The SCP Experience - The Time Traveling Train | SCP-052

Episode Date: April 14, 2023

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-052: The Time Traveling Train This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp. Go to betterhelp.com/scp today to get 10% off your first month! This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-052 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Lucas Click Discover the Author's impressive series of SCP Tales here: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0BVWJFGV3 Check out more of Mr. Click's work here: newpulptales.com 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

Welcome to aboard Via Raille. Embarked and profite. Embarked and relax. Cirotay. Bookine. Oh, that also. And profite.

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lingering in the house that we spent the last 20 years living together in. With her smells and presence, still permeating every room is too much. As I walked down the steps past the turnstiles, cordoned off with orange cones and caution tape, the smells of the New York subway system assault me. Piss, sweat, and pretty much every other unpleasant odor that humans can make merge into a disgusting potpourri. I recognize two other members of Task Force Gamma 6 just passed our makeshift barricade. Samantha Jones, five years on the beat, and pushing 50, and Kyle Jenkins, a kid still in his 20s, built like a linebacker but with a noticeable limp in his step.

Jenkins is new, and his smile promptly drops when he sees me. Commander! He snaps off a salute. I wasn't expecting you back so soon after... Er, that is, I wasn't expecting you back, sir. You can call me, Mike. I shrug my shoulders. We're not big on rank here in Gamma 6. Yes, sir, Mike. I mean, sir, sir, sir, Mike.

Sima out the size and drapes her arm over Jenkins' shoulder, inadvertently showing off her two missing fingers on one hand. Quit while you're ahead, kid. She nods at me. Good to have you back, Mike. I return her greeting, letting the awkwardness pass. before heading past them toward the empty platform. The foundation has been cordoning off this section of tracks for nearly two decades.

You would think that would maybe raise some suspicions or questions. New Yorkers, though, aren't jaded by nature, constantly seeing the glass half full. Routine construction delays are just another price to pay to live in a city they claim to despise but can't ever let go of. I should know. I've been married to a native New Yorker for 25. years. You were married. The tiny voice whispers in the back of my head and freezes me in place.

That's the hardest part to get over, thinking of Kara in the past tense, realizing she isn't waiting for me at the end of this shift. She's dead and gone. Her body and bones reduced to ash and spread over Central Park like she wanted. Mike! Havier Hernandez stands at the platform, with two cups of black coffee in each hand. He hands one to me, which I gladly accept and fight through the searing first gulp. I'm not going to ask you how you feel. I'm not going to ask if you want to talk about it. I just want to know if you feel like sharing.

I still have one ear that works. Thanks, Hobby. I measure my emotions before taking another sip. I'm coping. He nods. Guess that's all you can do. Javi and I. have been working on Task Force Gamma 6 together for the longest. It's the Foundation's charity project,

which still requires armed guards, but doesn't require us to be in the best shape. Each of us has something keeping us from working fully able jobs at the Foundation. In my case, its diminished vision. I have a nasty hook of a scar, curling up from the side of my neck, before turning abruptly right at my nose, then jamming straight up through my right eye and into my scalp. I think it makes me look like someone took a knife to my face and started with a question mark before deciding they wanted an exclamation point instead. Kara, though, says, It makes you look mysterious and sexy.

The words of my dead wife get swallowed up by the rumbling at our feet. Avi and I quickly down the rest of our coffee before tossing the empty cups in a nearby trash can. We checked the clock over the platform and confirm the time. 11.57 p.m. like clockwork every Saturday and Sunday. Hopefully not many departures today. Avi shouts as the car slammed to a stop. The door slide open and a man steps out. He looks around at the empty platform and stares at us in confusion.

He's wearing bell-bottom jeans and a woven jacket with a giant peace sign sewn over his left breast. Like his wardrobe, his sideburns and facial hair are also decades. out of style. Sorry, sir, track maintenance, Hernandez says as he steps forward. Do you mind coming with us and answering a few questions? Yes, I fucking mind. Last time I checked, this is still the good old US of A in not Nazi Germany. Man, I knew this would happen as soon as Johnson took over. War-mongering prick has his fascist watchdogs at the ready, just because a guy likes to wear his hair long. His rant goes through my ears like white noise, and Javi and I exchange a look. We know trouble when we see it.

We've been doing this job too long not to. I let Javi smile and nod, using his broader bulk to conceal my movements as I reach into my jacket. The hippie jabs his finger into Javi's chest, and he parts just enough for me to jab the taser between the man's ropes. Our traveler twitches a couple of times where he stands, then drops like a pile of bricks. Yeah, not much to say now, huh?

Havi bends over to drape one of the man's arms. arms over his shoulder. Fucking draft dodger. I take the other side, and we hoist the man between us. Our knees crack in an arthritic chorus as we shoulder his weight. Pretty sure the train made him miss the draft, Hav. Sure, that's what they all say. Javier adjusts himself and wipes sweat from his brow.

