Work Text:
1984, England
“They’re gone now.”
The diesel was alone. His words were met by silence. Still he continued his one sided conversation.
“There’s nothing here. Maybe they’ll stay gone forever and leave us alone.”
-
“It’s over. It has to be. What more could they want?”
-
“Does it even matter, what they do to us anymore?”
***
Sodor
Stephen Hatt sat behind the railway controller’s desk, in the office that had until that week been his father’s. He stared at the mass of paperwork piled in front of him.
He was forty-three years old. He’d worked on the North Western Railway for most of his adult life. He shouldn’t feel this overwhelmed.
It wasn’t like he’d just been handed the power of life and death over 182 sentient beings...
No, given how slipshod the record keeping seemed to be when it came to rolling stock, he was fairly sure the number was closer to three hundred.
Only the rigid decorum that came of being raised a baronet’s son kept him from burying his face in his hands.
The telephone rang. He stood, pulled his waistcoat straight, took a breath and lifted the receiver.
“Hello. This is Stephen Hatt, controller of the North Western region of British Railways. To whom am I speaking?”
“Stephen, it’s Kevin Boone. I don’t know if you remember me; we were in the Abbey School together.”
“Kevin, yes of course!” Though he hadn’t seen the other man in years they’d been fairly good friends as children.
“I’ve only just heard that you’re the North Western controller now. Congratulations!”
“Thank you. How have you been Kevin?”
“Keeping well, keeping well...” There was a moment of hesitation before he said, “I’m afraid this isn’t purely a social call. I find myself with something of a problem and I think it might be far more your area of expertise than mine.”
When Stephen prompted him to go on he explained, “I bought some land out near Lancaster with a view to developing it. The land includes a scrap yard. I was there yesterday to organise getting the area cleared out and... Stephen there’s an engine, a live engine just left there. I don’t know what to do. I offered him to the local railway controller but they don’t want him. I need the place emptied out so construction can start but I can’t just send a living vehicle off with the scrap metal. He doesn’t even seem badly damaged from what I can tell. I thought maybe you could take him?”
The last thing he needed was another engine, particularly one in need of repair. The NWR already had ten times more than a railway their size needed. Any money that was being made was going right back into providing for their upkeep. Still he found himself saying, “Tell me more about this engine. What type is he?”
“I’m no good at identifying the models of trains Stephen. He’s some kind of work vehicle. He’s got an arm attachment.”
“Steam?”
“Eh no, diesel,” came the rather sheepish reply. “I know Sodor is all about preserving steam engines but...” he trailed off.
It was true. Sodor was a place for steam engines. Keeping them in service had been his father’s primary goal. While there were diesels among the North Western’s fleet, they were in a minority and had been brought in out of necessity, because an extra engine had been needed for some task and a diesel was all that was available.
Stephen couldn’t deny he preferred the old-fashioned charm of steam locomotives to the modern utilitarian design of diesels. Beyond his office window Gordon was puffing off to pull the express. He looked very grand in the morning sunlight. The large engine drove past and a little further back – half obscured from where he stood by the brick wall of a station building – he noticed Percy, aided by Philip, getting a train ready. The little diesel boxcar darted back and forth excitedly as he worked and chatted with the green saddle tank engine. From this distance their words were inaudible but both wore matching grins. They could have been children, laughing and joking on their way to school. In that moment he couldn't think of anything that mattered less than his personal aesthetic preferences. “Give me the address,” he said. “I can be there by this evening.”
***
The scrapyard – already more than half emptied – was unremarkable and utterly dismal.
The encroaching dusk rendered everything colourless and the air seemed somehow heavy, pressing down on him. It was the kind of place that could easily breed ghost stories and although Stephen had abandoned such childish beliefs many years before, he would still be glad when it came time to leave.
Kevin emerged from behind the remaining heaps of scrap to greet him, the beam of his torch an icy gleam on the rusted metal. He’d aged well. His hair – still strawberry blonde – was now accompanied by a neatly trimmed matching beard. If he’d gotten a little thick around the middle and was overdressed for their current surroundings, well Stephen was hardly one to pass comment – on either count.
