Chapter Text
98462 and 87546 had to stay on the mainline as Sir Topham Hatt arrived, his pocket watch glinting like an accusation in the afternoon light. Neither engine spoke first—a rarity for the two blue locomotives whose whistles usually cut through silence like knives through butter. The Fat Controller’s footsteps crunched gravel as he inspected Marigold’s severed coupling, the twisted iron still warm from all of the abuse.
"Phosphor bronze," he murmured, turning the broken metal in his hands. "Not steel. Interesting." His gaze lifted to 98462’s smudged nameplate, then to 87546’s pristine but guilty buffers. "These most certainly weren’t unavoidable accidents."
The silence stretched like over-taut coupling chains.
Marigold’s torn drawbar lay between them—the fracture edge still glistening with fresh stress marks where metal had screamed itself apart. Sir Topham Hatt’s fingers traced the jagged break, silent as a coroner inspecting a wound. Across the double track, 87546’s brake van still trembled from the last compression, its crew exchanging glances like conspirators awaiting sentencing.
"It's phosphor bronze," the Fat Controller repeated, quieter now, as if speaking to the fracture itself. "Not steel. Not fatigue." His thumb rubbed the metal’s grain—crosshatched like the ribs of a starved animal. "This was most definitely pulled apart."
98462 vented steam in short, defensive puffs. "The coupling was flawed Sir—"
"Couplings don’t flaw," Marigold interrupted, her voice colder than Crovan’s Gate’s winter runoff. "They’re just *flawed*."
A little stray seagull landed on the broken iron, pecked at nonexistent crumbs, and flew off.
Sir Topham Hatt straightened upwards. "98462. 87546. You will both be withdrawn from service immediately."
The goods engine’s firebox flared. "On what type of precedent—"
"On the one simple precedent," he said, "that my railway is many things, but it isn’t a butcher’s yard." He turned toward the works manager hovering nearby. "Crovan’s Gate Works will assess their fitness for retention. We will see if this withdrawal is permanent or not later, right now Phoenix will have to take both of your trains."
98462’s pistons hissed unevenly. "We did nothing wrong—"
"You tore iron apart," Marigold said flatly. The broken coupling gleamed dully between them, its fracture edges still sharp enough to draw blood if touched carelessly.
The Fat Controller didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t need to. The quiet way he folded his hands behind his back was worse than shouting. "98462. 87546. You will proceed light engine to Crovan’s Gate Works immediately. You will not shunt. You will not speak to other engines unless addressed first. You will await my decision there." He paused just long enough for the weight of it to sink in. "Dismissed."
98462’s fireman threw her reverser into gear with unnecessary force, the sound like a shovel dropped on footplates. 87546 didn’t even steam up properly—just rolled forward with sullen, jerky movements that made her crew cling to the cab sides.
And with that Sir Topham Hatt left to find you at Crovan's Gate Works.
The second he left, 98462 and 87546 started to of course complain to each other as they made their way to Crovan’s Gate Works.
"They’ll never get rid of us," 87546 hissed to 98462 as they rolled toward Crovan’s Gate, their couplings clanking with every uneven shunt. The afternoon sun bled through the works’ smokestacks, casting jagged shadows across their battered running plates. "Not permanently."
98462’s whistle let out a derisive puff. "They’d sooner scrap half the fleet than lose our tractive effort." But her fire burned lower than usual, the steam pressure needle flickering like a nervous tell.
You didn’t see them arrive. You were too busy watching Sir Topham Hatt’s polished shoes tap across the grease-stained cobbles toward you, his expression unreadable as a signal at danger. Harris stiffened beside your cab, flask vanishing into his overalls like a rabbit down a hole.
"Phoenix." The Fat Controller’s voice was measured, but the way his thumb rubbed his pocket watch made your safety valves tighten. "You’ll take the Wild Nor’ Wester and the northbound goods this afternoon at the same time."
Lewis’ shovel clattered against the tender floor as Sir Topham Hatt’s words hung in the coal-dusted air. Harris’ flask made one last furtive journey to his lips before vanishing into his overalls with the finality of a coffin lid.
"On it Sir," you began simply, "Although if I may Sir ask, what happened to 98462 and 87546?"
Sir Topham Hatt didn’t blink. "They pulled apart Marigold’s coupling."
The words landed like a dropped shovel.
"WHAT?" You asked through gritted teeth.
"THEY PULLED APART MARIGOLD'S COUPLING?"
Sir Topham Hatt didn't even blink. His mustache twitched like a cat's tail before the pounce. "Yes," he said, as calmly as discussing the weather. "Phosphor bronze fractured clean through. Like snapping a biscuit." His pocket watch clicked open, shut—a metallic heartbeat between sentences. "You'll collect the Wild Nor' Wester at Kellsthorpe and head the goods from the junction. Mr. Staewart?"
Harris jerked upright like a startled marionette, his flask slipping down his overalls with an audible *clunk*. "Aye, sir?"
"The timetable," the Fat Controller continued, snapping the watch shut with finality, "is now your bible. Not your whisky. Understood?"
