The SCP Experience - Containment Noir | SCP-3043 & SCP-3134

Episode Date: December 30, 2022

Check out my brand new UFO podcast here: THEY'RE OUT THERE SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-3043 & SCP-3134: Containment Noir This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-3134, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Peering up from under the brim of my copped fedora, I study the smoke gathering at the ceiling. Persing my lips, I pull on the cigarette, inhale, and then exhale through my nostrils. I'm leaning back in my chair, feet propped on the desk. My office is as dark as the city sewers. It's the end of another grim day. A day in which all the dogs you pass bear their teeth. all the men are packing heat and all the women seem to lift their noses as you approach

a day in which everyone comes calling for the money you owe another damn day in this big bad world with my right hand I remove this cigarette from my mouth with my left hand I reach for the glass of brown liquor sitting on a small stack of paperwork there's a knock at the door who is it There's no answer. With a sigh, I turn my head and see the silhouette of a dame through the smoked glass window.

Come in if you're coming. I call out. The door opens and the woman walks in. The white of her lab coat is stark against her dark skin. She looks confused, but it doesn't do anything to diminish her beauty. She's a looker all right, and she needs Murphy Law's help with something. My guts suddenly twist up, like I just finished a meal of glass and gravel. And it's not because of the cheap liquor and the cheaper cigarettes.

It's the woman. Her case. It's going to be a rough one. It always is. Turn on the lights, will you? I tell her, pointing with my cigarette at the light switch. She flips the switch and continues looking around, beautiful and confused. That's most of the women who come in here, either beautiful and desolate.

desperate or beautiful and confused. Everyone should be so lucky. How? She says. Where? You're missing who, what, and when, I say. She continues looking around my office like she's never seen one before. I pull my legs off my desk and gulp down the rest of my drink. I'm about to stand up when the window behind me shatters as a brick tumbles through, bouncing off my desk where my legs just were. It comes to rest. on the floor. The woman makes a shocked noise as the brick comes through, but she doesn't scream.

I look down at the brick, seeing that there's a piece of paper attached to it with a band. Then I stand up and look out my second-story office at the street below. It's late, and the only people I can see are across the street outside Frank's Tavern. No likely suspects. Whoever through the brick must have run away already. That's generally what I'm. they do. Picking up the brick, I dust glass shards off it. I stubbed my cigarette out in my overflowing ashtray and then remove the piece of paper. The note has been written with a typewriter. I read it and then look up at the woman. Let me guess, I say. Your name is Professor Lewis. Her eyes go wide. It says my name on the note? No, I say. The note just calls you the woman.

I read your name on your name badge. She looks down at her chest and sees the name badge there. She huffs and looks back up at me. Someone doesn't want me helping you, Professor Lewis, I say. The note says, don't take the woman's job. If you do, you'll regret it. I don't even know why I'm here. I didn't remember my name until you said it just now, she says.

What's the last thing you remember before coming here? Lewis takes a moment to consider the question. I was at my desk, I think. And then I heard typing, and things started to get all fuzzy. And then I was knocking on your door. I nod. You work for the foundation. Yes.

She says, as if just realizing it. Yes, that's right. I know the foundation. They're nothing but trouble. Killer reptiles and all. Alternate dimensions, murderous clowns and Sasquatch armies, nothing but trouble. But I find it hard to refuse a beautiful woman anything. And when someone threatens me with a brick or any other implement, it just makes me want to take the job even more.

Besides, trouble is my business. It's like an old friend, one who tries to kill you every so often, but a friend nonetheless. Think hard, I say. reaching under my pewter soup jacket to ensure my colt detective special revolver is snugly in my shoulder holster. What were you working on at your desk? I don't remember, the professor says. I know it was important. Something about classification.

She trails off, but I don't say anything. I can tell her gears are turning, and they're getting somewhere. I grab my pack of cigarettes off the desk and check to ensure my keys are in my pocket. pocket. Then I wait. 30-43. She says. Something about 30-43. An SCP? Yes, she says.

SCP 30-43. What is it? I ask her. I don't know. I'll find out. As I walk up to the ornate gates of the mansion, I know I'm walking into the belly of the beast. Luckily, I left Professor Lewis at Frank's tavern. She's in good hands with Frank and his wife, Bessie. She'll stay there until I can figure out what SCP 3043 is, and why someone doesn't want me poking around in this case. But the problem is, I have to talk to the director to find out. And that's no easy proposition. A gorilla in a suit

steps out of the gatehouse, his knuckles close to dragging on the concrete. I think I've got a face made of granite, but this guy's has something else. He's got a head shaped like an anvil and all the expressions of a department store mannequin. What do you want, law? He grates. The love of a good woman and retirement on a beach, I say. What do you think I want? Tell him I need to talk to him. The guy holds out his baseball mid of a hand. I grumble as I take my revolver out and give it to him. He puts it in one of the giant ponds. He puts it in one of the giant pockets in his suit and then calls up to the mansion. Soon enough, the gates swing open and I walk on up. Two slightly smaller gorillas and slightly smaller suits accost me at the door. We go through the

whole rigamarole of patting me down, while they dispense detailed threats of dismemberment, should I misbehave in front of the director. Don't you guys ever get tired of doing the same thing over and over again? I ask. In response, One of them shoves me up the plush carpeted staircase toward the boss man's study. When we get to the study's massive double doors, one of the guerrillas knocks. A high, wispy voice calls for us to come in. We step inside the vaulted ceiling room, the two goons flanking me. There's a fire in the ornate fireplace to the left.