“I can’t thank you enough for coming,” Kevin said, greeting him with a firm and enthusiastic handshake, “especially on such short notice. How was your journey?”
“Quite easy. I got a train as far as Lancaster then hired a car and driver.” While there were tracks running into the defunct scrapyard, there were – unsurprisingly – no routes stopping there and Stephen hadn’t wanted to bring an engine from Sodor on this excursion.
Kevin sobered. “I suppose I’d better show you the engine then?”
He led Stephen to an old work shed, bare concrete walls and a corrugated steel roof.
“Do you know his name?” the railway controller asked before entering.
“Afraid not.”
Stephen wondered if his friend hadn’t asked for a name, hadn’t been told or if the engine just didn’t have one. Dismissing the thought, he entered the shed.
The diesel was backed right up against the buffers where the rails ended near the far wall.
It was immediately apparent why British Railroads didn’t want him.
He looked very much like a BR Class 42 but the design was off. Rather than two long grills in his middle section there was only one and his length was correspondingly shorter, closer to fifty feet than sixty. He might have been a prototype for the class, a knock-off or the result of a manufacturing error. Regardless, he was a non-standard model. He’d also been very obviously modified, a large hydraulic grapple added to his roof. It looked like it belonged on an excavator and almost certainly broke safety regulations, rendering him illegal for normal use as a locomotive. And he would need maintenance, that much was obvious, even if no damage was immediately apparent.
His eyes tracked the two men as they entered.
“Hello,” the controlled said.
“Go away,” the diesel barked in response.
Ignoring the demand Stephen said, “I’d like to speak with you. Do you have a name?”
“What do you care?” The hydraulic jaws gave a sudden jarring snap. “Just leave us alone!”
This was not going well, still Stephen persisted. Refusing to react to the outburst he said quite calmly, “I’m the controller of the North Western Railway. I’m looking into the feasibility of having you work there since you obviously can’t stay here.”
“I won’t! I won’t do your ‘work’!” The claw smacked into the wall with a clang, continuing to do so over and over as the engine shouted “Get out! Get out!”
Genuinely alarmed, Stephen retreated from the shed. Kevin followed, his expression half apology, half shock. After a moment he said, “This isn’t going to have a good outcome, is it?”
Inside the broken down structure, the diesel continued to trash and shout.
Stephen shook his head. “I’m not ready to give up yet old chap.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I received a job application from a diesel driver the other day. I was going to turn it down as I had reservations about the driver's suitability and no free posts anyway. However, if the applicant could get our engine calmed down and safely transported to Sodor then there might be a place for her on the North Western after all.”
“Her?”
***
The driver – who was indeed female – arrived early the next morning on a bicycle. She was tall and thin with plain feature. Her brown hair was messily tied back and she was wearing a man’s tartan shirt jacket over a bleach stained t-shirt and blue jeans. Wholly inappropriate for a job interview but fairly sensible for a scrapyard Stephen noted, nursing a cup of strong tea from a thermos flask. “You must be Mary Smith.”
She managed about half a minute of pleasantries before asking, “Can I see the engine now?” A second later she awkwardly remembered to add, “please?”
***
Mary didn’t know what to make of the railway controller in his top hat and tails. She couldn't get a read on him. Any concerns about her potential employer went right out of her head the moment she saw the diesel however. She’d been told what to expect but that hadn’t prepared her for the hopeless mix of anger and dread on his face. Resisting the urge to go straight to him, she instead moved to the opposite wall, careful to stay in his line of sight.
Mr. Hatt said something about returning to Sodor and asked if she would be alright on her own. Still focused on the engine, she assured him that she’d be fine. He instructed her to contact him when she had an update on the situation and she nodded her agreement, barely noticing when he left.
