I'm not." 


"That doesn't matter right now." 


"Hm. | suppose you're right." It was easy to forget how young this 
woman was, sometimes. The briefcase was almost full. She would 
only be able to fit the abstract of the paper detailing the final 
findings. The older woman slid the report out of the case, and undid 
the clasps binding the pages together. "Where will | be tomorrow, | 
wonder. | haven't had to think about that for quite some time." 


"They shouldn't be here for another eighteen hours. We've 


repositioned most of our people to Novosibirsk. Once | secure the 
exit route, you'll be coming with me out of here." 


SCP-1041 paused as she considered the plan once more. "Have 
you had any news of Dr. Geissler?" 


The younger woman's face hardened. Lines furrowed around her 
mouth. "It's better to think of him as dead." SCP-1041's flashlight 
briefly shone on Nechayeva's steel teeth as she spoke. Despite 
herself, the older woman felt stabs of regret when she thought of the 
Foundation researcher. Dr. Geissler had always been likely to come 
to a violent end, considering where he had come from and what he 
had begun. But they had all been a part of it, willingly, enabling both 
Soviet and Foundation scientists to make great leaps of 
understanding in the terrifying new field they helped create. The 
older woman had logged a total of four days and eighteen hours of 
work on Dr. Geissler's project; yet she felt deeply responsible for its 
ultimate result. And for Geissler. 


Right now, though, she was right, she thought. Far better to think of 
the doctor as being dead. Other thoughts were intolerable at the 
moment. Nepheshology had been born at Site-7; their job now was 
to make sure it did not die here. Or worse. 


"You have what's required?" asked Nechayeva, nodding to the 
briefcase. 


SCP-1041 paused, shoving the last of the documentation into the 
case and snapping it shut. "| hope so. We have fifteen minutes at 
most before the sentries check my block again, we have to hurry." 


The two women left the file room, entering a dark hallway. All 
personnel were focused on maintaining the perimeter and keeping 
those anomalies that were an immediate threat on lockdown. Even 
GRU-P didn't have the staff at present to post guards in the 
research wing. The Foundation operatives at Site-7 had fought 
dearly to keep control, surprised as they were. The new masters of 
Site-7 were still awaiting replacements from Moscow for the men 
they had lost in the operation. 


The older woman led the way to the service corridor in the back, 


where the boiler equipment was kept. In the years she had spent as 
a mandatory guest of the Foundation, security had never been 
relaxed. She didn't remember wishing to escape at any point, 
especially when Dr. Geissler had asked her to participate in his 
work. But the guard complaining at shift change about how damned 
drafty it was in the boiler room, that had seemed like something 
useful to remember at the time. Nechayeva's people at KGB, eager 
to strike back at their rivals within the Soviet government, had been 
able to make good use of the information. 


Quickly, they twisted their way among the service corridors, steam 
ducts and wiring snaking over their heads, the hum of the machinery 
that powered Site-7 growing increasingly louder as they ventured 
into the heart of the facility. Coming to what looked like a dead end 
behind three large pipes, SCP-1041 saw a plain access door, next 
to where the pipes appeared to come through the wall. A thin sheet 
of frigid air seeped around the frame of the door, a small wind that 
sliced cleanly through the bare warmth of her clothing, chilling her 
immediately despite the boiler room's oppressive heat. 


Nechayeva produced what looked like a tiny screwdriver and several 
thin lengths of wire from an inner pocket in her coat. She crouched 
down level to the doorknob, inserting her tools and levering 
delicately inside the lock. Within seconds, she heard a small metallic 
catch, and the door was open. 


In her mind, SCP-1041 went back over the route they had taken, 
repeatedly, hoping that she would not lose her way while rushing 
back to her cell before inspection. She had never had illusions about 
the Foundation, or what their capabilities were if they were 
threatened. But from what she had been told, GRU-P was a different 
matter. If she were found out, she would need to take the pill that 
Nechayeva had given her, immediately, and hope that it killed her 
quickly enough. Even with the fate that surely awaited her if she 
were captured alive, she wondered if she would be able to do it. 


Nechayeva touched her arm, looking her in the eyes. "We haven't 
forgotten your service." The young KGB operative's face was stony. 
"I'll be back here for you. We'll meet again." 


SCP-1041 squeezed Nechayeva's hand in reply, and then handed 


the briefcase containing the work of years over to her. "Please 
know, no matter who | am when you see me again, what | say...|'m 
grateful for what you have done." 


Nechayeva nodded. She opened the access door, cold air now 
buffeting them, propelled down the exterior service corridor by 
unknown forces. She drew her service pistol from under her coat, 
looking into the dimly lit path ahead. 


