Link to article: The Charon Express.
:scp-wiki:theme:lampeter-warm
[[include :scp-wiki:theme:lampeter-warm]] [[>]] [[module rate]] [[/>]] They say there is a train that does not exist. A train that only travels at night, but never sees dawn. If you stand outside, alone on a platform, surrounded by darkness -- and if you are truly, hopelessly lost -- you will hear its whistle. It comes to you, so you might find your resolution. ----- Three new passengers. Two departures. The train has brought us to the space between the mountains again, and I am once again plagued by the idea that the train knows things I do not. In a way, we cannot be definitive -- as much as a Train requires a Conductor, a Conductor needs a Train. We all need a purpose and a reason, and sometimes existence is all you can get. The train has always had a will of its own, far before the tracks were laid and the first iron wheel began to spin. Before, we travelled with the breeze, following the current forwards and backwards without a care. I would stand, ostensibly setting the direction of our journey, the one watched by others, the one in 'control'. They would look to me for answers then. In that way, things are no different now than they once were. And yet, despite the eons of service -- I still do not have the answers they need. Sometimes, I find myself flipping through the pages of the logbook, recalling past lives and forgotten memories. I think about the faces, the blur, the blend -- and I think about the flame burning at the heart of the train. A flame that has always burned, an idea that will continue so long as there is a need; they will always need the train. The Train will always need a Conductor. I follow the will of the tracks, leaving the destination to the beating heart of fire. I serve the vessel, as I always have: collecting passengers, lost and wayward souls, the ones left behind and stuck in the cracks. I do what I can, so that they still have a chance. Nothing matters beyond that. ----- They say there is a train not bound by tracks -- it uses those that exist, when convenient, but it is never restricted. A train that goes where it desires, laying new tracks before its cast-bronze wheels; each track laid will leave with the train, the absence of one whom is unremembered as the only evidence that it ever was. When this train comes, the departure is final. But the train is not your end. ----- Ten new passengers. One departure. The South Pacific has always been a favorite of mine, watching the sun set over the golden waves as nature takes domain over the night. Humanity conquered the daytime long ago, nature having lost their claim; it escaped to the darkness, where man dared not tread. It hid in the spaces between, waiting for the times that exist around the world we have made. Nighttime is a reminder of how the world once was, as I remember it. But the world changed, for a time. What were once clean lines drawn in the sand became ambiguous and debated as people searched for identity, for meaning, for a place to belong. The world grew, far beyond the constraints it had once faced -- oceans became puddles, as bridges turned rivers into trickles. Humanity bent the world to fit what was seen as progress, to remake our lives and remove the dirty parts that we wish to forget. And, just as quickly as the world changed -- it became stuck. Today, a passenger finally departed, one who had rode the train for years. They were as much of a fixture as I, a guide and mentor to the newly departed who just boarded, a friend to those living in the mire. I respected them, as I watched their search for meaning; I am happy that they found what they were looking for. I stood beside the others, all watching them leave in envy -- something that has become a twisted tradition onboard. A going away party, where you are wished well by those who envy your freedom; there is little joy to be shared in the moment, but hope? Hope blossoms. I saw their face for the first time, as they departed the train. We tend to lose who we are while stuck in the mire, finding ourselves only once we come up for air; I watched as he took his first breath, the crisp ocean breeze filling his lungs with life. I waited for him to disappear, fade away, to be freed from the endless repetition; I stared, as is my twisted tradition, endlessly watching those that get to pass on. Every single time, I wait for their liberation; instead, I see their persistence. Why do they always choose to persist? I would like to think that I am glad for them. Resolution is a goal we all seek, and I have lived my existence in the service of that ideal. I serve a true purpose, a desperate need in a frozen world. I give others what I cannot have, because they were denied it in kind. After all, there is always a need to tip the scales for a world stuck in one place. Things no longer change, not things that matter. The world exists as a series of cycles, loops, origins and destinations and the tracks that go back and forth. The train exists beyond the patterns, but even still -- the wheels spin, grinding along the bronze rails, a mimicry of the patterns of life. Life turns to death, work turns to sleep, day turns to night and love turns to misery. Nothing is stagnant, no matter how much we will it to be. No matter how little we need a cycle, it persists regardless. Wheels spinning, something set in motion before you were born, that will continue to turn long after you are gone. When the passenger departed today, they finally escaped one of the patterns. They were able to find their peace, whatever that meant to them. I would like to think that I had a hand in this; I am no more responsible for their resolutions than I am for the train. It is enough to serve. Part of me knows that I do not matter, and that were I do fade away, another would rise to take my place. Repetition follows us all, and I am bound to rings of fate just like my passengers. But what would happen if I left and the axle was broken? What if, without a Conductor, the Train no longer remains? I continue to stoke the fires at the heart of the bronze beast, feeding its raging purpose. I cannot risk leaving the world to the whims of fate. I will continue to keep the wheels spinning, so that one day, we may all find our endings. And maybe then, I can finally rest. ----- They say there is a train for the lost, the damned, the forgotten -- it comes to you in your time of need. It serves not as your resting place, nor as your salvation. They say the train is nothing more than an illusory nadir, a place to pass through, one that takes you from where you were to where you need to be. It exists, not as a destination, but as a facilitation. It exists because it is still needed. ----- One new passenger. One new train car. No departures. The train elected to follow the rails of many worlds, bringing us to another destination in need of closure. As I write, the ocean hangs low in the sky overhead, a storm brewing as the coral-trees sway. The fish that flee overhead belong here, as do the people living under the leaking sky; but that does not mean they are any different