Murph Chapter 1: Subject No. 869
Murph remembered sunlight.
Not the glare of the lamps that hung above him now. But the warm, golden sunlight. Spilling through the curtains. Dancing across the wooden floor.
The boy would laugh high and unsteadily. Like he was still caught in the place between childhood and growing up. And Murph would run with his tail wagging furiously. He would chase after that laughter.
It had been everything once. The boy. The house. And the smell of breakfast from the kitchen. A soft bed to curl against at night. The scratch of tiny fingers behind his ears when thunder shook the windows.
Love.
Now there was only steel, straps, and the scent of bleach.
Murph’s chest rose and fell against the table. His paws were stretched tight. Tied so cruelly that even the act of struggling burned the skin. He whimpered once, softly, but the sound disappeared under the mechanical drone of machines.
Somewhere to his left, a pen scraped paper.
“Subject # 869 remains stable,” a voice said, flat and detached, the way one might talk about an object instead of a living being. “Respiration… heightened. Emotional response: fear.”
There was a murmur of agreement, and the shuffle of boots across tile.
Murph closed his eyes. He did not understand these words, not truly. But he understood the tone.
Cold.
Measured.
Like men who had never once bent down to meet his eyes or laugh when he barked. He hated those voices.
And somewhere deep beneath his fear, there was a memory that whispered to him. A voice that called out to him.
The boy’s name was hazy now. Blurred by sorrow. But the sound of it lingered like a song he could never forget.
“Come here, Murph!”
The back door banged as it flew open. The boy’s voice was high and excited. Murph’s heart leapt before his paws did. He exploded across the lawn.
The boy laughed—oh, that laugh. Bright, bubbling, and wild as sunlight breaking through clouds. He chased it like he chased everything. To him, chasing was the living.
“Faster! Faster, Murph!” the boy called. His legs pumped. His sneakers pounded the grass.
Murph pushed harder, muscles burning, lungs alive with the joy of running. And then—arms wrapped around him mid-sprint. They would roll through the cool grass.
“You’re the fastest in the world.” His small hands buried deep into Murph’s fur.
Murph licked his cheek. His tail thumped against the ground. The boy giggled. “Stop—no, don’t stop!”
That was love. That was home.
Dinner scraps slipped under the table. They would hide it from their parents.
“Shh… don’t tell anyone,” he’d whisper, handing a piece of chicken.
Murph would take it carefully. His teeth would brush warm fingers that trusted him completely.
At night, Murph always claimed his spot at the foot of the bed. He’d curl into a tight ball.
Sometimes, he would lift his head and press his nose gently against the boy’s fingers in sleep. He felt safe. Even when thunder split the sky and the lightning flashed jagged, the boy’s sleepy murmur calmed him.
“It’s okay, Murph. I got you.”
The memory swelled…then cracked.
It had been an ordinary afternoon. The kind where the air felt lazy, where the boy hummed while stacking blocks on the floor. The door had been left open—just a sliver, no more.
But to Murph, it was a call. The outside air drifted in. It carried scents of dirt and road and something wild. He glanced at the boy—still building towers. Still safe.
Just a little adventure. Just a quick look.
He pushed the door wider with his nose and slipped into the outside world. The street smelled of freedom. He bounded forward. A butterfly skimmed past, and he leapt after it.
Playful.
Free.
Behind him, a faint and urgent voice.
“Murph! Come back!”
But the call was soft, smaller than the wide world. The wind carried it away.
Then—
Everything shattered.
The net fell like lightning.
Heavy.
Smothering.
Cruel.
Panic tore through his chest as he yelped. Twisted. And fought against the net. His paws scrambled for ground. His teeth snapped at the rope. But the trap held. The air split with his howls.
“MURPH!”
The boy’s cry. High, terrified. Murph twisted, saw him running, arms flailing, sneakers slapping pavement.
But hands—stranger’s hands—hauled the net tight, lifted him off the ground. His boy’s voice grew smaller as the van door slammed, turning the world dark.
And then came the cages. The stink of fear, of rust, of dogs crying in the night. His boy’s voice was gone. The grass, the laughter, the safe hand that stroked him in the dark—
Everything was gone.
All that remained was cold metal, hunger, and the endless echo of that last call.
Murph shivered against the lab table. The memory faded into the cold present. He tried pushing against the leather straps, but failed. The strap dug deeper, and a low growl disappeared in his chest.
“Heart rate spiking,” one of them said, looking at the monitor.
“Good,” another replied. “Fear sharpens the reaction.”
Murph snarled weakly. His paws ached.
“Save your energy, mutt,” the first man said. “You won’t be able to fight it.”
There was movement. A gloved hand appeared above him. It held something that glowed with a green light. Not sun. It was harsher and unnatural. A collar. Thick and metallic. Lined with strange seams that pulsed faintly as if alive.
The man smiled. “History is made tonight.”
Another voice, cooler, more calculating, added, “If it works, of course. If not… We’ll have learned something from the ashes.”
The collar descended.
Murph whimpered, thrashing as much as the straps would allow. His ears flattened, eyes wild.
“Don’t fight it. It makes no difference.”
The cold metal brushed his fur.
“Hold him down!”
