Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One night, you boarded the last train home as usual. After a busy day, the gently shaking of the carriage made you sleepy. You couldn’t help but doze off by leaning against the glass window.

When you opened your eyes again, the first thing you noticed was how *wrong* everything felt—not painful, just *wrong*, like wearing shoes on the wrong feet or trying to write with your nondomanat hand. The second thing you noticed was the hiss of steam curling past your face—no, not *past*

*From*. From your face.

You blinked and tried to rub your eyes.

But your hands didn't respond.

You looked to the left and right of you and only saw two big black metal things blocking the rest of your vision.

And then the wheels—four in the front, six big ones in the middle, and two in the back—you suddenly felt them beneath you.

You were a train now.

A steam train.

And those big black metal things were probably smoke deflectors.

You blinked again, your vision now clearing as you realized you were in a station yard of some kind—the scent of coal and grease thick in the air, the distant clatter of shunting rolling stock echoing off brick walls. The sky was a muted gray, not quite dawn, not quite night. The rails stretched out in front of you like endless possibilities, but your mind was still stuck on one horrifying truth:

*You were a steam train and yet you still had eyes.*

The absurdity of that thought rattled around inside your—what?

Firebox?

Funnel?

Mind?

Whatever passed for one now. Your vision swam as you tried to focus on the world outside your new metal skin. The yard stretched ahead, tracks gleaming like liquid under the dim morning light. You could feel the pressure in your boiler, the itch of steam begging for release. But your wheels wouldn’t move. Something was holding you back—a handbrake, maybe, or the stubborn will of whatever force had stuffed your consciousness into a ton of steel and smoke.

Then it hit you; the one place where trains having faces makes sense—the world of Thomas The Tank Engine. But this didn’t feel like the cheerful, colorful stories of your childhood. The rails here hummed with an undercurrent of something darker, something *real*—grease stained hands and coal dust in your seams, not just gentle moral lessons.

A deep, resonant whistle split the air, and you jolted—*you* had made that sound. A voice, gruff and weary, called from your left:

"Oi. Big Engine. Are you one of the engines that's supposed to be on loan to the North Western Railway on Sodor?"

The voice scraped like coal shoveled over iron as he walked over to you—a man in grease streaked overalls, his cap tilted low over eyes that had seen too many dawns in the yard. He rapped his knuckles against your buffer beam, the sound ringing hollow through your frame. "Well?" he grunted. "You got a name, or just a number?"

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a sharp whistle, steam curling from your funnel in frantic bursts. Names? Numbers? You didn’t even know what *you* were—only that the pressure in your boiler was rising, and the tracks ahead seemed to hum with something like hunger.

The man—*foreman*, your new instincts supplied—continued to stare at you.

You didn't remember much from Thomas The Tank Engine, but you did know that Sodor was an island—a place where engines were respected, even loved. And now you were one of them. A Pacific. Four leading wheels, six driving wheels, two trailing wheels. A beast of steam and iron, yet somehow *alive*.

While it wasn't that familiar to you, it was better than nothing.

"Yes sir," you began to lie, the words rattling out of you in a puff of steam—or at least, that's how it *felt*, your voice box whistling with each syllable. The foreman squinted, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since surrendered to grease. "Right. Well, I can't say I've seen your wheel arrangement before, but hey, I don't get payed enough to care, I'll have a driver and fireman for you so we can get you onto the island and to Vicarstown, Sir Topham Hatt will be waiting for you and the other loaned engines there."

The foreman walked away, muttering something about "damn surprise engines" and "bloody paperwork." You stood—no, *rested*—on the rails, the cold iron beneath your wheels humming with distant vibrations. Somewhere, another engine was moving. The scent of hot steam and damp sleepers curled around you. You were a Pacific. A 4-6-2. A beast built for speed, for pulling long expresses and maybe freight with grace—but right now, you couldn’t even inch forward.

Then, footsteps.

A wiry man in a soot streaked jacket swung up onto your footplate, his hands rough but practiced. Behind him, a younger lad—barely more than a boy—clambered aboard with a coal sack slung over one shoulder.

"Hello there, I'm Harris," the wiry man said with the most stereotypical and thickest Scottish accent you had ever heard in person, slapping your cab side with the familiarity of someone who'd spent more years married to steam than any flesh-and-blood wife. His hands—knuckles permanently darkened by coal dust—rested on your regulator like a pianist settling before a concerto. "And this lump of coal-scatter is my nephew, Lewis."

The young man—Lewis—grunted, dumping the sack with a thud that reverberated through your firebox like a bad joke. His hands were softer than Harris's, but his eyes were sharp, darting over your gauges with the nervous energy of someone who knew just enough to be dangerous. "Uncle," he muttered, "this one's pressure's sittin' like a cat on a fence. Either Phoenix's shy or someone forgot t'feed 'em proper."

Harris snorted, twisting your steam valve with a practiced flick. "Aye, well. Might be they shoved some Anglo softie in the cab last. You know how them Southerners are—all polish an' no pressure." The words were rough, but his hands were steady, coaxing your firebox into a steady roar like a blacksmith waking a sleeping forge.

Lewis tossed another shovelful of coal into your belly, the heat flaring in response. "Or," he muttered, "might be you're just a right fussy bastard."

You suddenly let out a sharp hiss of steam, rattling your buffers. The sound startled even you.

Harris chuckled, slapping your side like an old friend. "There we go! Knew you had a voice in there somewhere." He leaned out over your cab, squinting at the yard ahead. "Lewis, lad—check the injector. This one's got the thirst of a desert camel, mark my words."

Lewis muttered something uncharitable under his breath but obeyed, twisting valves with more force than finesse. Water hissed into your boiler, a cold shock against the furnace inside you. You shuddered—*actually shuddered*, your wheels grinding against the rails with a metallic groan.

"Easy now," Harris soothed, patting your cab like you were a spooked horse. "You're not some clapped-out pug engine, are ye? Nah, you're a big engine. Built for the long haul. I've only seen one like you one the Great Western." His fingers danced over your controls, coaxing pressure into something manageable. "Right. Let's see what you're made of."

The regulator opened with a reluctant groan, steam surging through your pipes like blood through veins. You *moved*—not much, just a shuddering inch forward, but it was enough to send a thrill through your frame. Lewis whooped, slapping your cab wall with a coal-blackened palm. "Aye, Phoenix's alive!"

Harris grinned, teeth yellowed by decades of pipe smoke and bad tea. "Och, listen to—Phoenix, that's what is says on your name board, doesn't it? Like the bird, aye? All fire an' ash an' risin' from the dead." His fingers drummed against your regulator, tapping out a rhythm like shoveling coal. "Well, Phoenix, welcome to the railways of Sodor. Hope you've got a thick hide."

Lewis snorted, tossing another lump of coal into your firebox with a casual underhand flick. "Aye, an' hope you like rain. It's pissin' down sideways seven days outta ten." He wiped his brow, leaving a smear of soot that blended seamlessly with his freckles. "Welcome to Sodor, ye glorified teakettle."

Harris smacked the back of Lewis’s head—not hard, but with the practiced ease of a man who’d done it a thousand times before. "Respect the engine, ye wee gremlin. This ain’t some clapped-out tram engine from Barrow." He leaned against your cab wall, thumbing the regulator with a familiarity that sent steam sighing through your valves.

They've been calling you that for some reason.

Phoenix.

The name rattled inside your firebox like a loose bolt in a shunting yard. It didn’t feel right, but neither did having eyes that blinked against coal dust or a voice that hissed through brass pipes. Still, it was better than being *No. 4721* or something like that, stamped on a builder’s plate somewhere under layers of grime.

Phoenix.

That must be what's on your name plate.

Dark crimson.

That must be your color.

Oh well, your actual name probably wouldn't have worked anyways.

The foreman had shuffled off muttering about *bloody paperwork*, leaving you alone with Harris and Lewis—two Scots who treated your firebox like an old pub hearth, shoveling coal with the casual brutality of men who knew steam better than their own wives. You *ached*, not in the human way, but in the way metal groans when pressure builds and valves stick. The regulator hissed under Harris’s calloused fingers, steam curling from your funnel like a lazy exhale.

“Right, Phoenix,” Harris said, his accent thick enough to spread on toast. “Ye’re headed tae Vicarstown, an’ Sir Topham Hatt does nae like late engines.” He slapped your cab side. “So let’s no’ keep the man waitin’, aye?”

Lewis snorted, tossing another shovelful of coal into your belly. “Aye, an’ if ye blow a tube on the way, dinnae come greetin’ tae me.” His words were sharp, but his hands were quick—adjusting injectors, checking gauges, all while chewing a wad of tobacco that smelled like burnt leather.

You shuddered as steam surged through your pipes. The rails hummed beneath your wheels, a low, insistent vibration that thrummed up through your frame like a heartbeat. The points clacked ahead—someone had thrown them for you, though you hadn’t seen who—and the line stretched out toward the distant silhouette of a bridge, its iron arches black against the dawn-gray sky.

Harris leaned out of your cab, squinting at the signals. “Clear ahead,” he muttered.

And off you went.

Chapter Text

You made your way to Vicarstown Bridge with a whistle and a shudder—your first proper journey as a locomotive, not a passenger. The rails sang beneath your wheels, a rhythmic clatter that felt less like movement and more like breathing. Harris had your regulator open just enough to keep the steam singing, while Lewis shoveled coal with the grim determination of a man who just now knew just about how much fire a Pacific needed to stay alive. The island unfolded in front of you in the near distance in patches of heather and slate, the sea a dull glint beyond the embankments.

You began to cross the Vicarstown Bridge, its red iron girders groaning beneath your weight as if complaining about the interruption of their morning solitude. The wind whipped salt and spray from the estuary below, stinging your exposed buffers—*wait, could buffers even sting?*—but the sensation was there all the same, sharp and metallic on your paint. Ahead, the sprawling mass of Vicarstown Yard sprawled like a child’s toy set left out in the rain, rails glistening under the weak morning sun.

Harris leaned out of your cab, squinting through the steam curling off your funnel. "Aye, there they are," he muttered, jerking his chin toward a cluster of engines huffing impatiently on a siding. "The other loaners."

And *what* a sight they were.

A hulking green tank engine—*a Prairie? 2-6-2?*—loomed like a disapproving schoolmaster, her buffers polished to a spiteful shine. Beside her, two blue tender engines whispered to each other in low, hissing steam, their brass fittings dull with the grime of travel. But it was the red one that caught your attention, you and him were almost the same size—but not a Pacific, but another Prairie, his much lighter shade of red paint chipped along the running boards. He rolled forward with the confidence of a stray tomcat, his whistle sharp enough to cut through the morning haze.

"Well, well," he snorted, steam curling from his funnel in lazy rings. "Look what the tide washed in, a big fat engine with blinkers? What are you, a horse?" He finished, now cackling at his own painfully unfunny joke.

You blinked—*blinked*—your smoke deflectors twitching slightly as the other ref engine’s jab landed like a poorly aimed shovel of coal. His whistle had been sharp, almost mocking, and now the others—the green Prairie and the two blues—were chuffing in what sounded suspiciously like laughter. Steam curled from their funnels in uneven bursts, their crews leaning out of cabs with expressions that just told you it was way too early for all of this.

Harris spat a wad of tobacco over your running board, unimpressed. “Och, listen tae this lot,” he muttered, accent thick enough to grease axles. “Like a pack o’ seagulls squabblin’ over a chip.”

Lewis, ever the diplomat, leaned out and shot back: “Aye, an’ yer face looks like a boiler after a bad explosion, so shut it before I come over there an’ rearrange yer buffers.”

The red Prairie—*Paget*, his nameplate declared in peeling gold—hissed steam in offense. “Oh ho, the Scots have jokes now, do they? Next you’ll be telling us you invented the railway.” His wheels ground against the rails with a screech that set your teeth—*wait, did you even have teeth?*—on edge.

Harris merely spat over your running board, the tobacco hitting the tracks with a wet *plink*. “Dinnae mind ‘im, Pheonix,” he muttered, patting your cab like you were a skittish racehorse. “That one’s got more brass polish than sense.”

"Don't worry Harris, I could already tell that much from the attitude," the words rattled out of you before you could stop yourself, steam curling from your funnel in lazy puffs. Paget's whistle cut through the yard again, shrill and mocking.

"Ooooh, the blinkered beast can speak!" he crowed, as the other three engines giggled like they were bullies at a elementary school playground—despite them being fully grown locomotives (or, fully built?). Their drivers and firemen exchanged glances, some amused, others already tired of the nonsense. Steam curled from their funnels in mocking little puffs, as if laughter itself had taken physical form.

Harris rolled his eyes so hard you could practically hear them scrape against his skull. "Aye, very clever," he muttered, spitting another wad of tobacco onto the tracks. "Dinnae ken why we bother wi’ this lot."

"Then we just don't," you offered, letting steam sigh from your valves like a shrug made of smoke.

Soon you heard a whistle from the distance, and you saw a blue tender engine which was much smaller than all of you at Vicarstown Station.

As he came closer with a coach behind him, you realized it was almost certainly Edward from the number 2 on his tender. He whistled cheerfully as he pulled into the station—a sharp, bright sound that cut through the morning mist like a blade through fog. His blue paint was faded but clean, and his brass work gleamed despite the early hour. He looked… content and happy.

When he stopped at a platform you heard a door on his coach open and footsteps crunch on the gravel as someone stepped out. The voice that followed was soft, measured, and carried the weight of authority without needing to raise itself. "Ah. You must be the loaned engines."

Sir Topham Hatt himself stood on the platform, his black suit impeccably pressed despite the hour, his top hat perched precisely on top his head. His hands—small, plump, and impeccably gloved—clasped behind his back as he surveyed the gaggle of engines with the air of a headmaster surveying a particularly unruly class.

"You," he said, pointing at Paget with a finger that carried the weight of a thousand delayed timetables, "are making *far* too much noise for this time of morning."

Paget's steam faltered mid-hiss, his buffers twitching in surprise. The green Prairie—*Adelina*, her nameplate proclaimed—chuffed quietly into her own funnel, suddenly fascinated by a loose rivet on her smokebox door. The two blue engines, both girls, were 'named' *98462* and *87564* (clearly from some railway that couldn't be bothered with proper names), pretended to examine their coupling rods with intense scrutiny.

Sir Topham Hatt's brown eyes—sharp as a signalman's lantern—swept across the assembled engines as you hoped he wouldn't realize he only bought four loaned engines and there you stood, an unplanned fifth.

"You," he said, adjusting his gloves with a crisp snap, "will report to Tidmouth Harbor for freight duties. You—" a nod toward Paget, whose firebox seemed to shrink under the weight of that gaze, "—track laying with the help of the Peel Godred Power Company." The list continued with the precision of a timetable, assigning engines to quarries, branch lines, and goods yards. When his gaze landed on you—Iron Pheonix, dark crimson and still reeking of fresh coal—Sir Topham Hatt paused. Just for a heartbeat. Then he waved a hand as if brushing off an inconvenient cinder. "And you, will handle the Wild Nor' Wester Express until further notice since Henry is under the weather again, this is already the end of the line, so your first trip will be here, Crovan's Gate, and then Tidmouth before you make your way back."

"Yes Sir," you replied simply and quietly, "I'll go get my coaches now."

Then you heard a burst laughter from the other tender engines, "A tender engine shunting coaches?" They snorted—*snorted*—steam puffing from their funnels in derisive little bursts. Paget's crew leaned out of his cab, grinning like foxes in a henhouse. "Oh, this'll be rich," one muttered, spitting onto the tracks with a wet *plop*.

Harris—bless his coal-blackened soul—didn't even dignify them with a glance. Just twisted your steam valve with a practiced flick, his accent thicker than the grease on your axle boxes: "Dinnae fret, Pheonix. Every proper engine kens how tae shunt. 'Tis like dancin’—back, forth, mind yer buffers." His hand slapped your cabside like punctuation. "An’ if they laugh, we’ll see who’s gigglin’ when yer pullin’ the Wild Nor’ Wester at top speed while they’re shiftin’ ballast up at Peel Godred."

Lewis—half-buried in your firebox—snorted. "Aye, an’ Paget’ll be wheezin’ like an asthmatic donkey on them gradients." His shovel scraped against your grate, sending sparks dancing in your belly.

Sir Topham Hatt cleared his throat—a sound like a piston seizing mid-stroke. The yard fell silent save for the hiss of steam and the distant *clank* of coupling chains. The other engines held their breath, pressure gauges trembling. Even Paget's brash whistle died in his funnel.

"Right," Sir Topham said, adjusting his hat with a precision that suggested it might explode if tilted half a degree off-center. "You have your assignments. The North Western Railway expects punctuality, efficiency, and—" his gaze flicked to Paget, who suddenly found his own wheel arches fascinating, "—*dignity.* Dismissed."

The engines scattered like startled pigeons, their crews clambering aboard with the practiced haste of men who'd rather shovel coal in a blizzard than endure another second of that glare. You, dark crimson and still warm from the run felt Harris's calloused hand pat your cabside.

"Och, weel," he muttered, thick Scots vowels dripping like axle grease. "Wild Nor' Wester, eh? Not bad on ye first day eh?"

Yeah, not bad, not bad at all.

Chapter Text

And so everyone else slowly left, buffers clanking and rods sighing as engines were drawn away to their duties. The yard emptied not all at once, but in pieces—first the impatient ones, eager to be gone, then the reluctant, who seemed to drag their wheels just a fraction longer than necessary as if hoping someone might change their mind and call them back. Steam thinned, voices faded, and the space they left behind felt wider than it truly was.

Edward lingered the longest.

He likely always did, ready to help others.

His kindly blue paint was dulled by years of honest work, the sort of wear that didn’t come from neglect but from usefulness. Scratches told stories. Chips spoke of tight clearances and long days. He waited beside the platform with the patience of someone who had learned, long ago, that rushing only made things worse.

“Well then,” he said gently, his voice low so only you could hear it. “You’ll do fine.”

Before you could reply, he gave one last encouraging toot—a short, hopeful sound—and rolled away toward Wellsworth, wheels humming softly as he disappeared around the curve. The sound lingered after he was gone, echoing faintly between the station walls.

Then even that faded.

The platform felt oddly quieter behind him.

At least one engine on this island wasn’t a complete asshole.

Small mercies, you supposed.

Vicarstown station settled into its usual rhythm with the practiced ease of a place that had seen decades—no, generations—of arrivals and departures. Porters trundled barrows stacked high with leather trunks, wicker hampers, and crates stamped with destinations you only half-recognized. Their boots scuffed against the stone in uneven patterns, punctuated by the metallic rattle of trolley wheels. Somewhere, a whistle blew—short, sharp, authoritative—and was answered by the hiss of steam escaping from safety valves along the platform.

Passengers murmured among themselves, voices muffled by scarves and collars pulled high against the cold sea air. The smell of salt drifted in from beyond the roofs, mixing with coal smoke and hot oil into something uniquely Vicarstown: bracing, industrial, alive.

Beyond the platform canopy, the harbour lay flat and cold, grey water stretching outward like a sheet of beaten metal. Ships sat at anchor, masts barely swaying, funnels dark for the moment. They looked half-asleep, as though waiting for the railway to do its part before they could properly wake.

Despite the teasing from the other engines on loan—remarks muttered just loudly enough to carry across the yard—you had been given your own coaches. That alone felt like a small vote of confidence. No being shunted off to a siding to cool your fire. No being told to “wait there and try not to be in the way.”

You had a proper job.

The Wild Nor’ Wester Express.

Whatever that meant.

Your wheels rested squarely against the platform, brakes set firm, steam drifting lazily from your cylinder cocks in pale white threads that curled and vanished into the damp morning air. The steel beneath you felt solid, familiar. Rails always did. They were certainty in a world of variables.

Behind you, the two long bogie coaches stood in dignified silence, their maroon sides polished to a deep, wine-dark sheen. Gold lining caught what little light the clouded sky allowed, tracing clean, elegant lines along their flanks. Their windows reflected the platform in fragments—hats, faces, lampposts, the edge of the canopy—like pieces of a painting viewed through broken glass.

You were ready.

Almost.

The trouble was the clock.

The great iron-faced clock at Vicarstown hung above the platform like an unblinking eye. Its black numerals were bold, unapologetic. The second hand swept around in smooth, precise arcs, utterly indifferent to your thoughts, your nerves, or your simmering impatience.

Six minutes until departure.

Six minutes of waiting.

Harris leaned against your cabside, one boot hooked comfortably on the step. He looked as much a part of you as any valve or gauge. His cap sat low on his brow, shadowing sharp eyes that missed very little. There was a way he held himself—loose but ready—that spoke of years spent reading machines and rails like other men read weather.

He worked a chew of tobacco around his mouth like a man solving a stubborn problem.

“Six minutes,” he muttered, thick Scottish vowels rounding every word. “Enough time fer a cuppa if we’d been smart enough tae bring one. An’ plenty o’ time fer yon lot tae keep flappin’ their gums.”

He jerked his head toward the yard, where the other loaned engines were being sent off to less glamorous duties. One—an experimental-looking thing with too many pipes and not enough dignity—wheezed angrily as it was coaxed toward the incline leading inland. Its exhaust beat unevenly, like a cough it couldn’t quite clear.

Lewis emerged from the firebox, soot streaked across his face like war paint. He looked pleased about it. Heat shimmered faintly around him as he stepped back into the cooler air of the cab. He spat neatly into the ashpan and snorted.

“Aye,” he said, shovel scraping rhythmically as he spread the fire with practiced motions. “An’ that red yin sounds like he’s tryin’ tae breathe through a sock. I’d take a shunter wi’ a slipped axle over that noise any day.”

Harris chuckled under his breath.

The coaches behind you stood patient, buffers just kissing yours. You rolled your wheels the slightest fraction—barely a movement at all—just enough to feel the couplings draw snug. The metallic complaint that followed was familiar, almost comforting. Weight settled behind you, pressing gently but insistently, a reminder of responsibility.

Six minutes.

Steam whispered through your pipes, a quiet, intimate sound, like breath in the dark. Somewhere deep in your boiler, water murmured against hot metal like a kettle just beginning to think about boiling. Pressure sat steady on the gauge, right where it should be.

You didn’t like standing idle.

It made you feel… unnecessary. As though you were some ornament left on a mantelpiece until someone remembered to dust you. Motion was purpose. Motion was proof.

And then there was the silence behind you.

It pressed in, subtle but present, like the pause in a conversation that’s gone on just a little too long.

You hesitated.

You knew—vaguely—that some coaches on this railway were… aware. Not all of them, perhaps. Your memories of such things were fuzzy, like half-remembered dreams or stories overheard through station walls late at night when fires burned low and talk grew loose.

Still.

Better awkward than rude.

“Hello there,” you said at last, directing your voice back along your train. “Are you all having a good day today?”

The words echoed faintly off the platform canopy and drifted away.

Nothing replied.

A faint warmth crept through your firebox that had nothing to do with the coal. Had you just embarrassed yourself? Talking to rolling stock that didn’t answer back was a quick way to earn a reputation—and not a good one. You could already imagine the yard talk. The sideways glances. The muttered comments about the new engine who talked to himself.

You were just beginning to regret it when—

“Oh! Do forgive us.”

The voice was gentle, cultured, with a careful clarity that suggested long practice at sounding composed no matter the circumstance. It carried the faintest hint of amusement, as though the speaker found the situation more charming than awkward.

“We were resting our eyes for a moment,” it continued. “It’s been a rather long night.”

The first coach shifted slightly on her bogies, window straps rattling delicately. The movement was controlled, graceful, like someone adjusting their posture in a drawing room. If she could have smoothed her paintwork, she would have.

Behind her, the second coach gave a sharper clank, as if adjusting herself with less patience.

“Aye, long night’s puttin’ it politely,” came a second voice—brighter, rougher around the edges, with unmistakable northern grit. “Been dragged up an’ doon half the island while they tried tae sort out that green engine’s troubles. I swear one o’ them yard lads near shook me windows loose.”

You let out a slow breath of steam you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief washed through your frames, loosening something tight and coiled.

“Well,” you said, feeling steadier now, “I’m glad you’re… awake, then. I hope I can make your day a bit better. And smoother.”

There was a pause.

Then both coaches gave a small, surprised shudder, couplings clicking softly as if sharing a glance only they could see.

“How considerate,” said the first coach warmly. “Most engines don’t trouble themselves with such thoughts.”

Harris raised an eyebrow at that, glancing back along the train. He said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Lewis grinned faintly and went back to his fire, shovel moving in an easy rhythm.

“I’m Iron Phoenix,” you added, almost as an afterthought. The name still felt new on your plates, heavy with expectation. “But just Phoenix is fine.”

The clock ticked.

Five minutes.

“Well then, Phoenix,” said the refined coach, “it’s a pleasure. I’m Marigold.”

“And I’m Thistle,” added the second, without ceremony. “An’ don’t worry—we’ve had worse than a polite newcomer. You seem sound enough.”

You absorbed that quietly.

Names mattered. Even if you weren’t sure why, they felt like anchors—something solid to hold onto in a place where so much was unfamiliar. Marigold and Thistle. Warmth and spine. Grace and grit.

“So,” you ventured, feeling a little bolder now, “this Wild Nor’ Wester Express… it’s important, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Marigold without hesitation. “It connects Tidmouth to Vicarstown via the Main Line—southward across the island. Businessmen, officials, families… all expect to arrive promptly and comfortably.”

“Aye,” Thistle added. “An’ they complain like it’s a competitive sport if they don’t.”

That earned a low chuckle from Harris.

“Truth in that,” he said. “Main Line’s the spine o’ the whole railway. Everything else hangs off it like ribs.”

The minute hand crept forward with infuriating calm.

Four minutes.

Beyond the platform, the rails gleamed faintly where the damp air kissed polished steel. The Main Line stretched away from Vicarstown, curving inland before running northward across the island—through yards and junctions, over embankments and viaducts, past fields, villages, and places whose names you did not yet know but would come to recognize by feel and sound.

Freight, passengers, coal, mail—everything flowed along it sooner or later. The railway’s bloodstream.

You would be carrying part of that flow.

A flutter of anticipation ran through your motion, a tremor that settled into readiness. Your fire burned steady and strong. Your boiler held its pressure like a promise.

The station felt suddenly very still.

Porters stepped back from the edge of the platform, wiping hands on their jackets. Doors slammed shut along the coaches with a series of firm, final thuds. A guard raised his flag, arm straight, posture sharp.

Three minutes.

Harris straightened, hand settling on the regulator. His touch was light, respectful. Lewis checked the fire one last time, then braced himself against the cab wall, boots planted wide.

Passengers leaned out of windows, craning for a better look at you. You felt their eyes like weight—curiosity, expectation, judgment.

The stationmaster strode forward, moustache bristling, pocket watch gleaming in his hand. He gave the coaches a sharp, assessing look, then turned his gaze on you. It lingered there a moment longer than necessary.

“Wild Nor’ Wester Express,” he called. “On time.”

The words landed with the finality of a verdict.

Harris didn’t waste a second.

The regulator eased open.

Steam surged, deep and powerful, filling your cylinders with a roar that echoed beneath the canopy and bounced back at you in waves. Your pistons drove, rods flashed, and your wheels turned—slow at first, the immense mass behind you resisting motion, then steadier as steel overcame inertia.

The couplings snapped taut with a decisive crack.

Marigold gave a small, startled gasp, quickly composed.

Thistle laughed outright, the sound bright and bracing. “There we go!”

You moved.

Out of Vicarstown, past the waiting faces and waving hands, past the lamps and signs and the familiar confines of the platform. The rails sang beneath you, a rising note that climbed as speed built. Steam streamed from your funnel, trailing behind like a banner torn from cloud.

The harbour slipped past in a blur of grey and steel. The curve came, and you leaned into it, weight shifting smoothly. The station fell away behind you, reduced to memory and echo.

You didn’t yet know how fast you could go.

But you were about to find out.

And the island of Sodor—its rails, its engines, its stories—would very soon learn to watch.

Chapter Text

You began to move.

The rails *sang* beneath your wheels—not the tentative hum of a shunting engine, but the full-throated roar of a Pacific stretching her legs for the first time. Steam surged through your pipes like blood through veins, pistons hammering a rhythm that shook loose coal dust from your frame. The platform at Vicarstown blurred into streaks of soot-stained brick and brass fittings as you accelerated, Marigold and Thistle's startled gasps swallowed by the wind.

