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edwards-exploit · 18 hours ago

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this was so good i had to make fanart for this

Prompt:

Donald and Douglas before they came to Sodor.

Also, congratulations on gaining 150 followers! 🎉

Thank you so much!! 💖 I appreciate it~ And I am more than happy to do more backstory with the Scottish engines!! Let's see what Donald and Douglas got up to, back before they ever came to Sodor's shores...

(Some crew OCs and story ideas borrowed [w/ permission] from @edwards-exploit!!)

(The month, and the prompts deadline, is coming to a close! Get your prompt idea in by the 31st, and I'll write it! Details are here!)

Kirk Darrow couldn't have been more pleased as he left the stationmaster's office, having been told that management was seriously considering him for a position as a driver. The winter cold bit at him like mad, but his entire body felt warm and light, like he'd just enjoyed a hot toddy. He'd served as a fireman for a number of years, and had the honor of crewing BR No. 57646 alongside his brother, Dirk. The two of them had, just as they'd arrived in the world together, signed up to join the railway together many moons ago when there weren't any better prospects to speak of back home.

While Dirk had been certified as a driver for a few years now, Kirk had always known that he could have taken the exams, but truthfully, he hadn't felt terribly motivated to do so. After all, he got to work alongside his twin and their engine all day, so why would he ever want to drive some other engine? It was only through the urging of his brother and No. 57646 that Kirk even bothered to consider it, though, mostly because, in Dirk's words, "if som'thin' 'appens n' I get laid up in th' hospital, ye'd better be able t' take care o' 'im!"

Unfortunately for Kirk, Dirk was known to make snap judgements and rash decisions, some of which had landed him in the hospital before, so it was that rather sound argument that had led to him studying for (and thankfully scoring high on) his exams.

As Kirk rounded the bend and approached the yard, trying to figure out how best to share the good news—should he play the fool? Offer to buy beers? Make it out to be a Christmas miracle?—what he saw instead made his good cheer evaporate in a flash.

No. 57647, an engine that their own held close to his heart, snarled throatily at one of the new diesel railbuses that had so recently entered service, this one having transferred here only a few short days ago. This particular diesel was 79959, and from the very start, he had made a rather strong impression on the rest of the yard. Kirk didn't much care for him himself, but at least he knew how to keep his damn distance. Unfortunately, from the way the two engines were facing off against each other, anger bleeding off of them both, one of them—or perhaps both of them—had decided to pick a fight.

"Ye'd best take that back, ye oil-huffin' ninny!"

The diesel only sniffed imperiously at 57647's words, clearly unimpressed. "Oh, look. Th' hothead's barbaric brother is here t' play noo! Ohhhh, Ah'm so scared!"

Condescension dripped from every word, and the diesel's eyes slowly turned back to 57646, a cocksure grin stretching across his face. "Ye 'eard what ah said, but ah'll say it again! All ye steamies are jus' washed up, no-good, hunks o' rust, an' you, ye dumb engine, are th' worst of all. Always givin' me orders, always thinkin' ah'm not as strong or as important as ye. WELL! Ah can do whatever you can, an' so much more! Ah can't wait 'til yer in the scrapyard, beggin' fer yer life, only ta—"

BAM! There was a clash, metal scraping against metal, and 57647 was suddenly right in front of the diesel, the two buffer to buffer as, with a great heave of effort, the steam engine pushed the railbus right off the rails, causing him to tip over and land with a great clatter against the cold, hard ground.

"HAAH! HAAH!" the railbus hyperventilated, panic setting in as his eyes looked every which way, focusing on nothing. A great hush fell over the yard, everyone watching in collective bewilderment as they tried to comprehend what had happened, before realization finally set in and a cacophany of noise erupted. Some of the men immediately set to righting the toppled bus, who was now screaming obscenities at the twin engines, while others hurried to ascertain the state of the line. 57647, for his part, was soundly being told off by his crew, two more folks that Kirk couldn't confidently say that he liked until he'd gotten enough beers in him.

"What were ye thinkin', ye ridiculous engine?!" the steam engine's driver shouted, looking like he was a hair's breadth away from popping a vein. "Ye coulda hurt someone! Yer lucky that damn railbus' crew was on break! Yer so... GAH! No wonder th' top brass wants t'—"

At that moment, however, the driver suddenly clammed up, the fireman also shuffling his feet and looking anywhere else. 57646's brows furrowed, suspicion all over his face, and it was clear that he was about to press on the matter, when a particular sound gave them all pause.

The depot manager's heavy steps were unmistakable, and Mr. MacCullough, the dark-eyed manager, approached the two steam engines with ire in his eyes and his jaw firm.

"Unbelievable. Once again, ye've caused me some REAL trouble, 57647! That railbus was t' take passengers this afternoon, an' noo, I've gotta organize a replacement! AGAIN!"

"But sir, I—"

"Can it, ye lousy engine! Ye couldn't keep yer temper in check, n' ye started a fight. Don't even pretend; I've already heard enough testimony from everyone here!"

The depot manager took a deep breath, eyes moving back and forth between the twins. "You listen t' me," he growled, his volume low but the intensity of his voice palpable. "Ah've had it wit' ye. Yer a bleedin' idiot who can't keep 'is temper, an' ah don't need that on ma railway. Yer done. Ah'm arrangin' for ye t' be sent t' th' scrapyard at th' end o' th' week."

A sudden hush fell over the twin engines and 57646's crew as Kirk came over to join his brother and their engine, his good news seeming so monumentally insignificant in the face of this terrible announcement. "Wha... what d'ya mean, sir?" 57647 trembled, and beside him, Dirk also trembled, but certainly not with trepidation.

"Ah mean what ah said," the manager sneered. "Yer no longer useful, an' yer gettin' scrapped. As fer 57646 here, congratulations. Ye've been sold; yer goin' t' Sodor."

"SODOR?!" exploded 57646, horror, anger, and rebelliousness all coming to the forefront as the manager's words sunk in.

"Tha's right," the steely eyed Mr. MacCullough continued, seeming quite unpreturbed even though a giant steam locomotive easily more than thrice his size looked like he was currently contemplating murder. "Yer goin' t' Sodor, an' ah'll be seein' ye off in a few days so yer crew can decide whether they wanna go wit' ya. That's all."

With that, like he hadn't just delivered the equivalent of executioner's orders, Mr. MacCullough turned on his heel and headed straight back for his office, his stride not slowing in the least despite the agony he'd left behind.

"No... NO!" 57647 cried, shaking like mad as tears threatened to fall. Beside him, Dirk and Kirk slowly reached up to pat at his frames; even though 57647 wasn't their engine, 57646 loved him enough to call him brother, and thus, he was just as special to the crew.

The reactions from 57647's own crew, however, left something to be desired, especially as Dirk turned to face them with a fire in his eyes.

"What was that, Rory?!" he demanded, practically getting into the driver's face. "Ye didn't stand up for yer engine at all! Yer jus' gonna... jus' gonna let him DIE?!"

With that, Dirk grabbed at his fellow driver's shirt and practically lifted him to his tiptoes, with Kirk making no move to stop him. However, instead of remorse, Rory simply let out a harsh sigh, his expression a mess of anxiety, reluctance, and resignation.

"Th' Controller let me know this mornin'. Mick n' I... we're bein' transferred t'a new engine. There's nothin' we can do. We can't work wit' him anymore, and ah'd rather be drivin' one o' them nice new diesels, anyway."

"Them nice new diesels..." Dirk scoffed, before spitting off to the side and releasing his grip, causing Rory to scramble backwards, breathing heavily, eyes wide with fright. "Get outta me sight. I dun wanna see ye again fer th' rest o' th' time ah'm here. GO!"

Rory and Mick didn't need persuading. The two scrambled off in a flurry of limbs, their movements so comical that were the situation anything but what it was, it might have been funny.

"Ah... ah cannae believe it," 57647 whimpered, eyes wide and staring at nothing. "Ma crew... they dun care 'bout me. Ah'm... ah'm gonna be scrapped..."

"Nae," 57646 whispered fiercely, trying to keep his voice low even though all assembled could hear the emotions raging just beneath the surface. "Yer not dyin' anytime soon, y'hear me? Ah... Ah'll figure sometin' out."

"Ye mean we," Dirk corrected, causing Kirk to look over at him in surprise. "We aren't about to let ye go at this alone." The conviction in his voice brought warm smiles to the faces of the two Caledonians, and it would have been a perfect moment if not for Kirk grabbing at his brother's arm.

"Ah, 'scuse us, you two."

Kirk managed to wrangle Dirk off to the side for a moment, before staring at his twin with disbelief. "Dirk! Ye cannae make promises ye can't keep!"

Dirk folded his arms, scowling at his brother as though he'd said something ridiculous. "What're ye on about, Kirk? Our engines need our help!"

"Our engines?!" Kirk hissed, absolutely incredulous by his brother's audacity. "Dirk, we have one engine, an' tha's moore than enough! 'Sides, his brother's bound fer th' scrapyard! How d'ye propose we—"

"Kirk," his brother interrupted softly, his tone solemn, "if I were starin' down th' executioner's axe, wuld ye do whatcha had t' do ta save me?"

