The SCP Experience - The Writer in the Mirror | SCP-7043

Episode Date: May 4, 2025

A hard-boiled detective's search for a stolen anomaly spirals into a reality-warping nightmare, where he must confront a doppelgänger, a stolen identity, and the terrifying truth that he may be nothing more than a character in someone else’s story. This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-7043 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Matt Doggett * * * 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 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome to board of Viarai. Embarked and profite. Embarked and relaxes. Cirotay. Bookiné. Oh, that also. And profite. Viaray, the voice that we love that we love.

Something's wrong. More wrong than usual. But I can't put my finger on it. It's as elusive as my ex-wife's lover. Always slipping away just when I think I'm about to put my crosshairs on it. My office is dead. dim, just as I like it. The cigarette smoke gathers at the ceiling as I puff away. My feet are propped up on the desk, and a glass of bourbon is in my left hand. The light is changed, slanting through

the shades. It's night, but I can't remember when it was daytime. How long have I been sitting here? The days all bleed together, and the constant alcohol-induced blur that is my waking life doesn't make remembering easy. Maybe I don't want to remember. Maybe it's better if I don't. I smoke and drink and wait. For what? A case.

I can't remember the last time I had a good case. Maybe that's what's wrong. I need a case. I need... There's a knock on my office door, startling me. I pull my legs off my desk, the bourbon sloshing over the rim of my glass. Cursing and squinting against the smoke floating into my eye.

I call out with my cigarette pinched between my lips. Yeah. With my free hand, I reach under my suit jacket and grab the butt of my 44 magnum in its shoulder holster. But I don't take it out. Not yet. The door opens and a woman sticks her head through. A familiar woman. A face I haven't seen in years. Has it been years? Murphy? I can't help but think about my face, wondering if I look that much older now.

When was the last time I looked in the mirror? Doesn't matter. When you have a face like mine, like it's been carved out of brick by a novice with a jackhammer, mirrors aren't your friends. O5 steps into the room with a sad smile on her face. She's a handsome woman, the lines etched in her face only adding to her regal appearance. But there's something about her clothes. that strikes me as odd. She's wearing pants. Strange for a woman to be wearing pants in this day and

age. Well, it isn't 05, I say, setting my glass down and wiping my bourbon wet hand on my suit pants. How's the foundation these days? Still trying to control everything? Murphy Law, she says, ignoring my sarcastic questions. I thought you might be dead, but here you are. The place looks different. I glance around my office, wondering what she means, and I quickly see, it does look different. At the corner of my desk, where there once was a typewriter, is something that looks like a small, flat television with a keyboard below it. Although the screen is black, a small white light blinks at its base.

Strange. I've never seen that thing before. I certainly didn't put it there. Not liking the look on 05's face. I shake my confusion off and get to my feet, dragging on my cigarette. What can I do for you? I've got a case for you, Murphy. I hide the excitement that burbles in my bourbon-laden stomach, not letting it change my face.

Yeah? What's the case? Let's take a ride. Fine. Let me just get my hat. I turned to look for my fedora on my desk, but it's not there. Then I look down at my suit, noticing for the first time that it's not the gun. gray, double-breasted suit I thought I was wearing. This one is dark blue, single-breasted, and not as baggy as my other one. Something wrong? I look up at O-5 and shake my head. No, nothing's wrong. Let's go. Maybe I just need a case to focus on, I think, as we leave my office.

Or maybe I just need to stop drinking so much. Ah-huh, that ain't happening. O-5's car is like nothing I've ever seen before. Instead of manual gauges in the dashboard, there's a series of small screens that display things digitally, but clear than my television at home. When we get to our destination, which is a stretch of highway outside of Vegas, surrounded by nothing but desert,

it's nearly midnight. The place is buzzing with activity. Foundation security guards and forensics workers all focus on an area by the roadside, lit up with portable lights. O-5 escorts me beyond the barriers and through the various guards to the crime scene. A man dressed in a security guard uniform

lies dead in the pale desert dirt. His head smashed in. He has a strange badge on his left breast. I have to kneel to read it. It says, MC and D, over an image of the earth done in black and white thread. Marshal Carter in Dark,

I say, standing up and looking at O-5. What? Did you guys kill him? Aren't your two organizations at odds? 05 smirks. Of course we didn't kill him. But the body is only part of this case. We have it on good authority that this man was part of a three-person team escorting a shipment of possibly anomalous items from Los Angeles to Vegas. Of course, we've contacted MC&D. But they've denied any such shipment. That's to be expected from them.