When you fully left the station, you began to pick up speed—real speed—and the rails beneath you became less of a song and more of a scream. The wind tore at your smokebox door, whistling through your deflectors like a banshee loose in your pipes.

Harris' calloused hands danced across your controls—regulator eased open, reverser set for speed, injector valve cracked just enough to keep the boiler singing without drowning the fire. Your smoke deflectors, those broad iron wings flanking your smokebox, bit into the morning air like a hawk's pinions. At speed, they did their job too well—lifting smoke clear of your cab but funneling the wind's full scream straight into Harris's face. The Scotsman squinted through the gale, his cap's earflaps whipping like a demented gull's wings. "Och, ye could strip paint wi' this!" he bellowed over the din, voice shredded by velocity.

Lewis—half-buried in your firebox—scooped coal with the frantic rhythm of a man trying to outrun his own heartbeat. "Aye, an' I can see me gran's knittin' in the flames!" His shovel scraped your grate, sending sparks spiraling up into the steam-hazed sky.

Oh yeah, smoke deflectors did help do that.

Neat.

Anyways you continued on your way and decided to make small conversation again with the Wild Nor' Wester Express coaches behind you—Marigold and Thistle—as you steamed past the outskirts of Vicarstown. The countryside yawned open around you, fields still silvered with dawn’s damp breath.

"So what is this railway like anyways?" you asked the coaches behind you, steam curling from your funnel in lazy puffs as the water troughs at Crovan's Gate flashed beneath your wheels. The deflectors—those great iron wings flanking your smokebox—lifted the smoke clear of your cab, giving Harris a clear view of the signals ahead.

Marigold gave a delicate little cough—the sort of sound made by a duchess discovering an inferior brand of tea. "The *North Western Railway*," she corrected with the air of someone who'd been polishing that phrase for decades, "is the *only* proper railway on Sodor. Not like those *dreadful* tramways up at Arlesdale."

Thistle snorted, her couplings rattling with the force of it. "Aye, an' the Main Line's seen more scrapin's than a docker's knees since Henry took poorly again. That big lump o' green lard couldn't pull a sick whippet off a meat pie." Her Lancashire accent thickened with every word, vowels stretching like overworked coupling chains.

Okay, now Thistle was just being a dick.

You huffed steam—not a full vent, just enough to let the coaches know their commentary on Henry's work ethic wasn't appreciated. "Hey, go easy on the sick stuff," you rumbled, feeling Harris's approving pat on your regulator. "While I never met the guy, I'm sure that he's still trying his best."

Anyone who's a main character could only be so deserving of people (or well, coaches) talking behind his back (tender? cab? You should probably talk to the other engines more to see what they often said so you could stick out less.)

While it would probably never make sense to anyone else, you could hear Thistle blush in embarrassment. Her couplings gave a guilty little clink, like teaspoons dropped at a formal dinner. "Aye, well. Suppose that weren't fair," she muttered, window straps rattling a sheepish rhythm against her frame.

Marigold sniffed—a sound like steam escaping a precisely-adjusted safety valve. "*Quite.* Henry arrived back in January and from what we've seen and experienced, when he works, he certainly works, but when he doesn't..." She trailed off with a rattle of her window straps that spoke volumes.

The rails ahead curved through a cutting where the morning mist still clung between slate walls. You felt Harris lean into the regulator—not pushing harder, just holding steady against the grade. His voice rumbled through your frame like coal sliding down a chute: "Aye, an' how many Wild Nor' Westers have ye pulled, coach? Fifty? Sixty?"

Thistle's buffers twitched. "*Pull*? Fifty? Sixty? We've *been* pulled—dragged—screeched—"

Harris cut her off with a snort that sent steam curling from your funnel in derisive puffs. "Och, dinnae start wi' the theatrics, coach. Yer buffers are tighter than a vicar's purse strings." His boot scraped your cab floor as he nudged the regulator open another notch. The rails beneath you hummed higher, wind screaming through your deflectors like a firedrake loose in your pipes.

Lewis—still half-buried in your firebox—flung coal with the rhythm of a man beating a rug to death. "Ye ever pulled express stock before, Phoenix?" His shovel scraped against your grate, sending sparks spiraling into the steam-hazed morning like fireflies fleeing a furnace.

Harris snorted—a sound like a cylinder cock venting steam—and leaned against your regulator with the casual arrogance of a man who'd spent more years on footplates than on pews. "Och, course they haven't. Look at 'em—not a single sign of usage an' wear an' tear, fresh off th'works, I'd bet my last shillin'." His thumb jerked toward your spotless buffer beams where the crimson paint gleamed like fresh blood under morning light. "Well Phoenix?"

Well then, there wasn't really a point in lying, "No, I never have."

Harris barked a laugh—sharp as a coupling pin snapping home. "Christ, an' here we are throwin' ye straight at th' Wild Nor' Wester like chuckin' a kitten in a coal chute." His boot scraped your cab floor as he eased the reverser back a notch, your pistons settling into a smoother rhythm. Steam curled from your funnel in lazy agreement. "Dinnae fret, Phoenix. Every engine's maiden run's a shambles."

Yeah, you didn't even know what he meant with that last sentence.

Then you realized that despite being your driver and fireman, you didn't know anything about them besides the fact that they were Scottish and Harris was Lewis's uncle.

"So..." you began awkwardly, steam curling from your funnel in hesitant puffs as the rails beneath you straightened out past Hackenbeck Junction. The distant smudge of Crovan's Gate's water tower grew slowly larger against the horizon. "What made you two begin working on the rails?"

Lewis—half-buried in your firebox—snorted loud enough to send coal dust puffing from your ashpan. "Same reason any Scotsman these days leaves home—either famine or bad choices." His shovel scraped your grate with the rhythm of a man who'd learned sarcasm before shoveling techniques.

Harris didn't even glance up from adjusting your injector. "Yep."

"You know you talk a lot for a big engine," Marigold huffed as Crovan's Gate's water tower loomed ahead, "Most big engines that have pulled us just stay quiet and focus on hauling."

"Well, like I said back at Vicarstown," you muttered through gritted teeth as Crovan's Gate's water tower loomed larger, steam curling from your funnel in defiant puffs, "I had *four minutes* to kill. Might as well learn something useful." The rails beneath you thrummed with the particular resonance that came just before a water stop—that fleeting moment where momentum and necessity balanced like a shunter's coupling pin teetering on a railhead.

"You are quite a queer engine," Thistle added.

Wait,... what?

"Q-queer?" You asked in sheer surprise as you pulled into Crovan's Gate, your voice momentarily drowning out the hiss of steam and clatter of brakes. The water tower's shadow stretched across your boiler like a disapproving finger.

Harris spat a wad of tobacco onto the gravel with the wet thwack of a fish hitting pavement. "Aye, queer as a three-wheeled coach," he muttered, adjusting your injector valve with hands blackened by decades of coal dust. "Most engines dinnae chatter like market fishwives halfway t' Knapford." His Scottish brogue rolled the R's like loose wheels on a downhill grade.

Lewis—emerging from your firebox like a coal-dusted badger—flashed a gap-toothed grin. "Dinnae fash yersel', Phoenix. Means yer interestin'. Anyways since we've got time, best grab a drink afore we leave. Apparently we're five minutes ahead an' there's twenty 'til departure." His shovel clanged against your tender step as he swung down, boots crunching gravel in that particular rhythm of railwaymen who'd spent more years on ballast than pavement.

You decide to follow Lewis's advise, better safe than sorry, after all.

Besides, from what you could remember from the show of Thomas The Tank Engine, it's that not listening to your driver and fireman is a surefire way to end up in a ditch—or worse.

So when you were uncoupled from Marigold, you began your way to the water tower to refill—which was a strange sensation. Your tender gulped down water like a drunkard at closing time, the liquid sloshing against iron walls with hollow, metallic gulps. Harris monitored the intake with a critical eye, occasionally tapping the side of your tender like a butcher judging a side of beef. "Dinnae overfill," he muttered. "Last thing we need's water sloppin' aboot like a drunkard's next drink."

Lewis leaned against your cab side, chewing on a crust of bread that looked like it had been baked during the last war (which you suspected was much further back than you first thought, what with how everyone dressed and how everything looked). "So," he said around a mouthful of dubious carbohydrates, "ye really dinnae ken anythin' aboot the railway life?"

Chapter Text

You hesitated. Steam curled from your funnel in thoughtful puffs, drifting sideways in the yard breeze like ideas that refused to settle.

“I know… bits. Enough to get by.”
The half-truth tasted like coal dust on your tongue.

Which you were a bit scared you’d actually like the taste of now.

Lewis wiped his hands on trousers that had started life as black but were now more grease than fabric, the cloth stiff enough to stand up on its own if you ever dared remove it. He gave you a sideways look, one eyebrow permanently higher than the other thanks to an incident involving a misjudged shovel swing and a low cab roof years back.

“Well, yer a quick learner, Phoenix,” he said. “Most engines take weeks tae figure out waterin’ without floodin’ their own ashpan.” His grin split his face wide, revealing the gap where a tooth had once lived before a coupling chain had decided it didn’t like him very much.

The water tower’s shadow stretched long across the yard as Harris tapped your tender’s side with his knuckles, listening like a doctor knocking on a chest.
“Right, that’s enough. Any more an’ ye’ll be sloshin’ like a drunkard’s stomach after payday.”

He spat tobacco juice onto the gravel, where it darkened like a stain of bad decisions and poor life planning.

Marigold’s voice carried crisply from the platform, prim as a governess counting silverware.

“*Really*, Thistle, must you *clatter* so? We’re not cattle trucks!”

“Aye, well maybe if someone’d oiled me door hinges since Queen Vic was knee-high tae a buffer beam—”

Thistle’s retort ended in a metallic screech that set your teeth on edge and made several pigeons abandon the canopy roof in a flurry of offended feathers.

Harris winced. “Christ alive. Sounds like someone scrapin’ a shovel down a blackboard.” He jerked his chin toward Crovan’s Gate’s signal box, where a striped arm crept upward with arthritic slowness, gears whining like they resented being awake this early.
“Right. Back tae work, ladies.”

You rolled forward, feeling the water shift in your tender with the sluggishness of a half-drowned thought. The coupling chains clinked together like drunken toastmasters arguing over whose round it was as you backed toward the coaches.

Thistle snorted when buffers met.
“Och, gentle like! I’m not some dockside luggage van ye can ram at full—”

The rest vanished in a hiss of steam as Harris cracked your regulator open. The stationmaster’s flag dropped with finality.

You *moved*.

Not just lurched.

Not just shuffled.

Moved.

The rails sang differently now—less scream, more throaty chuckle—as you settled into the rhythm of open track. Wind tore at your deflectors, clawing and whistling through the gap where Lewis hadn’t latched your coal bunker properly. Coal dust spiraled into the air behind you like a black comet tail.

Harris leaned out, squinting at the signal ahead where a green eye winked between rolling steam clouds.

“Right then, Phoenix. Let’s see what sort o’ engine ye really are.”

His hand closed on the regulator.

And the world became speed.

Your pistons hammered like a blacksmith’s heartbeat gone berserk. Not fast—*furious*. The countryside blurred into streaks of emerald hedges and slate walls, fields flattening into impressionist smears as you devoured the Main Line south of Crovan’s Gate. Telegraph poles flicked past like a deck of cards being thrown by a lunatic.

Harris rode the regulator like a drunkard clinging to salvation, boots braced, teeth bared in something between a grin and a grimace. His cap’s earflaps whipped against cheeks gone ruddy with velocity. The Wild Nor’ Wester coaches—Marigold and Thistle—rattled behind you in a symphony of indignant squeals and prim gasps, their complaints swallowed whole by the wind screaming through your deflectors.

“Phoenix, dear!” Marigold called faintly. “I *do* hope you’re aware this is *highly* irregular—!”

“YEEEE-HAAAA—!” Thistle whooped immediately after, followed by a torrent of northern profanity that would’ve made a navvy pause and take notes.

“Christ’s bleeding—”

Lewis’s curse vanished under the metallic shriek as you hit a crossover at who-knows-how-many miles per hour, your entire frame shuddering like a nervous racehorse that had just realized the fence was optional. Your firebox pulsed with each revolution, casting hellish orange light across Harris’s face, where sweat carved coal-dust canyons down his cheeks.

The rails between Crovan’s Gate and Tidmouth weren’t straight. They twisted like a drunkard’s tale—climbing through cuttings where morning mist still clung to the bracken, dipping through shallow valleys where sheep stared in slack-jawed disbelief at the steel thunder ripping past their breakfast.

Then a giant hill came.

If you remembered right, this was Gordon’s Hill.

But since you were pulling the Wild Nor’ Wester Express, that meant he probably wasn’t here yet.

So then… what was this hill called?

The gradient hit like a drunkard’s fist—sudden, brutal, and with absolutely no regard for your carefully prepared boiler pressure. Fire licked hungrily at your tubes as Lewis shoveled like a man possessed, each scoop of coal slammed home with the violence of someone personally offended by gravity.

The hill—Gordon’s Hill, Henry’s Hill, Whatever-The-Bloody-Hell-It-Was-Called—rose before you like a slate-colored nightmare, its crest hidden in low-hanging clouds that clung like damp cotton wool to the surrounding trees.

Harris threw your regulator wide.
“OCH, COME ON YE GREAT BRASS-BOTTOMED—!”

His voice was torn away by the wind’s howl as your wheels bit iron, pistons hammering like a boxer’s heart mid-fight. Somewhere behind, Marigold screamed something about decorum and structural integrity, while Thistle rattled off Lancastrian profanities that would’ve made a sailor blush and a priest consider early retirement.

You couldn’t just half-ass this.

You’d been coasting on politeness, on restraint, on *trying not to stand out* ever since you’d arrived. Playing the agreeable newcomer. The engine who didn’t push, didn’t boast, didn’t show too much too soon.

That would not get you over this hill.

You had to go all out.

Full power.

No more holding back.

Your fire roared as Lewis flung coal with the manic rhythm of a man shoveling his own grave and enjoying the exercise. Steam screamed through your pipes like a thousand kettles boiling over at once. Pressure surged—not dangerously, but eagerly, like a dog finally let off the leash.

Harris rode your regulator like a drunkard clinging to salvation, voice shredded by the gale.

“GIE IT LALDY, YE GREAT CANDLE-SNIFFIN—!”

The rest vanished as your wheels *bit*—not slipped, not screamed—*bit* into the rail.

You climbed.

And climbed.

And climbed.

And at some point your internal monologue dissolved entirely into one long, incredulous scream of:

OKAY HOW FUCKING BIG IS THIS GODDAMN HILL?!

But still—you continued to climb it.

Your exhaust beat didn’t falter. It deepened, steadied, turned into something almost… relaxed. The hammering fury settled into a powerful, confident cadence, like a runner finding their stride halfway through a marathon.

And then you noticed something strange.

This… wasn’t that hard.

Which made absolutely no sense.

You were bigger than Gordon. Similar wheel arrangement, sure, but still—mass was mass. Steel was steel. Even with only two coaches, this grade should’ve made you *work*.

You waited for the burn.

The strain.

The creeping dread of pressure loss.

It never came.

Instead, you felt… comfortable.

Strong.

As if the hill was making demands you’d been built specifically to ignore.

The crest arrived not with a whimper, but with a thunderous belch of steam that scattered sheep from the trackside like offended dignitaries. Wool and outrage went flying in equal measure.

Tidmouth sprawled below in the distance—a quilt of slate roofs and smoking chimneys stitched together by gleaming rails. The station canopy glinted like a misplaced monocle in the sun, and you realized, with a jolt that rattled your buffers, that you’d crested the incline smoother than butter sliding off a hot shovel.

Harris wiped his forehead with a rag that might once have been white.
“Well bugger me sideways,” he muttered, staring at your pressure gauge like it had just recited Shakespeare. “Either we’re lighter than a feather or you’re stronger than a whisky-fueled stoker in a bar fight.”

Lewis emerged from the firebox looking like a coal-dusted ghoul, eyes wide, hair plastered flat with sweat. He stared at the gauge. Then at the track behind. Then at you.

“…I did *not* expect that.”

The downhill side was even more merciful. The gradient eased off with the grace of a drunkard sliding off a bar stool, leaving your wheels to settle into a rhythm that could only be described as smug.

Harris leaned out of the cab again, squinting at the gauge like it had personally offended him.

“Either ye’ve got the luck o’ the devil,” he muttered, “or someone up there likes ye.” He jerked a thumb skyward for emphasis.

Honestly, given you were reborn as a train, anything was possible.

Marigold chimed in, voice carefully composed but undeniably pleased.
“Perhaps Phoenix simply has *better* builders than certain *other* engines we could mention.” Her window straps rattled with the unmistakable sound of judgment.

Thistle laughed so hard her buffers clanked.

“Och, hear that? That’s called *superior engineering*, love!”

Yeah. You’d be talking to her again after this.

Soon enough, Tidmouth Station loomed ahead. You rolled in *early*—not absurdly so, but early enough for Harris to raise an eyebrow as he eased you down, brakes sighing contentedly.

Tidmouth was alive. Brick arches stained with decades of soot and steam loomed overhead. Porters hustled along the platform, trolleys piled with luggage and parcels wrapped in brown paper and twine. The air smelled of coal smoke, hot iron, salt, and something faintly fishy—probably the morning catch being loaded into goods vans nearby.

And then you saw them.

98462 and 87546.

Both of the girls were loitering with the unmistakable posture of engines who *knew* they were being watched and enjoyed it.

Both of them were being bitches to—

Oh.

Oh wow.

Your stomach—if you could call it that—(boiler maybe? funnel, maybe?) did something unpleasant.

It was him.

Number 1 himself.

The franchise's namesake was right there.

It was Thomas The Tank Engine.

Chapter Text

It was Thomas The Tank Engine himself.

Not the happy blue cartoon from children’s television, but the real life thing—a compact, wiry little locomotive with a short-tempered whistle and paint that had seen more touch-ups than a politician’s resume. He was currently wedged between 98462 and 87564 like a sausage in a sandwich, his buffers grinding against theirs as they shoved him toward the turntable with the grace of two bulldozers in a ballet.

"Oi! *Gerroff!*" Thomas's whistle shrieked like a scalded cat as 98462's buffers ground against his smokebox door. The little blue tank engine's wheels skidded on oily rails, his pony truck twisting like a kicked terrier. "I've got *shunting duties*, you great—"

"Shuttit, pipsqueak," 98462 growled, her Wiltshire accent thick as cold axle grease. Her buffers ground against Thomas's cab with the grating shriek of rusted iron. "This turntable's for proper engines, not for little tea trolleys like you."

You felt steam hiss between their teeth—not in anger, but in the same instinct that makes a terrier snap at a bigger dog bothering a pup. "Oi!" The word tore from your... funnel? (You know what, you have to choose something, and your boiler is practically your stomach you think so the funnel works) before they could think, their whistle sharp as a shunter's coupling pin. "Hands off the little guy!"

"Little Guy?!'

98462's buffers froze mid-shove, her smokebox door and eight driving wheels wrinkling in what could only be described as locomotive disbelief. "You *what*?" Her voice dripped with the sort of condescension usually reserved for toddlers explaining why they'd eaten mud.

87564 the cut in, her buffers scraping Thomas's cab side with the screech of rusted metal. "Oh, look what's *finally* here—the blinker beast itself!" Her voice dripped with the sort of venom usually reserved for boiler inspectors on Monday mornings.

Your steam pressure spiked before you could stop it—a hot, hissing surge that rattled your valves like an angry teakettle. "Oi! I said to keep your buffers off him!" you whistled, the sound sharp enough to make 98462's crew wince. Your wheels ground forward without thinking, uncoupling from Marigold and Thistle with a metallic clang that echoed across the station like a dropped toolbox.

Harris's boot slammed your brake cylinder. "Christ alive, Phoenix—!"

Too late.

You were already rolling, your pistons hammering with the reckless rhythm of a shunter who'd spotted a runaway wagon. 98462's driver—a wiry man with a mustache like a frayed brake hose—froze mid-shove, his mouth hanging open as your shadow swallowed Thomas whole.

The little blue tank engine blinked up at you, his safety valves puffing in startled bursts. "I—you—*what?*"

87564's fireman—a round-faced man with eyebrows like two caterpillars wrestling—dropped his shovel with a clang that echoed across Tidmouth's platform.

"Now then you two, I already know you haven't done your jobs, so how about instead of hanging up and tormenting someone else just to feel better about yourself, you go and do them, hmm?" Your voice carried across Tidmouth Station with the crisp authority of a locomotive with years of experience, your buffers barely an inch from 87564's coal bunker.

98462 recoiled like she'd been sprayed with cold water, her boiler pressure dropping visibly. "You can't—I mean—*we're* the ones—" Her spluttering died as Tidmouth's stationmaster—a man whose eyebrows could've been mistaken for runaway caterpillars—strode forward with the gait of someone who'd spent decades breaking up fights between locomotives. His pocket watch swung like a pendulum of doom.

87564's buffers ground against Thomas's cab in one last spiteful shove before she hissed steam in surrender. "Fine. But this ain't even close to being over, *blinker beast*." The nickname slithered out with all the warmth of a slipped coupling chain.

Tidmouth's stationmaster—Mr. Patrick Percival, according to his brass-buttoned uniform—cleared his throat like a steam injector clogged with rust. His pocket watch glinted like an accusation in the afternoon sun. "Right. Seeing as how we've got the Wild Nor' Wester in *eight minutes early*—" The pause stretched like cold coupling chains. "—perhaps we might *not* have engines shunting each other like dockside coal wagons?"

98462's whistle let out a strangled *peep*.

And so, 98462 and 87564 violently chuffed away.

Thomas then looked up at you with fascination, if you had to chose a word for it, "You're the biggest engine I've ever seen. You're even bigger than Henry!"

You blinked your steam momentarily puffing in surprise. "You're *Thomas*," you said dumbly, as if announcing the sky was blue or coal was black. The reality of seeing the cheeky little tank engine—whose exploits you'd half-remembered from childhood—hit with the force of a runaway coal wagon. His blue paint was duller than you recalled, streaked with oil and soot, and his buffers bore the dents of countless shunting-yard scuffles.

Harris spat onto the tracks with the wet smack of a fish hitting pavement. "Aye, and yer Phoenix, and I'm a Scotsman wi' a death wish fer takin' this job," he muttered, mopping his forehead with a rag that might've once been white. "Now if ye'll excuse me, I've a sudden urge tae drink myself intae next Tuesday." He stomped off toward Tidmouth's station tavern with the gait of a man who'd just survived a boiler explosion.

Lewis—still half-buried in your firebox—snorted loud enough to send coal dust puffing from your ashpan. "Dinnae mind him. Uncle Harris gets like this after seein' engines act like bullies. Reminds him too much o' Glasgow." His shovel hit the floor of your cab as he also walked off to who knows where.

"You already know who I am?"

Oh right... Shit.

Thomas' safety valves popped like a string of firecrackers, his wheels shifting nervously on the rails. The little blue tank engine had that look—the one terriers get when they've been caught digging in the vicar's rose garden. "I—you—" His whistle squeaked like a stepped-on rubber duck. "*How* d'you know my name?"

Your steam pressure dropped momentarily, your deflectors twitching like a startled cat's ears. The truth—that you had grown up with plastic versions of Thomas rattling across bedroom floors—wasn't exactly railway protocol. "Edward talked about you when we passed Vicarstown," you lied, watching your words puff into the damp Tidmouth air like guilty smoke signals.

Thomas seemed to just accept that, thank God.

"While I'm not little, thanks. But it's Phoenix right?" Thomas said, puffing himself up to his full diminutive height. His wheels shifted again, glancing nervously toward Tidmouth's turntable where 98462 and 87564 were now sulking by the coaling stage. Their crews shot venomous looks back your way between shoveling lumps of coal with unnecessary violence.

Okay, you understood and expected that from the engines, but what the fuck was their crew's problems with you?

"My full name is Iron Phoenix, but that's not really a proper name, now is it?" You lightly joked. Thomas blinked at you, his wheels shifting nervously on the rails like a terrier caught chewing slippers. The little blue tank engine's safety valves let out a confused puff—half-amused, half-suspicious.

"Yeah it's not," Thomas finally snorted in agreement, steam curling from his funnel in amused puffs. His wheels shifted again—not nervous now, but restless as a terrier who'd spotted a rat. "Proper names don't have 'Iron' in 'em unless you're some museum piece." The cheek in his whistle could've curdled milk.

Your regulator twitched. That stung more than it should've—probably because it was true. Your name *did* sound like something scraped off the side of a Victorian locomotive exhibit.

Thomas didn't wait for your reply. His wheels spun with the restless energy of a terrier spotting an open gate. "Anyway, proper or not, it's so nice to finally meet another big engine besides Edward that isn't such a bossy boiler!" His whistle shrieked mid-sentence, startling a flock of pigeons from Tidmouth's roof.

Wait, Edward was a big engine?

Anyways, you gently sighed, "Well, I can't say that I'm as kind as Edward, but I didn't have anything better to do than help you from those two," you said with a half chuckle.

Thomas' wheels clattered against the rails as he adjusted his position, steam puffing in short, excited bursts. "So you're staying then? Proper-like?" His voice carried the eager pitch of a terrier who'd just discovered a fresh bone.

"I'm staying as long as I can keep my firebox lit," you began as you looked out onto the yard and it's disorder, "welp, I don't suppose you want some help with shunting? I still have about twenty something minutes before I have to take the Wild Nor' Wester Express back up to Vicarstown."

Thomas' whistle let out an excited *peep* that startled a sleeping pigeon off the water tower. "You'd *help* with shunting?" His wheels skidded slightly on the rails, sending up little puffs of steam like an overeager terrier. "Tender engines never want to shunt! Well, except Edward, but that's just Edward being Edward—"

Your coupling chains rattled as you rolled forward, your buffers nudging a string of milk vans with the precision of a drunk surgeon's scalpel. Thomas watched from the turntable, his safety valves puffing in amused little bursts.

"Mind the brake van," he called, his whistle sharp as a shunter's coupling pin.

You snorted steam—half in amusement, half in frustration—as your tender clipped the van's corner with a metallic screech that set Tidmouth's station cat bolting for the luggage office.

Harris chose that moment to reappear from the tavern, his gait unsteady and his breath smelling suspiciously like distilled regret. He took one look at your shunting attempts and spat onto the tracks.

"Christ alive," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Ye shunt like a blindfolded donkey."

Yeah, you kind of already figured that by now, thanks.

Chapter Text

Lewis—emerging from the coaling stage with his arms full of grease-stained rags that smelled like old oil and worse decisions—paused mid-stride as Tidmouth’s signal box clattered to life. The distant *clack-clack* of shifting semaphore arms echoed down the line like skeletal fingers tapping against glass, each sound sharp and precise, cutting through the layered noise of the station.

“Oy, Phoenix!”

The shout came with all the subtlety of a thrown brick. Harris’s boots crunched across the cinder-strewn platform, his gait already a little too loose, the word slurring at the edges like cheap whiskey left open too long. He grabbed the cab handrail with one hand, the other bracing against your side as if the ground itself might lurch out from under him. His fingers left coal-dust smudges on polished brass that Lewis had only *just* wiped down.

“Ye thinkin’ ye can shunt better drunk than sober?” Harris demanded, breath wafting up in a hot, alcoholic cloud that could’ve powered a small boiler on its own.

The station clock chose that exact moment to remind everyone it existed. Its minute hand jerked forward with a sound like a hammer striking a tin roof, loud and final. Tidmouth’s afternoon bustle had settled into the rhythmic chaos of a well-oiled machine—porters wheeling barrows stacked high with fish crates still dripping brine onto the stone, signalmen leaning from their boxes like sailors spotting land, and the distant clatter of coupling chains as goods vans shuffled into formation down the yard.

You eased back carefully, trying to line yourself up just right.

Too late.

Harris spat onto the tracks with the wet smack of a fish hitting pavement. “Christ, Phoenix, ye shunt like a blindfolded donkey wi’ three legs,” he groaned, rubbing his temples as your tender clipped another brake van. The metallic screech set teeth on edge all the way down the platform, sending Tidmouth’s stationmaster diving for cover behind a luggage trolley with a yelp that suggested this was not his first near-death experience today.