Lewis muffled a cough into his sleeve that sounded suspiciously like *finally*.
You didn't get to protest before Sir Topham Hatt was halfway across the yard, his polished shoes kicking up some loose pebbles.
Sir Topham Hatt was halfway across the yard before anyone dared speak again.
Crovan’s Gate Works never truly fell silent — there was always the ring of hammer on plate, the sigh of steam from a testing valve, the murmur of fitters beneath frames — but the air shifted all the same. News traveled faster than any express. By the time 98462 and 87546 rolled through the gates light engine, men had already heard.
They did not receive a warm welcome.
98462 entered first, chin high, though her pressure gauge betrayed a faint tremor. 87546 followed with less composure than she would have liked, her motion slightly uneven from the earlier violent braking.
They arrived quickly enough for you to glare them down as you left to get their trains.
You'd be 'talking' to them later.
But sadly you had work to do first.
Thier work.
The steam hung thick over Crovan’s Gate like a shroud as you went to the back of the Wild Nor’ Wester, since Marigold's coupling was broken you had to attach to Thistle at the back and push it along as you pulled it—a makeshift solution that made your fireman mutter Gaelic curses under his breath.
Yeah you really should get around to asking if they could teach you it...
The coaches groaned as you buffered up, their frames still trembling from 98462’s earlier brutality. Thistle’s voice was a rasp of strained metal when she spoke. *"Hello *Ffenics* (Phoenix)," she began half jokingly, half bitterly.* "Welcome to the wreckage."
You hissed steam through gritted teeth—part sympathy, part frustration. The broken coupling lay discarded on the ballast like a severed limb, its phosphor bronze fracture gleaming dully under the afternoon sun. Harris kicked it with his boot, sending it skittering. "Aye, that’s a right proper mess," he muttered. "Fractured clean as a whisky bottle dropped on Crovan’s cobbles."
Lewis, already coupling you to Thistle’s rear step, shot him a look. "Dinnae *fash*, ye daft *galloot*," he snapped.
"I already know the answer to to this; but are you two alright?" You called back toward Marigold and Thistle, easing steam with deliberate gentleness—the kind 98462 and 87546 had apparently forgotten existed.
If they ever knew it existed at all.
Your wheels bit the rails without jerking as you backed into the various trucks so you could also take them and get going—a rare moment of grace amidst the chaos. The Wild Nor' Wester's guard watched you with narrowed eyes, his fingers tapping Morse code irritation against his flagstaff.
"Steady now," Thistle murmured behind you, her voice still shaky from the earlier violence.
"Phoenix is certainly steadier than those two bitches," Lewis muttered under his breath, throwing a glance towards the general direction of Crovan’s Gate where 98462 and 87546 had vanished inside like disgraced soldiers into the brig.
Harris chuckled into his flask before remembering it was empty.
One of the trucks then spoke up to you, "So, yer takin' us AND the Wild Nor' Wester Express, eh?" His voice had the rasp of rusted brake shoes. "Better you than those brass-polished bastards 98462 and 87546."
You hissed steam through gritted teeth—not at the truck, not at the wreckage of Marigold’s coupling still gleaming dully on the ballast, but at the sheer audacity of those two bastard engines. The Wild Nor’ Wester’s guard caught your eye, his expression flat as a signal at danger. "They’ll have your buffers for breakfast if you let ’em," he muttered, flicking his flag so you could start your journey to Tidmouth Station.
"Don't you worry, they'll be hearing from me VERY, VERY, VERY soon," you hissed through clenched pistons as you eased the Wild Nor' Wester forward—Thistle shuddering in front of you like a spooked horse. The snapped coupling still lay discarded by the tracks, its bronze glinting accusatorily. Harris snorted into his empty flask. "Aye, dinnae waste yer steam. Bastards like that dinnae listen 'less ye crack their smokebox open."
The signalman at Kellsthorpe waved you through with a look that said *better you than them*. You felt Marigold's indignation vibrating through the linkage—not just from the damage, but the insult. Phosphor bronze didn't fail without cause as far as you knew.
That almost certainly took a different level of true arrogance.
The various trucks behind you clattered like loose teeth in a drunkard’s jaw as you took the Wild Nor’ Wester Express’s two coaches and the northbound goods in tow—a Frankenstein of a train stitched together by necessity and spite. Thistle groaned as you eased forward, her frames still singing with the memory of 98462’s brutality. "Easy now, *Ffenics* (Phoenix)," she muttered, the Welsh lilt in her voice sharper than usual. "Some of us still have our couplings attached."
You sighed, trying to find the words to begin with for a moment, "I'm sorry it's just... those two engines!" The words clawed their way out of your firebox like escaping steam, bitter and scalding. Ahead, Marigold's damaged frame shuddered as you navigated the points near Kellsthorpe Junction—each wobble a fresh indictment of 98462 and 87546's arrogance.
Far behind you after the trucks, the goods train's brake van groaned like an old man rising from bed—the kind of sound that made Harris mutter something about "proper maintenance" while Lewis rolled his eyes so hard his cap nearly fell off as you continued on your way to Tidmouth Station.