"O' course!" Kirk blurted, not even needing a second to think. "Yer me bràthair, an'—"

"Tha's how our engine feels 'bout his own," his twin interjected, his tone now pleading, almost begging Kirk to understand. "Kirk, we've gotta do sometin'. Ah already know we're goin' wit' him t' Sodor; we've got no more family here, an' he may be metal, but he may as well be kin. And kin comes through fer kin."

There was a long, long silence. Kirk stared steadily at Dirk, then at the two engines, who were quietly conversing with each other, then upon noticing that he was looking at them, gave tiny, hopeful smiles that would have melted any good man's heart.

At that, a long sigh escaped the fireman's lips as he turned to regard his brother, who was already smiling at the sound of his twin's surrender. "Alright. We'll save his bràthair. N' he's real lucky, 'cause ah know our cousins, Bryce n' Blair, were also thinkin' a leavin' th' railway an' skippin' town. They'll be happy t' come wit' us, 'specially if there's steamies that need savin'."

"YES!" Dirk started to cheer, but then quickly stopped himself as the noise drew the attention of the other railwaymen around the yard. "Alright. Last thing we need's another driver, then..."

At this, Kirk couldn't help but roll his eyes. Looked like his earlier conundrum had solved itself. "Guess yer in luck once again. Ah passed th' exams; ah'm a certified driver noo."

"Really?!" Dirk's eyes widened to an almost comical degree, and a huge smile split his face. "Ah shoulda known that's why ye were lookin' so proud earlier! Between you an' me drivin' an' the Mitchells' shovelin', we'll have no problems gettin' t' Sodor! Let's tell them the good news, then!"

With that, the good news was shared and plans were laid, and despite the worries and the fear of what the future might hold, one engine and his driver, along with another engine and his soon-to-be-driver, found themselves smiling brightly. After all, nobody knew better than they did how far they'd go for family.

#arriving in knapford #creative on the mainline #ttte donald #ttte douglas #ttte oc dirk darrow #ttte oc kirk darrow

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edwards-exploit · 1 day ago

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Thomas gets into trouble with the law again, James takes any oppurtunity to have his picture taken

#arriving in knapford #thomas #james #HELP. HOWEVER. I WILL SAY #i think thomas would pose also bc he hates cops

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edwards-exploit · 2 days ago

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For the ficlet game, Gordon picks up gen alpha/z slang from some of the younger passengers, and starts using it around the engines to piss them off lol

(ask box ficlet game here!)

As Thomas backs down Tidmouth sheds for a short visit, he noticed the downright exhausted faces of his friends.

"What's wrong-?" He asked, but then was quickly cut off with Henry's panicked voice.

"Thomas, save yourself. It's not worth it to stay here anymore!"

Thomas blinked, and he couldn't help but let confusion and concern colour his tone, "Wait, what? Why?? Did something happen-?"

"What Is Up, My Dear Skibidies?" Gordon's voice boomed, as he went on the turntable.

Everyone in the sheds groaned. Thomas, meanwhile, had to bite his tongue to not burst out laughing.

"I Have Had A Sigma Day!" Gordon continued, in his normally grandiose tone, "The Passengers Were NPCs, As Usual-"

"Please, stop." James begged.

"But I Was Of Course On The Grindset And-"

Donald squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it magically made him deaf as well.

"-I Kept Being The Railway's GOAT By Keeping To Time."

Douglas actually, in his annoyance, literally growled- how about that! Then, Thomas realised he could do the funniest thing ever.

"Wow, it sounded like you really took the W today, Gordon!"

The others once more groaned, as the two blue engines grinned at each other.

#live from tidmouth #creative on the mainline #sodor mailbox #ttte #thomas and friends #thomas the tank engine #rws #the railway series #ttte thomas #ttte gordon #ttte james #ttte henry #ttte donald #ttte douglas #ttte donald and douglas

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edwards-exploit · 2 days ago

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Prompt:

Donald and Douglas before they came to Sodor.

Also, congratulations on gaining 150 followers! 🎉

(Some crew OCs and story ideas borrowed [w/ permission] from @edwards-exploit!!)

(The month, and the prompts deadline, is coming to a close! Get your prompt idea in by the 31st, and I'll write it! Details are here!)

"Ye'd best take that back, ye oil-huffin' ninny!"

The diesel only sniffed imperiously at 57647's words, clearly unimpressed. "Oh, look. Th' hothead's barbaric brother is here t' play noo! Ohhhh, Ah'm so scared!"

The depot manager's heavy steps were unmistakable, and Mr. MacCullough, the dark-eyed manager, approached the two steam engines with ire in his eyes and his jaw firm.

"Unbelievable. Once again, ye've caused me some REAL trouble, 57647! That railbus was t' take passengers this afternoon, an' noo, I've gotta organize a replacement! AGAIN!"

"But sir, I—"

"Can it, ye lousy engine! Ye couldn't keep yer temper in check, n' ye started a fight. Don't even pretend; I've already heard enough testimony from everyone here!"

"Ah mean what ah said," the manager sneered. "Yer no longer useful, an' yer gettin' scrapped. As fer 57646 here, congratulations. Ye've been sold; yer goin' t' Sodor."

"SODOR?!" exploded 57646, horror, anger, and rebelliousness all coming to the forefront as the manager's words sunk in.

"Tha's right," the steely eyed Mr. MacCullough continued, as though a giant steam locomotive easily more than thrice his size looked like he was currently contemplating murder. "Yer goin' t' Sodor, an' ah'll be seein' ye off in a few days so yer crew can decide whether they wanna go wit' ya. That's all."

The reactions from 57647's own crew, however, left something to be desired, especially as Dirk turned to face them with a fire in his eyes.

"What was that, Rory?!" he demanded, practically getting into the driver's face. "Ye didn't stand up for yer engine at all! Yer jus' gonna... jus' gonna let him DIE?!"

Rory and Mick didn't need persuading. The two scrambled off in a flurry of limbs, their movements so comical that were the situation anything but what it was, it might have been funny.

"Ah... ah cannae believe it," 57647 whimpered, eyes wide and staring at nothing. "Ma crew... they dun care 'bout me. Ah'm... ah'm gonna be scrapped..."

"Ah, 'scuse us, you two."

Kirk managed to wrangle Dirk off to the side for a moment, before staring at his twin with disbelief. "Dirk! Ye cannae make promises ye can't keep!"

Dirk folded his arms, scowling at his brother as though he'd said something ridiculous. "What're ye on about, Kirk? Our engines need our help!"

"Kirk," his brother interrupted softly, his tone solemn, "if I were starin' down th' executioner's axe, wuld ye do whatcha had t' do ta save me?"

"O' course!" Kirk blurted, not even needing a second to think. "Yer me bràthair, an'—"

"YES!" Dirk started to cheer, but then quickly stopped himself as the noise drew the attention of the other railwaymen around the yard. "Alright. Last thing we need's another driver, then..."

At this, Kirk couldn't help but roll his eyes. Looked like his earlier conundrum had solved itself. "Guess yer in luck once again. Ah passed th' exams; ah'm a certified driver noo."

"Really?!" Dirk's eyes widened to an almost comical degree, and a huge smile split his face. "Ah shoulda known that's why ye were lookin' so proud earlier! Between you an' me drivin' an' the Mitchell's shovelin', we'll have no problems gettin' t' Sodor! Let's tell them the good news, then!"

#arriving in knapford #ttte oc dirk darrow #ttte oc kirk darrow #donald #douglas #OHHH MY GOD I STILL CANT BELIEVE YOU WROTE IN DIRK AND KIRK #SNIFFLE. THIS IS SO GOOD. TYSM TE...

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edwards-exploit · 2 days ago

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I REACHED 400+ FOLLOWERS!

That's a lot! And to celebrate, I'm re-opening writing prompts! Send me prompts and I'll write them!

Ask Box Ficlet Game!

Send me a character (or three- it can be from anywhere, rws or tvs! Or hell, for a curveball, make me write about a real engine or an oc of mine!) + a prompt (it could be a single word or a full on sentence/situation!) and I'll write a little thing about it- at least three sentences or more!

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edwards-exploit · 2 days ago

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"Dirk Darrow."

Dirk whirled around to see his wonderful wife holding papers, and his heart bottomed out as he thought of the worst option available immediately.

"Are ye divorcin' me?!"

"Divorcing ye?" Olivia repeated him, though, to his surprise (and relief), she looked as surprised (and saddened) at the notion of divorce as he is, "Nae! No' at all! Never, even! Aye, I just stumbled upon somethin’ fascinatin' in the post."

There was a hint of sarcasm in Olivia's voice at the last part, and Dirk gulped. Hopefully this isn't related to the-

Olivia handed him the papers, and Dirk read it. Oh, it's definitely related to the thing he did last week.

"A wis awoken tae oor Bonnie askin' tae see her uncles, but when A asked her when she wanted to see Kirk, she wis confused, and talked aboot her 'other uncles'," Olivia continued, as Dirk read the mail with increasing apprehension, "An' then ah check the mail, an' see that you're legally brithers with none other than..."

He folded up the paper with a pale face.

The paper was an apology note from the magistrate of Arlesburgh for not recognising them as family sooner, and that now Donald and Douglas are on record as Donald Darrow and Douglas Darrow.

