A sharp odor, suddenly. She feels eyes opening, the flow is 
interrupted, is it her turn to- 


SCP-1041 started awake. She coughed as a sharp, stinging vapor 
cleared out from her nose and sinuses. Her throat was on fire. She 
saw a man in front of her, putting a stopper in a small vial and 
placing it in his pocket. His cheeks were slightly red. 


"Where am |? Who the hell are you?" She snarled, the unfamiliar 
surroundings putting her reflexes immediately on alert. "You had 
better start talking. Now." 


The man, a soldier as she could tell from his uniform, leaned back in 
his chair, his eyes wide as he chuckled, apparently amused by her. 
She instinctively reached to her side; nothing there. She was 
dressed in some sort of prison outfit. Different than the one she had 
in Vladimirsky. The memories further inflamed her growing anger. 
She looked to the woman standing behind the man before her. She 
was holding a clipboard. Blank, impassive. 


"Bitch. You. Tell me what's going on." 


Chernikov beamed at her; he seemed relieved. "Charming. Let me 
guess, Svetlana Savchuk?" 


She leaned forward, closer to him. "That's right. You all know who | 
am." 


He looked over to Commissar Rosenstein; she acknowledged him 
with a curt nod. He turned back to her. "And what was the last thing 
you remember doing before waking up here, Svetlana?" 


bisected into parts that were equal in mass at T+7:13 hours. Dead 
scraps were removed from the room while the two halves 
(subsequently designated SCP-682-A and SCP-682-B) regenerated. 
After the recovery period, SCP-682-A and -B appeared to survey the 
area and evaluate each other, presumably in anticipation of attack. 
Surface fluctuations indicative of internal modification were noted, 
but all external changes occurred and disappeared far too quickly to 
be adequately described. High-energy bioluminescent organs on the 
face, spine, and forelimbs were observed as well on both 
specimens, usually forming, pulsing, and disappearing again over 
the course of a few seconds. 


At T+35:42 hours, SCP-682-A and -B simultaneously collapsed on 
the floor and all vital signs ceased, remaining in this state for the 
following 48 hours. At T+84 hours, the laser was used again in an 
attempt to cut SCP-682-A and -B into more manageable pieces, 
leading to minor structural damage to the room as the laser beam 
reflected off their skin. As both -A and -B remained immobile despite 
the increased potential for escape, two D-class personnel were 
released into the room. Immediately upon their entry, [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. 


Technical failure of the observation equipment and test chamber 
breach was detected from outside, activating Safety Protocol 
T-98816-OC108/682-N147. Containment was successfully 
reestablished at the cost of | security personnel, D-class 
personnel, and researchers, including Doctors [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. The majority of the testing area was considered 
unsalvageable and demolished for later reconstruction. Experiment 
supervisor Dr. was found unconscious and in critical condition 
outside the observation chamber (see medical logs for ais oe (ae 
medical staff succeeded in sufficiently reviving him to be debriefed 
by Agent , whereupon he was harshly reprimanded and [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. 


Note: Only one SCP-682 was found in the locked-down area 
surrounding the wreckage, apparently at near-full mass rather than 
the expected 50% (scattered tissues within the facility account for 
the missing mass). Dr. 's testimony indicates that SCP-682-A 
and -B exhibited a high degree of coordination following the security 


In a flash, she stood up, snatching the folding chair from underneath 
her. She flattened it, taking it up in both hands, and swung as hard 
she could at Chernikov's head. 


Chernikov ducked, just slightly, the chair catching a few stray 
strands of hair standing on the top of his head. Without any seeming 
effort, he took a single step forward, his body shifting like a dancer, 
and drove his fist into her stomach. The chair clattered obscenely to 
the cement floor as she went down in a heap. The entire exchange 
took two seconds. 


The sound of his boots reverberated off of the reinforced walls. He 
stood over her, stepping on her outstretched hand with just enough 
force to keep it in place, painfully. She looked up at him. In her eyes, 
he saw no trace of wildness, no trace of fury. No outward expression 
of pain, despite being doubled up on the floor. She seethed without 
anger, a gaze holding the promise of rectifying the temporary slight 
visited upon her. A look for which Chernikov had developed a taste 
over the years. 


He picked up his hat. "That's right, just as it's written in the report, 
Svetlana. Except, unlike the guard in Block 4, | am alive. Commissar 
Rosenstein, we have our woman." 


He squatted down, coming face to face with SCP-1041, temporary 
host to Svetlana Savchuk, known Marchenko Family soldier and 
thrice-convicted murderer. "Go fetch Geissler. Tell him we have our 
subject. We're ready to begin." 


« | Part Five | Matryoshka | Part Seven | » 


Matryoshka: Part Seven 


The old man was propped up in the corner, some surplus Red Army 
blankets hastily bunched up to provide both warmth and stability for 
the frail humanoid. He peered out from beneath his hat with 
unseeing eyes, ever-present smile lurking among the shadows of 
the cellar they all huddled in now. In the corner, for the first time 
since arriving in Poland, he was quiet. Thick, black mucous slowly 
began to well out of his tear ducts. Two filament-thin lines of 
viscous, dark liquid trailed upwards, through his wispy eyebrows and 
up over his forehead. Slowly. 