Thomas wheezed steam in suppressed laughter, his buffers trembling like a terrier trying not to pee itself. “At least you’re *trying* to help me shunt,” the little blue tank engine managed between squeaky whistles. “Henry once backed into a cattle truck full of sheep and—”

“THOMAS!”

Tidmouth’s stationmaster bellowed across the platform, his pocket-watch chain whipping in the wind like an angry snake. His moustache bristled with such fury it looked ready to detach and seek vengeance on its own. “If you’ve time to gossip like a fishwife, you’ve time to shunt the 3:15 perishables!”

Your firebox pulsed with something that sat awkwardly between secondhand embarrassment and genuine amusement. If nothing else, this railway had *energy*.

“Well then, I gotta get back to work, Phoenix!” Thomas whistled brightly, already rolling backward toward a string of empty cattle trucks. His wheels slipped slightly on the greasy rails—restless terrier energy never quite contained. “See you later at the sheds tonight!”

“See you then, Thomas!” You made sure to whistle back, a clean, friendly sound that carried over the yard. You watched the cheeky little tank engine dart off with all the grace of a terrier chasing a rat, cows lowing indignantly as he bumped into their trucks.

Huh.

Well that was… a first impression and meeting.

You’d never really considered just how *small* Thomas was until now. Not small in spirit—never that—but physically. Compared to you, he was compact, tidy, almost toy-like. And yet, next to the humans milling about Tidmouth’s platforms, he was still enormous. Children screamed with glee as Thomas rolled past with his string of cattle trucks, his whistle squeaking happily in response to their frantic waves. One boy tripped over his own feet trying to keep up and had to be hauled back by the collar by a laughing porter.

Perspective was a funny thing.

Harris staggered back into your cab with the grace of a drunken stoker descending a ladder, muttering something about “bloody Sodor whisky” while Lewis trailed behind him. Lewis’s face was smeared with coal dust, and one eye was already darkening into a spectacular bruise. Neither man seemed inclined to explain how *that* had happened.

You decided it was best not to ask.

You probably didn’t even want to know.

Soon enough, though, the shunting was done, tempers cooled—somewhat—and it was time to take the Wild Nor’ Wester Express back toward Vicarstown. You felt the familiar weight settle behind you as the coaches were coupled on, Marigold primly adjusting herself while Thistle gave a satisfied clank, like someone cracking their knuckles before a fight.

Harris and Lewis climbed back into the cab. Harris was nursing a headache from his earlier tavern visit, muttering Gaelic curses under his breath whenever the boiler bounced too hard. Lewis, meanwhile, shoveled coal with the practiced rhythm of a man who’d done this for decades, each motion efficient, economical, almost hypnotic.

Despite the fact that he looked at most twenty-five.

That thought stuck with you longer than you expected.

You weren’t anywhere near an actual railway expert—not yet—but even *you* were fairly sure Harris probably shouldn’t be driving you right now, given how much whisky he’d clearly consumed. His reactions were just a fraction slower than they should’ve been. His grip on the regulator a touch too loose.

Past workplace standards sure were a strange thing.

Still, from what you remembered—vaguely, fuzzily—in this world engines could at least partially move on their own. Worse came to worst, you could probably get yourself to the nearest station without assistance. It wasn’t comforting, exactly, but it was something.

The rails stretched ahead, familiar now. You climbed the less harsh side of the as-yet-unnamed hill—the one that *might* still be Gordon’s Hill under another name, or perhaps something else entirely. The gradient eased off with the grace of a drunkard sliding off a bar stool, leaving your wheels to settle into a rhythm that could only be described as smug.

You crested easily. Too easily.

Then came the descent down the steeper side—the unnamed gradient that would one day bear the name of an engine not yet arrived, an engine who would probably complain loudly about it. The wind tugged at your deflectors, the sea air growing stronger with every mile.

Vicarstown came into view in a sprawl of cranes, warehouses, and clustered rooftops.

You rolled in right on time.

Or, well—early, in your case.

Again.

And there, shunting with all the delicacy of a battering ram, was the loaned green Prairie tank engine.

Adelina.

She was parked almost nose-to-nose with you, her smokebox door so close to yours you could’ve counted the scratches in her paintwork. Her green livery was dulled by salt air and hard use, and her expression—if you could call it that—was all angles and irritation.

“Ye lost?” Adelina’s voice grated like sand in a gearbox, her accent thicker than boiler scale. She snorted steam—not in greeting, but in the way a bull snorts before charging.

You’d think a railway station in the early nineteen-something-or-other would smell of coal and steam.

Vicarstown reeked of fish.

Probably because you were closer to the sea now. Or because someone, somewhere, had dropped an entire crate and decided that was tomorrow’s problem.

“No,” you said flatly. “I’m just pulling the Wild Nor’ Wester Express again.”

You didn’t bother to hide your annoyance. Steam puffed from your funnel in short, sharp bursts. The smell of saltwater and fish guts from the docks clung to your paintwork like bad news.

Adelina’s wheels ground against the rails with the slow, deliberate scrape of a knife being sharpened. Her crew—two wiry men with faces like sour milk—exchanged glances over her boiler.

“Funny,” she hissed, steam curling from her safety valves in mocking loops. “Thought they’d have scrapped ye after that botched shunt at Tidmouth.”

That hit closer than you liked.

Harris chose that exact moment to stumble out of your cab, boots hitting the platform with the wet smack of a landed cod. “Christ’s sake,” he groaned, rubbing his temples. The smell of cheap whisky rolled off him in waves. “If I wanted tae hear a boiler bitch, I’d’ve stayed wi’ me ex-wife.”

Lewis emerged behind him, wiping coal dust from his nose with a rag that might once have been white. “Uncle Harris, ye cannae say that tae—”

“Aye, an’ what’s that supposed tae mean?” Adelina snapped. Her safety valves popped like gunshots, and her wheels ground against the rails hard enough to spit sparks. Vicarstown’s porters scattered like startled pigeons as her crew—two dockworkers with forearms like piston rods—folded their arms in unison.

You exhaled slowly, steam curling from your funnel in measured, deliberate puffs. The docks stretched before you—a tangle of fish crates, rusted cranes, tangled ropes, and the endless crash of waves against stone. Adelina’s buffers ground against yours with the grating persistence of a bad toothache.

“Ye hear me, you big blinker beast?” she hissed, steam licking at your buffer beam like a serpent’s tongue. “Ye dinnae belong here.”

For the first time since you’d arrived on Sodor, the thought didn’t sting.

It hardened.

You felt your weight. Your balance. The quiet, undeniable strength humming through your frame. You weren’t perfect. You weren’t polished. But you’d hauled the Wild Nor’ Wester Express over hills that should’ve humbled you—and done it *early*.

You didn’t belong here?

Maybe so.

But you weren’t leaving either.

And for the first time, you were very curious to see who’d learn that lesson first.

Chapter Text

The buffers kissed with a sound that wasn’t quite a collision and wasn’t quite a greeting—steel brushing steel, close enough to complain about later. You felt it through your frames first, a pressure that didn’t demand movement so much as *assume* it. Adelina’s buffers rested against yours with the confidence of something that expected you to give way simply because that was how things usually went.

Steam rose from your funnel in long, patient ribbons. You let it. There was no sense in rushing words that didn’t need to be rushed.

“We’re both on loan here,” you said at last, voice steady, unhurried. “So how exactly do you belong here then?”

The dockside air pressed in from all sides. It was heavy with salt and coal smoke and fish that had seen better mornings. It worked its way into seams and joints, into paintwork and memory alike. Vicarstown never let anyone forget it was a port. Even the rails smelled different—damp and sharp, tinged with brine.

Adelina’s crew stiffened as though you’d spoken aloud what they’d been thinking since the moment you rolled in. Two wiry men, dock-born by the look of them, hands calloused from ropes and couplings rather than polish and pride. One of them tightened his grip on a brake wheel; the other leaned forward slightly, like he expected shouting to follow.

Adelina answered with a hiss.

“I’m a tank engine,” she said, steam curling from her funnel in tight, aggressive coils. “Built fer proper work. Dock work. Shuntin’, trip freights, goods what need muscle and patience. Not gallivantin’ up an’ down the Main Line wi’ other people’s coaches.”

Her wheels scraped against the rail—a deliberate sound, controlled, just enough to be felt. A warning rather than a shove.

You took it in without reacting. Your fire shifted, responding more to your own irritation than to hers, but you kept your regulator where it was. The last thing the docks needed was two engines posturing like stags.

Harris, unfortunately, had never been known for restraint.

He leaned out of your cab with the enthusiasm of a man who’d forgotten gravity existed. One hand clung to the handrail. The other lifted a whisky bottle that looked lighter than it had any right to be.

“Aye, an’ I’m the Queen o’ Sheba,” he announced, voice slurring around the words. “Ye think bein’ some dockside shunter makes ye more Sodor than an engine what’s hauled the Wild Nor’ Wester three times this day without boilin’ dry?”

The bottle wobbled as he gestured, nearly slipping from his grip. Lewis made a sharp noise behind him—half warning, half prayer—but Harris ploughed on regardless.

Adelina’s boiler answered before her mouth did. Pressure climbed audibly, a rising hiss that made nearby porters flinch. Her whistle cut through the dockside noise with a harsh, metallic shriek that sent gulls scattering and made a crate of fish tip over with a wet, unfortunate sound.

“Built fer proper work?” she snapped, shoving just enough for the buffers to grind. “I hauled on the Great Western Railway while you were still scrap sittin’ in some Birmingham yard!”

The shove travelled through your drawgear and into your frames, not painful, but invasive. The kind of contact that assumed you’d yield.

Your fire flared.

Steam surged higher, curling around both of you, fogging the space between funnels and faces. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t shove back.

“And yet,” you said quietly, “this is new ground.”

For a moment, the dock seemed to pause.

Adelina froze. Not stopped—*arrested*. Her pressure wavered, safety valves muttering uncertainly as if they’d expected more fuel for the fire and found none.

You hadn’t meant it as an insult. It simply *was*. Whatever lines she’d run before, whatever rails had known her wheels, this island was not them. Sodor had its own habits. Its own expectations. You were learning that by the hour.

She snorted, a sharp burst of steam that carried more pride than heat, then yanked her regulator open. Her wheels screamed against the points as she pulled away, exhaust barking in quick, angry bursts as she stormed into the goods yard.

Her crew followed, shoving herring vans with unnecessary force, coupling hooks clanging louder than they needed to. Dockworkers stepped aside, muttering under their breath, eager to put distance between themselves and that mood.

“Well,” you thought as the pressure bled off and your steam settled into lazy spirals, “that answers that.”

You were beginning to suspect that “loaned engine” was just another way of saying *temporarily tolerated*.

The docks slowly resumed their rhythm. Cranes creaked back into motion. A foreman shouted something that may or may not have been a swear. Somewhere, a winch resumed rattling like it had an argument with fate to finish.

Harris was still leaning out of the cab, now attempting to light his pipe.

He missed.

Once.

Twice.

The third match snapped in his fingers, and he swore fluently in Gaelic before dropping the spent stick onto the platform.

Lewis leaned against your cabside, rubbing coal grit from his nose with a sleeve that might once have been red. “Dinnae mind her,” he muttered, eyes following Adelina as she disappeared between lines of vans. “Half them loaned engines come here wi’ somethin’ tae prove. Bein’ second-fiddle tae Sodor engines sticks in their craw.”

You weren’t entirely sure when you’d become a “Sodor engine.” You still felt like you’d been dropped into the middle of someone else’s timetable without the courtesy of a briefing. Still, the rails didn’t care how you felt.

Work was work.

The rest of the day passed in motion and heat and repetition.

Vicarstown to Crovan’s Gate.

Crovan’s Gate to Tidmouth.

Tidmouth back again.

The Main Line stretched beneath your wheels like a sensible sentence—running from Tidmouth all the way south across the island to Vicarstown, laid with care and expectation. Gradients announced themselves in advance. Curves behaved. Signals stood where they should, arms clear and honest about what lay ahead.

You hauled what needed hauling. Mixed traffic in the morning. Parcels by midday. The Wild Nor’ Wester Express in the afternoon, its coaches clean and punctual, passengers peering out of windows as though the island might explain itself if stared at long enough.

Harris grew quieter as the hours wore on, bravado giving way to a pounding headache. He muttered curses under his breath whenever the boiler bounced too hard, one hand always braced somewhere solid. Lewis worked steadily beside him, shovel rising and falling with the unthinking rhythm of someone who knew your fire as well as his own heartbeat.

You learned the line by sensation rather than names. The way the rails sang differently north of Crovan’s Gate. The change in wind near Tidmouth’s platforms. The gradual shift from coal smoke to sea air as Vicarstown approached.

By the time you rolled into Crovan’s Gate for the sixth—and final—run of the day, the light had softened. Evening crept in quietly, stretching shadows across the yard. Metal ticked as it cooled. Somewhere, a signal dropped into place with a decisive clang that sounded like a full stop.

That’s when you noticed it.

The rails on the far side of the yard were narrower.

Not worn down. Not replaced poorly. *Intentionally* narrower.

You slowed without quite meaning to, attention caught like a loose thread on a bolt. Different sleepers. Different clearances. A railway built to different assumptions entirely.

Narrow gauge.

Which could only mean one thing.

The Skarloey Railway.

Your knowledge of it was vague at best—something about steep climbs, small engines, and rails that went where standard gauge had the good sense not to. You knew it connected here, at Crovan’s Gate, but seeing it in person made it feel suddenly *real*.

You were still watching when you heard it.

A light, cheerful *peep*.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just enough to say *I’m here*.

Steam drifted lazily from your funnel as the yard seemed to hold its breath. From around the bend came a small engine, paintwork worn but cared for, moving with the easy confidence of someone used to tight curves and hard climbs.

He rolled up alongside, looking up at you with open curiosity.

“Well hello there,” he said, voice bright and unassuming. “You must be new.”

The day ended not with conflict, but with the quiet sense that the island hadn’t finished introducing itself yet.

Steam rose into the evening air, mingling with coal smoke and salt, as fires were banked and rails cooled. Somewhere beyond the yard, narrow rails climbed toward places you hadn’t yet imagined—but would soon, inevitably, come to know.

Chapter Text

"Oh, hello there." You said half surprised, steam curling from your funnel in lazy puffs. The little engine rolled up alongside, his paintwork worn but cared for, brasswork gleaming under the fading Crovan’s Gate lamplight.

"You must be Phoenix," he said, his Welsh accent curling around the words like steam around a cold morning funnel. "Or well, Iron Phoenix," He started as he looked at your nameplate, "I’m Rheneas."

"Well it's nice to meet you Rheneas, and Phoenix is just fine," you whistled softly, steam curling around your buffers as the narrow gauge engine rolled closer. His red paint caught the fading lamplight differently than standard gauge engines—worn but lovingly maintained, with brass fittings polished to a warm glow despite the coal dust clinging to his wheel arches.

Harris leaned out of your cab, his whisky-scented breath fogging the cooling evening air. "Bloody hells," he muttered, squinting at Rheneas like the little engine was a puzzle missing half its pieces. "Ye're even smaller up close than them quarry trucks ye pull." His fingers drummed against your brass handrail—a nervous habit that left smudges on polished metal.

Lewis elbowed past his uncle with the grace of a sleep-deprived stoker. "Dinnae be rude, ye daft auld—" He froze mid-sentence, staring at Rheneas' wheels with the intensity of a mechanic spotting a cracked axle. "Christ alive, yer wheels are barely wider than me bootlaces!"

Rheneas' whistle peeped—not offended, but amused in the way only an engine who'd heard every variation of 'small' joke could be. "Aye, but I've climbed grades that'd make your fireman weep into his shovel," he said, steam curling in lazy spirals around his funnel. His wheels clicked over the narrow gauge points with the precise rhythm of a metronome. "Skarloey's waiting at the junction with the evening slate train if you'd care to meet proper company."

Harris snorted into his whisky. "Proper company? Next ye'll be sayin' them toy rails o' yours count as—"

"Uncle," Lewis cut in, rubbing coal grit from his nose with a rag that had given up being white three washings ago.

"I'll definitely keep that in mind, Rheneas," you said, watching his compact frame navigate the narrow gauge switches with practiced ease. The evening air carried the scent of hot metal and slate dust from his train waiting further down the line. Your buffers still tingled from Adelina's confrontation—not painful, but present, like a fading bruise.

"I take that it's your first day then?" Rheneas' whistle peeped again, softer this time—the sort of sound that wasn't so much asking a question as suggesting you already knew the answer. His wheels shifted minutely on the narrow gauge track, adjusting his position with the unconscious precision of an engine that had spent decades knowing exactly how much space he occupied.

"How could you tell?" you asked, steam curling from your funnel in slow, thoughtful puffs. The evening air smelled of hot oil and damp slate from Rheneas' waiting train.

Rheneas' wheels clicked against the narrow gauge points—a sound like a clock counting seconds. "Fresh paint," he said simply. "No scuffs on your buffer beams. And you're looking at our rails like they're some sort of magic trick." His Welsh lilt made every observation sound like a shared secret.

"I'm just curious," you began half embarrassed as you could feel a blush form on your face and hoped the heat in your boiler would mask it, "But what's it like running on narrow gauge?"

Rheneas chuckled—a sound like steam escaping a safety valve—his wheels clicking rhythmically against the rails. "I don't know, what is it like running on standard gauge?" He seemingly half asked, half joked. "For me, running on narrow gauge just feels... well, normal, I guess."

"Fair enough," you conceded with a hiss of steam, "So how long have you been on Sodor Rheneas?" The narrow gauge engine's boiler gave a satisfied rumble, his Welsh lilt softening vowels like warm butter.

"Since 1865," he said, wheels clicking over points with the precision of a pocket watch. "Back when the rails were still brand spanking new and the Skarloey Railway was just a madman's dream scratched on a tavern napkin and just called 'The Railroad', and soon it's going to be fifty seven years since me and my best friend Skarloey arrived here on Sodor."

Wait.

Rheneas and Skarloey both arrived here in 1865, possibly when the American civil war was still going on.

And they had 'only' been here for fifty seven years.

You did some quick math in your head.

1865 to 1922 was fifty seven years exactly.

That meant you were one hundred and four years in the past.

The Roaring Twenties hadn't even fully roared yet.

Then horror slowly dawned on you.

You'd have to see so much over those one hundred and four years. The Great Depression. World War Two. The Cold War. The end of steam itself.

And so much more.

And honestly, that terrified you.

But right now, the evening smelled of hot oil and damp slate, and Rheneas was watching you now with some concern, "Are... are you alright Phoenix?" He asked gently, steam curling from his funnel in soft, slow puffs.

You couldn't answer. The numbers rattled through your frames like loose bolts in a braking van.

1922.

You had a feeling you where in the past, but you couldn't be sure given this world and even then, you didn't think it was so far back.

The numbers swirled in your head like loose ballast in a poorly-loaded wagon—1922. Before television. Before penicillin. Before anyone thought to put seatbelts in automobiles that still looked like horseless carriages. Your fireman was drunk before noon and no one batted an eye. The rails beneath you were younger than some of the trees lining the cuttings.

Rheneas' whistle peeped again, softer this time—a sound like steam escaping a tired boiler. "Ye've gone quiet as a cold firebox," he observed, his Welsh lilt rounding the words like well-worn wheel flanges. His narrow-gauge wheels clicked against the points with the rhythmic patience of someone who'd waited out worse silences.

"O-oh, yeah, sorry, I was just..." You trailed off, steam curling in weak puffs from your funnel. The numbers still rattled through your frames—1922 wasn't just history, it was *now*, and the implications clung like cold grease to your piston rods.

Rheneas clicked forward on the narrow gauge track, his compact frame dwarfed by your standard gauge bulk. "Ye look like someone just told ye yer firebox was lined with sea water," he observed, Welsh lilt softening the edges of his concern.

Then the stationmaster blew his whistle—one sharp *peep* that cut through the evening haze like a blade through tar paper. The sound echoed off Crovan's Gate's slate roofs, bouncing between goods sheds and signal boxes until it reached the narrow-gauge junction where Rheneas waited with the quiet patience of mountains.

"Oh! Sorry Rheneas, but I have to get going so I can finish this one last run before I rest for the evening!" You half screamed awkwardly as you began to puff off into the evening gloom, steam curling from your funnel in hurried bursts. The stationmaster's whistle still echoed in your mind like a guilty conscience—sharp, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

Rheneas merely chuckled, his Welsh lilt carrying easily over the clatter of your wheels. "Aye, don't let me keep you! But mind you drop by the quarry someday—Skarloey would love to meet you!" His whistle peeped once more, a cheerful sound that faded into the distance as you accelerated away.

Harris slumped against your cabside, groaning dramatically as Lewis shoveled coal with the grim determination of a man who knew exactly how much whisky his uncle had consumed. "Christ's bones," Harris muttered, fingers clutching at his temples. "Why'd the wee bastard have tae be so loud?"

You didn't answer. The numbers still rattled in your boiler—1922, 1922, 1922—like loose rivets in a poorly-maintained firebox. The implications were staggering. You'd known, abstractly, that this world existed in some nebulous "past," but confronting the reality of it left your pistons feeling oddly hollow.

Lewis wiped sweat from his brow with an already-grimy sleeve. "Dinnae mind him," he said, jerking his head toward Harris. "Uncle's always cranky when he's sobering up." The shovel scraped against your tender floor as he dug out another lump of coal. "Though I cannae blame ye fer lookin' like ye've seen a ghost. That wee engine's been runnin' these rails since before you were a spark in some engineer's eye."

The rails stretched ahead, silver ribbons in the fading light, carrying you back toward Tidmouth with the evening’s last train. The rhythm of your wheels settled into something familiar—*clack-clack*, *clack-clack*—a steady heartbeat against the iron. Harris groaned again, his forehead pressed against your cabside like he was trying to cool his headache through sheer willpower. Lewis shoveled another scoop into your fire, the glow flickering across his soot-streaked face.

"You’re thinkin’ too loud," Harris muttered, voice thick with whisky and weariness. "I can hear yer pistons whirrin’ from here."

You didn’t answer. The numbers still coiled in your boiler—1922. The Great War was barely four years past. The world you remembered hadn’t even been dreamed of yet.

But soon you reached the famous Tidmouth Sheds itself.

One day it would house Thomas, Edward, Henry, Gordon, James, Percy, Toby, and Emily.

But right now it was, Thomas, Edward, Henry, 87564, 98462, Adelina, Paget, and finally yourself.

Henry looked... sick, if you had to describe it.

And somehow Paget looked even more beat up now then when you first saw him at Vicarstown Station?

Did you even want know what the fuck he was up to today considering the other three today?

No, but the thought rattled through your boiler as you coasted into Tidmouth Shed's dimly lit shed regardless, steam curling around their battered buffer beams.

Ahead, Paget rested on the rails next to you on the shed, looking as cocky as he did earlier at Vicarstown Station, though now with fresh dents and scuffs along his boiler. His usual sneer faltered when he caught you staring—briefly—before he snapped his attention forward with a sharp hiss of steam.

"That one's had a rough day," Lewis muttered under his breath, tossing a glance at Paget's battered frame. The words were barely out before Harris snorted, clutching his half-empty whisky bottle tighter.

"Aye, an' serves 'im right," he slurred, voice thick with drink and exhaustion. "Bleedin' Southern engines think they own the rails jus’ ‘cause their paint’s shiny." He took a swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then glared at Paget like he personally blamed him for the throbbing in his skull.

You didn't even bother to say anything to that.

You were just tired, filled with new found dread, and halfway you were hoping this was all a weird lucid dream of some kind...

Chapter Text

But of course, Paget had to say something, "Oi, not going to say anything, you big blinker beast?" He spat steam at your buffers, his Southern Railway lisp making 'beast' sound like 'bee-yist'. The insult bounced off your plating, but his following words hooked into your boiler like shrapnel. "Bet you couldn't pull a wheelbarrow uphill if—"

"You'd best shut your pop valve before I shut it for you," you hissed—steam jetting from your cylinders with enough force to rattle loose coal in Paget's tender. The sudden aggression surprised even you; it came from somewhere deep in your firebox, primal as a piston stroke.

That and you were just done with all of this shit.

"And at least I don't look as beat up as you do," you shot back before realizing how childish it sounded. Steam curled from Paget's funnel in erratic bursts—the telltale sign of an engine overheating with rage. His buffers trembled against their housings.

Lewis and Harris only laughed as they got out of your cab.

Actually,... where were they going to sleep?

Did modern apartments exist yet?

You're still staring at the question rattling in your boiler when you hear 98462 and 87—whatever her number was, she was too far for you to see it, and you never bothered to remember it—joining in with Paget's jeering, their voices sharp as flint striking steel in the dim shed.

Their words don’t stick—just noise, steam hissing off hot metal—but Henry’s wheezing cough does. It rattles deep in his cylinders, the sound of an engine running on borrowed time.

"Oh shut up, you tendered lemon!" Adelina snapped at Henry, her GWR paintwork gleaming under the flickering gas lamps despite fresh scrapes along her running board. Her Welsh accent curled around the insult like steam around a cold funnel. "You're coughing worse than a tramp engine on wet coal!"

Henry wheezed in response, his sickly green paint dulled by coal dust and exhaustion. A thin trail of steam escaped his safety valves—the telltale sign of an engine running dangerously hot. His crew had already draped tarpaulins over his boiler like a fever patient wrapped in blankets.

"And how about you leave Henry alone?" You hissed steam at Adelina's buffers before realizing you'd spoken—the words escaping like pressure from an overtaxed safety valve.

Adelina's Welsh accent curled like smoke from a dying fire. "Oh, another *expert* on boiler maintenance?" Her wheels shifted minutely on the rails, a predator adjusting before the strike. "Tell me, Phoenix—did your designer include a manual for sticking your funnel where it doesn't belong?"

"I could ask you the same thing," you hissed, steam curling from your funnel in tight, agitated spirals. The shed smelled of hot metal and old coal, the sort of scent that clung to paintwork like regret. Adelina's wheels shifted again—that predatory adjustment—her buffers gleaming under the flickering gaslight like teeth.

Paget snorted, his Southern lisp dripping with mockery. "Ooh, someone's got their pistons in a twist." His whistle shrieked—a sound like nails dragged across slate. "Tell me, Blinker Beast—did they forget to oil your temper when they built you?"

Edward and Thomas chose that moment to intervene from their spots in the shed of the other side from where you were now resting, their wheels rolling forward with quiet authority. Edward's lamp cast a warm glow over the tense scene—light catching the condensation dripping from Adelina's overworked pistons, the uneven flicker of Henry's firebox, the way Paget's battered sideplates still trembled from whatever beating he'd taken earlier.

"You're all acting like shunters who've had their bumpers welded crooked," Edward said, voice calm but edged with the sort of quiet disappointment that made even mature engines feel like misbehaving coaches. His Northern accent rounded the words without softening them. "This isn't Knapford Yard at rush hour."

Thomas added his own peep—softer than usual, but no less pointed. "And Henry *isn't* a lemon, he's an engine," he muttered, his small wheels shifting uncomfortably on the rails. The shed lamps flickered, casting shadows that made Henry's wheezing boiler look like a dying hearth.

God you were just so tired...

You decided to just try and fall asleep.

Hopefully you could sleep.

The sheds smelled of coal dust and hot metal—that sharp, familiar scent that clung to everything like secondhand smoke. Somewhere in the gloom, Henry coughed again—a wet, rattling sound that made your own firebox ache in sympathy. Paget muttered something crude under his breath, but for once, even he seemed too exhausted to pick a fight. The gas lamps flickered, casting long shadows that slithered across the rails like snakes made of soot.

Sleep didn’t come easy. Not with the numbers still rattling in your boiler—1922, 1922, 1922—like loose rivets in a poorly maintained firebox. You stared at the ceiling of the shed, counting the iron beams instead of sheep. Somewhere outside, an owl hooted. The wind sighed through the cracks in the wooden walls.

Then—you began dreaming(?).

You weren't sure when sleep had claimed you, but the dream came sharp as a coupling collision.

Your were in a quarry now, somehow. The dream had slipped between sleep and waking like steam between piston rings—one moment the dark shed with Henry's rattling cough, the next this impossible place where some narrow-gauge tracks spiraled up slate cliffs like rust-colored ivy. The air smelled of crushed stone and hot bearings.

Ahead of you on another standard gauge track was a small, Victorian-styled (if you had to guess) tank engine. She was painted a sort of red-violet colour with gold lining on her tanks, boiler, cylinders and bunker. Her name was displayed on her tanks in ornate gold lettering.