“Straps are tight, he’s not going anywhere.”
Then the collar locked.
The instant the metal touched his neck, he felt pain throughout his body.
ZZZZRMMM!
Murph convulsed. His back arched off the table. He was terrified. Energy crawled through him. It surged through every scar. Every bone. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel the burning flood twisting inside him.
“Readings are off the charts!” one shouted over the sound of crackling energy.
“Stabilize it—no, no, let it run! This is what we wanted!”
Murph howled, a sound that shook the air, raw and broken.
“Listen to that,” one of them said, almost in awe. “Power in its purest form.”
“Or death,” another countered.
He slammed his head against the table. Tried dislodging the choke, but the collar pulsed tighter. A wave of agony surged in his entire body.
“More output than the last one.”
“Yes. This one’s different. Stronger. Perfect host material.”
“Or he’ll burn alive.”
A bitter laugh cut through. “Then let him. We’ll have ten more waiting.”
Murph’s vision blurred. Green light flooded his eyes. He could still hear them. Their voices were sharp and clear above his screams. He hated them. Every word. Every sound.
“Push it further!”
“No, not yet, look at his vitals!”
“I said further! We’re closer than ever!”
Murph thrashed again. His own growl broke into a tortured cry.
Somewhere, deep inside, the memory of the boy flickered. The warmth of grass. The whisper, “You’re the fastest in the world.” Before he was drowned again in the blaze of pain.
Then, suddenly, he wasn’t lying.
He was standing. On two legs.
Murph stumbled, panting, staring down in disbelief. His paws—no, not paws anymore. Shaking, trembling things, long and clumsy, with fingers. Fingers tipped in claws.
“W-what’s… happening… to me?”
The words came out of his mouth. He was shocked.
The room fell silent.
“He spoke,” one scientist breathed, almost reverent.
“Good God. It worked. Now we don’t have to pay those human bastards.”
Their awe felt worse than their cruelty. Murph looked down at his hands again, terror squeezing his chest. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t right.
Memories flickered: running in grass, a boy’s arms around his neck, a whisper—“You’re the fastest in the world.”
Then another memory crashed through it, jagged and sharp. The crack of a gunshot. Fire exploded in his leg. His yelp echoed through alleyways. The scent of his own blood stained the dirt.
He staggered. Clutched his thigh where the scar still burned. The scientists scribbled notes instead of helping.
“Mark increased durability in the subject,” one said coldly. “Proceed with conditioning.”
They didn’t see him. Didn’t care. Not about his pain, not about the boy he’d lost, not about the creature he’d become.
They only saw their experiment.
Something inside him snapped.
The green glow pulsed harder, veins lighting up beneath his fur like cracks in stone. The collar flickered. It sparked against his skin. Fury and confusion tangled together.
“They… don’t see me,” he thought, words forming clearer now, bitter in his mind. “Just… a test subject to them.”
The scientists stepped closer. Clipboard and syringe ready. His lips curled back.
“You…” His voice trembled. Half-animal. Half-human. “…W-what did you do to me?”
The collar sparked again. The light spread down his chest. Every scar they’d carved into him pulsed with light. Pain bled into rage, and rage into something far more dangerous.
Somewhere beyond the walls, a monitor flickered. Men in suits leaned forward, watching every second unfold.
“The military has crossed a line,” one muttered, his jaw tight, knuckles white against the arm of his chair.
Another leaned forward, voice low and venomous. “Do you even understand what you’re seeing? That thing—he was just a dog. Now he’s something else. Something we can’t control.”
“Shut it down,” a third barked, slamming a fist on the console. His tie swung forward with the motion. “Shut it down immediately.”
But it was already too late.
Murph’s howl cracked through the air. Sharp and raw. It seemed to rattle the glass itself. The sound wasn’t just canine; it warped and layered with something metallic. Something… wrong. The walls themselves seemed to vibrate with it.
“Restrain him!” the lead scientist shouted.
Two technicians scrambled forward. Murph jerked as soon as their hands touched the straps. The restraints snapped. One man went flying. He slammed into the steel cabinets with a thud.
“What the hell have you done?!” one of the suits shouted at the scientist through the intercom.
The scientist’s smile had vanished, replaced with a pallor of dread. “We’ve… we’ve awakened him.”
The collar pulsed again, veins of green light crawling across Murph’s fur, sinking into his skin. His eyes flared—first amber, then gold, then something inhuman. Shadows rippled along his muscles as though the darkness itself bent to his shape.
“Override the collar!” someone screamed. “Hit the failsafe!”
A trembling hand slammed the emergency panel. Sparks cascaded as red lights strobed across the ceiling. But instead of shutting him down, the current surged. It fed into Murph like fuel on fire.
He staggered off the table. The growl that rose from his throat was pure rage.
“Sir—” a younger man in the control room whispered, voice barely audible. “That’s not an experiment anymore.” He swallowed hard, eyes wide with terror. “That’s a weapon.”
No one dared answer.
Murph lifted his head. His chest heaved. His gaze locked on the humans before him. The ones with masks, gloves, and fear painted across their faces. For the first time, they seemed small to him.
Weak.
Breakable.
And when he moved, the whole building seemed to flinch.