In Limbo - SCP Foundation

The air felt surprisingly mild for a small train station blanketed under snow. Hardly any wind tucked at his fur, yet Dragomir felt his snout grow cold. The anthropomorphic German Shepherd sniffed impatiently. A permeating scent of frost, steel, and something that might have been ozone - but wasn’t - hit his nostrils. He wrapped the red wool scarf a little tighter around his neck, the one his mother had once gifted him.

Dragomir looked forward again and saw a void. An impenetrable darkness, deeper than night, enveloped the station in every conceivable way. It was almost exhausting to look into. The edge of the platform, a support post, tracks, snow, and then… Nothing. Yet, he felt an urge to pry for some detail, half expecting something to emerge at any moment. This then made him look away, slightly embarrassed before himself - only to peek back into the darkness once more.

The lights didn't help. Whatever the small Lampeter station of K-209 used for energy, its overhead lamps were curiously cool, bluer, and less harsh than LED or halogen. Their cones silently drew circles on the frosty ground. Dragomir counted fifteen of them on this platform, glowing from the black industrial steel beams like makeshift moons.

He looked up, blinking against the light of the lamp above him.

It flickered for a moment.

Fifteen flickering lamps.

He had sat down directly under one, even though he didn't like direct lighting all that much. He sat and told himself this was just a train station. Others had used it before him and others would do so again. And he kept telling that to himself despite his footprints being the only ones to disturb the soft coat of ice crystals on this platform.

Next time, I'll buy a courier, he thought. Again.

Whoever had built this station seemed to have put up only the bare essentials, to leave as quickly as possible. Two platforms, a bridge between them, a vacant conductor's hut, and steel-roofs. And that was that. No one else had gotten off the train in this pocket-universe and no train had passed through since. And even though his fur did not stand on end, as if refusing to admit it - he was terrified by that.

There was a word for it. One of many spoken into existence in the doorways, on the staircases, and in the compartments of the Lampeter network. Voya - The feeling of seemingly endless yet encroaching, indeterminate, unknowable liminality. He'd read that somewhere, somewhere, sometime, and when he first set foot on the platform, it was the first thing he consciously thought of.

Voya was a sensation that came alive in stations like these, an atmosphere that gave pause. Just as it felt wrong to speak loudly or move hastily in a grand sacred building, no carbon-based life easily disturbed a silence in which islands of purpose negotiated with the void. Dragomir had seen a few of these stations in limbo. Lampeter boasted some fascinating outposts. But this one…

Why the hell would anyone build a station in here?

What even is 'here'?

Dragomir opened his knapsack, a worn leathery thing, and rummaged through it so he wouldn't have to look into the void any longer. He almost winced at how loudly the buckle suddenly clicked. Amid provisions, clothing, and other essentials, he found his document pouch and pulled it out, placing it on his knees. He traced the paper inside with a claw. It was simply bound, with thread, and typed with a typewriter. The Sheperd reached into the bag again, fidgeting around until he found what he was searching for. He pulled out the Polaroid camera and weighed it in his paws. He then set the camera aside and turned back to the folder. A photo fell out and he caught it before it could sail to the ground.

Dragomir gazed at it thoughtfully. He still remembered the accident with a Gantian steam locomotive in F-189 well. It had already happened by the time he arrived at the scene, but the shocked crowd of travelers remained all the more vivid in his memory. He had already taken the photo before his mind came to process its own actions. Old reflexes were diehards.

After a moment, Dragomir opened the pouch. It was a paper on Lampeter, from a sociological perspective, along with the photos he had taken for it, as well as others that he had taken with varying degrees of intent. Maybe he had also written the article for the photos?

This scholarly article was the most comprehensive piece he had written in a long time. Dragomir took the document out and held it in both paws. He was confident it was a good piece of work. And it was total bullshit at the same time. It was a text detached from reality - cold, methodical, and precise. It was everything Lampeter was not at the moment. Everything this place was not. There was a certain irony in all this since this was the last station where he was supposed to switch lines for his destination - Tíanarumasäkaar, a Republic of Letters stronghold.