There was no significant damage obvious on the diesel just scrapes and dings but ‘SCRAP’ was sprayed in bold letters across his side. It seemed to be the only paint on him aside from an undercoat.
After a few minutes of silence she asked the him, “Do you know what’s going on?”
He answered in a gruff voice, “The fat man wants me to work for him. I won’t.”
Mary nodded.
“You going to try and make us?”
“No. I’m not going to be forcing you to do anything.” She wanted this job but it wasn’t worth that.
The diesel didn’t look like he believed her.
“Do you have a name?” she asked.
“What do you care?”
That was probably a no; engines that had names tended to be eager to share them. “I want to know what to call you,” she replied.
“I get called a lot of things.”
“But what do you like to be called?”
There was a long pause before he answered. “Diesel 10.”
“Diesel 10 it is. I’m Mary if you want to know.”
He appeared disinterested, even bored, at least if you didn’t look too closely. More attentive observation revealed thinly masked uncertainty and fear. She’d always found vehicle faces easier to read than human ones and Diesel 10 didn’t trust her, not one little bit.
“Where did you work before coming here?” And what did they do to make you this suspicious of people?
He shot her a confused look. After a long pause he answered, “Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?” He had to have worked somewhere before being sent to the scrapyard.
“I was made. I was sent here,” he snapped in reply.
Why would anyone go to the effort and expense of building an engine just to immediately scrap them? She didn’t doubt for a moment that it had happened (what reason would he have to lie?) but was still struck by the illogic of the actions. They certainly couldn't be helping Ten’s impression of the world. It also raised another question in her mind. He at least resembled a Class 42. If he actually was one... those hadn’t been produced since ‘61. Why would an engine be left intact in a scrapyard that long?
“You know there are better places than this, right?” Mary asked.
“Some of the others that... were here talked ‘bout their old railways.” She nodded. Then he added, “All their old railways sent them here.”
She bit her lip. “The Fat Controller wants to take you away from here,” she said.
“He’ll have to tow me then; I’m not going anywhere.”
His tone suggested a refusal rather than an inability to move which was good in one way and worrying in another. What happened next however was far more worrying. The metal claw smacked against his face causing him to shout. “Ow! Pinchy stop it!”
The claw snapped its jaws but stilled.
When it did not start to move again, Mary asked very carefully, “Diesel 10, do you control that grabber?”
“We work together.”
Her concern grew. “Do you know where it came from?”
“Pinchy was an excavator. She...” He didn’t complete the sentence but just that one word told her enough: ‘she’ not ‘it’, a living excavator.
Someone had welded part of one living machine onto the roof of another and that part apparently retained at least some level of autonomy and awareness.
“What do you care anyway?” the engine snapped.
She was too shaken to properly respond, instead asking, “Who did that to you? Why?”
“Because Pinchy was broken,” he replied, the words laced with anger, “and I might have been made wrong but I ran just fine.”
Abruptly Mary understood, understood why an engine that must have been scrapped more than twenty years before had never been cut up, understood why the arm of a broken construction vehicle had been grafted onto him.
They would have been a lot faster than a cutting torch.
***
Some time passed and Mary stayed mostly silent, sitting by the wall, hoping that Diesel 10 would speak of his own accord. He didn’t.
From the small knapsack slung over her shoulder the driver took a flask of water and a napkin wrapped Cornish pasty. Finding somewhere to lay them out she said, “I’m going to have some lunch. Do you need anything? Fuel or water say?”
“No.” It was just one word but the way he said it was profoundly wrong. He was terrified.
“What’s wrong? It’s okay if you can’t run,” she said, wondering if he was afraid of exposing damage. “The Fat Controller still wants you brought to Sodor.” He’d told her a tow could be arranged though it would obviously be better if that were not necessary.
“I can move.” He jolted forward a few feet, grimacing as he did so.
Okay, so he was technically running but clearly not well. Mary was contemplating how to broach the topic when she noticed the wall the engine had previously been blocking from view. Scratched into it were words, numbers, roughly sketched images. “Did you do that?”