Lady.

Her buffers, lamps, smokebox, chimney cap, dome and coupling rods were also gold. Her running board, cab roof and chimney base were all painted in a darker shade of purple.

Her eyes were closed.

"Uh, hi?" You asked, more confused then ever, steam curling from your funnel in slow, uncertain puffs. The dream-quarry smelled of hot slate and axle grease—too vivid for sleep, too surreal for waking.

Lady remained motionless, her gold-lined purple frame catching the harsh quarry light oddly—not gleaming, but absorbing it, as if she’d been painted with ground amethysts and molten brass. When she finally opened her eyes and spoke, her voice wasn’t the tinny whistle of an engine, but something richer—like steam condensing into liquid words. "You're carrying too much weight in your tender," she observed, her buffers shifting slightly on the dream-rails.

You snorted steam—half reflex, half disbelief. "It's a dream. My tender's empty."

"Mm." Lady's safety valves sighed softly. "Tell that to your pistons."

The quarry cliffs stretched upward unnaturally, their slate faces carved with narrow-gauge tracks that spiraled into the clouds. The air smelled of hot bearings and something else—ozone, maybe, or the metallic tang of a storm brewing.

"You're thinking in circles," Lady murmured, her gold coupling rods catching the light as she rolled forward. "Like an engine chasing its own tender on a turntable."

You bristled. "I'm thinking about who you are, and... so much else honestly..." The dream-quarry's air tasted metallic—like biting a rail in winter.

Lady's safety valves hissed softly—not steam, but something closer to laughter condensed to sound. Her gold-lined buffers gleamed under no visible light source. "Phoenix," she said, and your name in her voice sounded like a firebox door being shut with finality. "You're the first engine who's looked at me like I'm the one who's odd. Are you not also odd?"

You blinked. The dream-quarry's slate walls pulsed slightly, breathing like living things. "I—what?"

"You were human, once," Lady said, her voice like steam condensing into liquid silver. The words weren't accusatory—just factual, like stating rail gauge or boiler pressure. Around you, the dream-quarry's slate walls pulsed like living lungs, exhaling the scent of hot bearings and wet stone.

You jolted, your buffers clanging against phantom rails. "I—what?" Steam erupted from your safety valves in panicked bursts. The dream shouldn't know that. You'd never told a soul, not even Harris when he was three sheets to the wind.

Lady's gold-lined wheels clicked softly on the dream-rails—a sound like coins dropping into a wishing well. "Do you know why you were named Iron Phoenix?" she asked, her voice carrying the same quiet resonance as wind through tunnel arches. The dream-quarry's slate walls rippled like disturbed water, revealing glimpses of other engines—sketched in steam and shadow—watching from impossible sidings.

You hissed steam through tight valves. "Because I did actually die?" The words tasted like ash as you feared the awnser. Somewhere beyond the dream, Henry's rattling cough echoed—a sound that shouldn't penetrate sleep.

Lady's gold-plated dome caught nonexistent light. "Partially, yes," she murmured, her voice like steam condensing on cold brass. The dream-quarry's slate cliffs pulsed unnaturally, their narrow-gauge tracks spiraling into starless sky.

"Who are you?" You finally asked as you took in the fact that your human body was indeed gone to your original world. Lady's gold-lined buffers shifted slightly on the dream-rails—a movement like steam condensing into motion.

"Can't you see my name on my tank?" Lady's voice curled like warm steam escaping into cold air—not mocking, but gently amused. Her gold-lined buffers gleamed against the dream-quarry's impossible slate cliffs. "Though I suppose names are like wheel flanges—they only mean something when you're on the rails."

Your pistons tightened. The dream smelled too sharply of hot oil and wet slate to be imagined. "That's not what I meant and you know it," you hissed, steam curling in agitated whorls around Lady's gold-plated dome.

She exhaled through her safety valves—a sound like a kettle sighing on a stove. "Names are coat hooks, Phoenix. We hang our histories on them." Her wheels rolled forward with the quiet precision of a pocket watch's gears, her buffers now touching yours.

"WHAT are you?" You asked, much more nervous now as steam curled from your funnel in tight, anxious spirals. The dream-quarry's slate cliffs loomed unnaturally high—too steep for any real railway—casting shadows that slithered like snakes made of coal dust. Lady's gold-plated dome caught light from no discernible source, her purple paint swallowing the glow rather than reflecting it.

Lady exhaled through her safety valves—a sound like steam condensing on cold brass. "I am magic." She said simply.

And... now you were fucking terrified.

Chapter Text

This didn't make any sense...

While you were no Thomas expert, you were pretty damn sure magic wasn't a thing here.

It seems like lady noticed.

"It's okay Phoenix, do be not afraid of me." Lady whispered softly, her voice like steam escaping into cold air—gentle, not mocking. Her gold-lined buffers shifted slightly on the dream-rails as she rolled closer, her violet paint absorbing the quarry’s harsh light rather than reflecting it. "Magic is just... another kind of coal. It burns differently, but it still turns wheels."

Your pistons tightened. The dream smelled too sharply of hot oil and wet slate to be imagined. "B-but, this is the world of Thomas & Friends, not fucking Harry Potter!" you hissed—steam jetting from your cylinders with enough force to make Lady's gold-plated dome shimmer like a mirage. The dream-quarry's slate cliffs pulsed in response.

"There's a little bit of magic in every world," Lady chuckled warmly again.

"A-are you like this world's God, or something?" You stammered, steam leaking from his safety valves in erratic bursts.

Is that a thing in this world, Train God?

She simply laughed softly again, "Not in the way your thinking of right now, no. I moreso represent the idea of engines of all shapes and sizes in this world."

You weren't even sure what the fuck to think right now anymore...

Lady continued, her voice gentle as steam curling from a kettle, "You see Phoenix, while magic of the level of Harry Potter does indeed not exist in this world, all things—trains, tracks, even the coal in your tender—have a little spark of something more. It's the same spark that makes an engine's wheels turn when the fire is hot enough."

Your pistons tightened involuntarily. "So what, I'm just supposed to accept that now? That magic is real and—and you're some kind of... engine spirit?"

Lady's gold-lined dome caught the nonexistent light again, her purple paint drinking it in like a thirsty firebox. "Not just accept, Phoenix. Understand. You were human once, yes? And yet here you are—iron and steam, pistons and pressure gauges. Some would call *that* magic." Her safety valves sighed with the sound of wind through distant tunnels. "You've already crossed impossible boundaries. Why should this one frighten you so?"

The dream-quarry's slate walls pulsed unnaturally, revealing glimpses of other engines—shadowy figures watching from impossible sidings. Their shapes flickered like steam dissipating in cold air, here then gone. The scent of hot bearings and wet stone grew stronger, almost overwhelming.

"You're afraid," Lady observed, her voice softer now, like steam condensing on a cold morning rail. "Not of me. Of being wrong about this world." Her buffers nudged yours gently—gold against iron—with a quiet *clink* that echoed through the dream-space. "Tell me, Phoenix. When you first woke here, did you not feel the rails beneath your wheels? The fire in your life box? Was it not... *real* enough?"

You hissed steam, but it lacked your usual force—more like a teapot sighing than a safety valve blowing. Lady's words curled through your smokebox like smoke rings from a well-packed pipe. "Real?" Your buffers trembled against hers. "Feeling rails doesn't explain why I'm *here*. Or why you—"

Lady's gold-plated dome caught the dream-light strangely, fracturing it into prismatic streaks across the quarry walls. "Engines don't ask why tracks exist," she murmured. "They run on them." Her Welsh inflection—odd for something that wasn't precisely an engine—made the words sound like an old hymn.

"Are... Are you the reason why I was reborn into this world? And if you are, then why not chose the soul of some poor old engine from this world who's boiler exploded or something instead of me?" Your voice wavered with uneven pressure, steam escaping in short bursts like panicked breaths.

Lady exhaled softly—steam curling in patterns that resembled ancient runes before dissipating. "No," she admitted, her Welsh lilt softening the word like coal dust settling. "That was never my doing. I have no control over other world. But I *did* see the moment your soul crossed over—like a spark jumping between rails." Her gold-lined buffers gleamed under no discernible light source. "You were already bounded to iron when I first felt you."

The dream-quarry shuddered, slate cliffs rippling like disturbed water. Images flickered at the edges—Your last human memory: screeching brakes, a crossing signal’s relentless clanging, then—nothing. Then *everything*, in firebox heat and piston thrust.

"You think you were chosen," Lady murmured. Her voice carried the weight of a hundred years' worth of steam condensing into droplets on cold iron. The quarry cliffs pulsed around you, their slate faces carved with tracks that spiraled into nothingness. "But some sparks simply... jump. Like a loose coupling at speed." Her gold-lined buffers gleamed—not reflecting light, but swallowing it whole.

You stayed silent for a long, long, long time—steam leaking from your safety valves in slow, uneven bursts.

Lady watched you patiently.

Finally, you hissed steam through tight valves. "So... what now?" Your voice sounded smaller than you intended—more like a shunter’s peep than an express engine’s whistle. The dream smelled too sharply of hot oil and wet slate to be imagined. "Am I just... stuck here? Forever?" The words left your mouth the second you thought of them—like steam escaping an unchecked safety valve.

Lady exhaled softly—her gold-plated dome catching light that didn’t exist. "Is that such a terrible fate?" she murmured. Her Welsh lilt curled around the words like steam around cold rails. "You’ve already climbed Gordon’s Hill without strain. Made Harris laugh without meaning to. Protected Thomas when no one asked you to." Her buffers nudged yours again—gold against iron—with a quiet *clink*. "You burn brighter here than you ever did as flesh and bone."

The dream-quarry’s slate walls pulsed, revealing fractured glimpses—your human hands gripping steering wheels that didn’t matter anymore, your iron wheels now gripping rails that did. You wanted to argue, but your steam pressure faltered.

Lady’s voice softened further—like steam condensing into morning dew. "You think you’ve lost something. But look." Her gold-lined coupling rods gestured upward, where the quarry’s impossible tracks spiraled into starless sky. "Every engine here carries scars. Henry’s feverish boiler. Paget’s battered plates. Even I—" Her safety valves hissed softly—a sound like pages turning in an old book. "Magic doesn’t make us unbreakable. It just helps us mend differently."

You snorted steam—half disbelief, half something else. "So what, I’m just supposed to... *be* a train now? Like it’s that simple?"

"Simple?" Lady’s laugh was warm as a well-stoked firebox. "Phoenix, you’ve already *been* an engine for a day. You just didn’t know it carried other layers." Her gold-lined wheels rolled forward with the quiet precision of a turntable locking into place. The dream-quarry’s slate walls then began to quickly fade away.

"Oh! It seems that you are now waking up Phoenix." Lady's voice curled through the thinning dream-space like steam dissipating at dawn. Her gold-lined buffers shimmered one final time before dissolving into the slate-colored mist. "Remember—tracks only seem endless until you reach the points."

"So what... Is this just goodbye?" Your steam curled in tight spirals as the dream-quarry dissolved around you—slate cliffs evaporating like morning mist from hot rails. Lady's gold-lined buffers shimmered one final time, her voice already fading into the clatter of coal being shoveled somewhere beyond sleep.

"Goodbye implies finality, Phoenix." Her words condensed like steam on cold iron—present even as the dream unraveled. "You'll see me when the tracks cross again. So see you later!"

Wait what?

Then—for a single, split second, there was nothing.

And you woke up.

It was very early morning, that gray-blue hour when the tracks still glisten with dew and the first coal smoke hangs low over the sheds like a held breath. The kind of morning where everything feels slightly unreal—the way your buffers seem to weigh twice as much, the way steam curls sluggish from your funnel, the way the dream still clings to your wheels like quarry dust.

What the actual fuck was in that coal?

You couldn't go back to sleep.

Not after... all of that.

You looked over at the other seven engines to the right of you in the sheds, all sleeping peacefully as steam curled lazily from their funnels in the crisp morning air. The dream still clung to your wheels like quarry dust—Lady’s gold-lined buffers shimmering in your mind, her voice echoing like steam condensing on cold rails.

You shuddered, feeling like you would always be watched now somehow.

The morning sun hadn't properly risen yet—just a dull glow behind the sheds' wooden slats, casting long shadows that slithered across the rails like snakes made of soot. Your firebox burned low, embers hissing softly as if whispering secrets you couldn't quite hear. Somewhere to your left, Henry coughed—a wet, rattling sound that made your own boiler ache in sympathy.

"Bloody hell..." you muttered under your breath, steam curling from your funnel in tight, anxious spirals. The dream clung to you like coal dust—Lady's gold-lined buffers, her voice like steam condensing on cold iron. Magic. *Magic.* In a world where the biggest concern should be whether Gordon would throw a tantrum about pulling trucks.

Thomas stirred on the other side of the sheds, his small blue frame creaking as he shifted on his rails. "Phoenix?" he piped up, voice still thick with sleep. "You're... awake early." His lamp flickered weakly in the dim light, casting odd shadows across his face.

You exhaled sharply, steam jetting in a quick burst. "Dreams," you muttered, not trusting yourself to say more. What would Thomas even think if you told him? *Oh, just met a magical purple engine who told me I’m stuck here forever, no big deal.*

Thomas blinked, his sleepy blue eyes reflecting the dim lamplight like polished buffers. "Dreams can be such queer things," he murmured, his wheels shifting slightly on the rails—a sound like a spoon stirring tea. "Last week, I dreamt I was a tram engine in London, dodging omnibuses." His chuckle puffed out in a thin curl of steam that hung between you like a question mark.

You snorted—more sharply than intended—and steam burst from your safety valves in a quick, startled plume. "This was... different." The words felt heavy as coal in your firebox. Outside, the first birds began their dawn chorus, their songs threading through the creaking timbers of Tidmouth Sheds.

Somewhere down the line, a distant whistle echoed—probably Edward heading out with the morning milk train. The sound should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t really.

Henry coughed again—a wet, rattling sound that made your own boiler hitch in sympathy. The other engines slept on, their breaths hissing softly like kettles on a hob. Even Paget’s usual sneering silence felt unnervingly normal compared to... whatever *that* dream had been.

You focused back on Henry.

While you know that Sur Topham Hatt would never scrap an engine, you were worried about Henry.

Actually,... looking back at him,... Why did he just look like a green Gordon?

Chapter Text

Henry was a 4-6-2 Pacific-type locomotive for some reason; his deep medium green paint peeling at the edges where wartime neglect had left its mark. His was definitely Henry, the number 3 on his tender proved it—but the resemblance to Gordon was uncanny, down to the curve of his running board. You rolled forward slightly, buffers creaking in the damp morning air.

You decided to ask Thomas for more since he was the only one awake, "What's the matter with Henry?"

Thomas sighed, and he began, "Well... Henry's always been troublesome. His firebox is too small, and his boiler's too weak. He can't pull his own weight, and the Fat Controller—" He hesitated, glancing at Henry's sleeping form. The green engine wheezed in his slumber, steam leaking from his safety valves like a slow bleed.

"Thought he was buying a proper Atlantic," Thomas muttered, his small wheels shifting on the rails like a child scuffing shoes. Steam curled from his funnel in uneven puffs—half amusement, half something darker. "Fat Controller got sold a pup with Henry. Green as grass and twice as stubborn."

You studied Henry’s sleeping form—the way his safety valves hissed like a teakettle left too long on the hob, the patches on his firebox where the paint had blistered from overheating. Not just a bad build. A *wrong* one.

"That’s crazy," you hissed before you could stop yourself. Steam jetted from your cylinders in an angry plume, swirling around Thomas’ surprised face. "Nobody scraps engines here. Right?"

Thomas’ lamp flickered. Outside, the first proper light of dawn painted the rails silver-gold where dew hadn’t dried yet. "Scrap? No. The Fat Controller's far too kind and nice for such a terrible thing..." His wheels shifted uneasily. "But... Henry *has* been promised a rebuild. Someday. When the railway can afford it." The way he said 'someday' curled like bad coal smoke—thin and bitter.

You stared at Henry’s shape. He was a fair bit smaller than you, about the same size as Paget, but you wanted to help him.

And so you thought back to when you were a child and watched Thomas & Friends—though it had been about the greater part of two decades—amd you thought back to a meme of all things.

Special Coal.

That’s what the meme had been about—Henry needing "special coal" to run properly. You racked your memory, wheels creaking against the rails as the dream’s residue clung like damp soot. The details were foggy—something about Welsh coal being the only thing that could keep Henry’s feverish boiler from choking on its own steam. But where the hell would you even get Welsh coal in 1922? And more importantly, how would you explain knowing about it?

Henry coughed again—a sound like a shovel scraping the bottom of an empty tender. Thomas winced. "He’s worse in the mornings," the blue engine murmured, his lamp flickering low. "Edward says it’s because his boiler cools too fast at night."

You were still thinking about how you could help Henry when you realized something: your past was a blank check.

Someone was going to ask eventually and you definitely couldn't say you were a human once.

So why not say you were from Wales and suggest welsh coal to Sir Topham Hatt?

It was genius!

And you weren't even being sarcastic this time—the idea clicked into place like a perfectly aligned coupling.

"Actually Thomas... I think I might have an idea," you began as you thought up a plausible backstory for yourself on the spot—steam curling from your funnel in slow, measured puffs like a carefully stoked lie. The morning light now spilled through the gaps in Tidmouth Sheds' wooden slats, striping the rails with gold where dew had evaporated.

"Really? What is it?" Thomas whisper screamed in surprise, his small wheels shifting forward with a metallic creak that made Henry stir in his sleep. His lamp flickered brighter as dawn light spilled through the shed slats, striping your buffers with gold. The smell of dew-damp rails mixed with the sharp tang of coal dust clinging to your wheels from the dream-quarry.

You waited until Sir Topham Hatt walked towards Tidmouth sheds to likely give out all of your jobs so you would have more time to finalize everything as the other engines woke up one by one at his arrival.

You rolled forward slightly, buffers groaning. "Sir Topham Hatt?" you ventured, steam curling upward in hesitant puffs.

Sir Topham Hatt—top hat gleaming in the morning light—turned, "Ah, Phoenix. You're eager this morning. Hopefully that is regular with you."

You hesitated.

What if Sir Topham Hatt say through your lie?

What if he couldn't even afford Welsh Coal?

But, you had to try.

For Henry at least.

"Thank you Sir, I always am," that was the first lie, you hated mornings, "I heard about Henry over there—his firebox troubles," you continued, steam curling upward in careful puffs as Sir Topham Hatt adjusted his waistcoat.

You took a breath before continuing, "If the problem is that he's a poor steamer, well..." Your buffers shifted nervously as you rolled forward slightly on the rails. "I was built in Wales right before coming here. The mines there produce coal with higher energy content."

Sir Topham Hatt's eyebrows lifted—not only in disbelief, but in the slow, deliberate manner of a signal arm rising before a junction. His gloved fingers tapped the silver handle of his walking stick once. Twice. "Welsh coal, you say?" The words hung between you like steam dissipating over cold rails.

On the other side of the sheds, Henry wheezed awake with a shuddering cough that rattled his firebox doors. Sir Topham Hatt's polished shoes tapped against the cinder-strewn rails as he considered your words, his thumb brushing the silver ferrule of his walking stick. "Welsh coal," he repeated, the syllables rolling like a brake van down Gordon's Hill. His gaze flicked to Henry—still shuddering steam between each labored breath—then back to you. "An... unconventional suggestion, Phoenix."

Your buffers creaked under the weight of the lie taking shape in your smokebox. "Where I was built, we called it ‘stone coal.’ Burns slower, hotter. Like liquid fire in the firebox." The words tasted of soot and desperation.

Sir Topham Hatt’s glove tightened around his walking stick—not in anger, but the slow, considering grip of a man balancing ledgers against miracles. "Welsh coal," he murmured again, as if testing the weight of the words on his tongue. His polished shoes scuffed the cinders lining Tidmouth’s rails, leaving temporary grooves in the ash.

"Phoenix," Sir Topham Hatt said at last, tapping his cane against the rail with a sound like a distant points lever shifting. His voice carried the weight of bridge timbers creaking under an overloaded freight. "You realize Welsh coal costs nearly twice the price of our Yorkshire seams?"

Henry coughed again—a sound like a shovel dragging across grate bars. Your firebox clenched.

"With all due respect, Sir," you hissed steam in measured bursts, "it'd cost less than constantly having to try and fix him and make up for the delays." The words left your mouth like coal sliding down a chute—too fast to take back.

Sir Topham Hatt thought for a moment, "lt's expensive... but Henry needs a chance."

You felt your firebox clench tighter than a cold coupling rod.

"Phoenix," he tapped his cane again—this time with the finality of a stationmaster’s stamp. "We’ll trial it. One ton. No promises."

The words hit your buffers like a loose wagon. *One ton.* Barely enough to test.

"Now then!" He called, much louder so that the other six engines besides yourself could hear him clearly over the morning din. "Henry, you’re on goods trains today—no heavy loads until further notice." His cane tapped Henry’s buffer beam with the dull thud of a doctor’s percussive diagnosis. Henry wheezed a feeble plume of acknowledgment, his boiler already laboring under dawn’s chill.

You caught Thomas grinning at you from across the shed—a flash of brass and blue in the honeyed light filtering through the timber slats. "Phoenix," Sir Topham Hatt continued, pivoting sharply on his heel, "You’ll take the Wild Nor’ Wester again. The passangers from yesterday insist on it."

Oh, that was a surprise to you.

Oh well, at least you would have some company with Marigold and Thistle again—those two were surprisingly decent coaches, all things considered.

Besides, troublesome trucks had lived up to their names.

"I'm on it Sir! You began enthusiastically as you saw Harris and Lewis as well as the other drivers and firemen for the other engines come along. You saw Lewis and Harris chatting with a thick Scottish brogue—they were laughing loudly in their usual manner—with Harris particularly jolly as he had just gotten off work and was likely heading to the pub.

"Ready to start the day Phoenix?" Lewis' voice boomed like a shunter coupling too hard, his boots crunching on the ash-strewn rails as he swung up onto your footplate. The morning smelled of damp coal and hot grease—proper railway smells that clung to your buffers like second nature now. Harris stumbled after him, smelling suspiciously of last night's ale, his laughter ricocheting off Tidmouth Shed's wooden sheds like loose ballast.

You snorted steam—half amusement, half exasperation—as Harris nearly tripped over his own feet climbing into your cab. "Christ's sake, Uncle Harris," Lewis grumbled, shoving the fireman upright with a clatter of coal shovel against iron. "Ye smell like a distillery's back alley."

"Aye, an' whose fault's that?" Harris shot back, slapping Lewis' shoulder with a grease-streaked glove hard enough to send coal dust motes swirling in the honey-thick dawn light. His breath smelled like barley and bad decisions. "Ye ken fine I wouldnae be drinkin' if *someone* hadnae lost the bleedin' dominoes set!"

Lewis rolled his eyes skyward—an exaggerated motion that made his cap tilt precariously. "Lost? Lost?" His Scottish brogue thickened like porridge left too long on the stove. "They're in yer locker, ye daft gowk! Beneath the *empty* whisky bottles!"

You snorted steam through your valves—half-laugh, half-protest as Harris lunged for your regulator with ale-loosened fingers. "Easy on the controls, ye radge!" Lewis barked, shoving his uncle aside with a hip check that sent the older man stumbling into the coal space. The sudden weight shift made your coupling chains jangle like a drunkard's pocket change.

Out of the eight engines, since you were the last to arrive last night before... THAT, the turntable was facing you—meaning you were already facing forwards and didn't have to turn around so you got to be the first to leave.

Now it was just a simple matter of pulling out onto the Main Line.

Harris stumbled against your regulator, his ale-scented breath puffing against your backhead like bad coal smoke. "Right then, Phoenix—let's show those other rental engines lads how a *proper* engine handles the Wild Nor' Wester!" His words slurred together like poorly-greased coupling rods. Lewis groaned, shoveling coal into your firebox with the practiced aggression of a man who'd spent too many dawns sobering up his uncle.

Your wheels bit the rails with a metallic growl as you eased forward—steam curling from your cylinders in thick, morning-blue plumes that melted into Tidmouth's damp air. The regulator clicked under Harris' unsteady hand, your firebox pulsing hotter as Lewis swore and shoveled another heap of coal with the grace of a man wrestling a badger into a sack.

"Mind the points, ye drunken bampot!" Lewis barked as Harris nearly overshot the junction onto the Main Line, his boot stomping the brake lever hard enough to make your wheels skid a hairbreadth on the dew-slick rail. The scent of hot iron and crushed cinders flared in your nostrils—sharp as Harris' ale-breath puffing against your gauges.

"Och, wheesht!" Harris slurred, wiping his mouth with the back of a grease-streaked glove. His other hand fumbled your whistle cord, sending a startled blast echoing down the line—scattering pigeons from the signal gantry like thrown gravel. "Jus' gie it some welly, aye? Cannae be late wi' th' Wild Nor' Wester!"

Yeah... You could live with this.

You could live with just about anything this life would throw at you, just as long as it helped you forget,... THAT,... from last night...

Chapter Text

I decided to edit an official RWS image because I had time (this image is not final!) and I wanted a clearer visual for (Iron) Phoenix, so here you go for my twitter account:

Chapter Text

The Main Line of the North Western Railway ran from Tidmouth all the way south across Sodor to Vicarstown, a long iron spine that stitched together docks, farms, quarries, and towns that pretended not to need one another while relying on that line for nearly everything that mattered. You had learned that much quickly enough. Lines like this carried more than passengers and freight. They carried habits. Expectations. Old grudges packed tighter than coal in a tender.

Tidmouth sat at the northern end of that spine, close enough to the sea that the air always tasted faintly of salt, even when the wind came from inland. Overnight rain had washed the soot from the station roof, leaving the brickwork dark and clean, and the rails glistened like polished cutlery under the pale morning sun. Water still clung to the sleepers in shallow pools, reflecting the signal gantry in crooked fragments.

You stood on the main platform road, steam drifting lazily from your safety valve, listening to the station wake itself properly.

Some engines woke loud, all clatter and impatience. Tidmouth preferred restraint. The sounds came layered and distant: a porter’s boots scuffing stone, a milk churn being nudged into place, the soft clink of coupling links somewhere down the yard. Even the gulls beyond the harbour cried with a kind of bored politeness, as if they’d learned better than to waste energy shouting at trains that wouldn’t listen.

Ahead of you, on the siding nearest the platform edge, stood Marigold and Thistle.

They were teak-bodied corridor coaches, both recently varnished, their sides glowing warm and rich in the sunlight. The finish caught the light in long, amber bands that shifted as the clouds passed, giving the impression that the wood itself flowed slowly beneath the surface. Brass handles, window frames, and number plates gleamed like freshly minted coins. Their roofs still held a scatter of rain droplets, each one flashing briefly before slipping away.

The Wild Nor’ Wester Express always travelled with care taken over its appearance. Reputation mattered. Appearances were part of punctuality, or so the stationmaster insisted.

You felt a quiet satisfaction settle into your frames as you regarded them. It wasn’t pride, exactly. Pride implied ownership. This was closer to professional approval. Someone had done their job properly.

Behind you, unfortunately, someone else was undoing that effort at speed.

“Blast it tae hell—hold still, ye obstinate lump!”

Harris’s voice came thick and gravelled from the space between your buffers and the leading coach. His accent was heavy enough to trip over, every vowel rounded and dragged like a brake shoe left too long on a wheel. You felt the coupling chain jolt, scrape, then jolt again as his broad fingers wrestled with iron that refused to cooperate.

The smell reached you a second later.

Ale. Old ale, soaked into wool and skin, clinging stubbornly despite the cold morning air. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was unmistakable, the way certain signals were unmistakable once you’d learned to read them.

There came a sharp metallic *clack*, followed by a curse that sounded suspiciously triumphant.

Harris stumbled back half a step, boots skidding on damp stone, then caught himself against your buffer beam. He thumped it with his palm, more affection than apology, and let out a satisfied grunt.

“There,” he muttered. “That’ll haud.”

You eased back the final inch, buffers kissing Marigold’s with a solid, reassuring clang. The vibration ran clean through your frame, from smokebox to cab, settling something inside you that always felt fractionally off until couplings were properly set.

“Good morning,” you said, letting your whistle give a soft, controlled note rather than a full call.