They would welcome his research, they would distribute it, and they would pay him. And now, he was sitting in his very own spotlight on the stage to a void that couldn't have cared less about all that. Dragomir knew he could sometimes become a bit existential, but it rarely felt this acute. His senses seemed sharper than ever, although – or perhaps precisely because – there was hardly anything for them to detect.

Next time, I'll buy a courier.

Dragomir opened his journal. Placed side by side, the contrast became even more apparent. The entries in the journal grew shorter the further he flipped until they were more keywords and disjointed thoughts than anything else.

Child with balloon. It's a ghost balloon. Why do people keep ghosts as pets?

Police officers clutch their guns, conductors their ticket stamps. The stamp is power. The only thing that sets them apart from the others.

If they were supposed to fix something, why not the radiators on the train?

White.

The notes had initially made sense, serving as memory aids for the next quiet moment when he could organize his observations and write them down scientifically. Stylistic Coersion Problems, he called that. He had stopped cursing about it. There was even a note on it.

Stylistic Coersion Problems.

Do none of you own a fucking kettle?

Hello.

He paused. Hello? He furrowed his brows. It was the first word on an otherwise blank page. It was his handwriting, black ink, and Dragomir was certain he hadn’t written that. A quiet chuckle escaped him. The thought that someone had taken his journal in an unguarded moment and gone through the trouble of leaving a greeting there without his knowledge made him smile.

Out of a sense of thoroughness, Dragomir flipped to the next page, but there was nothing… He paused again. No. There was a "hello" as well, at the bottom of the page, near the edge. At that, he let all the remaining pages slip through his fingers, but this time there was nothing more to be seen. Puzzled, Dragomir searched for the page with the first "hello" and opened it.

The word had disappeared.

He blinked.

"What…?"

As an anthro, Dragomir possessed above-average sharp senses. He narrowed his eyes. Nothing. Methodically, he took the journal and held it up to the light. Even when backlit, the page was blank, as if untouched. No dents, no traces of ink. Had someone played a prank on him? In his own handwriting? Dragomir pursed his lips. He had heard of infectious texts causing trouble in the Wanderer's Library, but never anything like this…

He felt it before he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Then he heard it before he could turn his head.

"Hello."

Dragomir stood, tail dead still behind him. He wasn't sure what he had seen, but something undefinable had definitely been at the other end of the platform. Quickly, he perked his ears to all sides and while doing so, looked in the opposite directions to avoid letting his guard down.

What the fuck…

He remained this way for a while, but even after looking back and forth several times, nothing changed in the voyastic silence of the station. Dragomir thought. The conductor's house was abandoned, and he hadn’t seen any other passengers. He was alone. Had been.

His gaze fell back on the journal, which was still lying on the bench. Slowly, he bent down to pick it up. After another careful glance around, he opened the page again. The "hello" was back.

"Hello."

"Hello."

"Hello."

Adrenaline rush surged through Dragomir's heart like a bolt.

He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his bag.

Something had been in front of him.

A flicker.

And the voice…

Dragomir spun around, but once again, there was nothing to be seen. It had sounded as though the voice came from different directions in rapid succession - distant, then close, then like through an old radio. His paw searched and found his scarf, practically clutching it.

"Who is there?" he called out in a half bark. "Show yourself!"

"…There."

"Hello."

"…There."

"Th-th-th-There."

Once again, Dragomir stepped back as he saw the flicker in front of him. And this time, he saw a human, shaven face. Perhaps a bowler hat. Maybe a suit?

He felt his heart leap into his throat.

His fur stood on end.

The image was like a fleeting impression on his retina, a likeness that vanished immediately when processed. Was the man in black and white? He hadn't seen any color whatsoever.

"el-"

"o-"

Child with balloon

"Evening."

Panting, Dragomir's gaze fell on the bench. The camera was still there. He hesitated for a moment, then hurriedly grabbed it and clutched it with both paws.

The silence whistled in his ears, blanking his mind.