He didn’t answer, just looked at her, fear and defiance wrapped up with anger in his eyes.
“You’re not in trouble,” Mary said softly. “This building’s going to be demolished. Even if it wasn’t...” The wall was covered in names – the kinds of names given to vehicles, interspersed with registration numbers and faces, none of them happy.
***
Mary was disinclined to leave the diesel alone but she needed to speak to the controller.
She found the B&B where he was staying without much difficulty and left her bike at the gate. She started for the front door but stopped when she saw Mr. Hatt already outside by his hire car, obviously preparing to leave. He frowned faintly when he noticed her. “Too much?” he asked.
“No.” The situation with Diesel 10 was deeply disturbing but she could cope with that.
“Then if I may ask Miss Smith, why are you here?”
“Sir... the engine was used by the scrapyard. It’s why he has the claw.”
The controller’s frown deepened but he nodded. “That possibility did occur to me,” he said.
“I’m almost certain they had him scrapping other living vehicles.” It was distressing even to think about but it had to be said. There was no room for ambiguity in this. “As far as I can make out he thinks you want him to do the same sort of work and that’s why he’s refusing to go to Sodor. I don’t think that’s why you want him.” Please don’t let that be why. Please let Sodor be an actual good place, not somewhere living people were cut to pieces (because they were people, whatever the law might say.) Please let the controller be a good man. “But I don’t know for sure. If I’m going to convince him I have to be certain.”
The words had come out in something of a rush and when she fell silent Mr. Hatt took a breath seemingly on her behalf. “I can assure you,” he said, “that no living vehicles will ever be scrapped on my orders.”
A tension she hadn’t been aware of dissolved.
***
Mr. Hatt had his driver bring them both back to the scrapyard.
Mary sat self-consciously in her seat, aware of her grubby jeans on the spotless fabric and her muddy bike in the boot.
The shed was just as she’d left it except for Diesel 10 having returned to his previous position up against the buffer. He eyed the controller suspiciously.
Stephen Hatt reiterated what he had told her, that no live vehicles would be scrapped on his railway. Then he left.
Several minutes passed in silence.
Eventually the engine asked, “Why should I believe him?”
“I can’t make you,” she replied. “And I won’t make you move against your will. This is up to you. You can take a chance on trusting him and hopefully have a decent life away from here or you can refuse. I don’t really know what happens then.”
There was another long silence. The claw swung about but not in the frantic manner it had before. Eventually the diesel responded. “We'll go.”
***
Diesel 10 was terrified and trying to hide it. This could be a trick. It was probably a trick.
But he’d never been given a choice before, not one with any good options at least.
“It’s simple, you do it or we do.”
Whirring.
Screaming.
Tearing.
“Can I go into your cab?”
Why was she asking his permission? Why was she offering him another choice? As much to test what she would do as anything, he said no.
Pinchy snapped in annoyance but the human – Mary – didn’t seem to get angry. She just frowned and said, “Alright.” Then she asked, “Can you tell me what your fuel level is like?”
No... No he didn’t want any fuel! He shouldn’t have refused. He didn’t want any! He didn’t...
“...okay. You’re okay. Nothing bad’s going to happen Ten. It’s okay.” He became aware of the words gradually, the same reassurances being repeated over and over. “You’re not in trouble. It’s going to be alright.”
He felt unsteady, thought he might have been shouting. “I don’t want any fuel,” he said, quieter than he meant too.
“Yea... you said that... Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything to you that you’re not okay with.” She paused for a moment before asking, “You feeling better now?”
The question confused him. “I’m fine.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “What is that you think will happen if you take on fuel?”
Wasn’t that obvious? “It’ll hurt.”
She frowned. “Is that the diesel?” she asked, nodding towards the fuel tank.
“What else would it be?”