They nodded to each other. Though Nechayeva's permanent frown 
remained on her face, SCP-1041 noticed now that the younger 
woman's eyes were not as hard as the rest of her. They still 
provided a little insight. The future was less certain than the young 
operative was presenting. 


"Do zavtra," said Nechayeva. She moved now into the corridor, 
disappearing into the winding pathway in just a few seconds, 
briefcase in one hand, pistol in the other. The service door closed 
behind her. 


SCP-1041 started running back through the boiler room. Matters 
were out of her hands now. 


« | Prologue | Matryoshka | Part Two | » 


Item: SCP-173 


Tissue Test Record: 
N/A, overridden by O5-Command 


Termination Test Record: 

SCP-682 introduced into the containment area of SCP-173. 
SCP-682 makes several screeching noises, and quickly presses 
against the wall farthest from SCP-173, staring at it the entire time. 
SCP-682 continues to stare at SCP-173 without pause for six hours. 
Agents equipped with large-caliber sniper rifles dispatched, and 
shoot out the eyes of SCP-682, at the same time stopping all 
observation of SCP-173 and SCP-682. 


After resuming observation, SCP-682 is shown to be on the floor, 
with several injuries around its head, neck and legs. SCP-173 is 
seen to have tissue from SCP-682 on its “hands”. SCP-682 rapidly 
regenerates damage, and moves to a different wall, developing 
several sets of eyes on various parts of its body, many covered by 
thick, clear “caps” of armored carapace. SCP-682 maintains 
observation of SCP-173 for an additional twelve hours, despite 
additional efforts of Agents and Foundation staff. SCP-682 allowed 
to exit containment area, and recaptured in temporary containment. 


Notes: After review, it appears SCP-173 was unable to do lethal 
damage to SCP-682 due to a major difference in physical size. A 
possible repeat of this test may be made if SCP-682 is damaged 
enough to reduce its physical mass to a level equal with SCP-173. 


Item: Dr. Clef 


Tissue Test Record: 
N/A 


Termination Test Record: 

SCP-682 introduced to testing area. Dr. Clef introduced to testing 
area. Dr. Clef and SCP-682 stare at each other for approximately 
three minutes. Dr. Clef slowly backs out of the testing area as 
SCP-682 continues to stare. Dr. Clef attempts to open door of 
testing area. Door of testing area determined to be locked. Dr. Clef 


Matryoshka: Part Two 


Directly across from Stillwell sat Juhasz in the green plastic chair. To 
his left was Coogan on the threadbare gray couch. Stillwell shifted in 
his flimsy wooden folding chair. Its creaking echoed far too deeply 
for the small room in which they waited. Motes of dust hung 
unmoving, fixed in space, illuminated by a sickly shaft of thin light 
coming down from a skylight with a view of nothing. 


Coogan shifted his bulk, his huge hands flexing, cracking his 
knuckles yet again. He looked to the mission's commanding officer. 


"We could have really used guns for this." 


Stillwell frowned. "That's not a good idea in this place. The 
symbolism isn't something we want rattling around in here. It was 
hard enough to get the place into this condition." 


Juhasz smiled, a flash of teeth underneath his bushy black 
mustache. "Amusing. And yet we stuff a killer, a traitor, and a thug in 
here. No second thoughts." 


"There were plenty of second thoughts." Stillwell shook his head. 
"No reason to add more risk where it's not needed. Three fellas 
packing heat in a Krakow restricted zone would cause enough 
problems anyway." 


Coogan sat up. "I thought getting through the restricted zone was 
the whole point of this place." 


Stillwell checked his watch. "Never know when you might need to 
bail out." 


The banging on the door in the room's shadowed foyer started 
again, growing more insistent and hurried than when they had first 
entered. 


"And what is that?" said Coogan. 


"Don't open the door," replied Stillwell. 


Spinella was barely able to get the wheelchair he was pushing off of 
the plaza and into an alcove before he slumped his decreasing 
weight against the wall, doubling over as the wet, rough coughing 
wracked his body. By the time he was finished, his vision was 
blurred, tears forced from his eyes by the violent fit, his head 
throbbing. He looked at his handkerchief, studying the spots of blood 
that were there more often than not now. 


The wheelchair's occupant, as ever, stared blankly forward. Even 
through the numerous layers of thick woolen clothing, it was easy to 
tell that the man in the chair was emaciated and little more than 
bones and weathered skin. Wiry gray hair poked out from all around 
his knit cap, the sunken and waxen cheeks impervious to the feeling 
of the cold. The rictus grin stuck on his face was not reflected at all 
in his blank, rheumy eyes. To the casual observer, the only 
indication that Spinella wasn't pushing a corpse around was the old 
man's constant, slow cackling. It was apparently a reflex reaction of 
some sort, a brain defect. The knowledge never made Spinella's 
mood any better. 