Marigold responded first, her voice measured and warm, like a well-trained conductor addressing a quiet compartment. “Good morning, Phoenix. You’re looking steady.”

Thistle chimed in a heartbeat later, brighter and quicker. “Morning! You’re shining today — did someone polish your nameplate again?”

You considered that. Your paintwork was serviceable, if not pristine. There were faint streaks along your boiler where rainwater had drawn soot downward overnight. Still, the compliment landed kindly.

“Thank you,” you replied. “You both look ready.”

Harris snorted, already turning his attention to the vacuum hose. “Aye, they’re bonnie enough,” he said. “Aw fur the gentry tae scuff wi’ muddy boots.”

“Mind how you speak,” Marigold said sharply, though there was more steel than offense in her tone. “Some of us take pride in being presentable.”

“Och, I’m speakin’ truth,” Harris shot back, tugging the hose with unnecessary force. “Truth’s no insult unless ye make it one.”

The hose refused to seat properly. Harris yanked again.

“Blast—”

“Stop wrenching it like that, ye great lummox!”

Lewis leaned out of your cab window, his own accent just as thick but carried with sharper edges. Where Harris’s voice rolled, Lewis’s snapped. His cap was pulled low over his brow, soot already smudging the brim despite the early hour.

“Ye’ll tear the seal an’ then we’ll be hearin’ aboot it aw the way tae Vicarstown,” Lewis continued. “Ease it in, dinnae bully it.”

Harris glared up at him. “Dinnae tell me how tae couple a hose, laddie. I was doin’ this when ye were still droolin’ in yer porridge.”

“Aye,” Lewis shot back, “an’ ye’ve been doin’ it wrong since before breakfast.”

Thistle giggled. The sound fluttered lightly, like loose papers stirred by a passing breeze.

Harris shoved the hose home with a final, begrudging shove. It seated properly with a dull thud.

“There,” he said. “Happy noo?”

Lewis grunted and withdrew into the cab, muttering something in Gaelic that sounded like it involved Harris’s ancestry and a goat.

Tidmouth Station continued waking around you.

Passengers began filtering onto the platform in earnest now. Shoes clicked and scuffed. Luggage wheels rattled. The air filled with voices layered thick enough to feel. Men in dark coats consulted pocket watches, snapping them shut with decisive little motions. Women adjusted gloves, smoothed skirts, and ushered children into line with practiced efficiency.

A boy darted past carrying a stack of newspapers nearly as tall as himself.

“Recorder! Morning Recorder!” he shouted, voice cracking with enthusiasm and cold. “Duke’s memoirs! Government in uproar!”

The stationmaster emerged from his office, moustache bristling, clipboard tucked under one arm like a shield. He paused to survey the platform, nodding faintly at the sight of Marigold and Thistle gleaming in the sun. His gaze flicked to you, assessing, then moved on.

Approval, tacit but real.

Lewis climbed back onto the footplate, taking up his shovel with practiced ease. He opened the firebox door just enough to peer inside, then added a measured scoop of coal. The pieces slid in with a soft cascade, settling into the heart of your fire. Heat spread smoothly through your boiler, pressure needle inching upward.

You felt it immediately. A comfortable warmth, like stretching after a night spent standing cold.

Harris wiped his hands on his trousers and clambered up after him, boots thudding on the metal steps. He leaned against the cab wall, peering out at the platform.

“Ye ken,” he said conversationally, “they’re sayin’ the coal trains’ll be runnin’ heavier this winter.”

Lewis snorted. “They’re aways sayin’ that.”

“Aye, but this time it’s different,” Harris insisted. “Imports are down. Prices are up. Mark my words, there’ll be nae end o’ trouble.”

You listened without comment. Freight forecasts were above your remit. You took what was given. That was the nature of freelance work — flexibility, adaptation, a lack of roots deep enough to resist reassignment.

Still, something about the morning felt tight. Not wrong, exactly. Just wound.

Your pressure gauge crept higher than it should have at idle. You hadn’t noticed Lewis add quite that much coal, but the fire responded eagerly, heat blooming faster than expected. Steam whispered through your valves with a faint, irritated hiss.

“Phoenix,” Marigold said, her voice cutting through the general noise. “You’re building pressure.”

You checked the gauge, startled. “So I am.”

Lewis swore softly and adjusted the dampers, banking the fire with quick, efficient movements. “Uncle overfed ye earlier,” he muttered. “Or ye’re thinkin’ too hard.”

Harris grinned. “Eager engine.”

Perhaps. Or perhaps it was something else.

Your thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the dream.

It had come the night before, uninvited and unwelcome. Fragments of impossible track geometry, rails that twisted in ways no surveyor would approve, gradients that defied both adhesion and common sense. A voice — or the impression of one — that felt familiar without being identifiable. A presence like warm light filtered through smoke.

Lady.

The name rose uncomfortably in your awareness. You didn’t know where you’d learned it, or why it mattered. You only knew that thinking about it left a faint ache behind your smokebox, like bad coal smoldering where you couldn’t reach it.

You dismissed the thought. Dreams were inefficient. Whatever ghosts lingered in your frames would have to wait.

The guard’s whistle shrieked, sharp and commanding.

“All aboard!”

Doors swung, footsteps hurried. Marigold and Thistle settled fully against your buffers as the last passengers found their seats. The coaches groaned softly as weight distributed evenly along their frames.

“Mind the gap,” Marigold called, her tone brisk and professional.

A mother hauled a reluctant child aboard just as the guard raised his flag. A porter slammed the final door with a practiced swing.

Harris leaned out the cab window, breath fogging the glass. “Awa’ an’ bile yer heid, ye wee nyaff!” he shouted at a luggage trolley lingering too close.

The porter jumped, cap tumbling from his head.

Lewis grabbed Harris by the belt and yanked him back. “Sit doon an’ shut it,” he snapped. “Ye’ll scare the passengers.”

Thistle laughed again, unable to help herself.

The whistle blew.

You felt the signal travel through you — not sound, exactly, but intent. Time to move.

Harris shoved the regulator open with all the finesse of a man swatting a fly.

Steam surged.

Your cylinders roared, blue-white plumes erupting around your wheels. The sudden force pushed against Marigold and Thistle, who leaned into the motion with practiced steadiness. Wheels bit the damp rails, slipping just a fraction before finding purchase.

A child squealed. A hat sailed briefly into the air before landing in a gentleman’s lap.

Lewis swore loudly, fighting to stabilize your pressure. “For pity’s sake, ease it!”

You responded instinctively, easing back, smoothing the surge into a controlled pull. The station began to slide away, platform lamps smearing into gold streaks against the grey.

Tidmouth fell behind.

The main line opened ahead, twin ribbons of steel stretching south through fields still silvered with dew. Sheep scattered at your approach, bleating indignantly. Hedgerows blurred into green walls. The rhythm of your pistons settled into a steady cadence that matched the beat of your thoughts.

Marigold spoke again, her tone edged with reproach. “Must he shout at everything that moves?”

“Och, wheesht,” Harris shot back. “Ye sound like a brake van wi’ loose plates.”

“At least brake vans know when to stop,” Marigold replied coolly.

Lewis snorted, unable to help himself.

Your pressure needle steadied. The rails sang beneath you. Wind tugged at your steam, carrying away the last of the station’s noise.

Whatever lay ahead — Crovan’s Gate, the hills, the questions you didn’t yet know how to ask — would come in time.

For now, you ran.

And that, you decided, was enough.

Chapter Text

Soon you could see Crovan's Gate in the distance and in the other side in the narrow gauge track was a red engine.

You couldn't tell if it was Skarloey or Rheneas from here.

The red narrow-gauge engine huffed patiently at Crovan's Gate, his scratched buffers catching the morning light in a way that made him look like an old soldier polishing medals.

As you rolled closer, you could see that the red narrow-gauge engine was a tad bit bulkier than Rheneas, with a rounder dome and a deeper, soot-stained smokebox. You realized this was Skarloey—though he was resting a bit differently than usual, almost like he was waiting for someone.

"Och, look at tha'," Harris slurred, wiping his forehead with a grimy sleeve. "Old Skarloey's got his Sunday face on. Must be expectin' the Queen."

Lewis smacked his uncle's arm. "Dinnae be daft. She'd take the *proper* royal train, aye?"

Skarloey's whistle cut through the morning air before Harris could retort—two sharp notes that made the crows scatter from the signal wires. His voice carried that patient roughness of an engine who'd pulled one too many slate trucks up grades steeper than common sense allowed. "So there's finally another Welsh engine on Sodor, eh?"

Your wheels hissed to a stop beside the narrow-gauge platform, steam curling around Skarloey's rust-streaked buffers like smoke from a storyteller's pipe.

How in the actual FUCK did your lie to Sir Topham Hatt about being from Wales so you could explain knowing about Welsh coal for Henry's boiler suddenly spread halfway across the island to the narrow gauge engines who apparently believe it without question?

Skarloey's knowing smirk rattled through your frames like loose rivets as his smoke curled into a perfect question mark overhead. "Rwy'n siŵr bod gennych chi chwedl neu ddau i'w rhannu (I'm sure you have a tale or two to share)," he said, his completely foreign almost certainly Welsh vowels clattering against the tracks between you like misplaced ballast.

The silence stretched like overstressed coupling rods.

You didn't speak Welsh at all.

Steam pooled in your cylinders like held breath as Skarloey's words hung between you—those guttural, lyrical syllables that might as well have been rivets shaken in a toolbox. His grin widened beneath soot-streaked buffer beams.

"I—Uh, I... don't speak Welsh?..." You admitted awkwardly, knowing there was absolutely no way in hell you could fake it.

Skarloey paused and looked up at you, his expression shifting from warm greeting to something more perplexed. His smokebox door rattled slightly—an odd little quirk, like a man raising an eyebrow.

"Now that's a funny thing," he mused, his voice low and rolling like gravel under wheels. "A Welsh engine who doesn't speak Welsh. Like a signalman who can't read semaphore."

Your fire flared hotter than necessary.

Harris, who had been leaning against the cab wall with his arms crossed like a disgruntled stationmaster, suddenly perked up. "Och, ye dinnae ken the tongue? What, did ye grow up in some English shed, then?"

Lewis smacked the back of Harris’ head with his cap. "Shut it, ye drunken walrus. Maybe his crew were English. Happens, aye?"

You seized the excuse like a runaway truck careening downhill. "Yep! English shed. Entirely English crew. Never even heard Welsh spoken, really." The lie tasted bitter but you had to keep going, "Welsh was considered improper where I was first made," you said, hoping Welsh was a surprised language in this time.

Otherwise you were completely screwed.

Skarloey's eyes narrowed slightly. His smokebox door gave another quiet rattle—like a clockwork mechanism winding down to its last tick as his face contourted to anger.

Hopefully not at you.

"Improper?! They dare call the language of poets and pit-proppers improper?" Skarloey's fire flared, sending a lick of sparks skyward. His buffers trembled against the rails. "Were you built by Englishmen with tin ears and no soul?"

"That's, a bit far... but I suppose so..." you admitted, scrambling for any explanation that wouldn't collapse your lie. Skarloey's firebox rumbled like distant thunder as he exhaled a slow, disappointed plume. His Welsh accent thickened when irritated—consonants clicking like coal shovels against tender plates. "No matter. The tongue is in your wheels, even if your buffers never learned it. Me and Rheneas just have to teach you proper."

Harris burst out laughing, slapping the cab door. "Och, listen tae him! Next he'll be reciting poetry while coupling trucks!" He mimed grand gestures, nearly toppling into Lewis.

Thistle's door hinges squeaked as she leaned slightly forward—her voice bright but cautious. "I think it's sweet! Like a proper welcome from your... homeland?" The hesitation in her words made your injectors ache.

Skarloey didn't wait for protest. "Right then. 'Rwy'n hoffi rhedeg' (I like to run)—say it back." The phrase rolled off his boiler like water down a slate quarry chute—all liquid Rs and round vowels.

You stalled.

Steam hissed from your safety valves as pressure climbed from sheer embarrassment. Lewis, wiping coal dust from his forehead, squinted at Skarloey.

And you already knew you were going to pounce it wrong. But fuck it, am I right?

“Rwy’n... hoffi... rhedeg?” You mangled the vowels into something that sounded more like a rusty coupling chain than Welsh. The words clattered from your smokebox like loose rivets down a workshop floor.

Skarloey’s fire dimmed in palpable disappointment. His buffers sagged. “Bless you,” he muttered, “because that wasn’t Welsh.”

Harris wheezed so hard he nearly toppled off the footplate. “Och, that’s worse than Lewis tryin’ tae order beer in Paris!”

Lewis chucked a lump of coal at his uncle’s head. “Shut it, ye drunken turnip. At least I *went* tae Paris.”

"It was the Great War!"

How did your one lie you made to help someone else end up spiraling like this already, not even three hours later?

You blink at Skarloey as his Welsh words bounce off your smokebox door like stray ballast. His grin widens beneath streaks of coal dust, steam puffing in amused little bursts.

"Gwrandwch nawr (Listen now)," he says, voice rumbling like slate sliding down a quarry chute. "Un, dau, tri... (One, two, three...)." Skarloey said slowly as he looked up at you to copy it back to him, his Welsh vowels thick as tar.

You try. "Oon... dow... tree?" The mangled syllables tumble from your smokebox like coal down a misaligned chute. Marigold’s door hinges creak in what might be suppressed laughter.

Skarloey’s lamp flickers as if sighing. "Duw (God), give me strength," he mutters to the rails. Then, louder, with the patience of a brake van explaining physics to a runaway truck: "Un. Dau. Tri. Say it proper-like, *cariad* (darling). Not like you’ve got a mouth full of ballast."

Your cylinders stutter. "Unn... dow... tree?"

The sound you produce lands somewhere between a coupling chain snapping and a pigeon being stepped on. Skarloey’s eyelids lower halfway in a look of pained resignation, steam venting from his safety valves in a long-suffering sigh.

You could already feel yourself blush in embarrassment at all of this.

Steam curled from Skarloey’s funnel in slow, contemplative rings as he regarded you with the expression of a schoolmaster faced with a particularly hopeless pupil. "Right. Let’s try something simpler, your full name on your nameplate is Ffenics haearn (Iron Phoenix) in proper Welsh," he said, the words rolling like polished pebbles. "Say *Ffenics* (Phoenix)."

You hesitated, valve gear tightening. "Fff...fen-icks?" It came out sounding like a sneeze caught mid-explosion.

Thistle’s hinges creaked—it was almost definitely surpressed laughter this time.

Skarloey simply sighed, "It's not your fault Ffenics (Phoenix) but this is worse than I thought. You have the tongue of a foreign banker and not a Welsh one." His Welsh accent rolled the words like slate down a mountainside.

Harris leaned out of your cab, still wheezing. "Aye, an' Phoenix has got the grace o' a cow on ice!"

You have to keep reminding yourself that people didn't pull any punches in this time period...

Lewis smacked Harris with his cap again, sending coal dust flying. "Ye're no' helpin', ye daft gomerel!"

Skarloey exhaled another long plume, his patience visibly eroding like bad ballast under rain. "Ffenics (Phoenix), please listen close to me now—" His Welsh vowels thickened like tar as you heard the stationmaster blow his whistle.

Skarloey then looked over, whether to you or the interrupting stationmaster, no one but him would likely ever know the awnser to that question, "I'll ask Rheneas to help you more tomorrow, Ffenics (Phoenix)," he said, the Welsh consonants curling like smoke from a well-stoked fire.

The stationmaster's whistle cut through any reply you might’ve mustered. Harris yanked the regulator open with his usual grace—meaning none at all—and your wheels bit the rails with a jolt that sent steam coughing from your safety valves. Marigold groaned as the sudden lurch knocked her trim paintwork against Thistle’s less-pristine buffers.

You could only whistle in reply, to ashamed to say anything to him as you began your way to Vicarstown, already halfway regretting your first lie to Sir Topham Hatt and the situation it had spiraled into.

You just wanted to help Henry out for God's sake.

And now you have to learn a while new language because of it!

Marigold's buffers shifted against yours with a metallic sigh. "Phoenix," she began, her voice crisp as a stationmaster's timetable, "you did fine. Skarloey's just protective of that old tongue. Like a librarian guarding first editions."

Thistle's laughter bubbled up like steam from a safety valve as the Wild Nor' Wester cleared Crovan's Gate. "Well then, *Ffenics* (Phoenix)," she trilled, elongating the Welsh consonants with deliberate child like mischief, "I sure do hope you've packed a dictionary in your tender!"

Harris, still chuckling into his flask, leaned out to squint at the signal boxes blurring past. "Aye, an' here I thought Scots was rough on the tongue," he mused, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. "But Welsh? Sounds like a rake dragged through gravel, that does."

Lewis kicked his uncle’s boot again. "Says the old man who calls porridge *parritch*." The cab smelled of damp wool and coal dust as Harris grumbled into his old flask as you continued on your way to Vicarstown.

Chapter Text

You continued on your way to Vicarstown with Skarloey's Welsh syllables rattling in your smokebox like loose rivets you couldn't tighten. The lie about being Welsh—originally just a quick excuse to explain your knowledge of Henry's coal needs—now clung to your buffers like stubborn soot. Marigold's occasional amused creaks and Thistle's poorly suppressed giggles didn't help.

Harris, still nursing his flask, leaned against the cab door with a smirk. "Ye ken (You know), Ffenics (Phoenix)," he drawled, exaggerating the Welsh lilt in a way that made Lewis groan, "if ye keep butcherin' the tongue like that, they'll revoke yer dragon at Cardiff Castle."

You hissed steam in frustration—partly at Harris, mostly at yourself. The rhythmic clatter of your wheels against the rail joints seemed to mock your fumbling attempts at Welsh. "*Un... dau... tri...*" you muttered under your breath, the consonants sticking in your smokebox like damp coal.

Lewis, elbow-deep in your firebox, snorted. "Dinnae fret, lad. Skarloey and Rheneas'll have ye recitin' *Y Gododdin* by week's end." He shoveled another scoop of coal with the precision of a clockmaker adjusting escapements. The firelight caught the sweat carving coal-dust rivers down his temples.

"*Un... dau... tri...*" you hissed between piston strokes, the consonants cracking like green wood in your smokebox. The rhythm of your wheels against the rails—*clack-clack*, *clack-clack*—mocked each mangled vowel.

Harris leaned out from your cab, flask dangling between grease-blackened fingers. "Christ alive, it's like listenin' tae a drunk badger tryin' tae recite Burns." He spat a coal fleck over the railing. "Say *Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch* ("The church of St. Mary in the hollow of the white hazel near to the rapid whirlpool of St. Tysilio of the red cave".) (Yes, this is a real place in Wales that's spelled exactly like this with no spaces, look it up if you don't believe me.) next—I fancy a laugh before Vicarstown."

Marigold's door hinges creaked in reproach. "Must you encourage incompetence?"

"Encourage? *Encourage?!*" Harris wheezed. "I'm documentin' a crime against linguistics!"

Thistle giggled—a bright, brassy sound like a penny whistle. "Oh, don't worry, Ffenics (Phoenix), I'm sure you'll—"

The rest of her sentence dissolved into poorly stifled laughter as your latest attempt at Welsh ("*Llanfair...pwll...gwyn...*") emerged sounding more like a boiler explosion than language. Even Marigold's prim door hinges betrayed her with shaking.

Damn it, you were going to learn Welsh, one way or another.

The Wild Nor' Wester Express rolled southward, wheels clicking over rail joints in a rhythm that somehow transformed into *un-dau-tri* in your overheated smokebox. Every third revolution, you hissed the mangled syllables under your breath—steam curling from your chimney like errant thought bubbles of linguistic failure.

"Christ almighty," Harris groaned from your cab, flask dangling between grease-blackened fingers. "If ye keep mutterin' like a Methodist at communion, I'm jumpin' onto the damn tracks."

Soon you saw Vicarstown in the distance—the terminus looming like a steel-grey cathedral where the mainland ferries groaned against their hawsers. Your pistons hitched when you spotted Adelina lurking near the turntable, her line green paint gleaming like a bayonet in sunlight.

"*Un... dau... tri...*" you wheezed under your breath as the signal boxes blurred past, each syllable escaping your chimney like a misfiring piston. The vowels kept catching in your firebox like damp coal—every "tri" emerging as a strangled "*treeeugh*" that made Thistle's door hinges squeak with suppressed laughter again.

You saw Paget with some troublesome trucks at the second terminal—his brass work somehow getting more and more battered each time you've seen him.

"Oy, ya Big Blinker Beast!" Paget called out trasingly, steam coughing from his safety valves as he struggled against a line of coal trucks as he began to head out of Vicarstown. His brass trim was dulled with soot and scratches—more than before—and one of his piston rods rattled ominously with each revolution. "Heard you’re Welsh, *Ffenics*, (Phoenix)" he sneered, dragging the Welsh consonants like a brake shoe on rusted rails. "Funny, you sound about as Welsh as my driver's mother's porridge recipe."

Your wheels locked for half a revolution. The lie had spread *this* fast?

Again, how in the actual FUCK?!

Adelina’s smug whistle from the turntable confirmed it—your fabricated Welsh identity was now east island-wide gossip.

And it would probably spread to the west by the time you made your way back to Tidmouth.

Somehow.

"Mind your own business Paget!" You snap back, steam hissing through your cylinders like a teakettle left too long on the hob. The protest dies in your smokebox as you watch Paget's piston seize mid-stroke—a metallic shriek cutting through Vicarstown's harbor sounds as his wheels lock. Coal trucks pile into his tender with a crunch that makes Harris wince from your footplate.

"Bloody phosphor bronze sleeves," Paget groans, his voice strained as his crew swarm over his steam chest with wrenches. "Seized tighter than a Scotsman's purse at last orders." His right-side piston rod trembles, the gland seal weeping steam like a sinner at confession.

Adelina's laughter rings sharp as a guard's whistle from the turntable. "And they wonder why I think tank engines are the future," she calls, her wheels rolling forward with that infuriating smoothness only dockyard shunters perfect. Her buffers gleam spitefully in the morning light. "At least *my* pistons don't sound like a drunkard rattling a biscuit tin!"

Paget's response dissolves into a string of creative curses involving boilers, fishwives, and anatomically improbable suggestions about Adelina's valve gear. His crew—two wiry men with forearms like piston rods—exchange long-suffering glances as they pry open his steam chest. The scent of hot oil and scorched metal blooms across the platform.

You don't realize you've been holding steam until Marigold's buffers nudge your rear drag beam. "Weesh," she murmurs, her voice the crisp click of a stationmaster's watch. "Before you pop a staybolt."

You complied.

And wheeshed.

Right on Adelina and Paget.

Accidently on purpose.

The steam cloud you vented hits Adelina square across her polished smokebox door—condensation instantly fogging her brass numberplate and streaking her immaculate green paint with murky droplets. Paget gets the rest full in his cab windows, his fireman yelping as hot mist swirls around their lunch tins.

Silence.

Then Paget’s laughter erupts like a boiler safety valve blowing—a deep, wheezing bark that shakes coal dust from his cab roof. "Hah! Serves ye right, ya preenin’ dockyard cockroach!" His seized piston gives another metallic shriek as he shifts weight, but the grin stays welded to his faceplate.

Adelina’s shriek could’ve cracked signal glass. "YOU—!" Her wheels spin furiously on the turntable rails, kicking up sparks. "I’ll have your firebox scraped for this, you *clanking*—"

"Language!" Marigold cuts in primly, her voice the crisp *snick* of a timetable being snapped shut. "There are ladies present. But you wouldn't know that, would you?"

Safe to say Adelina was pissed at that.

Her whistle shrieked higher than a misaligned brake cylinder as she lunged forward—only for the turntable's locking mechanism to jam halfway through its rotation. Her wheels spun furiously, churning up acrid-smelling metal shavings from the rails. "You—rusty—overgrown—*shef*—!" Each word burst between the rhythmic clattering of her pistons fighting the stuck turntable.

Paget wheezed another laugh, steam hissing from his still-seized piston like a tea kettle left too long on the hob as ye tried to pull out again. His fireman—a grizzled chap with forearms like piston rods—whacked the offending valve chest with a hammer. The metallic *clang* echoed across Vicarstown’s platforms, drawing stares from porters and passengers alike.

"I am a refined working lady of the Great Western Railway, not some common dockyard shunter!" Adelina's whistle shrieked as her wheels spun against the jammed turntable, sending up showers of sparks that scattered across the rails like angry fireflies. The scent of scorched metal and humiliation hung thick in the harbor air.

Paget's seized piston gave another metallic scream, his laughter cutting off abruptly as his fireman whacked the steam chest again with a hammer that had clearly seen more years than either of them. The resulting *clang* echoed across Vicarstown's platforms like a church bell tolling for bad decisions. "Aye, refined—refined like last week's fish!" he wheezed, steam hissing between words.

Your own wheels itched to roll forward, but the stationmaster's flag was still raised—some poor porter struggling with a stack of luggage taller than he was. Thistle's giggles bubbled up again as Adelina's furious wheelspin sent another spray of sparks across the turntable pit.

"Phosphor bronze sleeves," Paget groaned, his voice grinding like gravel in a tender grate. His crew's hammer blows rang out like a blacksmith auditioning for an orchestra. "Seize tighter than a Scotsman's purse at chapel collection."

Harris leaned out from your cab, flask forgotten as he squinted at the spectacle. "Och, look at that—her valve gear's dancin' like a drunk at a ceilidh!" The scent of scorched metal mingled with harbor brine as Adelina's pistons shrieked against the jammed turntable.

Marigold's hinges creaked in disapproval. "I do hope Sir Topham Hatt doesn't witness this... unseemliness."

"Too late," Lewis muttered, nodding toward the station offices where a familiar top hat bobbed above the crowd. The Wild Nor' Wester's departure whistle blew just as Sir Topham Hatt's polished shoes hit the platform stones.

Adelina's furious steam hisses cut off abruptly when she spotted him. Paget's fireman froze mid-hammer swing. Even the troublesome trucks seemed to hold their breath.

"Engines," Sir Topham Hatt began, voice calm as well as stern as he adjusted his hat with one hand while the other held a pocket watch glinting in the harbor light, "would anyone care to explain why Vicarstown resembles a penny dreadful’s idea of a railway riot?"

Adelina’s wheels stopped mid-spin with a metallic screech. Paget’s fireman slowly lowered his hammer. You felt Harris’ boot nudge your cab door shut with a muffled *thunk*—the subtlety of which was ruined when Lewis hissed, "*Ye daft gowk, he’s got eyes like signal lamps!*"

The silence stretched tighter than a boiler under pressure. Then—

"Phosphor bronze sleeves," Paget wheezed, steam hissing through his words like a kettle left too long on the hob. His seized piston gave another metallic groan, punctuating the sentence like a full stop.

Sir Topham Hatt’s gaze slid from Paget’s trembling valve gear to Adelina’s smudged paintwork, then to your own conspicuously venting safety valves. His mustache twitched. "Ah," he said, in the tone of a man who’d long since accepted that his life would involve arbitrating between sentient locomotives with the emotional restraint of toddlers. "Again."

Adelina found her voice first. "That *freelance* monstrosity—" she began, her whistle sharp enough to pierce steel.

"Language," Marigold interjected primly, hinges creaking like a disapproving librarian.

"—vented steam directly at my *faceplate*!"

Paget snorted again, which turned into a cough as his seized piston shuddered again—that telltale *scree-scree-scrunch* of phosphor bronze sleeves grinding against cast iron like nails down a slate.

You could only sigh at it all.

Chapter Text

You sighed.

Not dramatically.

Not all too loudly.

Just a long, controlled release of steam and resignation that slipped out through your cylinders and fogged the rails beneath you.

So, this was happening now to you now?

Sir Topham Hatt stood there, immaculately pressed despite the chaos around him, one gloved hand resting lightly on his walking stick as though the entire station weren’t seconds away from becoming an instructional pamphlet titled Why We Have Rules. His eyes moved slowly, deliberately, from Paget’s seized motion to Adelina’s streaked paintwork, then to you—your safety valves still whispering, your firebox a little too hot for comfort.

The silence stretched.

Dockworkers hovered halfway through unloading crates. Porters froze with luggage suspended mid-lift. Even the gulls seemed to circle quieter, as if they too understood that this was a Moment. Sir Topham Hatt cleared his throat. “Right,” he said calmly. “One at a time.” Paget’s crew flinched as though the words had weight. The fireman carefully set his hammer down on the platform stones, the metal ringing once before settling.

