Pain. White-hot lancing pain as a piece of metal lanced into her 
thigh, making her crumple reflexively, screaming despite herself as 
she fell to the ground. She glanced downward and saw a crooked 
piece of thick wiring protruding from her leg, snapped off from an 
assembly somewhere in the explosion that ended the man in the 
cage. She scanned her surroundings quickly, grunting in pain with 
every movement as she struggled to sit upright. Movement focused 
her eyes as a woman stepped into view, impassively surveying her. 
A wreath of twisted metal shards and lethal flechettes of discarded 
wiring circled in the air over her head, eddying and swirling like a 
small dust devil. She looked down at Nechayeva. Another piece of 
wiring flew from the mass over her head, headed for her face. 


Nechayeva rolled over in a quick spasm of movement, the piece of 
wiring burying itself in the tiled floor right next to her head. She 
brought the rifle to bear at her adversary's heart, no time at all to 
think. She squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked uselessly. 


Cursing, she tried to throw the gun aside, only to have it shoot out of 
her hands, drawn to the infernal commissar that stood over her now 
as though she had had it on a string the whole time. Calmly, the 
metal detritus still circling overhead, Commissar Rosenstein looked 
curiously at the rifle, before detaching the magazine, looking at it, 
and putting it back in. 


"Very easy to jam these," the commissar said. "Just a machine. Like 
everything else." 


The commissar aimed the rifle at Nechayeva. The sights now on her 
heart. She scrabbled behind her for anything that might be a 
weapon. There were three shots. 


Red splashes bloomed on the front of the commissar's uniform, in 
the midsection. Small droplets of blood as she reflexively coughed, 
falling to the ground. Stillwell rushing from behind as shards of 
ruined metal rained down on the three of them from the air. He bent 
down to Nechayeva, wrapping his functional arm around her, 
helping her to her feet. Her leg was afire with agony every time she 
tried to put weight on it. Through the pain, she focused on Stillwell's 
words. 


"Let's go! Coogan is out with 1041! Let's move!" 


He dropped the gun, now useless with its ammunition expended, 
and moved to help her support her weight on her left side. They 
hurried to the exit, her hobbling as fast she could, trailing blood 
behind her, not bothering to check the moaning from behind her. If 
the commissar could gather any sort of self-awareness through her 
wounds, they would be instantly dead. No point in looking back. 


Thoughts flashed involuntarily between the two operatives as they 
shuffled hurriedly to the site exit. Jungles. Ruins. Artillery fire, mortar 
rounds. Survival. Treachery. As they raced for survival, defining 
memories for both came involuntarily, other acquaintances with 
death. Two lives briefly shared. She knew from Leningrad that one 
could never truly be prepared for death, but she had made as much 
peace as she could. That didn't stop her from desperately hoping 
that the extraction team had answered her emergency signal. If 
things had gone well, they would be met by Petrov's men, as well as 


Spinella and Juhasz. If not, the exit did not truly matter. 


Sweat beaded on her forehead. She decided that she would not 
throw up, no matter the circumstances. Every step was a new 
threshold of pain. They had reached the main entrance. 


"Keep going," she told Stillwell. 


He nodded his assent. Screams, moaning and suffering were the 
sounds from behind them. In front of them, Coogan waited, the 
unconscious SCP-1041 in his arms. 


Reunited, the group of operatives opened the blast doors of the 
entrance. They stepped out into the cold. 


« | Part Eight | Matryoshka | Epilogue | » 


Matryoshka: Epilogue 


Stillwell resisted the urge to scratch beneath the cast on his arm. 
Cigarette smoke had never been something he was fond of, but in 
the close room, with the interviewing officer exhaling it constantly 
like a bellows, it was distracting. It reminded him too much of 
Spinella. 


DIRECTOR WALTERS: Can you confirm the status of 
Doctor Frank Spinella and Agent Laszlo Juhasz? 


AGENT STILLWELL: The last contact | had with them 
was at the GRU-P safehouse. | can't speak to where 
they are now. 


DIRECTOR WALTERS: That was after you turned over 
Dr. Geissler's research to Dr. Spinella, with instructions 
to give it to KGB? 


AGENT STILLWELL: That's right. 


DIRECTOR WALTERS: You realize what you're 
admitting to? Passing classified information to an entity 
we're at war with? 


AGENT STILLWELL: We're not at war with KGB. It's all 
in the report. 


DIRECTOR WALTERS: That's not to mention 
responsibility for two MIA personnel. 


The soldier's flashlight shone down the darkness of the tunnel. He 
held a handkerchief to his face. The stench of new death was 
present alongside the musty odor of ancient death. He must be 
close. For a moment, the terror at not being able to fulfill the 
commissar's orders subsided. The briefcase, or at least clues to 


where the briefcase must be, were close. But the scent of death was 
freezing him. Something about it spoke of a deeper decay. He was 
no stranger to carnage; GRU-P afforded many opportunities to 
acquaint oneself. But he shivered. 