I'm guessing they have their own people on it as we speak. So we need your help finding the shipment before they do. And the killer? You find the shipment, you find the killer. But if you just happen to find only the shipment, well, that's still a job well done. I study her for a moment. You know my fee structure. It hasn't changed.

I shake my head. Why would it? She smiles. You're a different breed, Murphy. So what else do we have to go on? Did your people find anything in his pockets? O5 calls one of her people over, who brings a plastic bag with a small item inside. I take the bag from the woman and inspect it.

The item inside is a single black cotton glove. Was the dead guy wearing it? No, the forensic tech says. We're not completely sure it is even related. It was in the weeds over there, covered in dirt. I nod, wrap it up, and put it in my suit pocket. How about a ride back to L.A., I say to O-5. I've seen enough. It's past three in the morning. I'm sitting in the dark in a strange living room,

helping myself to a glass of Rip Van Winkle from the nearby liquor cabinet. The expensive whiskey helps to quell the panic I've been feeling since O.5 walked into my office only hours ago. The strange state of my office set alarm bells ringing in my head, like a bank in the middle of getting robbed. Either someone is messing with me, or I'm losing my mind. I don't know which I prefer. 105 dropped me off outside my office after seeing the crime scene. The panic subsided for a bit. I felt like myself again, although I didn't dare go back up to my office.

I didn't want to see the odd things that had changed in there. Wearing this strange suit is bad enough. So I got into my car, thankful for the manual gauges, and headed directly here. I've been waiting for 30 minutes, and I'm beginning to wonder if Richards is coming home tonight. As I polish off my second glass of Winkle, I hear a car door shut outside.

Moments later, there's noise from the front door, scratching and cursing as Richards tries to get his key into the lock. He finally succeeds and opens the front door. I can't see him yet, because I'm in the sitting room off the entryway. The door shuts. Hallway lights come on. Richards stumbles into view, drunk, unsteady as a cat with no whiskers.

He's a short, bald man with a loud suit and round features. About time. Richard says, turning to look at me with bloodshot eyes. His suit is rumpled, part of his red and black tie hanging out of one pocket, like the tongue of some dead beast. He looks like he's about to bolt. Don't run, I say. But by the time I get the words out, he's all ready.

running. Well, maybe running is not the best word for it. Flailing is more accurate. He rushes down the hall as I sigh and get up for my seat to follow after him. He's halfway up the stairs by the time I get to the hall, but he places one foot wrong and tumbles back down, landing in a painful looking heap at the foot of the stairs. I stepped to him, peering down. Told you not to run. Murphy? Richard's asks, groaning and clutching his head. Is that you? How drunk are you? Didn't recognize my voice.

Get the hell out of my house. That's no way to treat an old friend. Friend? We were never friends. And I haven't seen you in years. I thought you were dead. Why do people keep saying that? I asked rhetorically.

Richards moves to get up, but I press him back down with one foot. I ignore the fact that the shoes I'm wearing aren't familiar to me at all. Don't get up. I got a question for you. Screw you! I shift my foot to Richards' neck and put a little pressure. Someone stole a van full of rare goods not long ago. Have you heard about anyone trying to fence some unusual objects? No.

His voice comes out choked, because I've still got my foot on his throat. No? Are you sure? I'm sure. I don't believe you. I swear. What about anything else? Have you heard anything unusual going on lately? Don't lie to me now.

I know you trade on information, and I'm barely putting any pressure on your neck. If you lie to me, my leg's liable to get heavier. Richards' wide, bloodshot eyes darked back and forth as he searches for something to appease me. Okay, there is something. I heard about a guy who came out of nowhere and hit it big on the high roller tables in Vegas.

