"| don't reckon | can really say why. I'm under orders by the higher 
ups. Gotta take it up with my new boss." Dietrich rubbed the gauze 
patch on his shoulder. 


"Uh huh. Guessing you can't tell me who?" 


Dietrich hesitated a bit before answering. "Ever heard of Lambda 
Two? It's a new outfit. I'm not even sure what it's all ‘bout. But that's 
what I'm runnin’ with." 


Bridge cocked his head a bit and leaned his weight into the door 
frame. "| heard a couple rumours about that. Something about the 
legendary Doctor Clef making it happen. | thought they made him a 
desk jockey?" 


Dietrich nodded. "Yup... reckon it was time to dust off that weird 
shit-kicker hat of his." He coughed a bit. His lungs still stung from 
the halon gas. "All | can tell you is that I'm headed out prolly in the 
morning. This was supposed to be a quick stop. Perhaps that black- 
ops lady was af'er the same thing | was." 


Bridge's expression hardened. "Go on?" He closed the door to the 
triage room. 


"Don't get yer panties in a wad." Dietrich held up his hand. "I just 
had Alex running checks within Site-66. You folks have real good 
internal record keeping. Just making sure a certain group is on the 
up-and-up. Heard they might've made contact here." 


Bridge huffed in irritation. "Yeah? Nobody thought to tell me about 
this. Who?" 


SCP-707: Nesting Dolls 


Item #: SCP-707 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-707 is kept disassembled 
in a double-locked secure locker at Site- . Experimentation may 
only be performed with prior, written permission from at least two (2) 
Level 3 personnel. Once assembled, SCP-707 may only be handled 
by Class-D personnel. 


Description: SCP-707 is a matryoshka doll, or Russian nesting doll, 
consisting of one (1) center doll and four (4) separating outer layers. 
The doll is painted in a primarily blue color palette, and dating of the 
materials, while inconclusive, shows that it is approximately years 

old. 


When a living human subject removes one or more layers of 
SCP-707 from a fully assembled state, its anomalous effect will 
occur approximately ten (10) minutes later. The severity of this effect 
is dependent on how many layers are opened: 


* 1 layer - Subject's hair and nails will painlessly and completely 
fall out. This includes internal hair and cilia, such as that within 
the nose and ears. 

¢ 2 layers - Subject's skin will split, separate, and fall off. The 
loss of skin is painless, but exposed internal tissue has been 
described as being very sensitive, and even a light touch can 
cause bleeding. 

¢ 3 layers - Subject's muscles will detach from connective 
tissue, including the diaphragm and heart. 

* 4 layers - Subject's organs separate and detach. 


These effects are cumulative and sequential, and will occur over the 
course of only a few seconds after the ten-minute mark. No subject 
to date has survived the separation of more than 1 layer of 


Dietrich squinted past Bridge. Merle'’s hands were signing to Dietrich 
from an adjacent mirror. 


HE-WOULD-BE-USEFUL 


Dietrich nodded in agreement and paused to choose his next words 
wisely. "Bridge, you prolly want to know who torched yer archives 
and why, yah? | just had a crazy idea, but hear me out. | reckon you 
should accompany me—" 


«US|» 
"Yah, us to Site-17." 


"Site-17. Okay. And why is that?" Bridge murmured, glancing to the 
side as if to glance at Alex in his ear. 


He began to sift through his upcoming schedule in his head, 
visualizing his calendar. A few meetings, containment review... 
Maybe. No, he could probably spare some time. Definitely. 


Alexandra chirped into Bridge's earpiece. «Based on some of these 
search queries, I'm pretty sure the intruder was looking for files on 
Alpha-Nine, like we were doing.» 


"| need a data-rat. Really, | need a data-rat with 'nuff clearance to 
get Alex in where she needs to go. We work together on this, we 
can shoot two coyotes with one bullet. And that bullet's name is 
Alex. Wanna ride the bench, or steal home on this?" 


"| don't golf, but | think I'll come along. Give me a few hours to set 
everything in order." Bridge took out his phone and turned on his 
heel towards the door. "I'll see you in a bit." 


Dietrich nodded. "Yup, meet me in the motorpool garage." 


Bridge paused for a moment, his hand on the door handle, letting it 
register in his mind. The garage, not the tarmac. 


"The garage. Got it. See you." Bridge turned the handle and stepped 
out. 


Tinker Tailor Soldier Huntsman 


It happens every night, without exception. The details are different 
every time, his years living in the secret world blurring together into 
one messy painting. Tonight, his client is a very old man with a red 
striped tie, and his monster is a great white wolf. 


Sidestep. Parry. Swipe. Miss. Draw. Fire. Roll. Duck. Slice. Cut. A 
messy ballet, but Aleksander knows it well, understands it in his 
core. No stage-trained dancer can dance as beautifully as this. No 
one else can do what he could do. 


The battle nears climax. Aleksander's blade clashes against claw, 
neither material sure which should shatter first. 