“I’m going to take a look at it. That’s all I’m going to do, I promise.” She moved over to the tank and Diesel 10 turned his eyes to keep her in his sight as much as possible. She poured off a little fuel into a bucket. Her frown deepened as she inspected it. She swore under her breath. Then, turning to look at him again, she said (in that strange soft voice) “This fuel’s been tampered with. There’s... I don’t even know what mixed into it. I’m amazed you were able to run at all on this -” she swore again. “This is sick.” She was angry. About the fuel? Why? He knew there was bad stuff in it. What did it matter? ‘Because the Fat Controller wants me to work on his railway,’ he thought, ‘and the fuel has messed with my workings.’ No one wants a damaged vehicle. Damaged vehicles get scrapped. No – the controller said no one was getting scrapped.
Diesel 10 desperately wanted to believe that.
“You’re going to need any of that swill that’s still in your tank pumped out,” the driver said. “That much I can do here, if you’re okay with it. The actual repair work will have to wait until we’re on Sodor with the engineers.”
He didn’t fully understand what any of that meant but decided it was a safe bet it would be painful. “You,” he said quickly. “I want you to do the pump thing.” He didn’t trust the driver, not by a long way but she gave him choices and hadn’t done anything bad yet. As far as he could tell, she didn’t want to hurt him. He struggled to account for why.
“Okay, good; the sooner that mess is out of you the better.”
He studied her expression, looking for any sign that this was all a trick but found none.
***
Pumping out his fuel tank felt strange and uncomfortable but didn’t actually hurt like he’d expected. When it was done the driver said, “I’ll go arrange an engine to tow you. You’ll be out of this place” – it sounded like she wanted to say something else – “soon.”
“No.” As soon as the word left his mouth, his eyes went wide. He hadn’t meant to say that! There was no taking it back, he might as well say the rest. “I want to take myself to Sodor.”
He expected anger, at least a solid thump from the nearest object. Nothing happened. The human didn’t look like she was angry, more like she was thinking. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
“You’re in bad shape Ten,” she said. “The tow would be easier on you but it’s your decision.”
Pinchy snapped. D10 guessed she wanted him to go along with whatever Mary thought best but he’d been towed to the scrapyard and wanted to leave it under his own power. “I don’t want to be towed.”
“Alright.” She hesitated before saying, “You know you’ll need fuel to do this? Proper fuel,” she added quickly, “not like that mess we just pumped out of you.”
He had to force himself to answer, “I know.” But he wanted to run outside the scrapyard at least once.
***
The driver left to ‘arrange things’ and latter a non-living fuel tanker was delivered.
Despite assurances to the contrary, Diesel 10 expected to feel ill the moment it was pumped into him. He was surprised when he felt no worse, only fuller.
By that point it was starting to get dark.
“If you want to do this Ten, now would be the time,” the driver said. “There won’t be much traffic, so we can take it slow without causing an obstruction. That’s if you’re sure about this. If not, I can still arrange the tow.”
“I’m ready to go,” he said, though he didn’t feel ready. He had fuel and he wanted to leave. That was what mattered, not that he knew nothing of their destination, that his mind was screaming at him to just stay with what he knew, that it could be worse.
That didn’t matter.
“Okay. Can I get into your cab? I’ll just be monitoring things and giving directions. I won’t touch any of the controls unless there’s an emergency.”
Why did she keep asking his permission?
Would she really stay away from the controls?
Pinchy snapped in agitation.
“Ten, are you okay with me going inside your driver’s compartment?”
“Fine.” What other options were there? It wasn’t like he knew the way to Sodor.
He felt her climb on board with the bike and leave it just beside the external door. After several minutes she sat but made no attempt to touch any of the manual controls. He supposed, if she was going to, she had no reason to wait. Some more time passed before she asked, “Are you ready to go? The first few miles are a straight shot along the track.”
He wanted to do this. He reminded himself that he wanted to leave. He started with a judder and – with a last regretful glance back at the markings on the wall – rolled out of the shed.
When he passed the gate of the scrapyard, it was officially the furthest he had ever gone under his own power.