Bookshelves fill all other spaces not occupied by windows. In the back of the room sits a desk carved from a single piece of exotic wood, and behind the desk, in a high-backed chair, sits the grinning director. He's a cruel-looking little man with a shaved head and a bushy beard. He's wearing an outfit that looks like fancy pajamas. In my experience, the smaller the man, the larger the capacity for cruelty. And the director is the embodiment of that notion. Murphy Law.

He says, Didn't I tell you what I'd do to you if you ever meddled in my affairs again? Didn't I tell you that I don't give a damn? I say. Besides, who says I'm meddling in your affairs? The director smiles wider. Why else would you be here? SEP 3043.

I say. His smile falters. I've struck a chord. SEP 3043 is safe. The director says. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for you. The two guys move in from either side of me. The one on my right grabs my arm.

I try to yank it away, but his grip holds fast. I swing at the one on my left, but he ducks back. The guy holding my arm yanks me to the side, and then the other one moves in and swings a savage punch into my stomach, doubling me over. As I start to straighten, the guy cracks me in the side of the head. I go to the ground. moaning and clutching my stomach.

How slippers that cost more than my car come into view ahead of me, the director's feet. Oh, Murphy, when will you learn? He says. Please, I say, I'll stop. I'll back off. Just let me walk out of here. What do you know about SCP 3043? He asks.

Nothing, I say. Just that someone doesn't want me snooping around it. Who told you about it? I shake my head. One of the guys kicks me in the ribs, sending me sprawling onto my back. The director is looking down at me, upside down in my vision. The sound of typing is suddenly loud in my head, the clackety-clack of a typewriter. What are you?

The director asks me. Who told you about it? I refuse to answer. I know it was Professor Lewis. The director says, I just want to hear you say it. Okay, I say, rolling over and getting to my knees. Okay, it was Lewis.

Where is she? Right here! I shout, springing to my feet and slamming into the guy on my left. I drive my shoulder into his stomach and lift him up. Then keep my feet churning until his back slams into a bookshelf next to the fireplace. Shoving him aside, I lunge for the fireplace tools, grabbing the little metal shovel and throwing it at the other security guy who's pulling out his gun. The shovel cracks him.

in the head and he drops like a sack of hammers. The director is running around his desk, going for one of the drawers, but I'm already grabbing the poker from the stand. I rush over and smack his arm just as it reaches into the drawer to grab a weapon. The director screams and pulls his arm to his chest. I shove him back and grab the Colt 1903 semi-auto pistol from the drawer. Then I grabbed the little man and put the gun to his head. Tell him to stay down. The guy I slammed into the bookcase is getting up, but the director tells him to stay put. He does what his boss says. The other guy is still out cold.

Where is it? I ask him. He shakes his head. I can't. I pull the gun back over my shoulder, getting ready to pistol whip him. Okay, okay! He screams. He tells me where it is.

Good, I say. Let's go. I perp walk him out of the house. keeping him close in case anyone tries anything funny. When we get to the gate, I tell him to tell the gorilla to give me my gun back. I take the gun back from the guy with my left hand while holding the 1903 on the director with my right.

Then I back away from them, pointing one gun at each man. When I get to the sidewalk, I turn and run down the street to my car. I can feel the makings of a black eye forming as I move down the unfamiliar hallway. My ribs hurt with every breath. and my gut still feels like they're lined with barbed wire.

As far as I know, Professor Lewis is still at Frank's Tavern. I came straight here from the director's place, straight to the address he gave me. Stopping to lean against the wall next to the closed office door, I take my smokes out and light one. After a couple of sweet lung falls, I pull out my colt detective and line up in front of the door. Jerking forward with my left foot, I drive all the power I can muscle from my right heel into the door. It's enough. The door bursts open, bouncing off the wall and into my shoulder as I step into the gloomy office. It's dark, but I can see that the office chair is turned toward the wall.

I can't see if someone's sitting in it. Without taking my eyes or my revolver off the chair, I find the light switch and turn it on. The room is cluttered with books on shelves and stacked in corners. There's some kind of strange rectangle sitting on the desk with what looks to be electrical cords coming out of it. Who's there? I say, no answer. Lazzang sur-gely, puissance-molyne,

for 15 minutes. We're like it's the hour of dojo. Preetly the pleasure with Leo Jo. The casino in line that proposes the more recent machine-assoo and games of casino in direct. Profite of 50 tours gratu on Big Bas Bonanza, without exigance of misuse and with the payments instantane. Hey, I! I've got it!