Juhasz continued to dab at his shirt with a rag. The blood had come 
out of his mustache, at least. Spinella cinched his belt around 
Stillwell's shoulder, the makeshift sling holding up his bandaged 
wrist. Stillwell grimaced, the dull pain setting in as the adrenaline 
wore off. He warily eyed the steel door. 


"| feel like we're back where we started." Coogan was pacing the 
small confines of the room. 


"Nonsense. Now Spinella is in the tight, confined room with us." 
Juhasz tossed the rag away. Most of the blood was off him, anyhow. 
"Four is better than three." 


"And | really appreciate that, by the way. So now that we've 
bandaged ourselves up, what's the plan?" The doctor fished his 
cigarette case out of his coat. 


"We're not going anywhere for a while, that's for sure," said Stillwell. 
"Then again, this is a GRU-P safehouse. Or safe room, anyway. An 
operative could show up at any moment. So sheltering in place isn't 
a good idea, either." 


Spinella exhaled a stream of blue smoke. "We're at least safe from 
the Red Army in here, right? Tell me that much at least." 


"Oh, yes. GRU-P operates independently now from the Red Army 
central command. That's a fierce rivalry, that one. They say that 
Zhukov tried to have Zherdev arrested, back in '37." Juhasz was 
opening cabinets now as he spoke. "How they got Stalin to change 
his mind about allowing it, well. No one talked about that." 


"Why are we still listening to him? For all we know he could be 
holding us here until GRU-P arrives to collect us." Coogan's pacing 
grew quicker, his frustration building. 


Juhasz's attention remained in the supply cabinet as he rummaged. 
"Go ahead then, walk on out. I'll even let you take the rifle.” 


"He's just as screwed as we are if they show up, Coogan." Stillwell 
put his good hand on Coogan's shoulder. "We're in this together 
now, like it or not." 


"| sure as hell don't like it." Spinella stubbed out his cigarette. 


"That doesn't matter,” said Stillwell. "Gripe about it when we get 
back." 


"When we get back. Pretty optimistic, if you ask-" 


Spinella was cut off by the sound of the vision slit in the iron door 
abruptly sliding open. A pair of pale blue eyes quickly scanned the 
room, and then the slit closed again. 


"Shit!" Stillwell quickly barked out orders. "Coogan, Juhasz, grab 
whoever that was!" 


The two men sprang for the door. Before they could reach it, the 
interloper calmly addressed them. 


"I'm armed. I'll shoot anyone who opens that door. Just as you'll 
shoot me if | open it." The voice was a woman's, her English 
flawless. "We need to talk." 


Juhasz and Coogan looked to Stillwell; he held up a hand to them. 
Cautiously, he stepped closer to the door, between the two men. 
"So let's talk. Who are you?" 


Stillwell thought he heard the unseen woman move closer to the 
door herself. "I'm someone who knows where this room is. I'm 
someone who knows that you're not GRU-P operatives. And you 
know I'm not GRU-P either, since you're still alive." 


Stillwell thought the response over. Coogan looked to him for what 
came next. Juhasz appeared to be searching his memory. Whoever 
she was, she had a point. If they had been found out by GRU-P, the 
last thing they would have seen would have been the door being 
blown. 


"Suppose we know what GRU-P is." Stillwell edged closer still to the 
door, eyeing the handle. "Who says you're any better? Maybe you 
just want to lure us out." 


"That may be," the woman responded. "But I've come from Site-7." 
She let the sentence hang for a moment. "And you're never going to 
get there without my help." 


More sounds of shuffling from the other side of the door. She 
continued. "I'm putting my gun away. Now, if you open the porthole, 
you will see me with both my hands up, empty. Every moment | am 
out here, we all risk being discovered. Let me inside, and we can 
talk further." 


Stillwell considered. He looked at Coogan; he was shaking his head. 
He looked at Juhasz; he merely looked back. Stillwell reached for 
the vision slit. 


"No," Coogan whispered. 


He was undeterred. Stillwell slid the vision slit open. He saw a 
woman in a winter coat, blond, hair pulled back. His age, possibly 
younger, her face inscrutable, the blue eyes meeting his 
unflinchingly. Her hands were in front of her, palms out, as 
promised. 


They held each other's gaze, each taking the measure of the other. 
She could be any number of things, leading them into a trap, for God 
knows what reason or on whose behalf. He thought one more time 
about how they were going to get to Site-7. He scanned her face 


one more time. 


"I'm going to open this door now. No one is going to make any 
sudden movements. You're going to walk inside, slowly. Whoever 
else is out there, if this is a trick, we'll make sure to take you with 
us." 