Olivia inhaled, clasping her arms. "Dirk. Ye made engines family."

"It seemed to be a guid idea at the time-!"

"HOW?!"

---

Donald yawned as the firelighters tended to his fire, savouring the warm feeling before he has to stretch his wheels and do his job.

And then The Arlesburgh Magistrate, Mr. Ector Fryssington showed up, which isn't a good sign if you wanted to have a calm day.

"Hello, boys!" He cheerfully grinned, looking at Donald and Douglas- to the curiosity of both Duck and Oliver beside them, "Sorry for the wait, I contact many, many people in Scotland for this to happen."

"Wha'? For what to happen?" Douglas asked groggily.

From his sleeves, Mr. Fryssington procured a... Document of sorts? "For this!"

Donald and Douglas read it.

They read it again, because they thought the first time was a hallucination.

The spell of silence was broken when Douglas remarked, "Lord, our brother is weird."

And all hell broke loose on Arlesburgh sheds.

#live from tidmouth #creative on the mainline #ttte #thomas and friends #thomas the tank engine #rws #the railway series #railway series #ttte oc dirk darrow #ttte oc olivia darrow #ttte donald #ttte douglas #ttte ocs the magistrates #ttte fic #ttte oc muncipal court of sodor

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edwards-exploit · 2 days ago

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Tamsin the Tank Engine, again!

#live from tidmouth #creative on the mainline #ttte #thomas and friends #thomas the tank engine #ttte thomas #tamsin tag

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edwards-exploit · 4 days ago

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HOW DO THE TTTE CAST LAUGH?

Thomas - a rapid fire laugh that's incredibly infectious. Kind of your standard HAHAHAs or HEHEHAHAHs but it's still very genuine and liable to make others laugh as well

Edward - he wants you to believe that his polite little "hmm-hmm-hmm"s are his laughs. His actual laugh is a squawky, ugly, incredibly loud seagull laugh that only Thomas knows about.

Henry - a wheezy laugh, kinda sounds like "eeeh-heeeh-heeeh". Not a loud chortler but completely unable to articulate words.

Gordon - a deep, rumbling laugh. AHO-HO-HOs. Embarrased over his own laughs so he immediately composes himself and goes ENOUGH

James - a squeaky, chipmunky laugh like EHEHEHEHEEEH. He snorts a little, too. Tries to make it sound more impressive, like NYEHEHEHEH! but if it's funny enough he devolves into his true laugh sooner or later

Percy - a cutesy little heeheehee laugh but it oscillates between that and a racouous AUGHAHAHAHA laugh

Toby - dad chuckles- not exactly laughs, it's not too loud for them. Slaps his knees as he chuckles. Like ohohohohoho!

Duck - a snorting, honking, slurpy and damp mess. It definitely sounds like a duck quacks. Like its like eheheh-*SNRK*-heh-*SNRK*-heh-*SNRRK*-

Donald - deep, throaty HAGH-HAGH-HAGH-HAGHS while also elbow nudging the guy who made the joke appreciatively

Douglas - The same HAGH-HAGH-HAGH laugh as Donald, but completely different reaction; he immediately beats the nearest object up in the vicinity. Slamming tables, punching walls. If he's just an engine he just shakes helplessly as he laughs.

Oliver - His laugh used to be loud and genuine, a real YEHAHAHAHGAHAHAHAH with tears in his eyes kinda laugh but he learned to be quiet during the escape and never quite unlearned it when it comes to laughs. It's now kinda like, quiet chortling.

Emily - a regal, queenly laugh of O-HO-HO-HO! but when she breaks down it devolves into banshee like shrieks

Nia - it sounds like tsshAHAHAHA! tssshAHAHAHA! Like she tries to hide her real laugh at first but cant help it, and it sounds so clear and genuine

Rebecca - laughs a lot, so everyone's used to her giggling, but it's always a welcome sound! It's a cute little, high pitched and rapid fire hee-hee-hee! And she sounds so delighted every time. When she laughs louder its like HEEAHAHEEHAHA!!!!

#live from tidmouth #talk from the tracks #ttte #thomas and friends #thomas the tank engine #ttte headcanon #ttte hc #part two coming... soon

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edwards-exploit · 4 days ago

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A new ref for thomas/tamsin! not a genderbend btw, she's bigender (both she and he pronouns) :]

#live from tidmouth #creative on the mainline #ttte #thomas and friends #thomas the tank engine #ttte thomas #tamsin tag #had fun with her steel toed boots!!! and it's blue too!! bloots if you will #she still goes by thomas and he/him pronouns! she just answers to tasmin and she/her pronouns at the same time as well!#I'd say her gender is simultaneously a girl and a boy but his outward presentation varies day by day #still shes taking steps to be more feminine than purely masculine and is more content with her identity after coming out as tamsin #so I'd say she's transfem (please correct me if im wrong tho!)

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edwards-exploit · 5 days ago

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Station pilots belong at the station or some such

#arriving in knapford #thomas #gordon #ACCURATE

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edwards-exploit · 8 days ago

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Congrats on the 150, Te!!! I'm not too sure on the prompt i wanna choose so you go wild with something in railway reincarnation!

THANK YOU, JUNIE!! 💖Ahhh, Railway Reincarnation, my beloved <3 I loved helping develop that AU.

To give a brief explanation, in this AU, all of the engines' souls are those of people who died and were reborn as engines! Some remembered their past lives as humans immediately upon waking up, while others only remembered after many years had passed and/or something happened that caused them to remember.

One interesting aspect of this is that siblings (and sometimes other family groupings) often find that even in their new lives, their paths once again cross, but while one sibling might already remember their fond yesteryears together, the other might not...

(This one's a long one, so much so that I'm making it a two-parter. CW: Mentions of death; notable angst)

(Interested in submitting a prompt of your own or seeing what I've written so far? Take a look here!)

At first, there was nothing but blackness, all-consuming and omnipresent. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, floating in the thermlessness of the void—only that there was the feeling of anticipation, like something was going to soon happen.

That something came into clarity as soon as he blinked his eyes open for the first time, taking in his surroundings. He appeared to be in some sort of workshop, with gray brick softly illuminated by the afternoon sun. Tools and paints were scattered about, although he wasn't entirely sure what many of said tools were used for. This was quite different from any place he'd seen back in the Valley, back in his—

At the thought of his home, the breathtakingly beautiful Skarloey Valley—named for the lake whose shores he lived on, with the richest red apples on God's green earth and home of the best place on Sodor to see the starry skies—he couldn't keep back a gasp, memories running like a river through his mind.

Calling for his brother. Watching his face turn from excited to horrified as the ice coating the lake began to crack. His brother's mad dash to get to safety. Running forward. Grasping at his younger brother's arms and propelling him to shore, with not a shred of regret in his heart. Falling beneath the ice, and being unable to resist as Skarloey's waters took his breath away for the last time.

He... had died, hadn't he? He'd saved his brother, certainly, but he was quite certain that he'd perished that day. At least... he'd thought so. Yet none of his confusion changed the fact that as far as he could sensibly tell, he was... here, wherever "here" was. As if by impulse, he tried moving his hands, but found that he was quite incapable of doing so. In fact, he couldn't move anything at all, not even his neck. Given his vantage point, which made him certain that he was not on the floor, was he being restrained and suspended somehow? Maybe that was the case, especially with how his body felt so heavy, heavier than anything he'd ever experienced before. He could only liken himself to how a turtle must feel, although, once again, he couldn't move himself, no matter how much he tried.

"Ah! You're awake!" A cheerful voice sounded from somewhere to his left, and his eyes snapped over to take in the sight of a workman in a flat cap and homespun shirt looking up at him with a smile. This also caused him to see for the first time that there were two shiny pieces of polished metal jutting out in front of him, connected to a red-colored bar, which also held a hook and latches of some kind. "You're almost done, Skarloey. You'll be put through your trials and paces, and then you'll be sent off to Sodor!"

This information caused him to blink, eyes quickly searching to see if the workman was talking to someone else instead, but no, it appeared as though he was being addressed. "Um... Skarloey, you said?" Thankfully, his voice didn't sound as off-kilter as he felt.

"That's right!" the workman grinned. "That's your name, according to the folks who commissioned ya! Named you after this pretty little lake, or so I heard."

What was this man talking about? Why would he be called Skarloey? That didn't make any sense. Skarloey was, as he'd said, a lovely lake, but it was still a place, not a name (although it was a very... memorable place, to be fair). He had a name, didn't he?

Then, it all clicked. Of course! This was a dream. A rather strange and overly realistic dream, to be sure, but how could it be anything else? Yes, that must be it. He must have had a nightmare about his death, and this dream had followed that one. Never before had he had dreams as realistic as these, but there was a first time for everything!

He would have marveled even more at how detailed it all was, but the workman's smile was staring to droop with impatience, so he decided to stow that thought in the back of his mind and follow wherever his mind wanted to lead him. "You mentioned, erm, trials?"

"That's right! We've gotta make sure that you work properly before you're sent off."

"But... what do you mean, 'work properly?' Does this have to do with why I can't move?"

This time, the workman's brow furrowed in confusion. "Are you daft, lad? Still groggy, maybe? Ya can't move because your brake's on. Come on, let's get you out for your trials. Maybe that'll help wake you up."