Fucking time travelers. Javier and I managed to work the hippie past Sam and Jenkins. He orders them to check. and make sure that there are no other passengers as we keep walking the meat puppet up the steps. By the time we are rewarded with a glimpse of street lamps, both of us are winded. Luckily, the unmarked van isn't much farther, the same as it is every Saturday and Sunday at this time. Javi bangs on the door and it slides open. We sling the hippie to the two researchers half our age.

Havi wipes his mouth and bends over to catch his breath. is your problem now. I hesitate, knowing I'm no historian, but I am an avid watcher of the History Channel, excluding their UFO programs. The subject made references to LBJ and the Kennedy assassination. His year of departure is probably somewhere between 1963 and 1965. We wait for the van to depart before Javi pats me on the back.

He's always been more the man of action, leaving the facts and figures to me. He fingers his shirt, his hands landing on the outline of a cigarette. He takes a cigarette and offers me one, but I shake my head as I have for the last ten years. Sparking up, the air is soon polluted with the stench of tobacco and menthol. It's a marginal improvement over the subway stench. Jenkins is down.

Sam's voice breaks through our walkie-talkies clip thudder belts. Repeat. Jenkins is down. I'm the first to unclipped the radio for my belt. Sit rep, Jones. There's a second passenger. Identity unconfirmed. He's wearing a fedora, mask, and...

Havi and I rushed down the steps, neither of us bothering with the non-lethal measures. We each unholster the pistols from our belts and stroll toward the flickering lights of the platform. I can make out two large lumps on the ground. What I hope is just an unconscious Sam and Jenkins. But I can't see if there's... breathing or not. Hold it right there, motherfucker. Havi has always been louder than me. And though I

technically outrank him, he wastes no time bellowing out the command. Of course, the traveler does the opposite and reaches into his coat. He throws an orb in the air, making the lights flicker even more. I open fire. Havi's gun soon joining in, but the sudden kaleidoscope of light makes it impossible to track the man as he moves toward us like he's moving at one frame a minute. Both of his hands clap on the opposite side of Javi's head. He throws a knee into Javi's groin, then grips and flips him in an overhead arch. Javi lands with a tremendous collision that I hope doesn't indicate a broken back or spine. Swearing, I adjust my aim, but the traveler is quicker than anticipated.

His foot flies out, colliding with my gun, sending it scattering across the floor and under the train. Usually, we only deal with disoriented travelers. I square off in a defensive stance, ready to show this bastard how many martial arts I've studied over the years. I throw a punch, and he counters, but I'm ready for that, already ducking low and spinning my leg to catch him off guard. He jumps over that just as quickly, but I grunt and carry through with an uppercut. He blocks it and shoves me back, gaining the upper hand. What the hell? I'm no spring chicken anymore, sure.

The years when I was a middleweight champ or long in the past, but I'm also no. novice either. Despite my diminished vision, I can still hold my own against the average civilian. The foundation wouldn't post me here otherwise. Their generosity doesn't come before operational security. And yet every throw, every punch, the man meets me with another encounter. I alternate between kickboxing, Muay Thai, and Jiu-Jitsu, but he seamlessly adjusts his stance to match my style. And to hand combat has always been my specialty. Yet this guy reads me like an open book and matches me with some moves I don't recognize. My denial crashes with reality. My opponent laches onto my arm and bends it back. Screaming, I lunge forward and manage to connect a clumsy right

hook across his jaw. He staggers back, his hat and bandana knocked away from his face. He rears up, and I come face to face with, no, no, it can't be. His hair is completely gray and sheared, short to his scalp. His flesh is darkened, tanned by years of being outside, and wrinkled by the passage of time. But there's no mistaking that scar on his face. It's a cross between a question mark and an exclamation point, and could only be mistaken as mysterious and sexy by the most incredible woman ever to walk the earth. It's me. I'm biting myself. The other, older me, grips me by the wrist. You'll thank me for this later. Then with a twist, he Clams us both backward toward the train.

The doors slam shut, and the train takes off. I throw a couple of quick blows to his ribs, but then a sound grows, a piercing scream that rips through my soul and forces me to cover my ears, leaving my face unguarded for the blow that collides against the sight of my head. As I slowly regain consciousness, I think the sound in my ears is still from the train. It takes me a minute to recognize the telltale signs of a slight concussion, groaning, I climb quickly to my feet and ready myself in a defensive stance.