than you, or I. The train goes where it is needed; its need is universal. It is not often I speak with my passengers. There is an unspoken understanding, the train speaking to them like a long-lost friend; they know what is needed of them, and they know what the train means. The drifting and the aimless see the train for what it is -- a sanctuary. All salvation comes with a cost: but this price is one that I control. As the Conductor, there is little I can do to change the world. Bound to the rails just as the Train, I am a passenger through life; in that way, I am no different than those who ride the cars in search of meaning. And, while I cannot change the spots on the leopard, I can make a difference. The price is a single coin, as it always has been, and as it always will be. With the toll, you receive no ticket. Your obol earns you no guarantees of a destination, nor does it force you into a shape you reject. There is no authority to enforce payment, nor is there a profit to be made; it is a tradition, and that is sufficient. The coin is a trifle, a shared understanding between the passengers and I -- we are each meant to be exactly where we are. We each understand that we belong. Your coin buys peace of mind, if only for a time. Comfort is a luxury. A luxury in a discomforting world, peace in a maelstrom of noise. We spend our lives in pursuit of the times between, chasing the escape from a painful reality. Some find comfort in others. Some make their work their world, pretending escape is nothing more than a fantasy. Some even find comfort in giving up. But that comfort never comes. Souls wait in dissonance, bound to the wheels that crush them with every spin, unable to leave their eternal torture; their suffering grows, and not even Lampeter can give salvation to all the riders. There are those who cannot accept the help, those who know not to ask -- the train finds them. The train cuts the knots of their bindings and I am there to catch them. The new passenger today was a child. A youth, wrapped in seaweed-cloth, gills bristling under the fabric, lungs forced to labor as they had not before. Terrified -- not of the train before them, but of the world that surrounded them, the world that abandoned them, the world they mistakenly believed was their home. But, of course, who would blame a child for these thoughts? Existence is relative, and time lingers in the beyond; they were as young as the day they were lost, afraid of a world they could not understand. They were alone, standing on the busy platform without a coin to spare. They had none that cared, nor those that remembered; they were never given the chance to earn their fare. There was nobody to place a coin over their eyes as they lay still. Lying, waiting for the train to arrive. It is days like this I am thankful there are holes in my pockets, and far too little time to mend them. ----- They say there is a Train whose Conductor is simply an occupant, an extension of the will of the train. The Conductor would disagree -- but in the same stale breath, claim that the Train and Conductor are one. They would say that neither can exist without the other. That is the way it always has been, and that is the way it always will be. Need lies at the heart of all things. ----- No new passengers. No departures. Three stops without making a difference. Stars. Forests. Seas of Blood. The scenery changed, but my feelings did not. I am filled with shame each time the train departs without the soul it found; some are not ready, others choose to reject this path. I wish I could change their minds, but that is not my role in things. You cannot force a resolution, just as you cannot demand a need. The need demands you. I do not remember the first passenger we had. I think not only of the history of the train and I, but of the times before when I would trail my hand through the rippling water, miasma filling the air; I cannot remember my origin, not do I need to. I do not know what force demanded my existence -- but I know the need that I have always answered. We have always served the same need: we take those who do not belong, and ferry them to their final destination. We are the safety net, the lonely soul sweeping the alleyways, digging through the cracks and finding the ones the cycle threw out. The ones who rule the world, who live within the system and bend the patterns to their willpower: they do not need my help. They do not need a train to escape, for comfort cannot assist those who languish in opulence. I remain for the rest. The train charges forward, eternal, step by step through time. So long as there is a need, there will be a train. So long as there is a Train, there will be a Conductor. These days, I find myself reminiscing more and more of the times before I was the Conductor. I remember when I was no more than a big fish in a small pond, an aimless wanderer from the sticks, stuck in my own cycle. From shore to shore, I would travel back and forth; I do not remember the passengers, nor do I remember distinctions. I only remember the time as a whole, as a memory that I once lived, but is now faded. I was lost then, too. I did not know purpose was something I could need, let alone something to want. I served, as was required. I did my job, and kept the wheels of fate spinning -- but I was not there, not in the same way I am now. I did not feed the flames, I did not oil the coupling rods that drive us forward, and I did not care. I did not see the needs of the world as I do now. I wasn't needed then, not like I am now. Rowing across the river was enough. I didn't notice the world changing. I didn't notice when they grew from their villages, their worship of the pantheons, when they moved beyond borders. I didn't notice the engines that roared, replacing the growling of beasts, nor did I notice I was being forgotten. And then, one day, I woke to the grinding of the rails. I rose to the grinding bronze thrumming under my feet, my paddle changed with a shovel, coins feeding the flames at the heart of the vessel. I knew that there was a purpose now, a purpose that was in search of one like myself. I did not need to understand the Train to know I was the Conductor now. I did not need to understand the world, to know that I was still needed. There is a truth I continue to live by: the world may have changed, but people never do. The Charon Express rolls onwards, as I ride on. We remain, until there are none left who need safe transportation. I do not think I will ever find my resolution -- but that truth does not disappoint me. It is enough to have existed. It is enough to answer a need. Each departure will keep my fire burning, until one day I am nothing but ashes. The cycle continues despite me. I continue despite the cycle. Neither of us can give up. ----- They say there is a train that once was a ship from a simpler time, for a simpler world. But the world today is not so simple, and a river is the least of the concerns of the soul. Not even the Conductor knows why it took this form, but they are certain that it was needed. They are certain it must persist. -----