Before he could react, the man walked towards him, then disappeared from sight. He would have asked where he was going, but was interrupted by the sudden sense that someone was now close behind him, as if standing on his back. Even stranger, that person was somehow manipulating him as well, yet this coercion was not through words; it was like hands were directly touching his nerves, adjusting and pulling. It didn't hurt, but the sensation was absolutely alien, to the point where he thought he might be sick. The feeling only intensified when it felt like another person had joined in, and that now there were two people behind him and manipulating his body in a way that he couldn't even remotely begin to describe. It was a feeling that should have felt wrong, but the fact that it didn't was almost more distressing.

As he contemplated this accumulation of several small horrors, he was thankfully distracted by a pleasant warmth sizzling to life within him. If he'd had to describe where, he would have said that his heart and stomach were both alight at the same time, filling him with a heat that made his once-inert body seemingly animate of its own accord. Abruptly, he got the sense that another change had been made to some internal process, and suddenly, instinctively, he felt that perhaps he could move now.

"Alright, lad!" called the workman from earlier. He had no idea how he could hear the words, only that he could; the man's voice was as clear as if they were standing right next to each other. "Back out slowly, alright?"

He didn't really understand the command, but he just had to back up, right? Like putting one foot behind the other? He gave it a go, but found that he couldn't; it was as if he didn't have two feet to move. Instead, it was like they were glued together, requiring him to hop backwards. The motion should have felt awkward, but instead, it felt much like he was gliding, and before long, he was moving more fluidly, much to his delight. "Haha! There we are!" he cheered, and the two people behind him whooped and hollered, equally delighted.

As he was backing out of the shed, he couldn't help but notice that next to him, albeit facing the opposite direction, was what he thought to be an oddly shaped vehicle, one that he'd never seen before. How funny that his dream would have created something as bizarre as this! He'd never imagined himself to be a particularly creative sort, but apparently, he'd have to re-evaluate.

The vehicle, if it was in fact one, had four wheels and a strange metal dome on its back that reached down to cover even its sides. It also carried what looked like a polished brass bell, and had a long tube atop its head adorned with a golden band. Most of its frame was painted green, and on its side was written "Talyllyn." As he stared at it, he noticed that somehow, it even had a face like a human, although it looked like it was sleeping at present.

"Um... excuse me?"

"Hm? What is it?" called the workman, who he was pretty sure was the one controlling him.

"What is that? That... vehicle over there."

There was a pause, one that he vaguely thought was surprise. "You... you don't know? You two are twins!"

"Twins?" he echoed, disbelief coursing through him as he continued to move, along with a dreadful certainty that the man wasn't lying. "Then, if that's the case...

"Sir... what am I?"

The workman laughed, giving him a pat on the back. "Hah! So many questions! What you are is a marvel of engineering, lad.

"You, Skarloey, are a steam engine."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His trials were completed in due time, and before long, he was fastened to a ship to be sent off to Sodor. How marvelous it all seemed to his wonder-filled eyes; he'd never seen the sea before, but he had read about it, and he had to marvel at how well his mind had managed to conjure up even something like this, from the salty smell to the gentle rocking of the waves.

He did have to admit, however, that he was beginning to adjust to life as Skarloey the steam engine. It still felt strange to be called as such after the same-named lake had become his tomb in his last dream, but he could never dislike it. After all, both he and his brother were born in that dear little house on its shores, and whenever he woke up, he'd be back in his familiar bed, just in time to help his grandmother with the sheep and the fields, and hopefully enjoy some apples for his troubles.

It was a bit strange how long it was taking for him to awaken, but he supposed there was no rush; not when everything was so new and interesting to his eyes! At 27 summers old, he had lived and expected to die in his valley, and after receiving his education (from a college-educated teacher, at that!), he was just happy to come home, read to his grandmother from the hymnal, borrow a book or two from the library, and tend to all that needed to be done.

...Was it common in dreams to miss one's family? He didn't know, but either way, as much as he was enjoying himself, part of him did want to wake up soon. It would make him feel better knowing that his brother was safe, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before long, Skarloey had arrived on the mainland, met an ugly yet charming box tank (who would have thought that he was also considered a steam engine! Apparently it had more to do with how they moved than how they looked, which to Skarloey, was truly a marvel), and got himself acquainted with the new manager. He'd chafed a little at the thought of having to work, even in his dreams, but that was fine; once they all understood each other, and that kind workman (whose name was Mr. Bobbie) came over to help out, Skarloey found that life as a steam engine wasn't so bad.

The strangest part, however, was building out the line and becoming "re"acquainted with his home; parts of it were still the same, but many things were different from what he'd remembered. How odd that his dream would have all of these little differences in it! It was these contradictions, and the gnawing worry about why he had not yet awoken, that served as nourishment for the seed of dread which had rooted itself in his soul. If, by some strange chance, this wasn't all a dream, then... no. No no no. Best not to think about that which surely couldn't be true.

Instead, he had much more interesting ideas to consider, such as the impending arrival of Rheneas, another engine that had been built in the same workshop Skarloey had. He couldn't deny that he was quite excited to meet Rheneas; Talyllyn had been fine company, but she'd been sent off to work on another railway, and he privately hoped that perhaps he'd be able to gain an actual friend in this worryingly lengthy dream of his.

Soon enough, the fateful day arrived. Neil arrived with Rheneas in tow, proudly clad in the Skarloey Railway's livery, and the SR No. 2 was carefully removed from the flatbed and helped onto the rails. Skarloey couldn't yet see the other engine's face from his position in the shed, but he was still determined to make a good first impression. "Hello!" he chirped warmly. "Welcome to the railway! It's a pleasure to have you!"

"Hello," came a shockingly familiar voice, and Skarloey's body suddenly seized up like his fire had been doused by ice-cold water. The new engine was slowly turned around, and as soon as Skarloey saw the other's face, it took every ounce of his willpower not to let out a bonechilling scream.

"My name is Rheneas," the other steam engine greeted in his brother's voice, the tone and cadence identical to an eerie degree, as he looked at Skarloey with his brother's eyes.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Rheneas' third day on Sodor, and the two engines were currently in the process of getting steamed up and ready for the work ahead. "This really is a lovely line," Rheneas commented, eyes alert and looking every which way, as if to commit it all to memory. His mannerisms were so similar to Skarloey's brother that it could be called uncanny, and now, more than ever, the dread sprouting in Skarloey's soul whispered what he could only pray were lies. They had to be; this couldn't be reality. He couldn't really be a steam engine, and Rheneas couldn't really be his brother. He'd saved his brother. But wait, that had been a dream too... hadn't it?

Had he really died? And now... he was a steam engine? And if so... was Rheneas actually...

Skarloey could only absently murmur his assent to Rheneas' comment, the burden of all of his unanswered questions piling onto him more and more as the dread blossomed, its petals practically choking him. Rheneas glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing. However, the tiny, dejected sigh that he gave, imperceptible to anyone but those who knew him, resounded like a trumpet blast to Skarloey's ear.

No. He couldn't run away from this. He couldn't.

"Say, Rheneas..." Skarloey began hesitantly, quite unsure of how he should even begin to initiate this conversation. "Have you ever... had weird dreams?"

At this, his companion's face scrunched up in thought. "Weird dreams? No, I can't say that I have."

"Really?" Skarloey pressed delicately. "No dreams of, say, fishing on Skarloey, or falling in? Or maybe any of being human, perhaps, or..."

"No," Rheneas repeated, slightly more firmly this time, and with a note of concern in his voice. "I've never thought, or even dreamed about, being human. Not once. I've also never dreamed about the lake, given that I've only been here for less than a week. If you are, well, all I can say is that perhaps you ought to focus more on your duties."

Skarloey couldn't help but flinch at the answer. That matter-of-fact tone was very particular, and it was one that his brother had used when someone was being silly. However, it had always been reserved for people he didn't know well. To hear that tone used against himself, it was akin to the cut of a whip across his heart.

"I want to wake up," he murmured, averting his eyes from Rheneas. "Please. Please let me wake up. I want to see my brother. Please, please..."

Mr. Bobbie, sensing that something was wrong, came over to give his engine's bufferbeam a pat. "Aw, Skarloey, did you end up hearing about that tragedy? The one about the poor bloke who fell into the lake and died?"

At that, Skarloey's eyes went wide, and his gaze snapped to Mr. Bobbie. Thinking that he was on the right track, the driver turned to face the others, gearing up to tell the tale. "Yeah, there's a sad story 'round here. Last year, 1863, some poor lad living with his granma and brother fell into Skarloey."

No.

"He wasn't that old, either; 27? 28?"

No no no no no.

"He'd gone out to call for his brother, who was out fishing on the lake. The brother was on his way back, but the ice started cracking. He was almost to shore, but wouldn't have made it."

Oh God. Skarloey urgently needed Mr. Bobbie to stop talking. His fire felt like it couldn't decide whether to flare up or fizzle out.

"The lad managed to save his brother by going out onto the ice himself and grabbing his hands to swing him toward shore. The brother survived, but there was no hope for our poor bloke; it was winter, and he was in light clothes from helping in the house. Went under in a flash and froze to death right quick."