I ease up on his throat just a little. So what? Must happen all the time. Oh, he did it twice. Two different tables. Two different games. Back to back. What games? Poker and Blackjack. What casino? Star Dust Palace. What time?

Around midnight, I think. You think? Yes, midnight. I pondered this information for a moment. The shipment was stolen not far from Vegas around 10 p.m. Could the two be connected? I return pressure to his neck. Is that all?

That's all I got. Okay, Richards. I remove my foot from his neck. Nice seeing you. We're even now. As I walk away, Richards screams at me. Even?

If I see you again, Murphy Law, I'll kill you. I wave once and then walk out into the early morning dark. Lazzangue-surgle, Pucance-molyne for 15 minutes. We'd say that's the hour

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to you going to the desert as the sun comes up on the horizon. The feeling hits me like a sock full of quarters to the

back of the head. My stomach lurches. lurches, and it feels as if I'm suddenly airborne. Vision blurring and tongue swelling. I struggle to keep my vehicle on the highway. The interior of my 38 Plymouth Coup shifts before my eyes. The simple dashboard gauges distort and morph, even as I try to blink the hallucination away.

Suddenly, the inside of my car looks more like the strange interior of O5's car. Everything is complicated, with lights and screens and too many gauges. I reach for the shifter, but it's not where it should be. That's when I noticed that my bench seat has divided into two bucket seats with an armrest and cup holders between them. Hitting the brakes, I swerve onto the shoulder, thinking of nothing but getting out of this damn car. I shove the door open and stumble out into the road. Headlights blind me, mere feet away and coming fast. I jump back as a horn sounds.

A truck passes within inches of me, kicking road dust into my eyes, and leaving me in a lingering cloud of diesel fumes. I stumble away, vertigo making me unsteady on my feet. Rounding the front of my car, I glance at it, seeing that even the exterior has changed. The hood slants down, the grill is much narrower, and the headlights no longer bulge. Shaking my head, I stumble around the front of the car and head down the side,

walking amid desert shrubs. My stomach lurches, and I fall to all fours. vomiting blood into the sandy dirt between my hands. Blood pours out of my nostrils, and I realize I'm crying. As I blink, my vision blurs and becomes tinted red. With one hand, I reach up and swipe at my right eye. My finger comes away bloody. A sensation like I'm being ripped apart from the inside grows,

as I struggle to keep myself upright, knowing that if I lie down right now, I'll probably never get back up. Is this what it feels like to die? Am I finally headed for the big sleep? More blood pours out of my mouth, but this time it's not for my convulsing stomach. It's as if my insides are disintegrating, turning into blood.

My arms shake and weaken, and I can no longer hold myself up. I fall to the ground, turning my head to the right, toward my car. I always figured I would die in a shootout or in some dank back alley with a knife to my spine. But this, I don't even know what's killing me. Some disease? Some poison I ingested?

A blinking light under my car catches my attention. In the slowly growing morning light, I can just make out some kind of small, pillar-shaped device affixed on the vehicle's underbelly. A green light blinks on its side. I try to reach for it, but it's too far away, and I'm too weak to crawl over there. But there's something about it. Some instinct. tells me it's dangerous. Using nearly all the strength I have left, I turn myself onto my side and retrieve my pistol from my shoulder holster. But it's not my pistol anymore, just like my car is no longer my car. Instead of a revolver, I have a semi-auto pistol, like the kind assigned to guys in the military. There's a moment of shock as I look at the hand holding the gun.

