The Red Line

"This is Wilson. For Purple Line transfers, change at Wilson. Next stop, Sheridan. Doors will open on the right at Sheridan. Smoking, littering, and eating are prohibited on CTA vehicles.”

A man in a tattered black coat, hunched over in his seat, stirred abruptly, disrupted by the train announcer’s voice, causing his woolen hat to slip, revealing his face. Ryan shifted towards the window, opening his eyes, unsure of his location or reason for being there. The smudged, streaking images on the window disoriented him.

“Sheridan next. Addison to follow. Doors will open on the left at Addison,” proclaimed the automated male voice of the Red Line train.

“Are you okay, sir?” a fellow passenger beside him inquired.

“I don't know,” Ryan replied tersely. “Where is this train headed?”

“Last stop: Ninety-fifth/Dan Ryan,” a man seated across from him responded, having overheard their conversation.

Ryan rubbed his face, grappling with how he had ended up on the train. He couldn't recollect anything. Nothing at all! He leaned back, surrounded by a sea of faces and voices that melded into a monotonous drone, making it even more difficult to think. He fumbled in his pocket, extracting a small flash drive, but quickly dismissed it, uninterested. Then, from another pocket, he withdrew his hand, revealing a bloodstained cloth. That was puzzling. Still no ID or personal belongings to trigger his memory.

The man across from him continued to observe. “This is the Red Line to Ashland/Sixty-three,” were the final words Ryan registered before darkness enveloped him, feeling like he was being pulled into a tunnel.

Then, he was submerged in darkness.

“He's escaped. Again!” a man reported into his phone. Police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances swarmed the skyscraper, barricading the streets from all sides. The fire alarms blared at 4:05, and occupants in the building wondered if it was merely a drill. It wasn't. Two men had exited The Metropolitan on the sixty-seventh floor of the Willis Tower, and shortly after, smoke infiltrated, triggering the fire alarms. Despite the regular fire drills undergone by skyscraper employees, chaos erupted among most of the club's patrons.

The man on the phone continued his conversation. “Yes, they met, and he ingested the pill.” He stood in the hallway, awaiting the building's evacuation, but he had no intention of joining. Swiftly, he entered an empty office, locking the door, then played security camera footage on his computer, tracing Ryan’s brief stay at the club. In less than five minutes, Ryan reappeared in the same clothes as before.

“He must've reached the train station,” the man mused, dialing another number.

One night, Ryan returned home burdened. The car parts factory on Chicago's south side had gone bankrupt, resulting in layoffs for everyone. Tough times loomed ahead for his family. With just two days left until his daughter's birthday, he lacked the funds to celebrate. His wife never blamed him for their challenges, but Ryan couldn't let her down anymore. It was time to reconsider his life choices. He remembered the two men who had visited the factory weeks earlier and retrieved the card they'd given him. He dialed the number.

A month later, he woke up in a sparsely furnished room with only a single bed. The experiment appeared successful, though the side effects remained unknown.

“He could traverse time with a single powerful thought challenging him to do so,” Thomson explained. The "TT780" project had come under the jurisdiction of the FBI, compelling Thomson's team to disband and live covertly. They faced prosecution for covertly developing psychological warfare techniques, including time travel. The three survivors of the experiment had vanished without a trace, their whereabouts unknown.

Ryan opened his eyes, images slowly clarifying. The man he had last seen still occupied the seat in front, observing.

“How long was I absent?” Ryan inquired. The man remained silent.

He gazed at him for a while longer, but the man didn't respond. In the window's reflection, he spotted a familiar face. His heart raced. He remembered the woman—his wife. Though unable to recall everything, his instincts insisted he was correct.

“Jenny!” Ryan whispered. No response. He attempted to touch her, but his hand passed through her like a ghost.

“Jenny!” He shouted, and suddenly he stood outside an apartment building, facing a flight of stairs. A middle-aged woman emerged, followed by a young woman, each hauling a suitcase.

“Mom, forgot something. Be back in a minute.” The young woman dashed back into the apartment. Ryan recognized his wife, remembered their daughter. She was five when he last saw her, now a beautiful young woman of twenty-five. Moved by the memory, he triggered time travel once more, finding himself back on the Red Line train. This time, he recalled his last action, searching for answers. He sensed the other man's presence and began walking through the train, searching.

“Still have the flash drive in your pocket?” The man he sought reached out. This time, he wore different clothes, arousing Ryan's curiosity.

“Proceed to the rear of the train. Atop the announcement board, you'll discover a small computer. Use your flash drive; you'll find answers,” the man instructed. Before vanishing, he added, “It's 2024. Two decades have passed since our last train journey. You are our last hope…” Then he disappeared.

Ryan located the computer, seated himself on the train's final car, and pondered how this experiment worked and how he became entangled.

Footsteps approached, and in response, he vanished along with the computer, returning to 2000. Back to where it all began.