He couldn't breathe. All of the steam he'd built up was getting caught in his tubes. It was real. All of it was real. All of it—

His brother.

Oh God, his brother.

"Mr. Bobbie!" Skarloey practically screeched, causing all assembled to wince. "The brother! What happened to him?"

"Easy, lad!" Mr. Bobbie groaned, rubbing at his head. "I don't know! Hell, I don't even know their names! Nobody does!"

Skarloey blinked, everything else shoved aside save for complete confusion. That didn't make sense; he'd had a name! It was—

...What was it?

...

Deep breath. What was his name? He knew this. He'd obviously had one! What was it?

...

However, no matter how hard he thought, he couldn't remember. It was like it had vanished, been magicked away somehow.

A tide of panic began to well up, and quickly, Skarloey tried to think of any other train of thought by which to distract himself.

Right! His brother! What was his brother's name? Once again, Skarloey searched the depths of his memory. He remembered his childhood, running through the fields of this very valley. He remembered attending school. He remembered assisting his grandmother. He remembered playing with his brother until the sun began to set.

And yet. Despite all of that, despite all of those memories, no name could be found. It seemed to have been lost to the void.

"—Loey! SKARLOEY!"

"H-huh?!"

"Lad... yer crying," Mr. Bobbie murmured, lifting a gentle cloth to Skarloey's face. Oh. He hadn't even noticed. "Alright, no more ghost stories for you," the driver decided. "Forget I said anything. We'll give you some time, and come back for you in the afternoon, alright?"

Skarloey had long learned that he couldn't actually nod, but he did murmur out an assenting "mmhmm." With that, and one last appraising look from Rheneas, the No. 2 engine set out to go.

"He's a little... delicate, isn't he?" Rheneas whispered to Mr. Bobbie, but in the close confines of the shed, Skarloey could naturally hear every word.

"He's not usually like this," Mr. Bobbie consoled. "I think he just had a nightmare. Who wouldn't, if they'd heard about a death as horrible as that?"

Every word was a nail stabbing past his iron skin, his brother's pity the hammer driving each one in. This was reality. No more could he pretend that he was just stuck in a happy dream where eventually, he'd wake up and laugh alongside his brother and shear the wool for his grandmother. No, he was a steam engine now, and that had become more starkly apparent than ever.

But what about his brother? His brother, whose name he couldn't even remember—

Breathe.

His brother, if this was real, was also a steam engine. After all, whenever he saw Rheneas, he saw his face, heard his voice, recalled his every subtle action. Given what had happened to him personally, he could only assume that his brother had also somehow died, even after his best efforts to save him. But how?

Perhaps he could find out later. For now, in the blessedly empty sheds, the tears bubbled forth once again as Skarloey began to sob, his frames heaving and smoke pouring from his funnel as a torrent of emotions overtook him. Regret. Mourning. Fear. Anguish. They all mixed together such that he could barely tell them apart.

The gold-painted word on the side of his tank was no longer just his name, no longer just a landmark, but in a cruel twist of fate, his epitaph as well.

#arriving in knapford #railway reincarnation au #HOUUUGHHH TE WRITINGGGG

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edwards-exploit · 1 month ago

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My Commissions Are Open!

It's currently my only source of income right now, so I appreciate any orders! However, I'm currently running an interest check, with a queue of 7 slots. When I finish all 7 commissions, it will be open indefinitely. Please DM me for more info, on tumblr or on @junebugs3060 on discord!

#not ttte #self reblog #arriving in knapford

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edwards-exploit · 3 months ago

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sodor lightshow 2024 time!!!!

of course i had to do my best lad james for this!!! having an absoltely WONDERFUL time with a lights train :3 this was so fun to draw- i had so many issues with the landscape and then the lights, but it was quite enjoyable just messing about until i found stuff i liked! and i did!! i hope you guys enjoy this one : ) !!

#arriving in knapford #james #sodor lightshow #sodor lightshow 2024 #KONNOOOOO THIS IS GORGEOUS #the enviorment! how you draw james! the lights!!! its do wonderful i smile whenever i see this

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edwards-exploit · 3 months ago

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Christmas Story

Monday morning had started with the same clear air that had made the weekend so enjoyable, but as dawn gave way to the late morning and early afternoon, the weather began to take a turn for the worse.

Thick clouds covered most of the island - Gordon and the big engines reported that there was still sun around Barrow and Vicarstown, but as far as the Little Western was concerned, it was a gloomy start to the two week rush period leading up to Christmas.

There were more trains scheduled - an extra morning service and another one in the evening. The peak hour “Truro Trains” were now running all the way through the lunchtime hours as a regular service, and even then it was decided that a special holiday-only service would run from Knapford to Arlesburgh at noon, to relieve pressure on the big station at Tidmouth. That train didn’t have a particular engine or coaches “assigned” to it like the others, and so the enthusiast community was out in force, hoping to see something interesting, adding to the clutter around the station. Additionally, just to make everything more difficult on the Little Western, the Sodor Bus Company, which ran services to Harwick and Ballaswein in the far north of the Island, began “double loading” their routes, meaning that the “guaranteed connection” bus service to Arlesburgh station would now be two normal sized buses, or one double decker. And then, as a final cherry on top of the whole situation, the Small Railway began running their passenger trains with as many coaches as possible.

This all meant that when Duck’s first train left the station on Monday morning, it was full to bursting with passengers - to the point where anyone who boarded at Haultraugh had to stand!

Oliver’s train was in a similar state, but because he left before the next bus arrival, his train was merely full, instead of packed. “Ladies, I hope you’re comfortable with this,” He groused to his coaches as he left Haultraugh. “Because this is the emptiest it will be for the next two weeks.”

Isobel said something not suitable for print, and Dulcie sighed. Why do people like Christmas so much? She thought to herself.

About the only train that morning not packed to the roof was Bear’s new morning train. Running as a timetabled, but not advertised, train, it was collecting all the passengers who would’ve been waiting for Duck and Oliver, and had no guaranteed connections of any sort. As a result, when it rolled into Arlesburgh, it was a lighter crowd that spilled out onto the platform, and the new passengers that boarded wondered why in the world there was a five car train waiting for them, complete with a Mini-Buffet coach.

Bear had no such wonderment, though, and glared at the brass-topped funnel slowly shunting a pair of vans across the yard. He left quickly, not at all enjoying the thought of his return trip.

Across the yard, someone watched him leave. They listened very closely to the way in which his engine revved and shifted into next gear, and they paid close attention to how the train moved during that moment in time.

Later

The gloom had most thoroughly set in by half past eleven. Bear thought it was a most appropriate accompaniment to his mood, and growled moodily underneath the glass canopy at the big station.

“Be quiet!” Truro hissed at him from the front. Tourists were out in force today, and there was a small crowd gathering around them on the platform. It was quite obvious that Truro wanted the resultant photographs to be of him and him alone.

“What’s this?” Gordon blustered into the station with the force of a hurricane. “A photo session without me?”

Wordlessly, he pulled to a stop next to Truro, and proceeded to make such a spectacle of himself that the photographers stopped paying any attention to Truro whatsoever.

“I say,” Gordon remarked at the other engine’s palpable rage. “It’s not my fault that I’m a beloved children’s book star. You were in a book too, if I recall.”

“I’m in several.” Truro snapped, each word clipped and sharp. “Most of them record books.”

“Pish Posh!” Gordon retorted, a camera ready smile never leaving his face. Judging by his tone, Bear could tell that this was probably the highlight of the big engine’s day. “Children don’t read those! And besides, any reputable record book will show that my brother is the rightful holder of that record, not you.”

Bear’s shocked laugh was mostly covered by the demonic noise that escaped Truro’s whistle.

Gordon winced. “I see that I’ve struck a nerve. Such a shame - if someone said something like that to me, I’d just go prove them wrong.” He looked Truro up and down disapprovingly. “But I suppose that my superior design and refined demeanor allows me to. Such a shame that you won’t. Or perhaps can’t.”

Truro went redder than a tomato and began spluttering something about lost domes, causing Gordon to laugh grandly. “Aha, personal attacks! The true sign that an argument has been lost! I do so enjoy these discussions Truro. Perhaps we can continue it later!”

He puffed away in a most regal fashion. “And if you fine people would like another subject for your photos,” He called to the photographers, who had retreated from Truro once he’d nearly blown their ears out. “My good friend Bear is a quite rare engine indeed. The only one in regular service anywhere!”

The crowd turned to Bear, who smiled in slight fear at the unexpected attention. Meanwhile, Truro’s driver yelped as the steam pressure needle swung wildly into the red.

Stephen Hatt watched Gordon roll off towards the sheds. “I do wish he’d stop doing that.”

“And his driver is completely blameless?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow at him from across the table at the station cafe.

“One disobeys Gordon at his own risk.” Stephen mused, taking a sip of his coffee. “If he had even the slightest hint of interest I’d be trying to offer him my job come January.”

The look that his father shot him was not insignificant. “Really? Gordon? Management?”

“He knows more about this railway than the both of us put together. And he cares about the other engines. See what he just did?”

“For once, I am completely in the dark.”

“After winding Truro up - which I don’t appreciate, by the way - he made sure to send positive attention Bear’s way. Poor chap’s had a cloud over his head for two weeks, I think being second fiddle to a famous engine like that is getting to him, even if he doesn’t say it.”