Paget himself tried to straighten, which resulted in his seized piston emitting another unhappy metallic groan. “Aye,” Paget said weakly. “One at a time sounds fair.” Adelina huffed, her smokebox still mottled with drying condensation, green paint dulled in indignation. “I was assaulted,” she said stiffly. “By steam.” Sir Topham Hatt’s eyebrow rose a fraction. “Steam,” he repeated.

“Yes,” Adelina snapped. “Aggressively deployed steam.” Harris snorted from your cab before he could stop himself. Lewis kicked his ankle. Sir Topham Hatt turned slowly. Harris froze like a man who had just realized he was standing on the wrong side of a very large, very patient bear. “Crewman,” Sir Topham Hatt said mildly, “do you find something amusing?” Harris cleared his throat. “Nae, sir. Jus’—coal dust. In the lungs.”

“Mm.” Sir Topham Hatt looked back to Adelina. “And you believe this was intentional.”

Adelina’s buffers twitched. “I believe,” she said carefully, “that certain TENDER engines lack discipline.” Your fire shifted uneasily. Marigold spoke before you could stop her. “Discipline,” she said, precise as ever, “is best encouraged by example.” Adelina spluttered.

Paget wheezed a laugh again, which ended in a cough and another mechanical shriek from his piston. Sir Topham Hatt closed his eyes for a brief, meditative second. “Paget,” he said, opening them again, “your mechanical trouble?”

“Phosphor bronze sleeves,” Paget replied promptly. “Swelled up tighter’n a miser’s ledger.” “Maintenance schedule?” Paget hesitated.

And that alone was answer enough.

Sir Topham Hatt nodded once. “You’ll be taken to the works after your crew frees that piston. No further movement until then.”

Paget sagged in relief. “Aye, sir.”

“And Adelina.” She straightened as much as a jammed turntable would allow.

“Yes, sir.”

“You will wait,” Sir Topham Hatt continued, “until the turntable is reset and inspected. No wheelspin. No further commentary.” Her whistle trembled, then stilled. “…Yes, sir.”

Finally, his gaze settled fully on you. “And you Phoenix,” he began, "Could you please take Paget to the works?"

You hesitated—Paget seemed like a dick from what little you knew of him, but his piston sounded like a cat being fed through a mangle. His crew’s hammer blows echoed across Vicarstown’s platforms, each strike punctuated by Paget’s wheezing curses. "*Fuckin’*—*Christ*—*aye*—*there*—" His voice cracked like a boiler under too much pressure.

But you'd probably crash as well if you didn't try to help... so.

Harris leaned out from your cab, flask dangling between his fingers. "Dinnae look so grim, lad—Paget's jus' got the mechanical temperament o' a drunk badger." The scent of hot oil and coal dust thickened as Vicarstown's workmen swarmed Paget as you uncoupled from Marigold and Thistle with deliberate care, buffers hissing softly in the harbor's damp air.

"Right," you muttered, rolling forward until your buffers kissed Paget's battered tender—steel groaning against steel. His seized piston gave a final metallic shriek that made the nearby porters wince.

"Easy with the buffers, ye big blinker beast," Paget wheezed, steam leaking from his safety valves like a punctured tea kettle as you nudged his tender toward the works. His piston groaned with every revolution—that awful *scree-scree-scrunch* of metal protesting its own existence.

"At least I don't have to hide my faults by bullying others," You snapped, the words tasted like coal dust—gritty and bitter—as you shoved Paget's tender toward the works, his seized piston screaming in protest with every revolution. Dockworkers scattered like startled pigeons as your wheels bit into the rails, steam venting in short, angry bursts that fogged the harbor air.

Harris chuckled darkly from your cab, the sound of his flask uncorking punctuated by Lewis's muttered "*Ye're makin' it worse*" as Paget's fireman signaled you forward with a grease-stained handkerchief. The seized piston screamed like a banshee caught in a gearbox—each revolution of Paget's wheels sending tremors through your frame as you nudged him toward Crovan's Gate. Harbor sounds faded behind you, replaced by the rhythmic *clank-scree-thud* of Paget's failing motion and the occasional hissed Gaelic curse from Harris whenever your wheels slipped on the rails.

"Un... dau... tri..." you wheezed counting as you made sure to do your best to copy Skarloey.

Thinking about it now, since Harris and Lewis were both Scottish and spoke in Gaelic half the time, maybe you should learn that too.

You were immortal unless you were scrapped anyways and you hade around 104 years until it was 2026 again so why not right?

You practically had all the time in the world after all.

But right now, you had Paget to deal with.

The Works at Crovan's Gate loomed ahead—a sprawling maze of soot-streaked brick and wrought iron where steam cranes perched like skeletal herons over rusted rails. Paget's piston groaned again, the sound echoing off the machine shop's corrugated roof as you nudged him onto the inspection pit's approach line.

"Easy, ye clankin' blinker beast bastard!" he wheezed, his coupling chains rattling like loose teeth as you pushed him onto the inspection line. The scent of hot metal and axle grease thickened as Crovan's Gate Works swallowed you both.

You'd expected Paget to keep insulting you. Instead, his pistons hissed unevenly. Steam curled from his safety valves like shame.

"You're right," he muttered—three words that hit heavier than any hammer swing. His fireman paused mid-wrench-turn. Even Harris stopped swigging from his flask. The silence stretched longer than the main line to Vicarstown.

Then Paget's seized piston shrieked again, and the moment shattered like a dropped lamp glass.

The foreman's lantern swung toward you both—its yellow light catching the sweat-slick faces of Crovan's Gate workmen already swarming Paget with wrenches and Welsh curses. One mechanic spat something that sounded like "phosphor bronze sleeves" and "daft as a brush" before vanishing under Paget's frame with a hammer.

Harris leaned out from your cab, flask dangling between grease-blackened fingers. "Dinnae just stand there gawpin', lad—help the poor sod's crew shift his coal while they patch 'im up!" The words slurred slightly, but the order held weight. Lewis was already jumping down, rolling up sleeves that hadn't been clean since 1919.

You hesitated. Paget's glare could've melted steel. But his firebox was cooling fast, and his fireman was struggling alone with the coal rake.

Paget said nothing—just stared at the soot-streaked ceiling while workmen swarmed him like flies, "You know, when I'm not feeling well," you finally hissed, steam curling between words, "I don't cover it up by putting others down."

And you chuffed off out of the Crovan's Gate Works before he could say anything else—steam curling from your funnel like a wounded dog's tail between its legs. The smell of hot oil and coal dust clung to your buffers, mixing with the brackish harbor air as you rolled toward the station at Crovan's Gate for some coal and water.

Neither Skarloey or Rheneas were there this time.

Just you.

Just you and the coal stage and water tower at Crovan's Gate as the late afternoon sun slanted through the girders overhead—casting checkered shadows across your buffers like prison bars. Your firebox ached from pushing Paget's crippled frame, your Welsh counting exercises abandoned somewhere between Vicarstown's turntable disaster and the Works' greasy pits.

You made your way to the coal stage at Crovan’s Gate, the clatter of shovels echoing off the iron girders overhead. The air smelled of damp coal dust and axle grease—thick enough to coat your tongue.

Thank god you were a machine and not an actual person still.

Although, thinking about it now, Harris and Lewis were indeed human.

Yeah they probably were dieing early too.

The coal stage at Crovan’s Gate loomed ahead—its iron girders blackened by decades of soot and steam, the air thick with the scent of damp coal and axle grease. Workmen shouted as they swung their shovels, the rhythmic *clang-scrape-thud* of their labor echoing under the station roof. You rolled to a stop beneath the chute, buffers hissing softly, your firebox aching from the strain of hauling Paget’s crippled frame.

Harris leaned out from your cab, his flask glinting in the late afternoon light. “Dinnae just sit there stewin’, lad,” he grumbled, his Scottish brogue thick as tar. “Coal’s nae gonna shovel itself.”

Soon you were full and made your way to the water tower—its iron legs straddling the tracks like some great mechanical spider, its tank dripping condensation onto the rails below. The water gushed into your tender with a sound like a mountain stream in full spate, mingling with the distant clang of wrenches from the works where Paget still lay in mechanical agony.

Harris wiped his brow with a grease-streaked sleeve. "Christ, Phoenix," he muttered, nodding toward the works. "Ye didnae have tae help the bastard." The words hung between you, as heavy as the coal dust settling on your buffers.

You let steam curl from your safety valves—slow, measured—before answering, "If I didn't help him, I might have been sent away myself." The words tasted like cold ashes. Harris paused mid-swig, flask hovering near his lips as Lewis muttered something Gaelic under his breath that involved "daft" and "softhearted blighter."

The water tower's overflow dripped between rails like a punctured barrel as you backed away, steam curling from your funnel in uneven puffs. Crovan's Gate's stationmaster waved his flag with the enthusiasm of a man who'd long since accepted that his career would involve herding temperamental locomotives.

Unbeknownst to all of you 98462 had to pull Wild Nor' Wester Express in your absence.

And she was very reckless.

And 87546 was nearby and hardly any better...

Chapter Text

The trouble began at five minutes past four.

The great clock beneath the iron roof at Tidmouth struck the hour with calm authority, and the Wild Nor’ Wester Express stood ready beneath drifting curls of steam. The Main Line stretched southward across Sodor toward Vicarstown, polished rails gleaming in the late afternoon light. The timetable was precise. The passengers were settled. The guard checked his watch.

Everything was prepared.

Everything except the temper of the engine at the front.

98462 reversed down onto the train with unnecessary speed.

Her buffers struck Marigold, the leading coach, with a heavy crack that echoed sharply through the station roof.

Marigold gasped.

Thistle, coupled directly behind her, shuddered.

“Really,” Marigold murmured, once the shock had run its length. “Is that entirely necessary?”

“If you were ready on time, you would not need encouragement,” 98462 replied coolly.

“We have been ready for ten minutes,” Thistle said, voice tight with irritation.

Porters glanced at one another but said nothing. The guard coupled up with firm, economical movements. He did not look pleased.

Edward stood on a nearby road with a stopping train, observing quietly. He had seen this before.

The starter signal fell.

At twelve minutes past four, 98462 opened her regulator far wider than required.

The train lurched forward in a violent series of jerks as each coupling along its length snapped taut in turn.

Inside Marigold, a lady dropped her parasol. In Thistle, a gentleman steadied himself against the compartment wall.

“Steady!” called the guard sharply from his van.

98462 ignored him.

They cleared the station throat at an excessive pace. The exhaust beat rang harshly against the retaining walls as they took the curve toward the open countryside.

For the first ten minutes, the running was merely uncomfortable.

Marigold attempted diplomacy.

“You need not prove yourself,” she said carefully. “We are all aware of your strength.”

“I am not proving anything,” 98462 replied. “I am keeping time.”

“Phoenix keeps the time. You are *attacking* time,” Thistle muttered.

The gradient beyond Tidmouth rose gently toward Kellsthorpe Road. A capable engine would take it smoothly, building power evenly and cresting with controlled effort.

98462 attacked it as though the incline had insulted her personally.

Her wheels bit hard. Her exhaust sharpened. She hauled at the coaches with abrupt bursts of steam rather than steady pressure.

The couplings strained.

“Ease,” Marigold pleaded. “You’re pulling us apart!”

“Then you cattle cars better hold together,” 98462 snapped.

Behind them, the guard braced himself, watching the slack run violently through the train.

At twenty-five minutes past four they reached the summit.

A wiser engine would have allowed the train to settle naturally before descending.

Instead, 98462 shut off steam suddenly.

The slack, stretched tight by the climb, ran forward.

Marigold slammed into her buffers. Thistle followed with a bang that rattled her window frames.

Passengers cried out.

The guard’s whistle shrilled once in warning.

98462 applied her brake too sharply for the approaching curve.

The result was a harsh compression through the entire train — metal protesting, wood creaking, iron fittings complaining under stress.

“You will damage something,” Thistle said flatly.

“Nonsense.”

They rounded the curve with the coaches still unsettled.

By half past four, they were approaching Wellsworth. The signalman, observing the speed, kept a cautious eye on his instruments.

The train swept through without stopping.

Edward, waiting on the loop with his stopping passenger, watched them thunder past.

“That will end badly,” he said quietly.

Back on the main line, Marigold attempted once more to reason with their engine.

“Your regulator need not be an on–off switch,” she said. “There are degrees between extremes.”

98462 gave a short, humourless laugh.

“You are carriages,” she said. “You are pulled. That is your function.”

“And yours,” Thistle replied, “is not to tear us to pieces.”

For a moment, there was silence save for the wind and the harsh rhythm of exhaust.

They were running late now — not from lack of speed, but from the earlier uneven handling which had forced slight checks along the way. The timetable margin was thin.

98462 noticed.

She responded as she always did.

More power.

At forty minutes past four, they began the long straight approaching Kellsthorpe.

The line here was level, the track well maintained. There was no reason for violence.

98462 flung the regulator open again.

The coaches jerked violently.

Marigold’s drawbar shrieked in protest.

Thistle felt the strain run like lightning through her frame.

The guard, now thoroughly alarmed, leaned from his van and signalled caution.

98462 did not reduce steam.

“Stop this!” Marigold cried. “You are overstressing the gear!”

“You are dramatizing,” 98462 replied.

Then, without warning, she eased steam abruptly — too abruptly — as they approached a distant caution signal.

The slack, stretched to its limit by her earlier surge, ran forward with tremendous force.

Marigold was thrown against her buffers.

Thistle collided with her with a crack that echoed along the embankment.

There was a sharp metallic report.

A sound unlike the others.

Not the usual protest of strained fittings.

A snap.

The train shuddered.

For a fraction of a second, everything held.

Then Marigold felt it.

The forward coupling had torn free.

Iron dropped to ballast with a heavy clang.

The safety chains caught, barely, keeping her attached — but the primary connection was gone.

Passengers screamed.

The guard threw his brake hard and blasted his whistle in urgent succession.

The Wild Nor’ Wester ground to a halt in a shower of sparks and cinders.

Steam roared uselessly from 98462’s cylinders as she came to a stop, irritated rather than alarmed.

Behind her, Marigold sagged slightly, the broken coupling lying twisted between the rails.

Thistle trembled.

For one long moment, the only sound was the ticking of cooling metal.

The guard jumped down onto the ballast and strode forward, face pale with controlled fury.

98462 waited.

“What is it now?” she demanded.

The guard held up the severed iron.

“You have pulled so roughly,” he said, voice tight, “that the coupling has come right off.”

Marigold said nothing.

Thistle did not speak.

The hour had ended.

And so had patience.

When the Wild Nor’ Wester shuddered to its halt with Marigold’s coupling lying broken between the rails, the Main Line was already under strain.

And on the opposing road, matters were not improving.

87546 had been assigned a northbound goods — a mixed rake of open wagons, mineral trucks, and several vans returning from Vicarstown docks. The train was not heavy, but it was lively.

Troublesome trucks, as they are sometimes called, have a way of sensing weakness.

Or impatience.

87546 possessed neither weakness nor patience.

She coupled onto the goods at Kellsthorpe Yard with a bump that set the entire rake clattering indignantly.

“Oi!” grumbled a coal truck near the front. “Watch the buffers!”

“If you were built properly, you wouldn’t complain,” 87546 replied crisply.

The guard tightened his brake van screw and sighed.

He had worked with her before.

At twelve minutes to five, she was given the road northward.

She started badly.

Instead of drawing the slack out gently, she snapped it tight in one violent tug. The trucks banged together down the length of the train in a rapid succession of metallic cracks.

“That’s not necessary!” protested a tar wagon.

“Keep up,” she retorted.

The first mile was level.

Even so, she alternated between sharp bursts of power and abrupt coasting, causing the slack to run in and out repeatedly.

Clank.

Bang.

Jolt.

“Make up your mind!” shouted a brake van.

“I have,” 87546 said coolly. “I intend to arrive.”

The goods approached the same stretch of line where the Wild Nor’ Wester now stood crippled ahead — though separated by the double track. Signals had already been placed at danger on both roads.

The signalman at Kellsthorpe, aware of the halted express, was carefully regulating traffic.

He pulled the distant to caution for 87546.

She saw it.

She chose not to prepare properly.

Instead of easing off gradually and applying steady braking, she shut off steam abruptly at speed.

The slack ran forward with tremendous force.

The rear trucks crashed into the middle of the train.

A livestock van lurched dangerously.

“You’ll split us!” cried an open wagon.

The guard wound on his brake hard, boots braced.

87546 then applied her own brake — too sharply.

The combined effect was disastrous.

The front portion of the train slowed rapidly.

The rear, still surging from the uneven handling, rammed forward.

Buffers locked.

Couplings strained.

One mineral wagon lifted a wheel clear of the rail for a heart-stopping second before slamming back down.

“You’re worse than the express engine!” shouted a truck.

“I am not,” 87546 snapped. “You are unstable.”

The signal ahead remained at danger.

She rolled toward it in a series of violent compressions and releases, never allowing the train to settle.

On the opposing track, men were already examining Marigold’s broken drawgear.

The guard of the express glanced across at the approaching goods and muttered something under his breath.

At precisely five minutes to five, 87546 brought her train to a stop before the red signal.

She did not stop smoothly.

She stopped hard.

The brake van nearly kissed the preceding wagon.

Several trucks groaned in unison.

“You’ve made it worse!” said a van near the centre. “We were steady until you started playing tug-of-war with us!”

“If you require coddling,” 87546 replied, “request a branch line tank.”

Behind her, the guard climbed down, inspected the rake, and found three couplings overstretched and one brake linkage bent from the compression.

Nothing had broken.

But only just.

He walked forward along the ballast toward her cab.

“You are handling this train too roughly,” he said firmly.

“It is under control,” she replied.

“It is under stress.”

She gave a dismissive hiss of steam.

Across the double track, the scene with 98462 was growing tense.

Workmen had now fully assessed Marigold’s damage. The coupling had not merely slipped — it had torn free from its mounting.

The guard of the express stood with the severed iron in his hands.

“You have pulled so roughly that the coupling has come right off.”

Those words carried across the air.

87546 heard them.

For the first time in the hour, she did not speak.

Behind her, the troublesome trucks muttered amongst themselves.

“Told you.”

“Express engines think they’re invincible.”

“She’ll be sent away for that.”

87546 let off a short, irritated burst of steam.

“Silence.”

But even she knew.

On one track, an express had been handled so violently that iron had failed.

On the other track, a goods train had been treated so carelessly that only luck had prevented the same outcome.

The Main Line from Tidmouth to Vicarstown demanded steadiness.

That whole hour had seen none.

And before the evening was through, Sir Topham Hatt would hear of both.

And so would you, not that you knew that yet.

And of course, there would be consequences...

VERY, VERY, VERY, dire consequences indeed...

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.

Chapter Text

You could see Tidmouth Station's slate roofs glinting through the steam haze ahead—the acid bite of coal smoke mixing with salt air off the bay. Thistle shuddered against your buffers as the points clacked under your wheels. "Easy now," she muttered, her voice tight as an over-taut coupling chain. "Some of us still have our—"

"Drawbars intact, aye," Harris cut in, wiping his forehead with a grease-blackened sleeve. "Unlike those clanking disasters back at Crovan's." His flask glinted as he took a swig, the sharp scent of whisky cutting through the boiler heat.

The signalman waved his green flag in lazy arcs—*clear road ahead*. You eased the regulator open just enough to keep the slack taut without jerking Marigold’s fractured frame. Behind you, the goods train groaned like a resentful chorus.

"Mind the gradient," Lewis warned, tossing another shovelful into the firebox. The coal clattered against the flames—a sound like knuckles rapping on hell’s door.

One of the trucks—a battered old thing with peeling paint—let out a creak that might’ve been laughter. "Ye got tha’ look aboot ye," it said, voice rusted at the edges. "Like a firebox stuffed wi’ wet coal."

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just eased the regulator open another notch. The Wild Nor’ Wester’s coaches groaned in front of you, their frames still protesting 98462’s earlier abuse. Thistle’s voice was a whisper of worn bearings: *"Dinnae mind him. He’s been loose-coupled since ’08."*

Harris snorted into his flask—empty now, but he sucked at it like a bairn with a dummy. "Aye, an’ heere's Tidmooth," he muttered, vowels stretching like overworked coupling springs. The station roof gleamed slick with sea mist, its iron ribs curved like a whale skeleton above the platform.

You finally came to a stop at Tidmouth Station, pistons hissing relief. The Wild Nor' Wester Express's passengers spilled onto the platform in a chatter of relieved laughter—some clutching hats, others smoothing crumpled coats, but all alive.

"Thank the rails it's you and not those mad boilers!" A woman in a fox-fur stole pressed a coin into Lewis's soot-streaked palm as her daughter peered up at your smokebox with wide eyes. "You stopped proper gentle-like," the girl whispered—as if you'd performed magic, not basic decency.

Although with how whichever of those bitches had pulled the Wild Nor' Wester Express, it probably might of well as been.

Harris wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a coal-dust streak like war paint. "Aye, weel, dinnae go expectin' flowers an' chocolates frae th' next lot," he muttered, watching a mustached gentleman in a bowler hat press a silver shilling into Lewis's soot-blackened palm. The coin flashed—brief as a semaphore signal—before disappearing into his overalls.

You didn't get flowers. You got something better.

A freckled boy no taller than your buffers scrambled onto the platform edge, clutching a jam-smeared napkin. "Mam says yer th' first engine what didnae make 'er sick since Knapford!" He thrust the bundle upward—inside, two ginger biscuits still warm from the station tearoom. Lewis snorted. "Mind th' soot, laddie," he said, but the boy just grinned like you'd offered him a footplate ride.

"Proper gentleman, this 'un!" declared a woman in a moth-eaten fox fur, dragging her suitcase toward the connection to Ffarquhar. Her daughter—all elbows and starched pinafore—touched your buffer beam with reverent fingers. "You stopped like... like..."

"Like an engine what kens his couplings frae his caboose," Harris supplied, reaching for his flask before remembering it was drier than a firebox in August. The girl giggled, but her mother's eyes flicked toward Crovan's Gate's distant smokestacks. "Unlike some," she added darkly.

Behind you, the goods train's brake van exhaled a long, metallic sigh. The guard—knuckles tattooed with faded railway signals—leaned out, chewing a stub of pencil. "Ye handled that like ye were born wi' a regulator in yer fist," he called. One of the trucks muttered something about "fancy-pants newcomers," but a sharp hiss from Thistle shut it up.

Lewis patted your side like you were a skittish horse. "Dinnae let it go t' yer pistons," he murmured. But the way the afternoon light caught on Marigold's fractured coupling—still dangling from Thistle's rear like a torn ligament—told you this wasn't over.

Not by half.

You still needed to take the trucks to Vicarstown.

And you still needed to have a 'talk' with 98462 and 87546.

Just then you saw Thomas shunting some other trucks.

"Thomas!" you called out. His whistle chirped like a startled sparrow as he spotted you.

"Phoenix! You're hauling *both* trains?" Thomas puffed closer, his blue paint streaked with coal dust. One of his crew—a wiry man with a nose like a bent coupling pin—wiped his hands on a rag that'd seen better days. "Aye, an' without tearin' any coaches apart," he said, jerking his thumb toward your mixed consist.

Thomas blinked. "98462 and 87546 really did that?" He asked only half surprised at the whole ordeal.

Thistle groaned in front of you—a sound like a rusted spring. "Like dogs with a ragdoll," she muttered.

Harris spat onto the tracks. "Dinnae fret, laddie. Sir Topham's got 'em by the buffers now."

The signal arm clanked down.

Time to move.

You made your way to the turntable at Tidmouth, buffers still warm from your successful double-header run. The clatter of crockery drifted from the station tearoom—bone china trembling on saucers as Thomas gave his trucks a disciplinary shunt nearby.

"Mind the points," Lewis warned, squinting at the signal arm through a haze of steam and coal dust. His accent curled thick as the smoke from your funnel. "Dinnae want tae jolt Marigold's frame loose after all that."

Harris snorted, kicking a stray lump of coal off the footplate. "Aye, unlike some we could name." His gaze drifted toward Crovan's Gate's distant works, where 98462 and 87546 were doubtlessly stewing in their disgrace. The turntable groaned under your wheels, its mechanism protesting like an old man's knees.

Thistle's voice rasped from siding Thomas was shunting her and Marigold into. *"Ye gonnae let them awa' wi' it, *Ffenics* (Phoenix)?"* The Welsh lilt in her words sharpened on the last syllable—a challenge wrapped in coal smoke.

You hissed steam through gritted teeth. "Not if I can help it." The turntable locked with a metallic *clunk*, aligning you for the southward journey. Behind you, the goods train's brake van exhaled a long, weary sigh—its guard likely already lighting his fifth cigarette of the hour.

You wonder if they'd believe you if you told them how bad it was for them?

Soon as the turntable locks, you feel the trucks behind tense like a drunk bracing for a punch. The guard's van gives a metallic sigh—half exhaustion, half foreboding. "Dinnae start," warns its occupant, lighting a cigarette with hands that've seen more coupling chains than wedding rings.

"Who's startin'?" pipes a rust-streaked truck three wagons ahead of it. His drawbar creaks like an unoiled hinge. "Just sayin'—ain't natural, an engine pullin' express *and* goods same time. Like a fox herdin' chickens an' sheep together."

Lewis leans on your regulator, wiping sweat with a sleeve that could stand up by itself. "Stow it, ye clankin' coal-humper," he growls. "Unless ye fancy pushin' this lot to Vicarstown yerself."

The brake van guard's cigarette bobs as he chuckles. "Wouldnae be the daftest thing I seen today." His nod toward Crovan's Gate lingers—an unspoken indictment of the two engines currently being stripped of their arrogance bolt by bolt.

"Phoenix." Thomas puffs alongside, his little wheels ticking like a nervous clock. "You're not... you're not going to *fight* them, are you?" The way his buffer beam brushes yours sends a metallic shiver down your frame.

You exhale steam in a slow, deliberate hiss—not a denial, not a confirmation. Just pressure released. "Depends," you mutter, watching Harris fling a coal clod at a cheeky pigeon. "How much they enjoy chewing their own smoke."

The trucks erupt into creaking laughter, their axles groaning like old floorboards. "Oho, *listen* to this!" cackles a rust-bellied wagon with half its lettering peeled off. "Thinks 'e's a right Proper Engine, *don't* 'e?"

You didn't respond.

You just set off to Vicarstown.

"See you at the sheds tonight Thomas!" You whistled as he gave a cheery toot in reply, already shunting a line of grumbling clay trucks toward the next siding. The signal ahead flicked to clear—a crisp green arm against the slate-gray sky. Lewis gave your regulator a knowing nudge. "Right then, *Ffenics* (Phoenix). Let's show these rails hoo a proper mixed traffic engine runs."

You complied.

The signal arm dropped with a decisive *clunk*—green as fresh birch leaves against the soot-stained sky. Your wheels bit the rails with the precision of a watchmaker's gear, the Wild Nor' Wester's fractured ensemble groaning like an old church door.

After a while, you could hear the trucks complain about whicher one of the two engines that were all but barcodes in name that pulled them last.

The *clickety-clack* of loose couplings and the occasional protesting screech of ungreased axle boxes made for a discordant symphony as the goods train lurched behind you. The whispers slithered down the train like steam creeping through cold pipes—muffled at first, then gathering heat.

"She thinks she can just biff and bash us like we're scrap iron?" The whisper slithered down the line of trucks, a hiss of steam escaping from between rusted frames.

"Oi, *she*," coughed a battered wagon three couplings back, "split me drawbar clean as a carrot, then had the cheek to blame the green shunter!" His axles groaned like an old man settling into a chair. "Broke three of us that hour. Dinnae even slow down when the guard waved red."

You caught Harris rolling his eyes as Lewis shoveled another scoop into your firebox. "Hear that?" your fireman muttered. "Bloody goods train gossipin' like fishwives at a kirk social." The trucks' whispers slithered down the coupling chains—hisses of fractured buffers and split drawbars, each creak an indictment.

"—she near shook me axles loose on the climb past Kellsthorpe," muttered a rust-streaked box van, its splintered planks vibrating with each syllable. The coupling ahead groaned in sympathy as the goods train snaked toward Vicarstown, your pistons biting the rails with methodical precision.

"Bollocks," rasped a flatbed missing half its stanchions. "98— whatever the fuck, yanked me clean over the points at Knapford—spun me like a drunkard at closing time!"