It's not my hand, with my knobby scarred knuckles. It's smaller and softer. The skin relatively unmarred. What is happening to me? Lying on my side, I aim at the device under my car. Steadying my right arm with my left hand, I fire and miss. I fire again and miss again. I can hardly see because of all the blood in my eyes. I wipe it away and try once more. The third shot hits the thing, blasting it off the bottom of my car. I feel immediately better. It's no longer as if my insides are being torn out. My eyes and nose and mouth stop bleeding as strength flows back into my limbs. Huffing, I topple onto my back and look up at the cloudless desert sky. What the hell was that about? As I pull into the Stardust Palace valet lane, I glanced down

at the bench seat next to me. My car is back to normal, and I'm feeling about a million times better. But my suit is still strange, and I'm still not myself. I could really use a drink. I eye the two items sitting on the seat next to me. One is what's left of the strange, mangled device that I shot off the underside of my car. The other is the black glove in the plastic bag I got from the crime scene with 05. I pocket both items before getting out of the vehicle. The valet worker eyes me in shock as he gives me my ticket. It takes me a moment to realize why.

I have dried blood all over my face. It's early enough in the morning that the casino isn't busy. But I immediately have security guards trailing me as I enter the place. Hey, pal. One of them says as I hurry toward the nearest bathroom. I ignore him, picking up my pace. Before I left Los Angeles, I made a call to a colleague here in Vegas and asked him to put me in touch with the head of security for Stardust.

He said he couldn't do it because he didn't know the guy personally, but he told me his name. It's all I have to go on, but I need to clean the blood off my face first. Hey, slow down. Realizing I won't make it to the bathroom, I stop and turn around, seeing two plainclothes security guys coming at me. It looks worse than it is, boys. I'm headed to the bathroom to clean it off. They don't slow down. And before I know it, one of them is throwing a punch into my stomach. I grunt, doubling over in pain. The other one grabs the back of my head and slams a knee into my face.

Pain explodes through my nose and cheeks. I go down onto my back. But just as soon as I hit the floor, these guys are yanking me up again and dragging me through the relatively empty casino. My eyes are blurred with tears, but at least they're not bleeding again. The two blows hurt, but nothing like how I felt back on the side of the highway. So all in all, I think things could be worse. They drag me into the employees area of the casino and into an office where a slab of a man sits behind a metal desk. desk. The slab looks me over with his concrete colored eyes and his flat stone face as the security guards search me. I left my pistol in the car because casinos don't generally like armed people

walking through their doors. But the guys take out my wallet, my little black book, the strange device from under my car, and the black glove in the plastic bag. They dump me into one of the two seats facing the slab's desk and put all my possessions in the seat next to me. Where's the money. Slab asks. I shake my head and wipe blood from under my nose. I came here to see the head of security, George Ruskin. Is that you?

The slab shakes his head. Ruskin is a busy man. You're talking to me. And that's not something you want to keep doing if you know what's good for you. Now tell me where the hell it is. We've already searched your car, so I know it's not there. Where is it? If you give it back now, maybe I'll only break your fingers instead of your legs.

Money? Do I look like I have money? No. You look like a piece of shit I scraped off my shoe. Now where the hell is it? I have no idea what you're talking about. I didn't take any money from you. The slab points out of television on the wall to my left. You think I'm stupid? I shrug.

Anything's possible. One of the security guys standing behind me smacks me in the side of the head. Rage fueling me, I get up from my seat, thinking I'll smack him around a little. but the two pairs of hands are quickly shoving me back down. Look, the slab says, pointing a remote at the television. Grainy black and white footage comes to life on the screen. It's a high-angle shot of a blackjack table. Several people sit around the table as the dealer doles out cards.

And one of those people is me. Well, not me. It couldn't have been me, because the last time I stepped foot in Stardust was a good five years ago. But it looks exactly like me. except for one small detail. The guy in the footage is wearing black gloves. You're a card gunner, aren't you? The Slab asks. I just shake my head blankly, watching my twin win hand after hand of blackjack. He smiles as he wins, which is definitely out of character

for me. I never smile. Not unless I'm in bed with a woman. And even then, she's got to be some woman. I don't know how you did it, but I know you cheated, Slab says. And that means it starts now. 25% every day until you repay it in full. We know where you work. We know where you live. If you don't get us the money in 24 hours, I will personally break both your legs.

For now, I'll just stick with your fingers. The man gets up, and his head nearly brushes the ceiling. His fingers are the size of bananas, and they look as if they're made of rough stone. I glance once more at the screen, noting the black gloves my twin is wearing. They look awfully familiar. My eyes move of their own accord down to my possessions on the seat next to me.