“Really?” Charles looked at the gaggle on the platform. “You think he’s not taking it well?”

“I think that Truro is wound slightly too tight from being stuck in a museum for so long, and our little “Truro Train” promotion isn’t humbling him. Bear is inches from the limelight, but it almost curves around him to shine only on Truro.” He arched his fingers contemplatively. “It would get to anyone - in fact I’d say it's a good thing that it’s him and not someone else, because he’s willing to hide it for the time being.”

“Hmm. What do you suppose we do?”

“Right now? Nothing. We’re short a few too many engines as it is. I’ll give him some reward once Truro can run on his own, but unless we can find another engine, he’s pretty well stuck there.” He glared across the table. “And the Midland Region hasn’t exactly been playing nice on that front ever since you told… what did you tell them again? When we got Delta?”

“I threatened to beat Lachlan Macready to death with an adze if he tried to thwart me.”

A sugar cube plunked into Stephen’s coffee. “I suppose that would explain our inability to find good locomotives.”

“I deeply regret not being able to prise a Deltic out of the Eastern Region.”

“What would we have done with a Deltic?”

“Whatever was needed. I don’t recall having to try very hard to get Wendell situated.”

“You would try to haul freight using an HST set, wouldn’t you?”

“Now there’s an idea… maybe we could run the Kipper-”

“No. We don’t need a flashy engine, we just need a good hard worker who’s willing to do the dirty work sometimes.”

“Mmhm. Have you any good candidates?”

“No. I’m to the point where it makes sense for me to go into random yards and start questioning class 37s to see if there’s any that aren’t complete monsters.”

Charles snorted, hiding his expression behind a mug of tea. “You see my dilemma.”

“I live it.” Stephen said, stirring his coffee idly.

There was a momentary lull in the conversation, which was broken by the sound of clattering and banging coming from the area of the bandstand. “Speaking of a lack of acceptable candidates, did I tell you that the Island Council found us another band?”

“No.”

Charles smiled self-defeatingly. “Yes. And they heard my instructions Loud and Clear. Nothing unusual, strange, or non-traditional.”

“Oh wonderful.” Stephen could relax a little. “Who is it?”

“A German Industrial Music Collective that calls itself ‘Zusammenbruch’, or at least that's how I think it’s pronounced.”

Stephen’s relaxation ended as swiftly as it began. “A what from where?”

Charles didn’t react. “Evidently my instructions were neither loud nor clear.”

“I don’t understand. What kind of music are they?”

“Have you ever heard of Kraft-werk? They sound like that.”

Stephen actually had to stop and think for a moment. “Is that the band that sounds like a broken car radio?”

“I believe so.”

“But that’s not Christmas m-”

“I have been assured that they are attempting to “branch out” from their usual repertoire.

Stephen began patting his pockets suddenly.

“Did you forget something?”

A small silver flask was produced, and a measure of brown liquid went into the coffee cup. “Not at all.”

Charles watched with an implacable expression. “So early in the day?”

“I feel like I’m going to need it.”

“Is there enough to share?”

----

Truro remained in a furious state as the packed train rolled out of Tidmouth. With five full coaches, it was a heavy load, and Bear could feel the weight on his couplings.

The Little Western cut a winding, narrow profile along Sodor’s northwest coast. Running through central Tidmouth in below-ground cuttings and trenches, the tracks and the city eventually ran level in the northernmost neighborhoods. From there, the ground sloped upwards to follow the hillsides that make up part of the River Tid Valley. The line briefly follows the ground, before entering a tunnel, which continues the upward slope at a slighter angle for about five hundred feet, before turning into a long continuous downgrade that continues until trains burst out into the open air near Bulgy’s Bridge.

Trains need to keep a sharp lookout in the tunnel - if going too slow while headed south, they could stall out in the tunnel, and the fumes could choke the crew or the passengers. This is a very serious issue, and so the rest of the line from Haultraugh is built to allow for a sufficient runup.

Most engines don’t consider the downgrade section to be challenging, but that’s due to the fact that most trains going north to Arlesburgh are either passenger trains or empty goods trains - as an example, the heavy stone trains from the Small Railway only go south, not north.

A less cautious engine would therefore have rolled into the tunnel with a full northbound train and assumed that everything would be fine, but Bear and Truro had hauled these heavy rakes up the hill many times in the last week, and so the train slowly and carefully chugged its way out of Tidmouth’s city limits and neared the tunnel at a slow pace.

Bear grimaced as they did so. The train was moving a little slower than it strictly needed to, and his transmission was not happy about it.

Unlike a diesel electric locomotive, which uses electricity generated by the engine to power traction motors on each axle, Bear has what is known as a Hydraulic Transmission. His engine connects to a driveshaft, which feeds into a torque converter. The torque converter is a large fluid filled device that has two propellers inside of it. One is connected to Bear’s engine, and the other to his transmission, and the fluid inside allows the two to spin at different speeds, meaning that Bear’s engine can produce more torque (a measurement of how much he can pull) while spinning slower.

From the torque converter, a separate driveshaft feeds into the transmission, which changes gears to allow his engine to put as much power as possible to the wheels, similar to how a car transmission works. From there, the driveline connects to both bogies, and powers all of Bear’s wheels, like an all-wheel-drive car.

What’s unlike a car is that Bear’s transmission doesn’t change gears depending on load - as in, how hard his engine is working - but rather on speed. What this means is that as he approaches a set speed, his transmission will automatically change into the next gear. 99% of the time, it operates normally, but in certain situations, the last one percent can rear its ugly head at the worst possible time.

One such situation was currently presenting itself as Bear and Truro climbed the grade out of Tidmouth towards the tunnel entrance. The slightly-too-slow speed of the train meant that every minute or so, Bear’s transmission would shift up into the next gear. This meant that for a moment, Bear was in neutral - producing no power - and so the entire train fell onto Truro, who was pulled back by the sudden weight of the train, which meant that the train slowed down. By this point Bear had gone back into gear, but now that he was going slower, the transmission would automatically shift down into the gear it had just been in. Once that happened, Bear would start pushing again, and the train would go faster, thus starting the cycle over again.

Now, this was bad enough - it was terribly uncomfortable for Bear, and his torque converter was starting to heat up - but to make matters worse, Truro didn’t seem to know when this was going to happen, seemingly warned only by the change in Bear’s engine noise; what followed was that every time that Bear shifted into or out of gear, the entire train would jerk roughly. This meant that there was an exceptional amount of strain being put on the gears inside Bear’s transmission, and so by the time they jerked their way into the tunnel, there was a sharp stab of pain accompanying every downshift.

“Come - on - get - moving - you!” Finally, making everything worse, Truro was jerking on the coupling every time this happened, causing Bear’s gears to grind on each other during every upshift. Thick black smoke billowed from Truro's funnel as he put more and more power into each chuff, which echoed off the stone tunnel walls like artillery blasts. Bear was trying very hard to not break anything important, and decided that he would rather speed up and then ride his brakes all the way down the other side of the tunnel if it meant no more jerking, but Truro’s massive clouds of exhaust were making it hard to breathe.

“I -can’t - something’s - wrong - with-my” Bear gasped for breaths that he couldn’t take in.

“I - DON’T - CARE!” Truro bellowed, and with a mighty heave, he yanked the train up and over the summit of the tunnel, and began coasting down the other side.

Bear’s transmission shifted into a higher gear and mercifully stayed there, but the gears themselves felt worse and worse as the train rattled down the grade and out the end of the tunnel. Bear hoped they could stop soon - in addition to everything else, his torque converter was getting so hot it felt like it was boiling. They crossed Bulgy’s bridge, and slowed down by a few miles per hour as they climbed a slight rise in the terrain near Haultraugh.

Then there was trouble.

Bear’s transmission automatically shifted down into a lower gear, and Truro didn’t react at all.

BANG

The slack in the couplings was yanked tight as Truro accelerated while Bear didn’t.

WHUMP

Truro was dragged back to a slower speed by the dead weight of Bear, while all the coaches abruptly came together, before slamming into Bear’s back buffers.

BANG

Bear’s transmission had just shifted into the lower gear, and the coaches hit Bear a moment after the shift ended. Bear shot forward into Truro, crossed the threshold into the next gear, and his transmission shifted again.

CRACK

Truro was now going slower, so the Bear hit Truro, the coaches hit Bear, and something deep in Bear’s transmission gave way.

Bear yelled inarticulately as his entire drivetrain shut down. His torque converter felt like it was on fire, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain in his gears. His diver applied the brakes, and the whole train slithered to a stop about a half mile from Haltraugh station.

Later

Once it was determined that Bear could at least be moved, the train was pulled (by Truro) into the station at Haultraugh. Duck was there, fuming at the delay.

“Half a bloody hour.” He said as the train rolled in. “You picked a whopper of a day to do it, didn’t you? Lucky that Truro can haul you out of this mess.”

Bear thought about how Duck probably had no idea about what had happened, and that he probably would’ve been nicer if he’d known exactly how much pain Bear was in.

However, Bear was in a significant amount of pain, and so he growled at him menacingly.

Duck jumped, startled, and didn’t say another word until he was long gone from the station.

