Finally, the screen lit up.
The hard-nosed detective lowered his newspaper and said in a voice that carried both boredom and experience.
"Same as the others, professor. You need my help."
The woman in front of him—wearing a crisp white lab coat—bristled immediately.
"Don't call me girl. I'm a doctor of molecular medicine—"
Murphy raised his hands, the newspaper lowering completely. "Alright, alright, my fault, professor. I apologize. So…" He swung his legs off the desk and stood, arms folding loosely across his chest. "How can I help?"
She glanced around the cluttered office before answering, her tone hesitant.
"I… I don't know how I got here. I don't even know what 'here' is. I was working… I think… processing something. Then I heard typing, and suddenly—" She stopped, her eyes widening in realization. "I can't remember. I can't remember my name."
The audience watching the live broadcast collectively stiffened. They recognized her—this was the researcher written into the sub-narrative during a containment incident. But she wasn't supposed to be here… she was actually inside the story.
Unbelievable.
Then a low, gravelly voice—Lu Murphy's—echoed through the scene, narrating in the background.
> [Narrator: A beautiful woman with a PhD in molecular medicine—and no memory of who she was or how she got here. Her eyes told me she needed help; her name tag told me the rest.]
The camera zoomed in slowly until it focused on the nameplate pinned to her chest. Murphy read it aloud, deliberately.
"You are Professor Michelle Lewis."
The woman looked down, startled, as if noticing it for the first time.
"Yes… that's my name. I work for the Foundation."
> [Narrator: Foundation. A bunch of geeks in an office, trying to figure out where magicians hide their rabbits. I should have turned her down right there. If the Foundation's involved, it's never anything but trouble.]
The live chat exploded with reactions. No one had expected this detective to have such a cynical view of the Foundation—though oddly, it didn't seem to be outright hostility.
---
S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters
Nick Fury stared at the screen. O5-10's cryptic words came back to him: Lu Murphy isn't necessarily an enemy.
"Could it be… Murphy doesn't actually mind the Foundation trying to contain him?" Fury muttered.
Back in the sub-narrative, Murphy accepted her identity with a thoughtful frown, then casually opened his desk drawer.
> [Narrator: But I'm not the kind of man who avoids trouble.]
He pulled out a pair of sunglasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey, setting them on the table. His eyes never left Dr. Lewis.
> [Narrator: I'm the kind of person who walks straight up to trouble and buys her a drink.]
After a long pause, he made up his mind.
"Alright, Professor. I'll take this case."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You would? I mean… what's going on?"
> [Narrator: My name is Lu Murphy. I'm the guy you call when everything goes wrong… literally.]
The screen faded to black.
---
Foundation – Reality Layer
James closed the file in his hand, frowning slightly. The screen had clearly left the sub-narrative. The title on the folder read:
"The Strange Case of Lu Murphy – Codename 3043: Murder!"
His fingers tapped the desk rhythmically. Site Director August waited silently, giving him space to think. After a few moments, James finally spoke.
"What is SCP-3043?"
August's expression shifted slightly, but before he could answer, James added, "A typewriter, I'd guess."
August gave him a long, unreadable look. "I have a feeling the chances of this mission succeeding just went up."
---
S.H.I.E.L.D.
The agents were baffled by the exchange, but Fury's mind was racing. Typewriter? Why a typewriter?
He replayed the earlier scene in his head. The moment clicked.
'I was processing something… then I heard typing… and suddenly…'
His eyes narrowed. "Wait… could it be that it wasn't Murphy who pulled her into the sub-narrative—but the typewriter itself?"
If so, that meant this world wasn't Murphy's creation at all, but a sub-narrative generated by SCP-3043. Which raised a terrifying question—if Murphy came from a different narrative entirely, how powerful was he?
---
James now opened the second file. The scene shifted back to the noir-style filter of the sub-narrative.
[INT. Murphy's Car – Night]
Murphy drove through the city under a canopy of neon and streetlights. Dr. Lewis sat in the passenger seat, gazing out the window. Her seatbelt was fastened; his was not.
"Alright, professor," Murphy said, glancing at her. "Talk to me. What do you remember?"
She blinked, startled. "How did we get here? When—"
To the live audience, it looked like an abrupt stage transition. One moment she'd been in the detective's office; the next, in his car. It was jarring for her but visually seamless for them.
> [Narrator: She's smart. That's the problem—she overthinks. Sometimes, you just have to act.]
"Focus," Murphy pressed. "What do you remember before walking into my office?"
She furrowed her brows. "I was working on something… updating a file. About some kind of change—an important one. Then I heard typing. And then…" She shivered. "It was like something was trying to erase me. To wipe out my thoughts."
Nick Fury's eyes narrowed again. Typing. It was the second time she'd said it. The typewriter theory was looking more certain by the second.
> [Narrator: Sounds like she got tangled up in something she shouldn't have. Someone wants her gone. The question is—who, and how?]
"Anything else?" Murphy asked.
She hesitated. "It was definitely about SCP-3043."
Murphy leaned forward slightly. "And what is 3043?"
Her frown deepened. "I… can't remember."
> [Narrator: If the professor can't tell me what 3043 is, then there's only one man who can.]
[Narrator: Site Director August.]
---
The screen faded again, and the live chat lit up.
> "Okay, I'm officially hooked."
"It's like watching a crime noir stage play."
"Who cares what 3043 is? Murphy's the real mystery."
Even in Stark Tower, the mood was tense.
"This narrator," Stark muttered, "sometimes he's an omniscient voice, sometimes he's Murphy's inner monologue. But even if this is SCP-3043's sub-narrative, why is Murphy the main character?"
Rhodes crossed his arms. "I'm more interested in whether pataphysical entities can actually change reality. Can they just write a story and make it real?"
Stark blinked. "And if that story's world gets destroyed—does ours go with it?"
The thought unsettled both of them. Stark's mind flashed with a possibility—maybe Murphy's power was greater than SCP-3043's.
---
[INT. Site Main Office – Morning]
Golden sunlight poured into a spacious office through three walls of glass. Beyond them stretched manicured gardens.
Standing at the desk, facing the sunrise, was a short man with a shaved head and sharp, angular features. He wore a perfectly tailored black uniform.
> [Narrator: This is Site Director August—a man of steel and heart.]
The live audience froze. Even August, the real Foundation official, had been written into the sub-narrative.
Murphy entered the office, only to be met by two well-dressed but armed men flanking the doorway. They didn't move, but it was clear they'd act instantly if August ordered it.
August kept his gaze on the window. "Mr. Murphy. You wanted to see me?"
Murphy adjusted his coat. "Yes. About 3043."
> [Narrator: You don't lie to August. You just hope he doesn't have a better hand than you.]
"That's confidential," August said flatly.
"Still? Since when does the Foundation keep 'Safe'-class anomalies a secret?"
For the first time, August turned. One eyebrow lifted—just slightly—but enough to shift the atmosphere in the room.
> [Narrator: I had just raised the stakes.]------------------------
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