He proceeded further into the catacomb. 


It wasn't long before the source presented itself. His flashlight fell 
upon a body, splayed on the ground. A man in a rumpled coat, 
middle-aged if he didn't miss his guess. Pretty sickly looking. There 
was a knife protruding from his heart. No briefcase in sight. 


The soldier cursed, holding the handkerchief closer to his face as he 
knelt down to inspect the body. If the Major survived, he would likely 
skin all of them if the briefcase was not recovered. He prayed to a 
God he no longer believed in that there would be something here to 
lead him to the missing research. 


He rifled through the dead man's pockets. A wallet yielded a Polish 
identification card; fake, but expensive fake. He checked the name 
against the details in his memory; the man who had been stopped at 
the checkpoint. This must be one of the Foundation operatives. 
Something to go on, anyway. 


As he examined the identification card closer, a small drop of black 
sludge dripped onto the dead man's photograph. His face was 
rapidly eaten away as the sludge dissolved the card before the 
soldier's eyes. Quickly, like something burning, he tossed it aside. 


He trained his flashlight at the ceiling of the tunnel, just over his 
head. It was covered in dark, viscous slurry, that seemed to 
shimmer iridescently as his light traveled across it. In the middle of 
the sludge covered ceiling, a grinning, dead-eyed face looked back 
at him, as thin black tendrils began to reach down from around 
above. 


In moments, screams filled the catacombs. 


DIRECTOR WALTERS: And the matter of Agent Patrick 
Coogan. You've sent him on a subsequent detail, from 


which he has yet to return. 


AGENT STILLWELL: That's right. | think he'll be busy 
with that for a while. 


DIRECTOR WALTERS: You mean absconding with a 
designated SCP object. A humanoid, at that. 


AGENT STILLWELL: Absconding? No. Just part of the 
evacuation. Agent Coogan is maintaining control of 
SCP-1041. 


The feeling of frigid air on her face woke her from a deep, dreamless 
sleep. She was in a man's arms, being carried like a child. Her first 
impulse was to flail out of his grasp, but when she tried to move, her 
muscles resisted, her body racked with aches and profound, 
crippling fatigue as she returned to consciousness. She shifted 
barely in his grasp. 


"Where...where am |?" SCP-1041's words came out weakly, barely 
audible over the wind. 


The man carrying her responded. "Ma'am, | don't have a whole lot of 
time to explain, but you're in the care of an organization that I'm not 
at liberty to talk about right now. We're on our way out of here." 


She was confused. Who was she? She struggled to remember. The 
man's voice was hurried, but kind. "| wasn't sure you were going to 
wake up. Thank God for that." 


SCP-1041 opened her eyes a little more. It was dark, streetlights 
blurring her vision, the cold wind bringing tears to her eyes. "Where 
are we going?" 


"| have orders to bring you to safe haven, ma'am. I'd explain more, 
but | really don't know a whole lot right now. Sorry." 


The man stopped at an intersection. The streets were deserted at 
this time of night. He appeared to be looking for something. 


"What's your name?" 


He continued searching the night. "Coogan, ma'am." 
She paused. "I don't know mine, or I'd give it to you." 
"That's okay. Stillwell tells me that'll probably change tomorrow." 


From the direction Coogan was looking, a black car came speeding 
down the street. Snow kicked up behind its tires, the back end 
fishtailing slightly as it rounded a corner, but still under the driver's 
apparently expert control. The sound of brakes squealing, and the 
car came skidding to rest in front of them. Without hesitation, 
Coogan opened the rear passenger door, gently placed SCP-1041 
in one seat, and sat in the other. His door had barely closed before 
they lurched back into motion, tearing down the empty streets of 
industrial Krakow. 


A man, not clearly visible in the dark, addressed them from the front 
passenger seat, not bothering to turn around. 


"You must forgive my man, here. He drives very fast. But then, we 
need to go very fast." His voice was warm, a slight German accent 
to her ears. 


Coogan took off his coat, and laid it across SCP-1041. "Thank you, 
sir. | wasn't sure that we'd make it out." 


"No trouble. We look out for our men. And our women." The man in 
the front seat rolled down his window slightly as he lit a cigarette. "I 
hope you don't mind. It's important to remember that we're not out 
yet. We have several countries to go before we're past the Iron 
Curtain." 


"So where am | headed, sir?" 
The man in the front seat exhaled, his smoke taken quickly outside 


by the rushing night air. "With any luck, to a friend's house,” replied 
O5-8. 


DIRECTOR WALTERS: You spent fifteen hours in KGB 
custody. What information did you reveal to them? 


AGENT STILLWELL: Beyond pleasantries and what they 
already knew from Dr. Geissler, nothing. 


DIRECTOR WALTERS: So you weren't interrogated? 


AGENT STILLWELL: No. | was treated quite well, 
actually. As they promised. 