***
Moving hurt but that was normal. The new fuel helped but he’d never driven for such a long time before. The further they went, the harder it became to ignore the grinding pain in his engine. Regardless, that was precisely what Diesel 10 attempted to do.
At one point he had to pull into a siding to let a goods train pass. The engine thundered by, tankers and trucks rattling along behind it. He stared after it, wondering how anything could move so fast before painfully pulling back out, his pace a crawl by comparison.
“You go as slow as you need to,” the driver said, “and if you want to stop just let me know.”
The sun was starting to come up by the time they reached the bridge to Sodor.
***
In an exhausted daze, Diesel 10 followed his driver’s directions through the town, across more open country and onto a branch line, finally pulling into a big metal shed. Everything hurt and he hoped this was their final destination because he didn’t think he had the energy to get his wheels turning again.
“You did great,” the driver said. He had no idea how to respond.
He had never been so tired. He wanted to sleep but the activity in the shed – people moving about and speaking – kept him from relaxing. Still he couldn't follow what they were saying and their positions kept skipping about when he blinked. A man entered his cab and 10 was instantly alert. Though his engine was off, he still felt as if he were vibrating on the tracks as he tried to focus on whatever the unknown man was doing. He felt dipsticks being pulled and replaced, a finger tapping on some dials. The man got back out.
“What the hell is in your head,” - the voice startled him – “driving an engine fifty miles in this condition?”
“He didn’t want to be towed,” Mary (to whom the angry words must have been addressed) replied. “Seemed like he had the right to make that decision.”
“Yea and last week one of the steamies decided it was a great idea to drive around covered in soap suds and crashed because he couldn't see where he was going. Engines aren’t exactly known for their judgment calls. If you’re meant to be a driver, you’re going to need to act like one! Now I’ve got to fix the damage.”
Diesel 10 did not expect the hand on his fuel cap. Panicking, he jolted backwards. Pinch trashed about, her jaws snapping and toppled a stack of wooden pallets that smashed loudly against the floor.
The man jumped aside, swearing loudly. “To hell with this!” he yelled. “I’m not working with a blasted crazy engine!” He kicked one of the broken pallets and stormed off.
***
Arriving at the Vicarstown works with a short train of trucks, Diesel noticed a large and unfamiliar engine slowly shudder into the shed. The black shunter quickly deposited the trucks and rolled over to where Daisy was getting ready to set off.
“Who’s the new engine?” he said, turning his eyes towards the shed.
“Not a clue,” the large railcar replied. “Did you see the claw?”
Claw?
“Don’t tell me you missed the massive claw on his roof?”
“Of course not,” he said quickly (though he absolutely had missed it.) “Do you think he’s staying?”
“How would I know? If he is sticking around I certainly hope someone gets him a coat of paint; he looks terrible!”
Daisy had clearly gotten a better view of the new engine than him. He wanted to know what was happening. “I’m going to go introduce myself,” he decided.
“Oh, to who?” Paxton asked as he rolled over. “Is there someone new? Can I go say hi too? I love making new friends!”
“Neither of you are going anywhere,” ordered an engineer approaching from the shed. “That engine is unstable. You need to stay away from him.”
***
Ten’s eyes darted about after the man walked out. He shouldn’t have done that! Now something awful was sure to follow. He didn’t know what, just knew it would be bad.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Mary was standing in front of him, her hands out and empty. “That guy’s an idiot. You're not in trouble. Nothing bad’s going to happen to you.”
He didn’t understand. Was this a trick? “What about to someone else?” he asked. That was always worse.
“No,” - he couldn't place the expression on the driver’s face – “not to anyone else either.”
He wasn’t sure why the words reassured him. She could easily be lying. Still, he felt the panic fade.
“You’re safe,” Mary said. “Try to get some sleep, yeah?”
***
Reporting as instructed to the offices at Knapford, Mary officially received and signed her employment contract. When she was handed her uniform delight warred with disappointment. Delight because holding the blue cap it was suddenly real, the ambition she’d held since childhood; she was a train driver. Disappointment because the uniform trousers had been replaced by a blue pencil skirt. She tried not to concentrate on that, to focus on more important things.