Spinella wiped his mouth one more time on his handkerchief, then 
fished the leather case out of his coat pocket. He took out a 
cigarette, flicked open the metal lighter, lit it and drew. The smoke 
seared his lungs, while he felt a slow calmness settle back into his 
body. He reflected again on the mission. The Foundation's only 
neurologist sent to reconnoiter Site-7, now unresponsive for two 
weeks. Accompanying a poorly-understood, anomalous humanoid 
into an area controlled by Soviet military police. They had told him 
that he was to get the hell out of there as soon as he could. That 
was the only part that made even a little bit of sense to him. 


Spinella dragged deeply on the cigarette, the pain bright and terrible 
in his chest. This sort of ridiculous operation was a perfect emblem 
of today's state of affairs. Unsuitable operatives doing stupid things 
because there was no other choice. And the evacuation from the 
Soviet territories wasn't even completed yet. The manner in how 


things were supposed to improve from here was well beyond his 
reckoning. He drew on the cigarette until the embers were close 
enough to burn his fingers. Then he cast the little stub into the 
gutter, and exhaled a slow, lazy stream of blue smoke into the frigid 
night air. He was now ready to resume. Just another couple of 
kilometers. Mindless cackling accompanied Spinella back into the 
plaza as he pushed the old man's wheelchair ever onward. 


The young team leader leaned forward in his chair, and regarded 
Juhasz. "We never had the chance to debrief when you came back 
in," said Stillwell. "Lafourche said you had calculated that you were 
better off here than there. But why? They've already seized eight 
Sites. You could have finished off this whole thing if you wanted. 
Killed all of us." 


Juhasz leaned back and sighed. He studied the man before him, the 
curiosity in the prodigal operative's face reminding Stillwell of a 
professor back at MIT. "It was a close call. The Russians could still 
win, and in short order. Your little play in the States was quite 
successful, you know." 


"Please don't call that a success." Stillwell's stomach clenched at the 
memory, his hands suddenly clammy. 


"Oh, but it was marvelous. When Zherdev heard what the 
Americans were doing, he looked like a gutted fish," Juhasz 
chuckled at the recollection. "You should have seen him. All of them. 
They thought Truman was coming to wipe them all out. But you, you 
scared the Yanks so thoroughly, all they have instead is their 
precious nuclear stockpile." 


Stillwell swallowed back the excess saliva and took a couple of 
breaths. "So why return, if the Soviets have such an advantage? 
You're a smart man, why choose a losing side?" 


Juhasz frowned, clicking his tongue a few times. "| saw what they're 
planning." 


The statement hung in the air between the three men like the 
unmoving dust motes. The knocking on the foyer door had now 


turned to heavy thumping, more forceful than before. It rattled the 
whole room, the vibrations reaching in to Stillwell's bones and 
imbuing him with the sense that something was very, very angry. 


Coogan broke the silence. "How do we know you're not still working 
for them?" 


Juhasz replied softly, the note of concern in his voice surprising to 
Stillwell. 


"Don't open the door." 


"Why do you not speak Russian?" 


Why? Because I'm supposed to be from Poland, you arrogant prick, 
thought Spinella. He forced out another line in fake broken English. 


"lam not so good with the language, tovarishch. Please, to let my 
father through to the Institute." 


The checkpoint guard looked lean and hungry, like the war had 
ended yesterday. He looked down at the wheelchair occupant, the 
grim set of his jaw unwavering as he handed the forged Polish 
passport and identification back to Spinella. "He looks to be dead 
soon regardless. You don't look so good yourself." 


"It's just a small cough. Too bad, | bought two cartons of cigarettes, 
here in my satchel, they'll go to waste.” Spinella coyly touched the 
pack hanging from his side. "Oh well. We are just checking in, won't 
be very long." 


"| should say not." The lean soldier permitted himself a slight smile. 
"Yuri, idi syuda!" He motioned another guard to come over, 
indicating with a glance Spinella's pack. The second guard, small- 
eyed and hulking, roughly upended the pack onto a nearby table, 
shuffling and picking through the contents while the lean guard kept 
his eyes locked on Spinella, calmly drumming his fingers on the 
stock of the Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. Yuri sifted through 
Spinella's pack for what felt like an eternity, the seconds passing like 
hours. He abruptly stopped his search, tapping his comrade on the 


arm. The two soldiers conferred over the contents of the pack now, 
backs to Spinella.