Truro murmured something along the lines of “That wasn’t very nice,” but amazingly, kept that comment to himself.

After some more looking over, it was decided that Bear could be towed along with the train to Arlesburgh, and after a few more minutes, the train departed under Truro’s sole command.

Bear didn’t see it, but the steam engine was beaming as he pulled the train towards Arlesburgh.

At Arlesburgh, Oliver was much more sympathetic. “Sorry mate, that’s not ideal.”

“Tell me about it…” Bear murmured as workmen and inspectors clambered over him.

“Look, when I get back from the big station, we’ll see how I can help, alright?” Oliver looked shockingly genuine.

“You mean that?” Bear didn’t think that anyone on this branch line gave a toss about him.

“‘Course I do.” Oliver said with a smile. “Westerners stick together, right?”

He set off for Tidmouth a moment later, and Bear was left alone with Truro, who was already trying to convince some of the railway managers who had responded to Bear’s failure that He, City of Truro, was capable of running trains On His Own, and Did Not Need To Be Yoked To That All Day.

“Westerners stick together… if they’re steam engines.” Bear muttered glumly.

Across the station, Truro’s continued pleadings were cut off by the stationmaster. “Oi! You can’t leave yet, not till the surprise has happened!”

“Surprise?” Truro asked.

Of course Truro gets the surprise. Bear thought.

A look at the station clock revealed that the mystery noon train from Knapford, now heavily delayed, was due next into the station.

I hope it’s Gordon. Bear thought, hopefully. Truro might fracture his crown sheet in shock.

Peep Peep!

Bear’s face fell.

It was not Gordon.

It was, in fact, about as opposite of Gordon as one could get.

“Well, well, well!” Thomas the Tank Engine crowed as he eased into the station. “So this is what Arlesburgh is like!”

Thomas and Truro were, to put it bluntly, besieged by photographers and enthusiasts, and it took almost twenty minutes before Thomas could run to the water tower and get a drink. It was at this point that he noticed Bear. “Hullo Bear,”

Bear had very little motivation left, and mumbled a halfhearted greeting.

Thomas raised an eyebrow as his fireman lined up the hose. “Forgive me for saying this, but you look terrible.”

“I feel terrible, so it matches.”

Any annoyance vanished as the water thundered into Thomas’ tanks. “Is it that bad? They only said you failed.”

“They think I shattered at least one gear, and came close to melting my torque converter.”

“Fuck me…” Thomas said, under his breath.

“I appreciate the sentiment.” Bear had never heard Thomas swear before.

“Sorry.” There was a hint of a blush, before the concern came back. “Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need to go to the works?”

“They don’t know yet.” Bear said, watching as grease-covered workers pulled shards of metal out of a bin. “Probably.”

“Is there anything else I can do here then?” Like Oliver, Thomas meant it, and Bear felt extremely strange to have someone care about him after two weeks with Truro.

Hmmm… Truro… Bear thought for a moment. “Could you… take Truro with you?”

Thomas’ eyebrows raised. “Take him with me? Where?”

Anywhere but here. “He… we… He and I don’t get along very well. I’d rather not have him sitting around the yard bored while I’m over here broken.”

Thomas looked at Truro, and then looked at Bear, and then did it again. “Are you serious? What happened to that “Western Camaradiere” I’ve heard so much about?”

“Ask Truro.” Bear said, not wanting to go further into the issue.

The water cut off, and Thomas frowned. He was going to try and get to the bottom of it.

A few minutes later, he was backing down on Annie and Clarabel, and Truro was sidling up next to him. “I say, whatever did that diesel say to you? Hopefully it wasn’t anything too untrue - you know how those things have a way of twisting everything.”

Thomas looked at Truro in a way he could scarcely recall doing. “No, I’m just a little upset that my friend Bear is in such a bad way.”

Truro missed all the subtext. “Oh, please - they can probably replace whatever is wrong in an hour - their kind comes apart at the seams like a motorcar. Don’t worry yourself over that.”

“Alright…” Thomas said, suddenly viewing the engine in a new light. “Say, would you like to come with me on my next train? I understand that you can’t go anywhere yourself.”

Truro’s delighted whistle echoed across the yard.

About ten minutes later, Truro and Thomas vanished into the distance, and Bear closed his eyes. Peace at last. Thank you Thomas.

Later that same day

Bear slept fitfully. The cold sea breeze was blocked by the sheds, and so the cold air itself felt rather soothing on his overheated and shattered parts. Every hour or so he’d wake up for a bit, and finding the yard empty, he’d go back to sleep again.

As the sun began to set, and men from the works began arriving with boxes of tools and spare parts, Donald slunk into the yard between passenger trains. Bear opened his eyes to see him staring at the goods yard in total bafflement. “Aye, Bear…”

“Yeah? Wuzzup?”

“Do ye knoo how in the blazes they keep anything here? We canno’ find the spare mail trucks anywhere.” Donald clearly had been looking for some time, if the irritated puffs of steam from his funnel were any indication.

“Spare mail..?” Bear opened both eyes. “Oh you mean the Siphons. They’re the big bogie wagons behind the carriage shed.”

“The what? How could ye know that? They didn’t say bogie vans.”

“They’re old milk vans, got converted after the war.”

“Why are they behind the carriage sheds?”

“Great Western Shunting System.”

“Aye?”

Bear paused, and decided he was too tired to explain fully. “It’s how the Westerners do things. Did you not have one up north?”

“Nae?”

Bear sighed. “There is a very long and very involved rhyming… couplet… thing that explains the entire system.”

“Aye? Rhyming?”

“This was going nowhere. “Oh yes. If you ever want to make Duck look like a fool willingly, ask him to tell you about it. He knows every line, and it takes two hours to recite fully.”

“Aye?”

Bear smiled, shrewdly. I hope I’m around when he asks Duck. “Mhmm.” He murmured, closing his eyes. “I’m going back to sleep. Have fun with the Siphons.”

Donald left a moment later, marveling at the interaction he’d just had.

Steaming behind the carriage sheds, he found that yes indeed, there were three bogie vans about the size of a Mark 1 coach. In front of those were two smaller and older vans that had three axles - one on each end and one in the middle.

“Oi,” He said, rousing the sleeping vans. “Which ones of ye are the siphons?”

“We’re all Siphons.” Yawned the first of the big vans. “I am a type G, as are my brothers. My sisters before me are both type E.”

“Oh-kay…” Bear hadn’t mentioned that there were different types. Did it matter that some don’t have bogies? “Well, we’ve got to take ye all up to the big station. It’s that time o’ year again.”

“How wonderful,” said one of the type Es. “We will have been moved twice today! Truly the prophet Truro shines down upon us.”

“And we have been visited by him as well!” The second one extolled.

“You must forgive them.” The big type G said. “They believe us to have been visited by The City of Truro, and little can be done to dissuade them.”

“You were asleep!” “You dozed through the appearance of our exalted!” The two type Es said as one, and Donald felt very much like a stranger in a strange land.

“Eh, not to… be speakin’ out o’ turn, but Truro has been here fer almost two weeks noo,” He said. “Ye’ll pro’lly meet ‘im once we get to the big station.”

The type G looked like he’d been told that Jesus Christ had come again (and considering everything, that probably wasn’t an inaccurate description), and Donald soon found himself pulling a train of religious pilgrims to the promised land.

“Why can’t that railway jus’ be normal?” He muttered under his breath as his driver turned him on the turntable, the Siphons chanting what he hoped wasn’t some kind of psalm. “They’re acting like Finn McCool were gonna come skippin’ his way across the Giant’s Causeway from Ireland! This is the last time I do Ollie’s work fer him, mark my words…”

A few minutes later, the very excited train, trailing behind an increasingly discomfited engine, rolled south out of Arlesburgh.

“Huh,” said the signalman, as he belled the train out to the Haultraugh signal box. “That’s strange.”

“What’s strange?” Said the stationmaster, who was using the pretext of a staff meeting to hide himself from the passengers swarming the station between trains.

“They had those old three axle milk vans on the train. I thought we were using them for storage.”

“We are using them for storage.”

“Not anymore it seems.” The train vanished into the distance, only a puff of smoke visible.

The stationmaster swore thoroughly and profusely, and left the signal box to see if the yard master had done something and not told him.

“Want me to stop them at Haultraugh?” The signalman called, picking up his desk phone.

“And do what? Have them brought back? There’s barely room in the schedule for them to leave.” The stationmaster called as he descended the stairs.

Then he stopped, and bounded back up the stairs quickly. “Actually, do me a kindness. Call Tidmouth and tell them what’s happening. We’ll have whichever engine they send down for Bear bring them back tonight.”

“Okay...” The signalman said, dialing the phone.

Donald got held up at the distant signal for Haultraugh station, waiting for Oliver to clear the section with his passenger train. (He should have been gone almost twenty minutes prior, but knowing him, this was practically on time.) There were no other trains coming, so his driver didn’t bother to move him beyond the distant signal once Oliver steamed out of the station. It was a rather lengthy wait, as the next signal beyond Haultraugh was at the Tidmouth end of the tunnel, where the double track line to the big station began, and the incessant chattering of the milk-vans-turned-mail-cars was starting to wear on him. When the signal finally dropped, he set off with haste, and the empty train allowed him to make the better part of forty miles per hour by the time he clattered past the platforms.