After making several awkward and frustrating enquiries (why were other human beings so hard to talk to?) Mary learnt that there was a second engineer assigned to the dieslworks but that it was currently his day off. After that she went to find a room in a guest house.
She ended up in a pretty standard old-fashioned B&B, the kind with too many floral prints and doilies. Paying for the room used up most of her funds. Hopefully she'd get her first pay-check soon. Once she did she’d have to arrange something more permanent and move her stuff over but that was a problem for another day. Just then thirty-six hours without sleep seemed to be catching on with her all at once. She collapsed half-dressed on the bed and didn’t wake till some time in the early hours of the next morning.
With the sky still dark, Mary showered, tried on the uniform, hated the skirt, took it off again.
As soon as the sun started to come up, she headed out to explore the town. After a while she found an early opening shop. It was a fairly basic department store, with sections for groceries, clothing and homeware. She bought herself a light breakfast and a few essentials (which most definitely included a pair of blue slacks that were a passable colour match for her uniform.)
She arrived at the Diesel-works almost an hour before she was due to start work. There was already a fair amount of activity and, after looking around for a few moments, she spotted someone with a toolbelt.
“Hi,” she said awkwardly. “Are you the engineer?”
“That's right,” he said with a broad smile. He had dark hair and brown skin, looked like he might have Indian or maybe Pakistani heritage. “I'm Billy. You must be the new driver I've heard about.” He rubbed his right palm on his trouser leg in a futile attempt to remove the worst of the grease stains before holding it out to shake.
“Yes, Mary,” she said, taking the offered hand.
“Pleased to meet you. What can I help you with?”
She began to explain the condition and needs of the North Western Region's newest engine.
***
“They were giving him contaminated fuel intentionally?”
“They have to have known. It wasn't like someone had stored diesel carelessly; it had blatantly been tampered with. Why anyone would put that mess in an engine other than to hurt them I don't know.”
“Maybe to control him, stop him from just running away and taking his chances? I don't know either...”
***
Diesel 10 slept fitfully, the unfamiliar place and its sounds making it hard to rest.
When he woke fully he wasn’t sure how much time had passed but Mary was there again, with another, different man. “This is Billy,” she told him. “He’s going to be looking after your repairs.”
Billy didn’t shout like the first man had done. He explained what he was doing as he replaced Ten’s fuel filter and pump and drained and replaced his oil and coolant reservoirs. He explained that he was going to get a tank of a special fuel that would clean his injectors and that he’d run more easily afterwards. The repairs hurt a bit but less than he’d expected and after they were done he did indeed feel much better.
Mary had him move to a short stretch of track out behind the shed to run his engine for a while and let the special cleaning fuel do its job. Sometimes he saw other engines passing by but they always kept their distance. He couldn't blame them.
***
It was a few days after Diesel 10 had arrived on Sodor. He was back inside, having some dents and rust patches dealt with when, for the first time, another engine entered the space.
He was a little shunter with grubby dark blue paint. Coming to a stop he looked through the open doors of the inner shed at Ten, gave a confused blink, then smiled widely and said “Hello!” He sounded genuinely happy and the larger diesel’s first thought was that the greeting had to be meant for someone else. The shunter however was looking right at him, still smiling.
There was too long of a silence before he said hello in return.
The shunter didn’t seem to notice the delay. “I’m Sidney. Are you new?”
Ten was confused. He didn’t understand what the other engine meant or what he wanted. “Why are you here?” he snapped.
“Oh, I have to get repairs,” Sidney replied, seemingly unphased by the harsh tone. “Are you getting repaired too?”
“Yeah.” Suddenly concerned for the shunter, he asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Eh... I can’t remember.” Sidney paused, clearly trying to think of something. It did not ease Ten’s concerns. “What’s your name? I think I forgot it, sorry.”
“I hadn’t told you yet. It’s Diesel 10.”