There, in the plastic evidence bag, is a black glove much like the ones my twin is wearing in the footage. Is it possible? Can I at least wear my lucky glove while you break my fingers? My question causes Slab to pause. You're lucky glove? I reach over and grab the evidence bag to hold it up, but one of the guards snatches it out of my hand and gives it over to Slab, who inspects it through the clear plastic.

Why is it in an evidence bag? I shrug. Just how I keep it clean until I need it. This earns me a raspy laugh from Slab, who throws the bag at me. Sure, if it'll make you feel better, I'll let you wear your glove. I rip the bag open, yank out the glove, and pull it onto my right hand. Slab steps over and grabs my right hand in his, which is so big, it's like a grown man holding a baby's hand. He separates my index finger from the rest, gripping it hard.

I hope my hypothesis is right. Here goes nothing. I snap my left leg up and kick at Slab's desk, raising me onto the back legs of my chair and yanking my finger out of Slab's hand. Falling backward, I hit the floor and tumble out of the chair, somehow rolling and landing perfectly on my feet. I whip both my hands up into fists, aiming for two of the guards even though I'm facing away from them.

With my right fist, my gloved one, I hit a guard hard. in the face, knocking him out cold. But my other fist doesn't do so well. The second guard catches my arm in his hands and immediately tries for an arm lock as Slab steps toward us, knocking both guest chairs out of his way. I whip my right hand up and over my shoulder as the guard wrenches my left arm behind my back and toward my shoulder blades. I feel two of my gloved fingers find the guard's eyes, squelching the sensitive orbs as they jam into his sockets. He screams and lets go of me.

Slab punches me in the chest. the chest, lifting me off my feet and sending me crashing into the guard behind me, who has his hands over his eyes. We both go down, but I come to rest essentially on top of the guy. My right hand reaches back and effortlessly finds the man's gun, pulling it out of his shoulder holster in a split second. I point the gun up at Slab, who stops his forward motion and holds up his massive hands in surrender.

But his eyes are filled with hateful determination. Before I can get to my feet, the guard I'm lying on wraps an arm around my throat. Slab sees his chance, stepping closer. I fire the gun at his leg, blasting a hole through his huge thigh and probably breaking the bone. He grunts and goes down to one knee. Knowing the gunshot will bring armed and angry people, I reach the gun around my torso and jam it into the guard's gut. He gets the idea, letting go of my neck.

I scramble to my feet and kicks Slab in the face, wincing at the pain. It feels like he really is made of concrete, but he goes down, out cold. I stomped the other guard's face, grab my things, tuck the gun into a jacket pocket, and then hide-tail it out of the room. As soon as I step into the hall, I hear shouts from behind me. Stop! I bolt down the hall, hoping the lucky glove will keep paying off until I can get to safety. The shouting continues as I run out into the casino, breathing slightly easier,

knowing that they probably won't shoot at me among the people on the gaming floor. But as I bring the front doors into view, two plain clothes guards appear, blocking my path. I bring the gun up and fire it at the ceiling, sending them running for cover. Screams erupt from the few players on the floor as I run. My heart plummets as I think about how I will get to my car. I don't even know where it is. Getting the keys and finding the car will take precious minutes I don't have. And once I'm outside, away from bystanders, they might start taking shots at me.

As I get outside, I look around, thinking a taxi will work to get me gone for now. But as I search for one, the car comes to a screeching halt in front of me. Get in! I lean down and look through the open window of the unfamiliar car. It's O-5 behind the wheel. Recognizing a savior when I see one, I yank the door open and jump into the car. She peels out of the valet lane and swerves onto Las Vegas Boulevard as I look back, seeing several guards watching us go.

Guns in their hands. As I face forward, breathing heavily, I glance at O5's face. Thanks. Then two things happen at once. The first thing is me realizing that this isn't the same car O5 drove me to the crime scene in last night. That by itself is not so odd. Maybe it's a rental. Maybe she has two cars.