Coogan's eyes went wide. He resumed shaking his head, furiously. 


"| understand. Open the door when you're ready." The woman kept 
her hands visible. As she spoke, Stillwell noticed her teeth were 
made entirely out of steel. 


Coogan had picked up the rifle as Stillwell had been talking. Stillwell 
signaled him now with a glance, and Coogan trained the gun on the 
door. He reached for the handle, and felt the heavy iron bolts in the 

door frame give way as he turned it. No turning back now. He slowly 
opened the door, the unoiled hinges squealing loudly. 


The woman stood in the doorway. A briefcase was on the ground 
beside her. The hallway beyond her was empty. Stillwell waved his 
good hand at her, motioning for her to come inside. She slowly 
picked up the briefcase, and obliged, her steps measured as she 
moved to the corner of the room next to the door. Stillwell shut it 
quickly, then told Coogan to lower the rifle. After a few seconds of 
grudging acknowledgement, he obliged. 


"Now we can have a real talk. Who are you?" Stillwell stood directly 
opposite her, about two paces away. 


Juhasz moved next to Stillwell. "Judging by physical characteristics 
and what she knows, this must be Sergeant Ekaterina Nechayeva, 
of the KGB. Assigned to the Eleventh Directorate, that's the one that 
handles our sort of business, Sergeant?" 


"Directorate K." Nechayeva looked over Juhasz. "And it looks like 
the rumors of a defection in Zherdev's ranks are true after all. I'm 
amazed the Foundation didn't execute you when you came back." 


Juhasz smiled. "They likely will when they don't need me anymore. 
A better fate than the one that awaits all of us if GRU-P has their 


way." 
"Wait. If she's KGB, what's keeping her from just telling GRU-P that 
we're here?" Coogan's rifle raised a little as he spoke. 


"There's a war within the Soviet government right now," replied 
Juhasz. "The KGB is the only thing standing in the way of Stalin 
succeeding where Truman has failed. Something I'm sure you're not 
too keen on Koba finding out, Sergeant." 


Nechayeva's eyes flashed momentarily, a ripple across her 
composed face, passing almost instantly. "Comrade Stalin has seen 
the results of our research. In time, the Politburo will remember why 
it has needed the Foundation in the past, once we have subdued 
GRU-P's madness." 


Stillwell interjected. "Our research? So Site-7 has been 
compromised." 


"Your research director, Dr. Geissler, had an arrangement with us. 

We have provided resources and shared data with the Foundation. 
The woman you know as SCP-1041 has assisted, when she's been 
able. The results, you should see for yourself." 


Nechayeva lifted the briefcase. She offered it to Stillwell. 
"You open it." Spinella eyed the briefcase warily. 


"Of course," said Nechayeva. She pushed in the latches of the 
briefcase, opening it slowly, in full view of the room. Assorted 
documents were inside. Stillwell accepted the now-opened 
briefcase, quickly rifling through the information. He paused at 
several, reading over a lab report here and a schematic there. He 
closed the briefcase. 


"I'd heard about research like this. The things that could be done 
with it." Stillwell handed the case to Spinella. 


"This is what we could grab in the little time that we had," said 
Nechayeva. "| was supposed to extract SCP-1041. But your group 
showed up." 


"That we did." Stillwell shrugged. "Where were you planning on 
taking her?" 


"Somewhere safe," Nechayeva replied. 
Stillwell paused. "If what's in these notes is true..." 


"We can have faith that the research is legitimate," Junasz 
interjected. "GRU-P would have liquidated the site entirely by now if 
there was nothing to it." 


Stillwell nodded in agreement. "We need to get to the bottom of this. 
We've got to talk to 1041." 


"That means getting her out of Site-7 alive," said Nechayeva. "A 
change of plans, | imagine." 


"That's right." Stillwell acknowledged without hesitation. "Any 
ideas?" 


The conversation was interrupted by Spinella suddenly cursing, 
shaking something off of his pant leg. The corner in which the old 
man had lay quietly, unnoticed in the commotion, was now 
enveloped in a spreading pool of thin, black sludge, flowing up walls 
and over the ceiling in direct defiance of gravity. It had just reached 
beyond the shadows, the black sheen encroaching on the room's 
scant lighting. 


Spinella jerked away from the spreading black ooze, a hole burned 
through the leg of his trousers where the liquid had made contact. 
They could hear drywall crumbling and support beams groaning 
behind the old man now. 


"What the hell is it doing?" Coogan pointed the rifle at the old man. 
The old man gazed back at the rifle with dead eyes, rictus grin 
plastered on its face, shining through the black liquid that was 
beginning to cover him. 


"What these specimens always do, with enough time." Nechayeva 
calmly but firmly put a hand on Coogan's shoulder and pushed him 
aside. She reached into her coat and drew her pistol. 


Stillwell's first instinct was to knock the gun from her hand. 
Something deeper than instinct stayed his good hand. He watched 
as she raised her weapon.