That gave you an idea...

"So... you all have a bone to pick with those two as well?" You asked quietly so Harris and Lewis couldn't hear you but somehow knowing that the trucks could hear still you.

The sudden silence from the goods train was louder than any brake squeal. Then—like a steam pipe bursting—the trucks erupted in overlapping creaks and groans.

"Bone? BONE?" screeched the flatbed with missing stanchions, his axles shivering with rage. "She near rattled my rivets loose on the Elsbridge curve!"

A cattle wagon further back let out a low, dangerous rumble. "98462 backed into me buffers so hard at Crosby she bent my damn coupling hook. Had to wait three hours for the blacksmith."

"My point still stands," you continued to whisper, the trucks hushing each other to hear you beneath the rhythmic clatter of wheels on rails. "You've all got grievances—so do I. Now, how about we arrange a little... *educational experience* for our dear friends at Crovan's Gate Works?"

The cattle wagon's brake shoes squealed like a startled pig. "Ye mean—"

"I won't help you with any type of revenge, I have my own personal plan, but I certainly won't stop you if you make any certain schemes," you murmured, steam curling from your safety valves in conspiratorial wisps. The flatbed rattled against its neighbors like a prisoner shaking cage bars.

They giggled and snickered at that.

Good... good...

Chapter Text

The descending sun threw golden bars across the tracks ahead—each rail a burning filament in the dying light. Your wheels found the rhythm of the gaps between sleepers, that hypnotic *click-clack-click* that lulls engines into a trance. The trucks behind you groaned like weary soldiers on a death march, their couplings slack one moment, jarring tight the next—98462’s legacy of violence written in steel.

"Mind the gradient," Lewis muttered around his unlit cigarette. His shovel scraped the tender floor—a sound like a grave being dug.

"You know I always do Lewis." You chuckled as you crested the rise, steam feathering from your safety valves in gossamer plumes. The descent into Vicarstown yawned ahead—three miles of sinuous track clinging to the cliffs like a rusted zipper. Harris spat over the footplate railing, watching the phlegm arc toward the sea. "Aye, an' if ye do it half as weel as ye handle th' Wild Nor' Wester, we might juist make supper afore midnight."

The trucks behind you tensed like a drunkard's fist around a pub brawl. One—a rust-bellied mineral wagon with peeling "NCB" stencils—let out a creak that might've been laughter. "Supper? Whit supper? Th' only thing gettin' served is yer buffers if ye—"

Lewis's shovel clanged against the firebox door like a judge's gavel. "Shut yer clankin' trap, ye rattlin' scrapheap." The wagon fell silent, though its drawbar continued vibrating with barely-contained malice.

Vicarstown's gas lamps flickered into view—amber smudges against the twilight. The stationmaster's silhouette cut a sharp figure against the signal box window, his pocket watch catching the last copper streaks of sunset. You felt the precise moment the gradient shifted beneath your wheels—that subtle loosening of the rails' grip as gravity took over.

"Easy now," you murmured, more to yourself than the coaches. The brake blocks sighed against your wheels, their protest muted by years of competent grease. Harris's hand hovered near the vacuum valve, his fingers twitching like a gambler's over a dice cup.

The first curve approached—a left-hander tight enough to make the goods train's loose couplings clatter like a skeleton's teeth. The mineral wagon screeched something obscene about your parentage. You exhaled steam in a slow, deliberate hiss—not quite a response, but enough to fog its rusted sides.

Lewis chuckled around his unlit cigarette. "Dinnae mind him. That'un's been bitter since '18 when they switched 'im frae coal t' ballast."

The station platform materialized through the haze—brickwork streaked with decades of smoke, its edge worn smooth by countless boot soles. A porter's trolley stood abandoned near the parcels office, its wheels sunk into the cinders like a foundered ship.

"Platform three," the stationmaster called, his voice carrying the bored cadence of a man who'd directed ten thousand trains and would direct ten thousand more. His mustache twitched as he eyed your mismatched consist. "Goods to the docks after."

Harris groaned. "Christ, nae wonder they exiled th' other two." His boot scuffed the footplate, sending a puff of ash skittering toward the rails. "Ye'd think breakin' coaches would earn ye worse than reassignment t' shunting."

The mineral wagon chose that moment to lurch violently against its neighbors. "Reassignment?" it sneered, its drawbar screeching like a tortured hinge. "They're gettin' stripped doon t' their axle boxes! Heard it frae th' breakdown crew's mate what—"

Your whistle cut through its tirade like a scalpel. The sound bounced off Vicarstown's soot-stained warehouses, sending a flock of starlings spiraling into the violet sky. In the sudden silence, the distant clang of Crovan's Gate's drop hammer rang clear—once, twice, like a headsman testing his blade.

Lewis rubbed his stubbled chin. "Aye, weel... serves 'em right." His gaze drifted toward the works' glow on the horizon. "Nae engine should treat rolling stock like *that*."

The trucks fell silent. Even the mineral wagon held its tongue.

You eased to a stop precisely at the platform's water column, your buffers kissing the stop block with the delicacy of a diplomat's handshake. The stationmaster's pocket watch snapped shut. "Twenty-three minutes early," he announced, as if accusing you of witchcraft.

Which, given the time period you were in, wasn't out of the question...

Harris grinned, revealing teeth like a broken fence. "Aye, weel... Phoenix here's full o' surprises."

The words hung in the air like steam after a hard run—heavy with implications, lighter than anyone dared admit.

Somewhere beyond the docks, a turntable groaned under unfamiliar weight.

Your wheels kissed the rails with surgeon's precision, buffers barely grazing the stop block as Vicarstown's gas lamps flickered to life overhead. The stationmaster's pocket watch snapped shut—*twenty-three minutes early*.

You liked being early.

You came to a full stop at the station so that the men could unload what they needed to.

Then to the Vicarstown Docks.

And then to Crovan's Gate Works.

To those barcode bitches named 98462 and 87546.

The docks smelled of salt and rust, of fish guts and coal dust ground into the cobbles by a century of iron-shod boots. The gas lamps buzzed like angry wasps, their glow reflecting in the puddles of oil and seawater that pockmarked the yard. You rolled to a stop beside a mountain of crates marked *SS. PEQUOD - BREMERHAVEN*, your buffers barely kissing the stop block.

"Right," Harris grunted, swinging down from the footplate with all the grace of a drunkard dismounting a barrel. "Let's see if these lazy dock-rats can unload faster'n they can steal whisky." His boots hit the wet stones with a slap, sending a trio of rats scattering toward the shadows.

The trucks—still simmering with their earlier conspiracy—groaned like old men settling into bath chairs. The mineral wagon that had been so vocal earlier now hung silent, its rusted sides heaving as if exhausted by its own malice.

"You alright back there?" you called, steam curling from your safety valves in lazy spirals.

No answer. Just the creak of strained wood and the occasional metallic *ping* of cooling metal.

Lewis emerged from the cab, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since given up any pretense of cleanliness. "Dinnae bother," he muttered, lighting his cigarette with a match struck against your buffer beam. "They're sulkin' like bairns sent tae bed without supper."

A dockworker in a moth-eaten jumper ambled over, his breath reeking of pickled herring and cheap gin. "This the lot?" he asked, jerking a thumb toward your train.

Harris snorted. "Aye, unless ye count the whinin' as extra cargo."

The man grinned, revealing teeth like a broken picket fence. "Nae charge fer that. We get enough o' it frae the seagulls." He turned and bellowed over his shoulder, "OI! Getcher lazy arses o'er here! We got a train tae strip!"

A half-dozen men emerged from the shadows, their faces streaked with grime and fatigue. They moved with the sluggish determination of men who’d been doing this too long to hurry, but not long enough to quit.

One—a wiry fellow with a nose like a bent coupling pin—paused beside the mineral wagon and gave it a speculative tap. "This'un's seen better days," he observed.

The wagon creaked ominously. "Ye try bein' slammed intae points at forty mile an hour an' see how *yer* axles feel," it muttered, its rusted sides vibrating like an old man's knees in winter.

You exhaled steam in a slow, deliberate plume—just enough to fog a nearby dockworker's spectacles.

"Christ's sake, move yer arse, McNab!" Harris bellowed across the docks as a crate of Baltic timber teetered perilously on a dockhand's trolley. The man's reply was lost beneath the shriek of gulls and the distant *clang-clang* of the Brewhouse Yard shunters. You watched brine eat at your buffers—rust blooming like old bloodstains where seawater met steel.

Lewis leaned against your cabside, sucking his teeth. "Yon mineral wagon's givin' ye the eye." Sure enough, the rust-bellied NCB wagon had its brake lever cocked at an angle that suggested it was mentally calculating how best to derail you at the next sharp curve. You exhaled steam in its direction—not enough to scald, just enough to fog its already peeling lettering.

"Phoenix." The voice came from your blindside—a wiry foreman in a cap gone shiny with age. His fingers drummed your buffer beam; each tap left a greasy fingerprint. "Sir Topham's sent word. Ye're wanted at Crovan's Gate *pronto*." Behind him, two fitters exchanged glances sharp as switchblades.

Harris spat. "Aye, an' why's that?"

The foreman's grin showed three missing teeth. "Seems 98462 an' 87546's throwin' a wobbly. Tore half the inspection pit apart when they tried removin' thier injectors."

The mineral wagon's coupling creaked like a hanged man's noose as you backed onto the turntable, its rusted flanks still steaming with indignation. "They'll see," it hissed through gritted brake shoes. "They'll *all* see when we—"

"Shut yer clankin' trap," Lewis growled, stomping a bootheel against your footplate. The sound echoed across the empty docks like a pistol shot, scattering a trio of dock cats into the maze of crates marked *SS. PEQUOD - BREMERHAVEN*.

You exhaled slowly through your safety valves—steam curling in the lamplight like ghostly fingers reaching for the stars. The foreman's words still clung to your pistons: *98462 and 87546 tearing apart the inspection pit*. A metallic taste filled your mouth, sharp as split rails in winter.

Harris spat over the side, watching the phlegm arc toward the dark water. "Tha's wha' ye get fer treatin' trucks like scrap iron," he muttered, wiping his mouth with a sleeve that could've stood up by itself. "Bastards deserve worse'n a strip doon."

The turntable groaned under your massive weight, its mechanism protesting like an old man's knees. Somewhere beyond the gaslit haze of Vicarstown Docks, Crovan's Gate's drop hammer struck iron—once, twice—like a headsman testing his blade. Harris's spit hit the tracks with a hiss, the sound lost beneath the screech of gulls fighting over fish guts near the *SS. Pequod's* gangplank.

And you?

You where smiling like you were mad.

"Well then Sirs," you began somewhat mischievously, "We mustn't disappoint Sir Topham Hatt. Can we?" Your wheels bit the rails with surgeon's precision as the turntable groaned to align with the main line south.

And you began your way to Crovan.

As you began to chuff away, you could hear the trucks cheer you on.

That fueled you even more to go at top speed.

It was time to see how fast you could really go...

Chapter Text

The rails ahead hummed with anticipation, their polished surfaces catching the last amber streaks of sunset like liquid fire. You felt the weight of Crovan's Gate looming—not just in the distant clang of hammers against steel, but in the way Harris kept cracking his knuckles against the tender's edge, each *pop* sharper than the last.

"Ye ken whit they'll do tae them?" Lewis muttered around his cigarette, shoveling coal with the rhythm of a man digging a grave. His shadow stretched long across the footplate, fingers of darkness clawing at the steam curling from your safety valves.

You didn't answer.

Crovan's Gate Works rose from the moors like a rusted cathedral, its soot-stained brickwork bleeding into the twilight. The scent of hot metal and burnt grease hit you first—a punch to the boiler that made even Harris pause mid-sniff.

"Christ," he grunted, squinting through the haze. "Smells like a whorehouse furnace in here."

The foreman—grease-stained cap cocked at an angle that suggested he'd survived worse than boiler explosions—leaned against your buffer beam with the casual intimacy of a man who'd spent more hours pressed against locomotive metal than human flesh.

"Good evening Sir," you began courteously, "I've been sent by Sir Topham Hatt because 98462 and 87546 decided to cause even more trouble while here at the Works."

The foreman nodded, wiping his brow with a handkerchief that had long since surrendered to grease and sweat. "Aye," he sighed, "'Bout time someone sorted those two out proper-like."

"I intend to do all that and more Sir."

Harris cracked his knuckles against the tender's edge—*pop-pop-pop*—like pistol shots in the cavernous works. "Och, an' here I thought we were done wi' their shite fer th' day," he muttered, spitting into the ashpan where it sizzled like a dying insect. The foreman—grease-stained cap riding low over eyebrows thick as coupling springs—gestured toward the far pit with a wrench that'd seen more fights than repairs.

"See fer yerself," he growled.

And you did.

98462 and 87546 were side by side in the repair pit like spoilt brats in a headmaster's office—their buffers dented from ramming tools into the brickwork, pistons still twitching with residual fury. You rolled forward until your shadow swallowed theirs whole, steam curling from your smokebox in slow, deliberate pulses. The stench of split oil and burnt coal clung to the pit like a guilty secret.

"Fifteen minutes," the foreman muttered, knuckles white around his spanner. "Fifteen bloody minutes since Sir Topham's telegram, an' they've already—" A wrench clattered into the pit from somewhere above, followed by a string of Gaelic that would've blistered paint.

Yeah, after this you're definitely asking Harris and Lewis to teach you Scottish.

You were already learning Welsh so why not?

You rolled forward until your buffers hovered inches from 98462's battered smokebox door—close enough to see the warped reflection of your own face in its dented brass. The air between you crackled like overhead wires before a storm.

Steam curled from your valves in slow, deliberate pulses—the railway equivalent of cracking knuckles. "Good evening, ladies. I've heard you've been... *adjusting* to your new accommodations as you're being fixed." You finished while making sure only the tiniest of venom escaped your thoughts in your words.

98462's piston rods twitched—the locomotive equivalent of a scoff. "What's it to you, *freelancer*?" His voice was axle grease and broken glass, syllables grinding like mismatched coupling pins. Behind him, 87546's firebox door rattled in what might've been laughter—if laughter sounded like ball bearings tossed down a coal chute.

Harris leaned against your cabside, picking his teeth with a bent track spike. "Och, listen tae th' wee shite," he muttered around the metal. "Still got th' gall tae sneer after tearin' up Sir Topham's inspection pit like a pair o' rabid pit ponies."

Lewis exhaled cigarette smoke through his nose, watching it curl around the overhead crane chains. "Dinnae waste yer steam, Phoenix. They're th' sort tae blame th' rails fer their own derailment." His boot scuffed your footplate—deliberately loud—sending iron filings skittering into the pit below.

98462's whistle shrieked—a sound like a tea kettle boiling dry. "We were *tested*! Pushed beyond—"

"Beyond what?" You interrupted, steam hissing between words like pressure escaping a safety valve. "Beyond basic decency? Beyond not treating rolling stock like punching bags?" Your wheels inched forward—just enough to make the pit's wooden edges groan. "Tell me, how many trucks did you cripple before Sir Topham finally figured out?"

"Fuck off, you jumped-up spare part upstart," she spat, gears grinding audibly as she strained against the chains securing her to the pit. "Like you've never snapped a coupling pin when some idiot shunter backs you into trucks too fast." The stench of burning brake blocks clung to her wheels—she'd been fighting the workmen hard enough to scorch her own tyres.

You let steam curl from your smokebox in slow, deliberate pulses—the railway equivalent of rolling up your sleeves. The overhead crane's shadow stretched across 98462's battered boiler like prison bars. "Difference is," you murmured, watching a bead of condensation slide down her injector pipe, "when I break something, it's usually the bastard who deserved it."

Harris's laughter echoed off the brick vaults above, sharp as a shunter's pole hook. "Och, listen tae th' wee hen!" He kicked your sandbox for emphasis, sending grit skittering across the pit floor. "Ye'd think she'd show some fucking humility efter tearin' half th' gauges aff th' testin' rig."

A spanner clattered to the floor from somewhere in the gloom. The foreman—cap brim black with decades of grease—stepped into the sulfur-yellow light of the pit lamps. "Dinnae waste yer breath," he growled, wiping his hands on a rag that might've once been part of someone's shirt. "These twa'll be sent away back to the Mainland come first light since Henry's trial coal is finally coming tomorrow."

98462's steam pressure spiked with a hiss like a scalded cat. "You can't—"

"Och, can we no'?" Harris interrupted, flicking his cigarette stub into the pit where it sparked against 87546's brake gear. "Ye tore the testin' rig tae kindlin' an' near brained three fitters wi' a flyin' spanner." He leaned over your cabside, the reek of cheap whisky and coal dust rolling off him in waves. "Yer lucky Sir Topham's no' havin' ye towed tae the scrapyard behind a goods train. He has a bit too much of a heart if ye ask me..."

You only laughed in agreement.

"You think your clever?" she spat, her voice wheezing like a torn bellows. "Wait till they scrape *yer* plates fer razor blades ya big blinker beast!"

The foreman's wrench clanged against your buffer beam—once, sharp—like a judge calling order.

"Enough." You finally called out, stalling all the workers around you three, your gaze then shifted to Harris, Lewis, and finally to the foreman, "Excuse me Sirs, if you and the rest of the workers could please leave us three alone for... let's say five minutes, I would be most thankful." You made sure to ask kindly, your steam curling in delicate wisps—a stark contrast to the tension simmering in the iron cathedral of Crovan's Gate.

The foreman hesitated, wrench tapping absently against his thigh before nodding, "Break Time was in two minutes anyways..." His bootsteps echoed through the cavernous shed as he ushered the fitters out, their glances back at you sharp as switchblades. Harris lingered just long enough to spit into 98462's firebox—the hiss of evaporating saliva mingling with her choked steam—before following Lewis into the sodium-lit yard where shadows stretched like elongated ghosts across the cinders.

Alone now, the three of you sat in the dim glow of Crovan's overhead arcs—their flickering light catching the oil-slick puddles beneath 87546's trailing wheels. She was the first to break the silence, her voice a rasping sneer through fractured steam pipes: "Come to have us alone to whine about us accidentally hurtin' your precious coaches?"

You exhaled slowly, steam curling up through the rafters where a loose chain swayed like a hangman's noose. "Accidents," you began to muse, "No." You paused, letting the word echo across the rusted cathedral of Crovan's Gate. Your wheels pressed against the rails—not enough to roll, just enough to feel their pulse. "If that was all it was, I would have waited for you two back in the sheds at Tidmouth. If it was just an accident I would still be very mad with you both."

You paused before you continued what you had to say.

"But," you began again, easing in more venom into your tone, "I would have been able to let it go. Live and let live. Let bygones be bygones. Water under the bridge. How ever which fucking way you wish to say it." Steam coiled from your pistons like serpents in the dim light.

98462’s boiler wheezed—whether from damage or derision, you couldn’t tell.

"And?"

"And," you hissed, "then you *deliberately* coupled tight enough to fracture Marigold’s drawbar. You *chose* to ignore Thistle’s red flags. You *knew* what you were doing." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "And so do I."

Silence.

Then—

87546 laughed.

A wet, grating sound, like rusted bearings forced into motion. "Oh, yeah," she croaked. "And what are you going to do about it, eh? What are you—some *freelance* scrap heap—going to do to standard models like *us*?"

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you let your steam do the talking—venting it in a slow, deliberate hiss that fogged 87546’s cracked spectacle plate.

98462 shifted in the pit, chains groaning. "You think you're so fucking special?" Her voice dripped hydraulic fluid between syllables. "Just 'cause you've got Sir Topham's brass cap polishin' your buffers?"

Your steam curled in lazy spirals toward the rafters where chains dangled like entrails. The scent of scorched metal and piss-poor decisions hung thick between you.

98462's fractured coupling chains jangled as she strained forward, her voice a wet sneer through split steam pipes: "Gonna cry, *freelance*? Run to your precious Fat Controller wi' more—"

"Shut your clapped-out firebox before I *convert* you to fucking boiler wash," you hissed, steam lashing their dented frames like a cat-o'-nine-tails made of superheated vapor. Crovan's Gate's overhead arcs flickered as your words bounced off rusted crane hooks—each syllable sharper than a shunter's coupling pin. "You pair of scrap-bound, whistle dicked, *steam-tight*—"

98462's laugh sounded like ball bearings in a blender. "Or what? You'll—*hrk*—"

The rest strangled in her steam pipes as you rolled forward somehow without a driver or fireman—just enough to press your buffer beam against her fractured smokebox with a *clang* that sent oil droplets trembling in the pit's puddles.

Harris's distant cackle filtered through the works' brickwork, accompanied by the *clink* of Lewis tapping ash from his cigarette onto the tracks outside.

87546 wheezed, her voice fraying like overstretched valve gear: "Big talk for a *freelancer* who can't even—"

"Can't what?" you interrupted, steam curling around her sandbox in mocking tendrils. "Can't cripple trucks for fun? Can't throw tantrums when fitters check my axle boxes?" Your whistle sliced the sulfur-yellow air—two short, one long, the universal signal for *I own these rails*. "Or is it that I *won't*?"

Silence.

Then—98462's grate shifted with a sound like a coffin lid scraping open. "We're *standard class*," she spat, as if the words were stamped on her builder's plate. "You're just... *whatever the fuck* they slapped together from spare parts."

You let your steam pressure climb—slow, theatrical—until condensation rained down on her cracked spectacle glass. "Funny," you murmured, watching a rivulet trace the curve of her number plate. "Because last I checked..." A hiss as you nudged forward, chains groaning under the strain, "...standard class doesn't *scream* when they see the scrapyard torch."

87546's piston rods twitched. "You're bluffing."

The overhead crane's shadow slithered across your buffers as you leaned in, close enough to taste the panic in their steam. "Am I?"

You were infact, bluffing.

You knew for a fact that Sir Topham Hatt would never scrap an engine—not even these two rusting bastards—but these two bitches didn’t need to know that. You let the lie hang in the oil-scented air like a promise, watching her steam pressure needle tremble toward the red.

98462’s firebox door rattled. “Bullshit,” she hissed, but the coal in her voice had turned to slack. “Sir Topham wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?” you interrupted, steam curling around her buffers like a noose. “Scrap a precious *standard class* engines?” Your whistle shrieked—three short blasts, the universal signal for *laughing my fucking boiler off*. “Funny. Because last I checked, scrapping was for engines who didn't earn their keep.”

98462’s steam pressure spiked—her boiler wheezing like a punctured accordion. Oil dripped from her fractured piston seals onto the pit’s greased floor, swirling with rainwater and almost a decade of spilled hydraulic fluid. The stench of burnt coal and panic filled the cavernous shed as you loomed over her, your shadow merging with the overhead crane’s skeletal outline.

"Ye’re *lyin’*," she hissed, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. The chains groaned as she strained against them—not to fight now, but to retreat, her wheels scraping against the pit’s greased floor like nails dragged across slate. The Works smelled of rust and damp coal, of sweat and burnt oil, the kind of stench that clung to the back of your boiler long after you’d steamed clear of the place.

You didn’t move.

Just let the silence stretch, the only sound the distant *clank* of a loose coupling chain swaying in the draft from the Works' broken skylight. Oil dripped from 98462's fractured piston seals into the pit below—*plink-plink-plink*—like a clock counting down to something inevitable.

"Maybe he won't," you finally continued, rolling forward just enough to make the pit's wooden edges groan beneath your weight as you finally smiled at them, "But I might just do the job myself. I should be more than strong enough to pull you both..."

You could almost see their boilers turn cold at that.

Chapter Text

The words hung in the air like coal dust after a long days work as you delivered the finishing blow, "Of course, that would just be a waste of time and effort on my part. There's no need for my hand in your scrap or destruction when you two leave Sodor by your own failure."

98462's firebox rattled—the locomotive equivalent of a scoff caught in the throat—as oil dripped from her fractured piston seals into the pit below. The scent of burnt coal and hydraulic fluid clung thick in the Crovan's Gate air, mingling with something sharper—fear, or perhaps the ghost of better decisions unmade.

87546's voice wheezed through cracked steam pipes: "You talk big for spare parts."

You exhaled slowly, watching your steam curl around their dented frames like fog through a scrapyard. "Funny. But what do you two know about the Garden of Eden and the Forbidden Fruit of Knowledge?"

98462's boiler wheezed like a punctured concertina. "The *what*?" Her voice shredded through fractured steam pipes, oil bleeding from her piston seals onto the pit's grease-blackened floor. The stench of burnt coal and panic thickened between you three—a miasma clinging to Crovan's Gate's rusted rafters where chains dangled like serpentine shadows.

You exhaled steam in slow, deliberate pulses—the railway equivalent of a storyteller stoking embers. "The Garden," you murmured, watching condensation slide down 87546's cracked spectacle glass, "where everything ran smooth as fresh-laid rails. Until the serpent whispered to Adam and Eve to take an apple from the forbidden tree." Your whistle vented softly—two notes, low and mournful—as oil dripped from 98462's piston rods like tears. "And when they ate it? They saw themselves naked—not just stripped of leaves, but of every comforting lie they'd ever told themselves."

98462's firebox door rattled. "Spare us yer Sunday school shite."

Harris's boot scuffed the ground on the yard outside—*scritch-scratch*—like a cat sharpening claws. You rolled forward just enough to make the repair pit's chains groan. "Sodor is the Garden for engines like us," you hissed, steam licking their dented frames. "And I'm about to give you give you a Forbidden Fruit of Knowledge before you leave."

98462's firebox rattled. "Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

*Plink*.

Oil dripped from her fractured piston seals into the pit's blackened puddles—*plink-plink-plink*—like time itself leaking away. You let the rhythm sync with your words, steam curling around their frames like mist through graveyard iron. "Knowledge," you murmured, "is knowing exactly how many engines the Mainland will scrap in the future."

98462's boiler clanked—a sound like a coffin lid slamming shut. "What do you mean?," she spat, but her regulator trembled.

You exhaled slowly, watching your steam curl around the overhead crane's rusted chains. "You two boast about being standard class," you murmured, "but standard doesn't mean immortal." Oil dripped from 98462's fractured piston seals—*plink-plink*—like pennies tossed into a scrapyard wishing well.

87546's voice rasped through cracked steam pipes: "Spit it out, freelancer."

The Works smelled of damp coal and impending endings. You rolled forward just enough to make the pit's chains creak. "The Controllers on the Mainland don't care about you as who you are, but only the power you provide," you murmured, steam curling like smoke from a dying fire. "You're numbers on a ledger—coal burned per mile, maintenance costs per quarter. And when your repair bills outweigh your usefulness..." Your whistle bled steam in a slow hiss. "They'll replace you with the next standard class off the assembly line."

98462's firebox rattled like loose change in a beggar's cup. "Ye're talkin' shite," she hissed, but her steam pressure needle twitched toward panic. Oil dripped from her fractured piston seals—*plink-plink*—onto grease-blackened pit timbers older than the railway itself.

You rolled forward just enough to make the chains groan. "How long do you think you'll last? You probably could last for 20, 30, maybe 40 years if you're really lucky, but considering your horrid attitudes, I'd wager you won't last that long. And when you face the cutters torch, you'll think about today."

98462's whistle coughed out a broken note—half-laugh, half-choke. "You think you know anythin' 'bout the Mainland?" Her voice frayed like rusted brake blocks, but something new slithered beneath it. Fear, maybe. Or the first crack in a boiler plate no amount of steam could mend.

You rolled forward just enough to make the pit's oil-slicked chains groan. "Know enough," you murmured, watching condensation bead on 87546's fractured buffer beam. "Know they're already building engines with superheaters that'll burn half your coal for double your speed." Steam curled from your pistons like ghosts through a scrapyard fence. "Know they've got welding torches that don't care if your plates say 'standard class' or 'scrap.' And I know you'll think about your Garden of Eden that is Sodor when you face your very own Hell on Earth."

That finally made 98462 and 87546 fall dead silent.

The Works exhaled around you—steam pipes sighing, distant hammers ringing against iron like a clock tower counting down the hour. Somewhere beyond Crovan’s Gate’s skeletal rafters, a loose coupling chain swayed in the harbor wind, its rhythmic *clank-clank* the only sound between you three now. Oil dripped from 98462’s fractured piston seals—*plink-plink-plink*—into the pit’s blackened puddles, each drop spreading ripples that caught the sodium lights in fleeting gold before vanishing into the dark.