Woohoo! Sonture the pleasure. Play-Ojo! 18-8-and-plus, 1st3 depot 20 tours gratu on the machine a sub-subek bas-bonanza. Depos minimum of $10.

Veil to play a way responsible. The conditions apply. Moving forward cautiously, I puff on the cigarette dangling from my lips. I reach out toward the chair and push it,

turning it around. I level my gun at it. Unure what I'll find. There's a black Olympia Elite typewriter sitting in the chair, a piece of paper in the carriage. As I watch, The buttons depressed themselves, spelling out a message on the paper.

What the fuck are you? It says. It's you, I say. Isn't it? I keep the gun pointed at the thing. How are you doing this? It asks. I remember the typed message affixed to the brick that came through my office window. It looks exactly the same. It came from this typewriter. I shake my head. You've been behind it all, haven't you?

No. A voice says from behind me, over the sound of the typewriter clacking. A familiar voice. It was me. I whipped my head around without taking my gun from the Olympia and see Professor Lewis standing in the doorway, pointing a gun at me. Shaking my head, I smile at her. No, it wasn't you.

You don't have it in you. It was a setup, Murphy, she says. But that damn director couldn't get rid of you like I thought he would. You were never supposed to come here. I don't believe you, I say. This is a last-ditch effort done in desperation, and it won't work. I'll shoot you, Lewis says. No, you won't.

I turn back toward the typewriter and see that I'm right. Professor Lewis's words are there, on the page, plain as day. The last line reads, I'll shoot you. But my lines aren't on there, because it's not controlling me. It can't. Give it up, I say to the Olympia. It's not working.

Fine, the typewriter spells. I'll rewrite it so this is a storage area. How about that? I'll erase myself from all foundation employees' heads, and then provide documentation that this is a storage area. That will contain me. Without anyone around, I can't do anything. I nod.

I suppose that could work, but I'm afraid it's not good enough. Yes, it is. It's the merciful thing to do. The heroic thing. And isn't that why you're here? to be the hero? The Olympia is typing fast now, as if in desperation. Me?

I say, chuckling around my cigarette. The hero? Yes, you're supposed to be better than me. You're supposed to have mercy. Otherwise, we're really just the same, aren't we? You got me wrong, I say. I'm no hero. I fire twice, putting two bullets into the typewriter.

I'm Murphy Law. I lower my gun and turn my back toward a dazed, Professor Lewis. She looks at me, bewildered, as I walk over. Take care of yourself, would you, Professor? I say, squeezing her arm. You're in a dangerous line of work. She gapes at me as I walk out of the room. And as I head down the hall, the walls flex and shimmer, changing from muted and ragged to new and bright. The room doors change from wood and glass to metal. The floor changes from linoleum to polished concrete. As I come to the end of the hall, a gorilla of a man wearing a security uniform

stumbles out in front of me, followed by the site director. Only he's not wearing house slippers and fancy pajamas. He's in a suit. The big security guy levels a fancy looking gun at me and yells for me to stop. But the site director puts his arm out, pushing the man's gun down. I walk past, flicking my cigarette down as I go. But he's an anomaly. The security guy says, shouldn't we stop him? Forget it, Jake. The site director says, It's Murphy Law.

He's uncontainable. Besides, we might need his help again. SCP 3043 is a 1937 Olympia Elite typewriter with two 38 caliber bullets lodged in its casing. Before it was neutralized, SCP 3043 exhibited the ability to rewrite any physical document within its immediate vicinity, to match whatever was typed into it,

it was neutralized before any additional properties could be confirmed. On 12-14, 2005, a containment breach occurred at Site 95. During this breach, an unknown anomalous event prevented all outside contact for approximately three hours. All entities affected by this anomaly have no recollection of the events that occurred during these three hours. Furthermore, all recording devices within Site 95 appear to, have malfunctioned during this period. Shortly after this event concluded, Site 95 reported all SCPs were now contained, with the exception of SCP 3043, which was found in Dr. Lewis's office in its current state. SCP 3143 is an intrafictional construct. When active,

this construct exhibits the ability to temporarily flatten portions of reality into a narrative, derivative of the genre established by North American writers of noir fiction. During this period, SCP 3143 takes on the role of the main character, a 1930s private detective hired to solve a case. All entities flattened by its effect become characters within the narrative surrounding it, exhibiting personalities and attributes typical of the genre style. The narrative will continue until SCP 3143's actions lead to a resolution, consistent with the genre. At this point, the narrative will conclude and reality will revert.

Events that occurred within the narrative will be projected into reality. However, entities involved in these events will typically have little to no recollection of what occurred.