The car is empty, though, and the doors are already open. Taking a breath, I step outside the door and onto the platform. There are a few stragglers nearby. However, there's no sign of Javi, the others, or anyone I worked with in the past. Staggering, I brace myself against the wall, catch my breath, and process what's that means. I arrived at a time before the foundation set up a containment team on the train's routine stop. That means I'm in the 90s at the latest. Fortunately, clothing hasn't changed that much, especially if you never had much of a fashion sense like me. I could pass in any time

within the last 20 or 30 years, so I limp up the steps and into the open air. 1157 p.m., according to the The readily available payphones confirm my suspicions. Cell phones aren't available to the general public yet. I make my way up the street, looking for a newspaper to confirm the date. When a familiar laugh stops me in my tracks, three college-aged girls are walking toward me. I recognize the two on the sides from photos of Kara's college days, roommates that she's fallen out of touch with, and walking in the middle is my wife. She's about ten years younger than when one of the we first met. But there's no mistaking that laugh, that smile, even as she stumbles between the two, all of them drunk. I can't do anything but stare as they part awkwardly between me and continue

to their destination. God, you see his face? One of the girls whispers too loudly. Creepy. Really? Kara doesn't lower her voice. She never did. I thought he looked kind of sexy. The words are so familiar that they send a knife through my whole. heart. I turned toward her, reaching out my arm, unsure of what I'm going to say. That she doesn't know me, but she will someday? That we're going to fall madly in love? That she's the most important thing that ever happened to me, and I miss her so much it hurts. Don't do it, another familiar voice turns me into the nearby building steps. The older me isn't wearing his disguise from before and locks his scarred gaze with my own. I know it's hard, but don't. Who knows what might

happen. You might screw things up. That possibility lowers my arm. It's why we contain every traveler that comes off the train. The ones from the past are largely nothing more than an inconvenience, but the ones from the future oppose a challenge. We can't let them contaminate our time stream and make things worse. I glared at the older version of me. Anger pounds through my heart and clouds my head. How dare he? He, of all people, knows how hard it is to live without Kara. And yet, he's brought me to a time where I can see her but never speak to her. I wouldn't do this to my worst enemy. Just what the hell was he thinking? Lazzang sur-gely,

and, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes. We're like that's their dojo. Pre-a-joo? Vive the pleasure with Leo Jo. The casino-on-line that proposes the more recent machines-a-sou and the games of casinos. Profite of 50 tours gratu on Big Bas-Bas Bonanza, without exigance of misgents and with the payments instantane. Woohoo! Sonture the pleasure play, Oh Joe!

Dix 8 years, 1st, 10 tours gratu on the machine to sub-bac-bass Bonanza. Depos minimum of $10. Veil to play in a responsibility

and I stare at him. A small smile curls at his lips stretching his scar as he nods. Figured it out, didn't you, kid. That loneliness you're feeling, it's not going anywhere. You'll always miss her.

You'll always be incomplete without that. incomplete without her. That's your plan? I frown at him. Just hop the rails, jumping off at different parts of time. He coughs, then turns and spits blood. Until I got to a spot where we've cured cancer, then we come back and save her. That's not how the train works.

Its destinations and pickups are completely random. What you're suggesting would take decades, maybe centuries. Kid, I know everything you know. plus nearly 30 years of added experience. You're not going to tell me anything I don't know. His answer is so logical that it infuriates me, and it takes a few seconds before I nod. Is it worth it?

You already know the answer to that question, too. If we can save her, yeah, it'll be worth all this sacrifice. I take a breath. It will probably also erase us from existence. He nods. You already know that's worth it too. I hated when I'm right. So, what?

Me and you? Partners in crime and time? Is that why you chronologically shanghied me? Yeah, about that. He opens up his jacket, revealing several different tools and weapons I don't recognize, along with a thick leather-bound book. All his equipment is coated red from the hole blown into his ribs.

Fucking Javi. Never was much of a marksman, but sometimes all you need is luck. He limply taps the book. Thought this would happen someday, too. So, I kept the log. Pay attention to it. Learn from my mistakes. Eventually, you might find the cure and savor.

I frown. And if not? He smiles through bloodstained teeth. If not, hop off the train and recruit a younger version of yourself. Worked for me. He bends over and coughs again, staining the concrete crimson. He slumps forward and goes still. I work my finger along his neck, shuddering at the realization of touching myself,

but push past the unease and search for a pulse. There isn't one. Sying, I remove his coat and take all his supplies for myself. I walk away from my corpse and open the book. I've got 24 hours before the next train stop. I'd better prepare myself. SCP 52 is a Type R4 New York City subway train. Official records indicate this train was built in 1932 and decommissioned for scrap in 1975.

Nevertheless, it continues to appear on the Uptown A and D track at the 59th Street and 8th Avenue station at 1157 p.m. every Saturday and Sunday. The train is in perfect condition and labeled as an A train. SCP 52 appears at the designated time, opens its doors to accept and distance. charge passengers for approximately five minutes, then closes its doors and disappears. It does not appear to ever contain passengers, except for those leaving the train during its appearance. The majority of subjects that have boarded SCP 52 have not been recovered. Passengers leaving SCP 52 claim to have boarded on various dates, from 1976 up to 2204.

Subjects retain no knowledge of time on board.