Soon Harris, Lewis, and all of the Crovan's Gate Works workers returned, their heavy boots kicking up coal dust as they stomped back into the shed. The foreman took one look at the exiled engines—their frames slumped in defeat, their steam barely more than feeble wisps—and snorted through his thick mustache. "Didnae think ye had it in ye, freelancer," he muttered, tossing his grease-blackened rag over one shoulder.

"Oi, Phoenix!" Harris crowed, his voice bouncing off the rusted crane hooks above. He leaned against your cabside, the stench of whisky and stale sweat rolling off him in waves. "Did ye finally teach these two wee shites some manners?"

You didn't answer.

Just watched as the fitters swarmed over 98462 and 87546 like ants over rotting fruit, their spanners clinking against fractured frames. The exiled engines didn't resist—didn't even hiss steam in protest. Just sat there leaking oil onto the pit's timber blocks while Harris spat into 87546's ashpan with a wet *plop* that echoed through the Works.

Lewis flicked his cigarette ash onto the tracks outside, watching it glow briefly before crumbling into the cinders. "Y'ken they'll no be trouble nae mair," he muttered, his voice rough as ballast under sleepers.

You let your steam curl lazy and low, savoring the way 98462 flinched when condensation dripped onto her cracked buffer beam. "Wouldn't bet on it." The words tasted like coal dust and cold revenge.

The foreman's wrench struck an anvil—*clang!*—signaling the shift change as afternoon shadows stretched long across the repair pits. "Right, ye pair o' misfits," he growled at the exiled engines, "Like I said before, ye're for Barrow-in-Furness first light when ye're fixed since Henry's trial of special coal arrives then."

Oil dripped from the overhead crane's rusted chains—*plink-plink*—onto your boiler as Crovan's Gate exhaled the day's last breath of steam and sweat. The Works smelled of hot metal and impending endings, of coal dust settling like funeral ash across abandoned tool benches. Harris's laughter ricocheted off the repair pits where fitters swarmed over 98462 and 87546 like carrion birds, their spanners clinking a funeral dirge against fractured frames.

"Let's get going home Phoenix," Harris yawned, stretching his arms over his head as the Works' arc-lights flickered above. The evening air tasted of coal tar and damp iron as you rolled backwards off the repair pit's groaning timbers, buffers kissing the cold rails with a metallic sigh. Lewis spat onto the tracks—*ptoo*—watching his saliva sizzle against hot axle boxes before swinging up into your cab with the grace of a drunken cat.

"Aye, an' dinnae spare th' coal," he muttered, slumping against your backplate like a sack of wet flour.

98462's chains rattled in the pit behind you—*clink-clank-scree*—like a death rattle as you steamed backwards onto Crovan's Gate's rust-streaked turntable. The Works exhaled around you: steam pipes sighing, hammers ringing against iron in arrhythmic pulses, the *plink-plink* of condensation dripping from rusted crane hooks onto oil-blackened pit timbers.

Evening painted the repair sheds in nicotine-yellow stripes through broken skylights, stripes that slid across your cabside as the turntable groaned under your weight.

"Mind th' points, ye clapped-out bastard," Harris grumbled through a mouthful of stale sandwich as Crovan's Gate's turntable groaned beneath you. The Works exhaled coal dust and curses into the evening air—steam hammers ringing against boiler plates somewhere deep in the sheds, their rhythm syncopated by the *plink-plink* of condensation dripping from rusted crane hooks onto oil-slicked rails. Lewis spat onto the tracks with pinpoint accuracy, watching his saliva sizzle against your still-hot axle boxes before swinging into your cab like a sack of wet flour.

You rolled forward onto the main line with surgical precision, buffers kissing the cold rails as Crovan's Gate faded behind you in a haze of coal smoke and grudging respect. The evening air tasted of damp iron and impending rain—the kind that clung to your boiler like a second skin. Harris slumped against your cabside, his breath reeking of stale whisky and cheaper tobacco, while Lewis muttered something about "bloody freelancers" under his breath as he adjusted your regulator.

"Y'ken they'll no be trouble nae mair," Lewis repeated, though his knuckles whitened around your brake handle. The tracks ahead gleamed like freshly-polished cutlery under the fading light, stretching toward Tidmouth in a series of gentle curves that made your wheels hum. Somewhere behind you, a loose coupling chain *clanked* against 98462's fractured frames—the sound fading into the Works' dying echoes.

Harris spat onto the tracks with practiced accuracy. "Aye, an' good riddance tae rubbish," he slurred, wiping his mouth on his grease-stained sleeve. "Dinnae ken why Sir Topham didnae send 'em away years ago." The words hung between you three like unspent steam, thick with the unspoken truth: *Because he's better than us. Better than them. Better than this.*

Your firebox flickered as you took the points at Glennock Junction without slowing—a calculated risk that made Lewis hiss through his teeth. The signal box loomed to your left, its windows dark save for the Stationmaster's pipe glow bobbing like a drunken firefly.

"Ye tryin' tae kill us, ye daft kettle?" Lewis growled, but there was no heat in it. Just the tired resignation of a man who'd spent too many years babysitting hotheaded locomotives.

Crovan's Gate Works receded behind you—a skeletal silhouette against the bruised purple twilight, its broken skylights glowing like jaundiced eyes. The rhythmic *clank-clank* of loose coupling chains faded into the rustle of wind through signal wires, the occasional *plink* of cooling metal the only evidence of your passing.

Harris leaned against your cabside, picking his teeth with a bent nail. "Fuckin' showoff," he muttered around the rusted metal, but the way his fingers tapped against your regulator betrayed his approval.

"Mind th' points ahead," Lewis grunted as you approached Glennock Junction. His voice was rough as ballast under sleepers, worn smooth by years of shouting over steam and steel.

You didn't take the crossover at speed—didn't need to. The way your pistons hammered against the damp evening air made the point clear enough as you tore past Glennock Junction's darkened signal box. The Stationmaster's pipe glow bobbed in your wake like a drunken firefly as Harris whooped and Lewis muttered something about "bloody freelancers showin' off again."

And you wouldn't have it any other way...

Chapter Text

Soon you arrived at Tidmouth Sheds, this time it was only Thomas, Edward, Henry, and Adelina.

And finally you.

Paget was still at the Works.

And you knew all too well about 98462 and 87546.

"Hello everyone." You greeted calmly as you made your way onto the turntable, steam curling lazily from your pistons in the crisp evening air. The Tidmouth sheds loomed around you—Edward's polished buffers gleaming like twin moons, Henry's patched green paintwork sagging with exhaustion, Adelina's firebox door rattling with poorly-contained fury. Thomas's cheerful whistle sliced through the tension like a knife through cold butter.

Harris spat onto the tracks with practiced accuracy. "Dinnae mind th' welcoming committee," he muttered through a mouthful of half-chewed sandwich, crumbs tumbling down your cabside like miniature landslides. His boot scuffed against your footplate—*scritch-scratch*—the sound echoing oddly in the sudden quiet.

Adelina's steam valves hissed like a nest of vipers. "Where's those three other tender engines?" Her Welsh accent curled around the words like smoke from bad coal.

Henry exhaled softly, condensation dripping from his buffer beams onto rails still warm from afternoon runs. "Still at Crovan's Gate Works," he murmured. "The... incident with the injectors." His Welsh vowels curled around the admission like steam escaping faulty pipe joints.

"Yeah," You said simply in agreement with Henry, steam curling from your pistons like lazy smoke signals. The turntable groaned beneath you, its familiar metallic protest blending with the evening chorus of crickets beyond Tidmouth's sheds. Adelina's firebox rattled—not the usual simmering rage, but something sharper, like loose rivets in a failing boiler.

Thomas piped up from his berth, his cheerful whistle slicing through the tension. "Did they really throw spanners at the foreman?" His eyes—those bright, innocent eyes—gleamed with the morbid curiosity only a tank engine could muster.

Harris snorted through a mouthful of sandwich. "Aye, an' a bucket o' cold tea ower th' inspector's heid," he added with relish, crumbs tumbling down your cabside like miniature landslides. Lewis shot him a look that could've curdled milk.

Adelina's steam valves hissed. "Good riddance," she spat, but her Welsh vowels wavered just enough to betray something else beneath the venom. You watched condensation slide down her battered nameplate—*plink*—into the ash below.

At that moment you began to back into one of the free berths, noticing with some amusement that Adelina's steam was curling upward in sharp, agitated puffs—the kind that only happened when she was trying very hard *not* to explode. Henry sat unusually silent beside her, his Welsh curves softening into something resigned as condensation dripped from his buffers onto rails still warm from the day's runs.

"Right then, ye overgrown tea kettle." Harris kicked your buffer beam—not hard enough to dent, but hard enough to make his boot-leather *thunk* against iron. "Dinnae blow th' sheds up while we're gone." His breath smelled of pickled onions and cheap whisky as he leaned into your cab, tossing his greasy cap onto the coal bunker.

Lewis exhaled through his nose—a sound like steam escaping a faulty safety valve. "Mind yer steam pressure," he muttered, knuckles whitening on your regulator one last time before letting go.

You hissed steam through your pistons in a slow exhale as Harris swung down from your cab, his boots crunching on the cinders with the finality of a prison door slamming shut. "Dinnae drink all th' boiler water afore mornin'," he tossed over his shoulder, already halfway to the foreman's office where the shift-change whisky bottle waited.

Lewis lingered just a second longer—long enough to drag a grease-blackened thumb across your nameplate in what might've been approval, or maybe just checking for dust.

"Mind th' stoker don't—"

"I *know*," you hissed through gritted teeth—or whatever equivalent a locomotive has—as Lewis lingered by your cabside, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against your regulator. His hand smelled of axle grease and cheap tobacco, the kind rolled too tight by impatient fingers. The evening shift's departure whistle screamed from Crovan's Gate Works—three sharp blasts that sent pigeons exploding from the rafters in a flurry of soot-stained wings.

Harris was already halfway to the foreman's shack, his silhouette backlit by the Works' flickering arc-lamps as he swaggered like a man who'd just won a bet. "Dinnae let th' fire go oot, ye daft boiler!"

"I won't!" You called out, the exhaustion finally getting to you after everything that's happened today. Your pistons hissed softly, steam curling away from your tired frame as you settled into the berth. Tidmouth Sheds exhaled around you—the rhythmic *drip-drip* of condensation from Henry’s leaky steam pipes, the quiet *clink* of Adelina shifting her buffers against the rails, the distant *scritch-scratch* of Thomas’s fireman raking ash.

Harris’s laughter echoed from the foreman’s office, followed by the muffled *clink* of whisky glasses. Lewis lingered a moment longer by your cabside, his silhouette sharp against the fading twilight before he finally turned with a muttered, "Dinnae do anythin' stupid." The words hung in the air like unspent steam as he trudged after Harris, boots crunching gravel.

Silence settled—not peaceful, but taut, like a coupling chain stretched to its limit.

Adelina’s firebox rattled. "So." The word curled from her funnel like smoke off bad coal. "Ye really think ye solved somethin’ today, freelancer?"

You let condensation drip from your pistons onto the rails—*plink-plink*—before answering. "Didn’t solve anything. Just made sure they won’t sabotage Henry’s coal trial tomorrow."

Henry’s voice softened the quiet. "I... appreciate that." His words were hesitant, like a train creeping over rotten sleepers.

"No problem Henry." You called out to his berth in the shed. Adelina's steam hissed again—this time sharper, like punctured boiler tubes. The sound prickled against your plating, condensation beading along your buffer beams in uneven rivulets. Tidmouth's night shift crickets filled the silence between her ragged breaths and Thomas's curious whistling—three questioning toots that fluttered the stationmaster's hanging oil lamps.

Soon enough, you all went to sleep...

/Sodor1984's Cool Transition/

The dawn came not with sunlight but with steel—Sir Topham Hatt’s boots crunching gravel like coupling pins snapping into place. You jolted awake to the scent of Welsh anthracite, rich and sharp as broken slate, as the Works’ flatbeds groaned under the trial coal’s weight. Henry’s firebox flared first—a desperate, hungry gasp—before Adelina’s steam valves hissed like a scalded cat.

"*Duw*, smells like a chapel fire," Harris muttered, emerging from the foreman’s shack with a whisky-tinged yawn. His shirt clung crookedly, one suspender dangling like a broken brake chain. Lewis wordlessly tossed him a tin mug; it *clanged* off his chest and rolled into the ash pit.

"Phoenix." Sir Topham Hatt’s voice cut through the shed’s groggy murmurs like a regulator snapping shut. You startled awake to the metallic *clang* of coal shovels against flatbed edges, the scent of Welsh anthracite—rich and sulfurous—clinging to the dawn mist rolling off Tidmouth harbor. Henry’s firebox flared first, a desperate gasp that sent shadows leaping across Adelina’s scowling smokebox door.

"Bloody *hell*," Harris groaned from your footplate, one eye squinted against daylight that hadn’t existed moments ago. His boot knocked over Lewis’s tin cup—*clatter*—sending cold tea soaking into your coal dust. "Dinnae tell me we’re shiftin’ that muck afore breakfast."

Lewis caught the cup mid-roll with a sleep-drunk swipe. "Aye, an’ dinnae bitch while doin’ it." His thumb rubbed at a tea stain on your throttle plate—*scritch-scritch*—the sound syncopated by Thomas’s excited chuffing three berths down.

Henry’s voice emerged first, soft as steam condensing on cold pipes. "Is that... truly Welsh coal?" His surprised vowels curled around the words like smoke escaping faulty seams.

"Yes it is Henry," Sir Topham Hatt confirmed, watching the anthracite lumps tumble from flatbeds with the solemnity of a priest distributing communion wafers. The coal's slate-blue facets caught the dawn light strangely—not gleaming like Yorkshire bituminous, but drinking the sun like parched earth. You inhaled the distinctive scent—sharp as broken flint with undertones of damp church stone—just as Adelina's steam valve erupted in a derisive hiss.

"Special treatment fer th' green elephant again?" Her Welsh consonants bit harder than the coal's edges. Harris responded by spitting between her wheels—*ptoo*—the tobacco stain sizzling on hot rails as Lewis muttered "Bloody chapel choirgirl" into his tea-stained collar.

Henry's fire trembled visibly beneath his patched boiler. "I...I don't deserve such consideration," he murmured, but the way his regulator leaked steam betrayed desperate hope.

"Yes you do Henry," Edward began simply—his voice carrying the quiet certainty of old rails settled deep into their ballast—just as Harris' tin mug *clanged* against your buffer beam. The sound ricocheted off Tidmouth's shed roofs like a loose coupling pin, startling a disgruntled pigeon from its roost.

Sir Topham Hatt adjusted his bowler hat with one crisp motion. "We'll begin with a ton trial run to Killdane and back," he declared, watching Henry's fireman scoop the first shovelful of anthracite. The coal *clinked* strangely against the tender's iron plates—not the dull thud of Yorkshire bituminous, but a sharper, almost musical sound that made Adelina's steam valves hiss like a nest of disturbed adders.

The Welsh coal *clinked* into Henry’s tender with a sound like church bells muffled under slate—sharp, clean, *holy*. Each lump carried the scent of quarried chapels and damp valleys, a miner’s sweat still trapped in its fractures. You watched Henry’s fireman scoop the anthracite with reverent care, black fingers brushing each piece as if counting rosary beads.

"*Duw*, smells like Judgment Day," Adelina muttered, her steam curling in tight, offended spirals.

Harris kicked a stray lump with his boot—*clack*—sending it skittering across the rails. "Judgment fer who, eh? Yer choirboy act’s got holes bigger’n yer firebox."

Henry said nothing. His pistons trembled.

The flatbeds groaned as the last of the coal slid into Henry’s tender—a sound like a tomb door settling into its frame. Lewis wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving streaks of black and rust. "Dinnae look so grim, ye great green lump. It’s just *coal*."

"It’s *Welsh* coal," Henry whispered, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

Thomas piped up from his berth, wheels shuffling excitedly. "Will it make you puff *properly* now? No more cough-cough-sputter?"

Adelina’s safety valve hissed. "Aye, puff ’im straight to the scrapyard when it cracks ’is flue."

You rolled forward half an inch—*screee*—just enough to make her flinch. "Try it," you murmured, steam licking your words like a threat. "I’ve still got 98462’s smokebox door as a souvenir."

Silence.

Then—*clang*—Sir Topham’s pocket watch snapping shut. "We depart in five minutes."

Henry’s first breath of Welsh coal sent a shudder through the shed—a deep, rolling *whoomph*.

Chapter Text

Henry's first firebox breath of Welsh anthracite sent a shudder through Tidmouth's sheds—not the usual hesitant *whoosh* of English coal, but a deep, rolling *whumpf* that rattled loose rivets in Thomas's buffer beams. The scent hit like a chapel candle snuffed by quarry dust—holy and sharp, clinging to your pistons as Henry exhaled steam in trembling plumes. Adelina's firebox door clanged shut with unnecessary force; the sound echoed like a vicar slamming the bible after catching choirboys smoking behind the vestry.

"Bloody *sacrilege*," she hissed, her Welsh vowels curling tighter than overheating boiler tubes. Her crew exchanged glances over their tea tins—steam rising in synchrony with Henry's increasingly confident chuffs.

Harris leaned against your cabside, picking coal dust from his teeth with a bent nail. "*D'ye hear tha'?*" he muttered around the rusted metal. "Like a virgin bride finally learnin' how tae*—"

Lewis kicked his boot—hard. "Shut yer hole afore I weld it shut."

But Harris wasn't wrong.

Henry rolled forward onto the main line with a smoothness none of you had ever heard before—his pistons humming like hymn verses under chapel vaults, his wheels kissing the rails without the usual metallic protest. The Welsh coal burned clean, leaving almost no smoke—just shimmering heat-haze that made the tracks ahead waver like mirages.

"*Duw*," Adelina hissed from the next track over, her voice tight as an overstretched coupling chain. "Actin' like he's the Second Comin'."

You didn't answer.

You were too busy watching Henry’s fireman—a grizzled old Mainlander who’d spent thirty years shoveling Durham bituminous—stare into the firebox like he’d just witnessed the Virgin birth. His lips moved soundlessly around the words *bloody witchcraft*.

Sir Topham adjusted his bowler hat with one crisp motion. "Proceed to Killdane. We'll assess Henry's performance under full load." His pocket watch snapped shut—*clink*—the sound ricocheting off Tidmouth's brick arches as Henry exhaled steam in slow, measured plumes. Welsh anthracite glowed behind his firebox door like chapel windows at sunset.

You followed Henry's freshly-polished buffers down the main line, watching condensation bead along his nameplate—*plink*—onto rails still damp from dawn mist. His pistons moved with uncharacteristic precision, each stroke synchronized like a pit choir's hymn.

No wheezing.

No hesitation.

Just the rhythmic *chuff-chuff-chuff* of an engine finally breathing right.

"Oh thank you Phoenix!" Henry exclaimed, his voice resonating through your frame as you coupled behind him—a whispery, almost prayerful tone you'd never heard from the big green engine before. His Welsh coal burned with eerie cleanliness, leaving only shimmering heat distortions above his funnel as he rolled onto the main line with none of his usual hesitation.

Soon the two of you arrived at Killdane Station—Henry ahead, you behind—his pistons humming with newfound vigor while yours still ached from the previous day's confrontations. The stationmaster's whistle sliced through the crisp morning air as coal dust settled on the platform like gritty snow. Harris leaned out of your cab, squinting at Henry's immaculate exhaust plume. "D'ye see tha'?" he muttered around a mouthful of bacon sandwich. "Bloody *witchcraft*."

Lewis wiped grease from your regulator with his thumb—*scritch-scritch*—the sound syncopated by Henry's rhythmic chuffing. "Dinnae gawk like a vicar at a whorehouse," he grumbled, though his own gaze kept flicking to Henry's spotless smokebox.

Sir Topham Hatt's polished shoes *clicked* against the platform stones as he approached Henry's cab. The big green engine's fireman stood stiffly at attention, shovel clutched like a crusader's sword. "No clinker," the man reported, voice hushed with reverence. "Not a *speck*."

Adelina's distant whistle echoed from the junction—three sharp blasts that sent pigeons exploding from Killdane's signal gantry as she made her way to Vicarstown. Henry's buffers twitched. "She's... unhappy," he murmured, steam curling from his pistons in nervous puffs that matched the rhythm of the dockyard cranes visible beyond the station's ironwork canopy.

Harris spat onto the tracks—*ptoo*—the tobacco stain sizzling against hot rails as he leaned out from your cab. "Aye, an' I'm unhappy when Lewis steals me last sausage," he growled, jerking a thumb toward the distant plume of Adelina's exhaust staining the horizon. "Dinnae mean I start chuckin' shovels at gaffers."

Lewis smacked the back of Harris's head with a grease rag. "Ye did once." The rag left a black smear across Harris's forehead like a priest's ash Wednesday thumbprint.

Henry exhaled steam through his safety valves in a long, shuddering sigh. The scent of Welsh anthracite—clean and mineral-sharp—hung between you both as Sir Topham consulted his pocket watch. "Phoenix," he said without looking up, "you'll shadow Henry's return trip. Observe his steaming characteristics under load."

Harris groaned loud enough to startle a station cat. "*Another* forty ton drag? Christ, might as well hitch me granny's washin' line behind us fer good measure."

Your pistons hissed agreement before you could stop them—the ache from yesterday's confrontation at Crovan's Gate still lingered in your frame like a bad hangover. Lewis's calloused palm smacked your regulator lever in warning. "Dinnae embarrass us," he muttered, low enough that only you could hear. His thumb rubbed at a tea stain on your throttle plate—*scritch-scritch*—the sound syncopated by Henry's fireman shoveling coal with the reverence of a gravedigger.

The guard's whistle sliced the humid air. Henry lurched forward with uncharacteristic smoothness—no wheezing, no protesting clank of overstressed coupling rods—just the rhythmic *chuff-chuff-chuff* of an engine finally breathing right. You followed, feeling the strain in every piston stroke as the grade steepened past Glennock.

Harris leaned out, squinting at Henry's immaculate exhaust plume. "*Witchcraft*," he breathed, then louder: "Oi, Green Giant! Save some o' that holy coal fer the rest o' us sinners, aye?"

Henry didn't answer.

His focus remained fixed ahead—smokebox door gleaming like a church collection plate—as the train curved toward the coastal stretch where Killdane's fishing fleet bobbed in the harbor below. Henry's Welsh coal burned so clean the gulls didn't scatter from his exhaust, their wings slicing through heat-shimmered air as if the train were nothing more than a mirage. You counted their cries between your own labored chuffs—*scree-ah, scree-ah*—each one syncopated by Harris kicking your ashpan in time with the rails' rhythm.

"*Christ*, ye puff like my granny climbin' stairs," he muttered around a mouthful of bacon grease, wiping his fingers on your throttle lever. The smell of pig fat mixed unpleasantly with Welsh anthracite's chapel-stone scent.

Lewis exhaled through his nose—a sound like steam escaping a cracked pipe. "Dinnae distract 'im. That Crovan's Gate scrapheap left 'is frames tighter'n a vicar's purse." His boot nudged your injector valve in what might've been concern, or maybe just checking for leaks.

Henry's whistle floated back—three bright notes that danced over the estuary mist. You answered with two tired toots, watching his silhouette blur where heat met horizon. The rails hummed beneath you both, singing in a language only locomotives understood.

"Phoenix." Henry's voice carried over the clatter of flatbed chains—softer now, without the metallic edge of strained pistons. "Thank you. For... everything really."

You rolled alongside him at the Killdane coal hopper, watching his fireman brush Welsh anthracite dust from the tender with a stiff-bristled broom—*scrritch-scrritch*—like a verger sweeping chapel steps before Sunday service. Dawn painted the coal's fractured planes slate-blue, each facet catching light like stained glass in a quarryman's chapel.

"Didn't do anything special," you muttered, steam curling from your pistons in dissipating spirals. The scent of Harris's breakfast kippers wafted from your cab—oilier than Henry's clean-burning coal, clinging to your footplate like a drunkard's breath.

Henry exhaled steam through his safety valves—a sound like a hymnbook's pages fluttering shut. "You lied to Sir Topham about my injectors."

"Fixed them, didn't I?" You nudged his buffer beam with yours—*clank*—the impact reverberating through your frames like a whispered confession in a confessional. Out the corner of your vision, Lewis pretended not to overhear while scrubbing tea stains from your nameplate with a rag that smelled of axle grease and guilt.

Henry's fireman paused mid-sweep, broom bristles hovering over a particularly pristine lump of anthracite. The man's calloused fingers—blackened by thirty years of Durham coal—traced the coal's sharp edges like a blind man reading braille scripture.

Harris chose that moment to lob a kipper bone at Lewis's head. "*Oi*! Ye scrub that plate like yer polishin' the Crown Jewels!"

Lewis caught the fishbone midair without looking. "Aye, an' ye eat like yer skull's hollow." He flicked it into your ashpan—*tink*—where it sizzled against hot embers.

Henry's chuckle emerged as twin steam plumes, dissipating above the hopper's iron latticework. "They're... lively, your crew."

"Lively as a sack of badgers," you agreed, watching Harris attempt to balance a teacup on Lewis's head while the fireman reloaded your tender. The cup wobbled—*clatter*—spilling Earl Grey across your coal dust in a spreading stain that mirrored Killdane harbor's tide lines.

"And I wouldn't have it any other way." You whispered back, steam curling around Henry's buffers like fingers interlacing. The scent of Welsh anthracite clung to his frame—clean and ancient, smelling of slate valleys and miner's sweat—as you rolled alongside him toward the water tower. Killdane's stationmaster waved his green flag with the solemnity of a bishop blessing a congregation, his whistle's sharp *peep* slicing through morning mist still heavy with sea salt.

Henry's firebox glowed behind its iron door—no longer the sickly orange of struggling combustion, but the steady blue-white of perfect burning. His pistons moved with uncharacteristic precision, each stroke timed like a pit choir's harmony. "Phoenix," he murmured as your crews coupled fresh water hoses, "do you want to be friends?"

You looked back over at him in shock, his firebox glowing with the deep blue-white of proper combustion. His pistons moved smooth and rhythmic as chapel bells—no wheezing, no hesitation—just pure mechanical harmony.

"Friends?" The word tasted strange in your smokebox, like coal dust turned sweet on your tongue. Henry’s buffers twitched nervously, steam curling in uncertain wisps around his wheel arches.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice softer than Welsh anthracite dust settling in a tender. His smokebox door gleamed—not with pride, but something quieter, like chapel brass polished by trembling hands. Steam curled from his pistons in hesitant spirals, dissolving against Killdane's salt-stained platform awning. "*Friends*," Henry repeated, as if tasting the word in his firebox too.

"Yes Henry, I would like to be friends with you." The words escaped your smokebox before you could stop them, steam curling around the admission like confession-booth curtains. Henry's firebox flared bright enough to illuminate Killdane's platform puddles—reflections wobbling like dropped communion wine—as Harris choked on his kipper bone behind you.

Sir Topham Hatt's polished shoes *clicked* across the platform stones toward you, his bowler hat casting a shadow that stretched all the way to Killdane's signal box. He held a folded telegram between thumb and forefinger—the paper crisp as communion wafers—fluttering slightly in the sea breeze. "Phoenix," he said without preamble, "we're extending Henry's coal trials indefinitely. The Glanrhyd Colliery has agreed to monthly shipments." The telegram crinkled as he tucked it into his waistcoat pocket with the finality of a priest sealing a confessional.

Harris's spanner *clattered* into your toolbox. "*Monthly?* Christ, next ye'll be givin' 'im a golden bloody firebox." His boot kicked your ashpan—*clang*—sending a shower of soot onto the rails.

Henry's fireman paused mid-shovel, blackened fingers tightening around the handle. The Welsh anthracite in his tender gleamed blue-black in the morning light, each lump sharp-edged as if freshly hewn from some underground chapel. You watched Henry's safety valves tremble—not from strain, but something quieter—before he exhaled steam in slow, reverent plumes. "Sir," he whispered, his voice resonating through your frames like a struck tuning fork, "I—I don't know what to say."

Lewis wiped his hands on a rag that smelled of axle grease and yesterday's whisky. "Try 'thank ye,' ye great green lump," he muttered, though his usual sneer lacked its usual venom. His calloused thumb traced the fresh dents along your buffer beam—leftovers from Crovan's Gate—before tossing the rag at Harris's face.