This is the moment the man in the striped tie, the client, makes his 
fatal decision, every time, without fail. Aleksander understands why 
the man in the striped tie did it - he'd paid a lot to come out here. He 
wants a trophy, something that he can point out to his friends in his 
study and say, "I killed that. It was a terrible battle, and we almost 
lost, but | was the one that killed this monster." 


He can see it out of the corner of his eye now. The man in the 
striped tie pulls his shotgun from off his shoulder and aims. 
Aleksander doesn't have the time to tell him to stop - he pulls the 
trigger, and Aleksander drops to the floor, his chest torn apart like 
the wrapping paper on a Christmas present. 


Aleksander doesn't remember what happened after that. He doesn't 
know if the man in the striped tie survived the rest of the night in 
those deep, dark, woods. 


Usually, the dream continues to a hospital bed, and the pieces of 
him that were cut out. 


Usually. 


Tonight, instead, he is awoken by a scream. 


Aleksander's eyes opened. He calmly stepped out of bed, grabbing 
the pistol under his pillow. He cleared his bedroom first before 
stepping into the hallway. Listened closely for a moment, but heard 
nothing but his daughter's sobbing. "Lucille? Are you all right?" 


"Daddy!" Aleksander could hear the sobs in her voice. "There is a 
monster underneath my bed!" 


Aleksander relaxed. Opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. 
Slid smoothly to the floor and lay prone, pistol in hand, lifted up the 
sheets and looked under the bed to find... 


Nothing. There was nothing under the bed. Why would there be? 


Aleksander got up and flicked the light switch. "No monsters under 
the bed." 


"Yes there is! | just saw him! He had great big teeth and was 
covered in scales and his eyes were bloody and..." The girl looked 
up at her father with great big teary eyes. "You have to believe me!" 


Aleksander rubbed his eyes. "Shall we look for him, then?" 
The girl nodded. 

"All right. Do you want to help me?" 

The girl shook her head and dove further under the covers. 


"Fine. Wait there." Aleksander began to sweep and clear the room, 
just like a combat zone. He checked the closet, the dresser, behind 
and under the bookshelf, her night stand, and once again, for good 
measure, underneath the bed. "Clear," he reported. "The monster 
must have run away. Do you want me to stay?" 


The lump of little girl hiding under the sheets moved in a way that 
could indicate a nodding head. Aleksander sat down on the foot of 
her bed and told her another story from his time with the Russian 
army. She fell asleep half-way through. 


In the morning, he made her pancakes. 


When Lily got to the office Monday morning, she found her 
assignment standing waist-deep in a wooden crate full of packing 
peanuts. 


He heard the door shut and glanced up at her. "Have you seen my 
silencers?" 


Lily frowned. "I don't remember ever seeing you use a silencer, 
Mister Foxx." 


He dug through the box some more, throwing packing peanuts all 
around the small office. 

"| had them shipped from my old office." He crawled out of the box 
and began rifling through his desk drawers. "They were expensive." 


Lily began scooping up peanuts and throwing them back in the box. 
"I'm certain | haven't. You know, they have silencers in the armory. 
You could probably get one that fits your gun." 


He was sorting through the filing cabinets now. "These were special. 
Void Silencers." He looked over to her, saw her confused 
expression. "They do not have Void Silencers here?" 


"Never heard of them," Lily said. 


Foxx closed the filing cabinet, locking it with a brass key. "It is what 
it is. May you please take me to the quartermaster?" 


6:00 AM Subject leaves home, retrieves mail, returns 
inside (Mail screened previously) 

7:45 AM Subject leaves home with daughter, enters 
motor vehicle. 

7:55 AM Subject arrives at daughter's school, daughter 
exits motor vehicle. 

8:00 AM Subject stops at diner, drinks coffee alone, 
reads paper. 

8:32 AM Subject pays for meal (cash), leaves diner. 


8:45 AM Subject leaves city limits - as requested, 
surveillance ceased. 


Doctor Gunnel read over the log once again. Apparently, paying for 
a private detective was useless - not like anyone outside of the 
Foundation would know what they were looking for any ways. 


Gunnel really didn't care who Foxx was, or what the Foundation had 
planned for him, but as long as his benefactor kept sending him his 
pay checks, he'd keep sending him whatever they felt like asking 
him for. After all, money really did talk. 


Gunnel read the log again, then heard his computer beep. He felt his 
heart race - his bug had managed to catch a voice-mail. He 
practically fell over the play button. 


<BEGIN RECORDING> 

...Um, hi, Mike’s tailoring and alterations calling. 

Your jacket and pants are finished, exactly like you ask. 
The total comes to... um... $74.50. 

...Pick it up when you have the chance, okay? 

Our business hours are nine AM to four. 

<END RECORDING> 


Doctor Gunnel frowned, and began scribbling on a piece of paper. 


Despite my best efforts, | cannot seem to get any 
information on the MC&D purchase. No matter how 
many bugs | place, investigators | hire, or files | steal, | 
can't get anything on the anomaly, or how he operates. 


