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let-me-be-an-egg-toast · 7 months ago

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PROLOGUE - MURPHY LAW.

SCENE 1 - SCENE 2 - SCENE 3 FADE IN: INT. MURPHY LAW DETECTIVE AGENCY - NIGHT A light-skinned man looked out his slatted windows, leaning against the side of his dry, concrete wall. He held a lit cigarette in his left hand, the other in the pocket of his tan slacks. Behind him, his coat rack held his trillby hat and trench coat; they've seen better days out in fresher and brutal moonlight. A couple's laughter rang out from across the street. He looks at them as he takes another puff from his cigarette, walking away. He puts it out in the ash tray, and sits on his chair, putting his feet up on his mahogany desk. This was MURPHY. His face is hardened enough to hit steel and make it dent, but enough to also know he has seen and experienced many things throughout his unforgiving line of work that would make a normal man drop himself cold. His voice was rough, like that of a chain smoker who ate 50 packs a day, used whiskey as his mouthwash, and still lived, unfortunately.

NARRATOR: They say it's a lonely world out there, but thats because they don't know it's better to be alone than to risk your back being filled with 20 pounds of lead in a dark alleyway because of someone you thought was your associate. Just ask the office workers, they'll tell you all about it. He pours whiskey into his shot glass and gyrates it idly in his hand, watching the amber liquid move and swirl against it's prison's clear and crystalline walls. NARRATOR: I've had my own share of them. Red herrings that led to deep sinkholes that almost cost me my life. Seeing the rope you're holding on to slowly snapping before your eyes, and the only feeling that remains is knowing no one will be there to catch you. NARRATOR: If that happens, well that's on you.

He can already taste the usual numbing burn. He can already see his memories going through his eyes like a broken film reel, replaying over and over again until it gradually becomes worn and fades away. He doesn't drink the whiskey; he isn't feeling it, oddly enough, considering it was almost water to his body. He's itching for something, and it's crawling all over underneath his skin, climbing his bones and pounding in his mind. Worst of all, he doesn't know what it is. He puts the glass away on his desk. NARRATOR: When you're me, you can only rely on yourself. No one will or can get to you, because you yourself alone are the only one who knows your blind spots. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, watching its orange glow illuminate the dark, barely moonlit office. NARRATOR: It's easier that way. The smoke fills the room and he breathes it in, releasing himself into its familiar smell. Suddenly, knocks cut through the silence, snapping MURPHY back into consciousness. His eyes widen a bit, but he recomposed himself. NARRATOR: But maybe....sometimes....it's not so bad to hope. To let yourself rely on someone. A little back-up in case something will go wrong... MURPHY: (not looking up) Come in. NARRATOR: Someone to trust... Instead of a familiar, redheaded face, it was a random mailman. NARRATOR: And someone to disappoint you in the end. MURPHY: What are you doing here? A growl slipped unconsciously into his tone, making the mailman hesitate a bit. NARRATOR: But that's only if you let yourself be disappointed... MAILMAN: Um...just some special mail for you sir... He holds out a letter to MURPHY, and the latter reaches for it, analyzing it's mediocrity. MAILMAN: From an...O5-1 -- sir? MURPHY growls at the name. NARRATOR: Of course. It's the Foundation again. TITLE SPLASH: Murphy Law in...SCP-[REDACTED]-1 -- TOUCH OF NIGHT!

random text please stop putting format errors I'm going to scream

#scp 3143 #scp-3143 #scp 423 #scp-423 #scp 3143 x scp 423

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