But the second thing to happen is me noticing that she's wearing black gloves on her hands. Gloves identical to the one I'm wearing on my right. She reaches down between her thighs, and comes up with a small gas mask, which she puts over her nose and mouth. Time to sleep! Next thing I know, there's a hissing noise coming from the air vents, and an odd odor infiltrates my nose, like garlic and lemon grass. I can't see the gas.

It must be colorless, but I can feel it acting, putting me to sleep. I hold my breath and try to roll down the window, but it won't work. I aim my pistol at her, but she lets go of the wheel and snatches it out of her. of my hand with incredible speed. The gloves, I think. The goddamn gloves. She's got two. I've only got one.

I punched the window with my glove hand. It shatters, allowing fresh air to rush into the vehicle. I stick my head through the broken window and take great gulps of dingy Vegas air. As my head slowly begins to clear, I risk a glance back at 05, or whoever is impersonating her, just in time to see the butt of my pistol flying at my face. You wouldn't believe all the stuff that was in the back. back of that truck. Are those Marshall, Carter, and Dark Idiots only had three guards with the thing. Three guards! Can you believe that? The too familiar voice brings me slowly out of the black

void of unconsciousness and into the pain-filled world. My head thrums painfully from where I was hit with the butt of a pistol, not to mention the blow I took from the security guard. I blink, seeing that I'm lying on my side on a pad of rough concrete. Surprised that my arms and legs are free. I managed to sit up awkwardly and look around. The lights of the Vegas strip are maybe a half mile distant, but I can see pretty much the whole bright stretch of casinos because I'm in a tall unfinished building. There are no walls, no windows, no doors, just a skeleton of a building with metal struts and concrete floors. I must have been out for a long time because it's dark now, and the construction site is deserted. About 10 feet to my left is the edge of the building.

And although I can't see for sure, I'm confident it's a straight dropped several stories down. Well, there's Mr. Lawden. The voice, my voice, comes from my right. I look that way and see me standing there, dressed in an expensive double-breasted suit. But, of course, it's not me. It's the same person who impersonated me in the casino, the same one who impersonated O-5 in the car before I was knocked unconscious. I can tell because he, or she, or it, is still wearing the black gloves.

Lucky gloves. Is that how you've done it? I ask. The lucky gloves? My doppelganger brings his hands up and flexes them. There was a whole crate of these in the truck I stole. I had a bit of a scuffle with one of the guards and the crate fell out before I killed him. My doppelganger smiles, making me sick to my stomach. Anyway, the crate broke open.

I thought I found all the gloves, but I guess not. Noddy, Mr. Lawden. Noddy! Good thing I took that glove back. Your luck has run all the way out, Lawden. My name is Law, not Lawden, Law. My captor shakes his head. That's not so, I'm afraid.

You are not Murphy Law, hardened and cynical gumshoe. You are Murph Lawden, a sad and lonely writer, wasting away his hours at his computer, writing Pope that went out of fashion before the Vietnam War. I've had about enough of this. I'm not going to argue with this lunatic, so I pull my knees under me and start to stand up. I don't think so,

doppelganger says, producing some kind of small remote from one suit pocket. He touches a button on it, and my whole body suddenly hurts in a sickeningly familiar way. I don't even make it to my feet before I'm toppling back down to the cold concrete. I notice three devices placed around me in a triangle. Three devices, just like the one I shot off the bottom of my car.

I feel like I'm being ripped apart from the inside out, just like on the side of the highway earlier. I feel hot liquid pouring out of my nose. It's only a matter of time before I start bleeding from my eyes and mouth as well. Groaning, I shut my eyes, trying to control the immense and building pain. Yes, I got these from the truck as well. Have you ever heard of a Scranton reality anchor? Well, these are similar. Only they collect anomalous power. They drain it from the anomaly. And that's just what you are, Murph Lawden. You're a weasly piece of shit wrapped in an anomalous power you don't deserve. You waste this gift you've been given. It's sickening. Some of us actually want to be somebody. Some of us deserve to be somebody. Distorted images flashed through my mind as he talks. Memories, but they're not my own.