“What’s that burning smell?” a porter asked, sniffing the air as the train passed.

Many passengers turned to point accusingly at a man smoking a particularly fragrant cigar, and almost everyone was satisfied.

Except for the stationmaster, who sniffed the air with disapproval. “Where have I smelled that before?” he asked himself, watching Donald get further and further into the distance.

Wait.

Donald.

Didn’t his train have a hot axlebox a few days ago?

Isn’t that what it smelled like?

“Oi!” He sprung to his feet and barreled to the signal box. “Stop that train! It’s got a hotbox!”

The type E Siphon vans had been retired for many years - so many in fact that the circumstances of their arrival at Arlesburgh was a complete mystery, albeit an uninteresting one. They had been stuck in the back of the yard at some point long ago, and there they stayed, not moving from that spot in almost fifty years.

After The War, the station staff had begun using them as storage sheds, and their interiors were filled with all the mess and detritus that a railyard accumulates: Spare parts, groundskeeping tools, leftover fabric for the station awnings, bricks, brake shoes, train wheels, welding equipment, barrels of oil, and a few boxes of flares, among other things.

They had seen almost no repairs since they arrived on the island, and it was a minor miracle that the journey up to this point had been problem free. The vans had attributed it to the miraculous appearance of their oft-worshipped Truro, by whose divine intervention they were now allowed to run free again. Donald and his crew - who usually handed off their trains to Duck or Oliver to be shunted - had never even seen these vans before, and so had assumed that they were movable.

What this all meant was that shortly after setting off from the Haultraugh home signal, the ancient oil packed into the friction bearing of the center-left axlebox of the first Siphon E van started to heat up. It was contaminated with decades of dust and dirt and animal droppings, and soon it began to burn. This is what the stationmaster at Haultraugh smelt, but as the axlebox cover was not only shut but rusted shut, there was no way for the fire and smoke to escape the axlebox and be seen.

Of course, the wagon herself had noticed this immediately, but as she had accredited her new lease on life to the Worshipful Truro, she ignored the building pain. Pain, after all, was something that only afflicted those without God's love, and as she had been visited by God (Truro) she clearly should be able to ignore that pain.

And, to her credit, she did. The lubricant soon burned away completely, all while she made nary a peep about her discomfort.

Unfortunately, physics did not ignore this, and as her axle was now running without any lubricant at all, it rapidly heated up.

Metal, when heated, begins to lose its shape and strength.

As the train clattered its way down the slight grade towards Bulgy’s Bridge and the tunnel beyond, the axle got hotter and hotter, and softer and softer.

When Bear and Truro came to a stop earlier that morning, the suddenness of the stop had put small grooves in the rails, which were then exacerbated by Truro slipping as he got the train moving on his own. It had caused bumpy rides for every train that day, and it would’ve been eventually noticed and replaced by inspectors, but… they hadn’t found out about it yet.

The train bumped and bounced over the grooves at almost fifty miles per hour, and the center axle of the lead wagon snapped off at the left axlebox.

For a moment, everything was fine. Both wheels on the axle remained on the rail, still attached on the other side of the car, and both continued spinning.

Then everything went out of control. As the train neared Bulgy’s Bridge, the leaf spring connecting the center left axlebox to the van frame, now unconnected, began to sag noticeably. The many supplies inside the van began to shake back and forth from the new motion, and the shift in center of gravity caused the left wheel to fall off the rail. Bumping along the sleepers, it quickly tore off the van completely, falling to the ground where it was immediately hit by the rear axle.

The rear axle of the van took the hit poorly, and like a stick it snapped in twain within a few feet of the impact. The van was now suspended only by the front axle and the rear coupling chain, and she swung drunkenly from the chain as the train passed over Bulgy’s bridge.

The broken axles fell to the rails below, and were swiftly run over by the next van. There the damage was equally severe - one axle smashed up through the floor, sending boxes and barrels flying, while the other was caught between the suspension and the van body, and began dragging along the ground, tearing up sleepers as it went. There was an inarticulate cry of pain from the second van - the first sign that anything had gone wrong.

Donald’s crew heard the commotion, and applied the brakes as soon as they saw the huge cloud of dust behind them. This went badly, as it caused the three much bigger Type G vans to surge forwards, hitting the Type Es. Both Es derailed at this point, sliding along the sleepers and the ballast, propelled only by the coupling chain connecting them to Donald.

Donald, meanwhile, was watching the tunnel mouth approach with increasing horror. They weren’t going to be able to stop before it.

The Type G vans shoved the Type Es against each other, and in turn they smacked into Donald’s tender. Whether the coupling chain snapped or fell off at that point is irrelevant - all that matters is that as Donald steamed away without the train, the Type E vans turned sideways, sliding along the line as the Type Gs pushed them towards the tunnel. There was a snapping hiss as the brake lines separated fully, and Donald’s driver turned, seeing what was going to happen; he opened the regulator fully and shut his eyes.

Donald stormed into the tunnel like his life depended on it. Just behind him, the sideways Type E vans slammed into the sides of the tunnel mouth. The Type G vans smashed through them, turning both to kindling, before sliding to a stop most of the way into the tunnel.

Within seconds, the contents of the Type E vans, now strewn about the line, caught fire.

Duck, waiting at the mouth of the tunnel with his next passenger train, blinked in confusion as Donald flew out of the tunnel alone, looking like he was being chased by the devil himself.

Donald’s smoke, thick and black from a hard run up the hill, wafted out of the tunnel… and then suddenly redoubled a moment later.

And then redoubled again.

And again.

Duck eventually had to back away from the tunnel as thick clouds of black smoke poured out of it.

---

The Fat Controller stared in displeasure at the burned out wreckage. “This is not ideal.”

“That’s an understatement,” Ted Thompson, his chief of the Permanent Way, muttered.

Carnage was about the only word capable of describing the wreck site. The five vans had burned almost completely to ashes - only the last of the bogie vans was still recognizable, a charred and warped frame missing its coachwork entirely. The track was destroyed for over a thousand feet, a trail of broken sleepers starting at Bulgy’s Bridge that turned into a completely decimated roadbed the closer it got to the tunnel.

And lord have mercy, the tunnel.

The locally mined stone, usually a light gray color, was black on all sides. Bits of rock had fractured from the heat, chips and chunks spalling off all the way around the portal. The train had come to rest perfectly inside the tunnel mouth, and the heat from the fire had been directed straight up into the delicate stonework of the entrance, as opposed to the much hardier rock and brick that made up the bore itself. It was, as the first inspector on the scene had put it, “one of the worst fucking places to have a crash.”

“Do you think it can be fixed?”

“Depends on the damage.” The man snorted, rubbing his moustache in a pondering way. “Could just be the portal and the ornamentation. Could have fractured brick all the way up. Wood don’t burn that hot, but the tunnel’d turn it into a furnace real easy.”

“How long until you can start the inspection?”

“Got some navvies up there now.” He took a big draw from his pipe. “From the other end. Heat’s died down enough by now, which is a good sign.”

This was followed by a cloud of pipe smoke, and Charles looked up, acutely aware that both of them were dressed like it was still the Victorian era. “How long to repair the p-way?”

“Couple days, maybe a week.”

An eyebrow raised. “A week? Is this the same crew who relaid an entire section of the main line in a weekend?”

“We had trains then.”

“And we don’t now?”

A big puff of smoke followed. “Everything is on that side of the tunnel.” Ted gestured with his pipe. “Engines, rails, cranes, sleepers, everything except ballast. We’re gonna have to bring it round on lorries, so no welded rail segments.”

Charles now understood. “And you’re going to do this on the only road into town, which is now replacing an entire rail line, two weeks before Christmas.”

“Precisely.” The pipe flared up again. “And if we’ve gotta fix the tunnel, well, let’s talk about next Christmas, aye? We’d ‘ave to go through it brick by brick almost, unless we wanna risk bringing it down on someone’s ‘ead.”

“I see…” Charles trailed off. “I want to know the instant your inspection of the tunnel is done.”

“Yessir.” With a step, Ted was off, barking orders at his work crews, his great coat blowing behind him in the cold December wind.

A moment later, a messenger appeared. “Sir, a phone call from Mister Hatt. He reports that a bus replacement service is being organized, however it will be quote “spotty” at times due to existing commitments. More buses are being sourced from the mainland, but that will take time.”

“Thank you,” Charles dismissed the man. “Tell him that we need to speak as soon as possible.”

London may have been in one of the most generous moods recent memory could allow, but they also weren’t stupid. On the eve of his retirement, with his son waiting to take over - there was a very real chance that some limp-wristed pencil pusher with an axe to grind could choose to enact “vengeance,” and declare the tunnel a total loss.

All the money in the world would not convince them to cut another one.

#arriving in knapford #christmas story #OH MY GOD!!!!#firstly. MY MVP THOMAS!!!!! give bear the peace he deserves!!!!!!!!#secondly! oh god the tunnel. OH GOD THE VANS. *OH GOD DONALD!!!!!!*#this is getting wilder and wilder ive the sense that this is building up to something big and i love it #AND OHO! daphne and pip and emma and fendt reference...

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