He didn't move.

He waited.

"o-"

"o-"

"o-"

"o-"

A flash pierced the air.

This time, Dragomir felt certain that it was a humanoid in front of him. But the figure didn't just flicker; it changed location in the blink of an eye. First, it was a few meters away, then on the other side of the platform, then almost by the conductor's house, and then it disappeared again.

Panting, he waited for the instant photo. It squeezed out of the camera painfully slowly and fell into his paw. It wasn’t developed yet.

"Good evening."

The sudden proximity and coherence nearly gave Dragomir a heart attack. He yelped.

"Oh, I’m terribly sorry." said the black-and-white man in a suit and bowler hat. "I didn't mean to scare you-ou."

"What the hell!" Dragomir exclaimed. "Who are you?"

The man's round face showed the first signs of aging. He had something British about him; perhaps he resembled Churchill a little. His expression was unreadable as he looked at and right through Dragomir, but not hostile.

“-e?” he asked, flickering again. “I believe I should like to ask you the same question. You write incredibly incoherently." He almost looked like he was studying Dragomir like a misbehaving student. "It’s quite the tangle.”

Dragomir stared. "What?"

"My form has rarely been so incoherent." The man produced a cone from somewhere and shifted his weight a little, wincing. "I'm open to new things, but-"

"-ut-"

"-ut-"

"I…"

"I…"

"I…"

"I…"

"Pattern-"

"Stop doing that!" Dragomir yelled. He attempted to follow the creature's random spawning, but it was simply impossible, and he just spun around aimlessly. He almost snarled.

"-an't-"

"Can't really- o-"

"Good Lord, you really are a mess, dear, you know that?"

The entity reappeared in front of him, still leaning on the cane. Dragomir realized that his mouth was hanging open and closed it.

A growing irritation in Dragomir was about to turn into anger. He exhaled deeply.

"My name is Dragomir," he then said slowly and firmly. "Do you have a name?"

"No-"

"-o"

"I-"

"Pattern-"

The figure reappeared and sighed.

"Sorry."

"Are you another traveler?" Dragomir asked, pointing his ears forward in order to catch every word he could. "Are you waiting for a train?"

With a few flickers, the man moved to the bench and looked down at Dragomir's belongings. Then he briefly glanced over to Dragomir and finally bent down to pick up the journal.

"Hm."

"Give that back." Dragomir clenched his canines. He made a step towards the figure, and briefly considered taking the journal away from the entity but decided he didn't want to risk touching it. Instead, he just extended a paw.

"You cling to that?" the being chided.

Dragomir didn't move his paw an inch. "What's it to you?"

"Currently?" The being turned the journal back and forth for a moment as if that were as informative as reading it. "Half of everything."

"I'd like that back wholly." Dragomir snorted, paw still extended.

The being didn't answer. After a brief silence, though, it lifted its head and looked up. Dragomir followed its gaze but could see nothing except the station's roof and the darkness above.

"I tell you what." It said, throwing the book to Dragomir, who barely caught it. "Liv-Liv-Liv- Live a little, will you?"

The remark caught the Sheperd off guard. He tried to answer, but nothing came out of his muzzle.

But before anything else could be said or thought, the being flickered multiple times and then vanished.

"Liv-"

"Liv-"

"Liv-"

"Live."

Dragomir waited again, but this time, a certain finality filled the void after its departure, something he couldn't quite place, but felt all the more intensely. His breathing slowed as he stood rooted to the spot. But even after a long wait, nothing stirred, and the longer he stood there, the more he felt that the encounter was over. Dragomir slowly shuffled back to his bench and almost collapsed onto it.

For the time being, he sat there with a distracted gaze, his elbows resting on his knees as he tried to sort out his thoughts. In his overwhelmed state, he didn’t initially notice the photo he had apparently dropped. As soon as it caught his attention, Dragomir hurriedly picked it up and turned it over. The picture had finally developed.

Dragomir didn’t know why - and although it confused him - he had to smile at the sight. It was his most sincere smile in a long time.