There is foreign to me as sobriety, yet they feel so unnervingly familiar. They're images of hands typing away at a fancy typewriter, like the one I saw on my desk in my office when 05 came to visit me. They're the same hands I saw earlier, just before I shot that device from under my car. Small hands, soft hands. Now, as these images flashed through me, I raise my hands and find that they've changed. They're those same small, soft hands. The hands of a writer.

The hands of Murph Lauded. I resist this realization, and it only makes the pain ripping through my body worsen. I spew blood out of my mouth and nose. My vision blurs, going red as my eyes bleed. No, I'm Murphy Law. I was in the army. I opened my private detective business with a risky loan

from some dangerous people when I was 28. I've been divorced twice. As I recall these things, I see those hands typing, and I glimpse the words. They're describing my life in clipped prose. Groaning, I cough up more blood. You're starting to see now, aren't you? My doppelganger says. I look up at him through red-tinged eyes, glaring, but unable to do anything else because of the clipping pain.

Pretty soon I won't need this, he says, reaching up under his collared shirt and ripping away a very convincing mask of me. I gasp at the face he reveals, or rather the lack of a face. Where his feature should be is only a blank stretch of skin. Pretty soon I'll be somebody. I'll be Murphy Law, the real Murphy Law. And you, Murph Lawden, will be dead. There's something else here now, something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus, it's the series Stephen King calls scary as hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's all. also real. Sci-Fi vision

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is how we all go home. From Binge All Episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. His chin moves as he talks, but he has no mouth. Still, the noise comes from somewhere, although it no longer

sounds like me. It's a nondescript voice, unmemorable in every way. I lie on the concrete, convulsing, bleeding from everywhere, unable to accept what he says is true. But the more of me that is ripped away by the three devices, the more memories I have of my other life, of Murph Lawden's life.

I see him caring for his aging mother. I see him working hard to support his wife and young daughter, writing stories about me, about the man he wishes he could be. I see him moving through a world, far more complicated than my own. A world of fancy typewriters and strange handheld devices that everyone seems to stare at all the time.

A world that moves much faster than my own. And I realized that being Murph Lawden wouldn't be so bad. Just as suddenly as it started, the pain fades as I accept that I am Murph Lawden, a writer, a family man, a good man. The blood stops pouring out of me, and I look down at Murph's hands. My hands. They may be soft, but they're still capable of making fists. They've still got power in them.

And not just the power of the written word. What? My doppelganger says, voice high. What's happening? He brings his remote out and hits it with his palm, his featureless brow furrowing. This gives me just enough time to lurch to my feet and charge at him. He tosses the remote down and reaches for his gun,

backpedaling at the same time. I reach out for him, knowing it's not time. for a fist, not yet. Instead, I grab both his hands at the wrists, my fingers, curling into claws as I rip at the gloves. His left glove comes off, going inside out as I yank at it. His right glove stays on, but barely, because I yank it hard enough to rip the material. I toss the one glove to the floor and keep after him as he continues to backpedal, still reaching into his shoulder holster for his gun. We near the edge of the wallless building just as he manages to pull the gun out, fighting against me.

overpowering me. There's nowhere for me to run, nowhere to hide where he couldn't shoot me. The thin metal slats that make up the interior walls won't provide cover. So there's only one option. As he gets his pistol pointed at me, I give him a shove, putting what little strength I have into it. He steps back one, two, three times. But there's no floor underneath his third step, and he tumbles down, firing at me with his gun in his partially gloved hand. The bullet punches into my abdomen just above my belly button. I stumble back and fall to the floor, clutching my clothes, ripping my shirt up to see blood rushing out of the hole.