The train car rattled, the wind whistled, the straw on the ground and 
the rickety wooden slats of the boxcar scant protection from the 
cold. Stillwell had had meetings in strange places, but this was one 
the more unusual offices he had been in. 


The man called Petrov held a piece of gauze in place over the 
wound in Nechayeva's leg as another operative wound tape around 
it. He offered a flask to her; she waved it off. To Stillwell, with his 
long, white beard and bald head, Petrov looked grandfatherly as he 
cared for his wounded operative. He was tempted to think of 
Tolstoy, but paused to consider that one didn't grow old and get to 
be in charge of a KGB Directorate by being grandfatherly. 


Petrov took the flask from his man and doused the gauze with some 
of its clear contents. "Once again, the planners were wrong. They 
never listen. These are new times, | told them. Things in play that 
weren't there before. They play chess in the middle of a prison 
brawl. Ah, well.” 


"Any word from your contacts?" said Stillwell. 


Petrov shook his head. "No one present at the meeting point. Our 
sources haven't alerted us to anyone new in GRU-P custody. It's 
possible that they escaped elsewhere into the city." 


"You don't need to soften it. We all knew what we were getting into 
here." Stillwell's good hand crept to his stomach. 


"Mm. No one can know that. | didn't think | would be escorting a 
Foundation operative to safety yesterday." Petrov tightened the 
wrappings around Nechayeva's wound. She muttered curses in 
Russian. "If that's what I'm doing." 


Additional attempts to coax SCP-682 into SCP-826 have been met 
with non-compliance on SCP-682's part. 


Item: SCP-743 


Tissue Test Record: 
Sample consumed without incident. 


Termination Test Record: 

Mobile container with SCP-743 was transported to testing chamber, 
into which SCP-682 was released from primary containment. 
SCP-743's container was opened remotely. SCP-743 observed 
resting; SCP-682 appears to ignore SCP-743. After minutes, 
SCP-743 started flowing; SCP-682 appeared to notice within 
seconds. SCP-682 cautiously approached SCP-743 and tasted its 
flowing liquid. SCP-682 started to lap up the liquid from SCP-743. 
After sec, SCP-682 grasped SCP-748 with its forelimbs and 
started pouring the liquid straight from SCP-748 into its mouth. 
SCP-682 drank for minutes, at times [DATA EXPUNGED] on its 
back. SCP-743 stopped flowing and started feeding. SCP-682 tried 
to fight off ant swarm, but was soon covered. Swarm started to feed 
on SCP-682, who stopped moving. 


minutes later, after SCP-682 had been reduced to 79% of its 
original mass, SCP-682 opened its mouth and stuck out its tongue. 
SCP-682's tongue had become 5 m long and sticky, like an 
anteater's tongue. SCP-682 started to lap up ants off of itself with its 
tongue, eating thousands of ants at once. SCP-682 and SCP-743 
continued to feed off of each other for hours until testing was 
terminated. SCP-682 displayed faster-than-normal regeneration for 

days afterward. Adapted tongue remained for days. 


Note: SCP-743 treated SCP-682 as organic, but that's hardly 
conclusive proof. More significant is the question of whether 
consuming 743's liquid contributed to 682's heightened regenerative 
abilities. If, as suspected, it did, 743 and 682 need to stay far, far 
away from each other. —Dr. Lambert 


Item: SCP-063 


"| think we have bigger problems than pointing guns at each other 
right now." 


Nechayeva braced herself as she planted her feet on the ground. 
She grunted as she struggled to stand on her bandaged leg, biting 
her lip with steel teeth. Stillwell extended his good hand. She 
grabbed onto his wrist, hoisting herself upright. 


"There, good as new," said Petrov, laughing. 


"December is a problem for all of us," said Nechayeva, catching her 
breath. "We didn't do much with the research that Geissler shared 
with us. It was mostly to be able to sabotage GRU-P's project." 


Nechayeva nodded at the owner of the flask. He fished around in his 
pocket, retrieving a small canister. He offered it to Stillwell. The 
Foundation operative accepted. 


"That microfilm has everything that we know," said Nechayeva. "It 
looks like we both have an idea what's going on, though." 


"What about the rest of our sites?," replied Stillwell. "We're pulling 
out of the Soviet Union. Are you going to stop us?" 


Petrov frowned. "This is nasty business. None of us can deal with 
the holes in reality by ourselves. | think even in different times we all 
understood that." 


The old man motioned for the flask again. He took a pull. "Our first 
order of business is Zherdev. Then we can get back to shooting at 
each other. You'll receive no interference from KGB." 


"And my men?" 


"Safe passage, same as yourself. We'll need every person we can 
get for this fight." 


Stillwell nodded. Rationally, they would have shot him long 
beforehand if there was a problem. But the thought had never really 
entered his mind. The thought of guns reminded him, however. He 
reached into his coat, and took out Nechayeva's pistol. He offered it 
to her. 


"Thought you should have this back," he said. 
She took the flask from Petrov. She shook her head.