He crumbled it up, and tossed it in the bin, before pulling it out and 
setting it on fire in his ash tray. His benefactor would have no 
interest in a failure report. He'd need actual information, which 
means he would have to work a lot harder. 


He suspected that he'd have to do more than just bug Foxx's voice- 
mail. He'd have to bug his outgoing calls, too. 


He'd find something yet. Some smidgen of info about Foxx and what 
they were planning for him. 


Lily tried to keep her irritation down to a reasonable level. Her third 
day assigned to the aggravatingly mysterious Foxx, and she had 
managed to lose him. He was due for an examination at noon, and 
he hadn't checked out of the building at any point. He wasn't in his 
dorm, and he wasn't responding to her calls. 


She checked everywhere: Mess Hall, Armory, Offices, Firing Range, 
Training Halls, Board Rooms, Level-1 Laboratories, and, in an act of 
final desperation, both the men's and women’s lavatories. She was 
just about to ask site security to look for him when her cell phone 
buzzed. 


Lily: Going to my tailor. Will be back after lunch. 
-FOxx 


Lily exhaled, made a note to dress down whoever let Foxx slip past 
their checkpoints without notifying her, then pulled out her phone. 


"This is Lily. Asset Heth has left site. Are you tailing him?" 


"Yes Ma’am. We're having a little car trouble at the moment, but it'll 
be all right." 


“All right? What the hell does that mean? Is he still in your line of 
sight?" 


"No Ma'am. But, he's just visiting his tailor. We've been there before. 
We'll catch up with him soon enough." 


"Report to me if you don't. Lily out." 
The bell rang as Aleksander walked through the small door. A tall, 


bald man looked up from his newspaper, before cracking a smile. 
"Foxie. Long time no see." 


Aleksander turned the sign in the door around, letting everyone 
know that the shop would be temporarily closed. "| got a phone call 
saying you had my stuff ready?" 


The man coughed. "Were you followed?" 


Aleksander pulled some copper wiring out of his pocket. "No. My 
tails had some... car trouble. I'm alone." 


The man laughed. "That's my Foxie. You bring cash, or you want me 
to charge it to a company account?" 


Aleksander threw a large, black briefcase onto the counter. 
"Seventy-four-thousand five hundred dollars, plus tip." 


The man threw his newspaper on the counter next to the briefcase. 
"You never fail to impress." He stood up. "| imagine you want a live 
demonstration before you walk out with your new gear?" 


"Demonstration, please." He remembered his dream from last night, 
remembered the time his old tailor had sold him a faulty coat and a 
shotgun blast had gotten through. "| always take a test drive these 
days." 


Baldie unlocked a large steel door and waved Aleksander within. 
"Words to live by my friend. Words to live by." 


Heavy machinery thrummed in the back of the room, rolls of thick 
fabric being fed into them from steel rolls. To the left of the room 
was a makeshift shooting range, and in the centre of that was a 
much-the-worse-for-wear mannequin wearing a pair of black dress 
pants and a long, thick dress coat. 


Aleksander walked towards the firing line. "I assume those are 
mine?" he asked, drawing his pistol from his coat pocket. 


The bald man nodded. "Go for it." 


Aleksander fired ten rounds into the jacket. After a few seconds of 
silence, he watched the squashed bullets push out of the jacket and 
fall onto the floor. "Impressive." 


"Of course. It's also totally fireproof, waterproof, and tear-proof." 


Aleksander blinked twice. "You are absolutely sure | cannot rip this 
jacket?" 


The bald man laughed. "I have to use high-pressure water jets to 


slice the fabric myself. Knives are child's play." 
Aleksander put his gun away. "What about the pants?" 


"Classic Huntsman long-fall trousers. You'll survive a drop up to 1 
kilometer, officially. Unofficially, I've heard of guys surviving up to 
six. Not sure how true those stories are." 


"They're true. | was one of them." Aleksander looked at his watch. "I 
need to head back to the office. I'll wear these out." 


Baldie nodded. "Dressing rooms are upstairs. Anything else?" 
Aleksander frowned. "Are you still married to the leatherworker?" 
"Yup. Twenty-five years now." 


"Tell her | need a new pair of gloves. Oh, and if she still knows the 
lensmaker, I'll need new glasses. | pay cash." 


The orderly pulled a needle and some vials out of one of the 
drawers and began to prepare them. "That will not work," 
Aleksander said. 


The boffin looked up from the sterilization process. "What?" 


"That needle is too small. You will need one much bigger." He 
flicked the device in question. "That will bend, or break off inside of 
me. Very uncomfortable. Twenty-seven gauge works best." 


The boffin scrawled it down on the yellow piece of paper on his 
clipboard, then reached for the bigger needle. The jab was quick, 
and the vials began to fill themselves up with a watery-black liquid. 
The boffin had been briefed on this, but it didn't make it any less 
strange to see in person. 


He tried running a blood typing test, but the liquid he extracted from 
Foxx just dispersed through the vials - unsurprising, again, but still 
really, really weird to see.