Panic tightens around my throat and constricts my lungs as I watch the blood. This is something Murphy Law might survive. But I'm not Murphy Law. I'm Murph Lawden, and this is untainted reality. A realization hits me in the chest, and I tear my eyes away from my wound, getting painfully to my feet. As I stumbled back toward the three devices, I see the glove I tore off. I yank it from the floor and pull it on. I locate the first device and smash it against the concrete,

hoping the effect will be the same as when I found one under my car. It takes me a couple of wax, and a great deal of pain with each effort. But the thing finally breaks. I see my clothes change, blinking back to Murphy Law's double-breasted gray suit. But my hands are still small and soft. So I move to the next device, trying to ignore the frightening amount of blood coming out of me. I smashed the second device, and then the third, and suddenly I'm Murphy Law again.

The bullet wound hasn't disappeared, but I find I'm able to handle the pain better. Murphy Law has been shot and stabbed before. He's no stranger to pain. I'm no stranger to pain. Clutching my wound, I'm headed for the nearest stairwell when I hear a groan from somewhere down below. Pausing, I shake my head, but still walk over to where my doppelganger fell over the edge. I peer over and see him sprawled three stories below, both legs and one arm broken, but he's still alive. I guess there's still some luck left in that glove, I mutter in Law's gravelly voice. I step back from the edge and look around until my eyes catch on a piece of construction equipment.

I smile. A few minutes later, I'm walking out of the building on the first floor. I stop at my doppelganger's body, although he looks nothing like me now. He doesn't even have a head anymore. thanks to the heavy piece of equipment I threw on him from the third floor. The device used to cut pieces of rebar, hit him square in the head. I guess my intact lucky glove overpowered his ripped one. Now, if it will only keep me conscious until I get to a hospital, I'll count this night as a success.

I fish the keys out of his pocket and get into the car. After starting the engine, I pat my jacket pockets and find a pack of cigarettes. I light up and pull out of the construction site, headed for the hospital. O-5 steps into my office the next day as I'm enjoying my first bourbon since leaving the hospital in Vegas against doctor's orders. The first thing I did when getting back was look for one of those devices hidden somewhere around, but I had only been looking for about a minute

before I noticed that my office was back to normal. The fancy typewriter is gone, replaced with my old-fashioned one. My fedora is waiting on my desk, as always. I don't understand why I was experiencing these strange things before, but as soon as I lay eyes on O-5, I know things are back to normal. She's wearing white gloves with a pleaded blue pencil dress and high heels. That's how a woman should look. Were you here two days ago? I asked,

wondering if it was the doppelganger impersonating her for some reason I still don't understand. O-5 looks down as if surprised to see the outfit. fit she's wearing. I was, she says. But I certainly wasn't wearing something like this. Little old-fashioned, don't you think? The corners of my mouth twitched upward. Yeah. She shakes her head and smiles wanly, then pulls a check out of one pocket as she walks to my desk. She sets the check down in front of me. So you found the shipment? We did. We used the car's GPS to track where it had been. He had a warehouse in North Vegas. That one was all. Lerf Lawden. He knows more about that kind of stuff than I do. O5 raises an eyebrow.

So you know, you've come to terms with what you are? I guess that's one way of putting it. Maybe that's why things are looking more you around here. Maybe you were having an identity crisis. I hadn't considered that, but she might be right. I nod. Maybe. We also found the mess you left behind at the construction site. I grabbed my glass. of bourbon and prop my feet up on my desk. Yeah, well, all in a day's work for Murphy Law. SCP-7043 refers to a collection of 246 black gloves, each made primarily of cotton.

The gloves can be worn by most persons regardless of hand size, as the material will stretch to accommodate most hands. When an instance is worn by a person, the person will gain the ability to manipulate the probability of any event occurring. occurring. These range from simple probability tests, such as the flip of a coin or the roll of a die, to larger, more complex events one might not otherwise consider to be dictated by chance. The probability can be altered up to a 99% chance of occurrence, and down to a 1% chance. Although it can never be completely prevented or guaranteed, it is believed that the use of a

SCP-7043 instance in this manner would grant the user the ability to affect the fact of time and space in a manner akin to that of a level one reality bender. Fan of soccer, you could assist a moment historic. You could gain the bill for the final of the Cup of the World of the FIFA 2026 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Inscribe you at BMO.com baroblic concour. The Reglements of the Concour's apply.