“Hello, pleased to meet you! I’m Sidney.”
***
“What’s worrying you?”
Diesel 10’s eyes shot to the driver. It was late; the men had left and Sidney was sleeping.
“What do you mean?”
“It looks like something’s bothering you,” Mary replied. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
He hesitated, glancing at Sidney. Eventually he asked, “Is he really getting repaired?”
“Yes. He'll be repaired.” She gave one of those strange smiles he couldn’t interoperate. “I think he needs some sort of adjustment to his wheels. It’ll be done tomorrow.”
Diesel 10 looked across at the shunter again. He wondered if the Humans knew about the memory problems. He said nothing.
“Sodor is special Ten. Everyone gets repaired here.”
***
Sidney spent another day and a half in the works having his wheels seen to before he left – running better if still not perfectly.
While he he was there he talked a lot, often repeating himself in a constant stream of cheerful prattle. Diesel 10 was surprised to find it didn’t bother him. In fact he was a little sad when it was time for the shunter to leave.
***
“You're all fixed up now Ten; the paint job was the last thing that needed doing.” Mary smiled, adding, “Billy's given the okay for a test run. What do you say; are you ready to get out of this shed for a bit?”
Honestly, Diesel 10 wasn't sure. He wanted to get away from the noise and activity of the dieselworks but a large part of him dreaded the completion of his repairs, dreaded what he might be told to do once he was determined to be in good working order. Still he said, “Yeah, let's go.”
Leaving Vicarstown was far easier than pulling into it had been.
The day was hot and bright. There were no other engines nearby.
Rolling down an empty stretch of track, Diesel 10 felt good, better than he could ever remember feeling.
His engine ran easily and his wheels turned smoothly.
It was wrong.
He shouldn't be running happily and painlessly along shining track on a sunny day.
He screeched to a halt before quickly shifting into reverse. As he raced back to the shed a single thought played over and over in his mind, that he didn't deserve to be happy.
Stopping too suddenly against the buffers, Diesel 10 shut down his engine and stared into the shadows of the shed and blocked out the world.
“Ten?”
He stared at a patch of rust on the wall, aware of Mary speaking to him but not wanting to answer.
“What happened Ten?”
He remembered the wall of the other shed.
“Did something upset you?”
“Nothing upset me,” he replied, without looking away from the wall. That was the problem. He deserved to be upset, deserved to be hurt for everything he'd done.
“Then what's wrong Ten?”
“I took them apart!” He hadn't meant to shout. He hadn't meant to reply at all. But now that he had, the words wouldn't stop. “I took them all apart. They cried and begged and I kept going anyway.” Pinchy slammed loudly against the walls, snapping her jaws. “I took them all apart because if I didn't, the men would.” He wasn't shouting anymore, even if Pinchy was still gnashing and swaying. “If I didn't co-operate it made them angry so they went slow.”
The old engine moaned as the panelling was peeled away.
He closed streaming eyes. But he could still hear.
“At least Pinchy and I made it quick. But we still killed them. I still killed them. They're all gone. Even the wall we made to remember them is gone now isn't it? I know that man wanted to knock down the shed. They're gone and I'm still here and it's not fair.” Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I don't know why you're being so nice to me. I don't deserve anything good.”
“Ten... that's not true. You deserve a decent life.” Mary sounded lost.
Diesel 10 knew she was wrong. He was bad. He was a danger to everyone around him. Why else had the painters given him hazard stripes?
“I don't. I'm only good for scrapping.”
“It doesn't seem like you had a choice.” He hadn't noticed the little black shunter's presence until he spoke. The class 08 looked nervous.
“I had a choice.” There were no good options but there was a choice. He made his and did what the humans demanded.
“A choice where the other engines got to live?” the shunter asked.
“No.”
“So the 'choice' was scrap them,” the smaller engine's voice shuddered slightly, “or let the workmen do it a whole lot more slowly?”
“Yes.”
The shunter was silent for a moment before saying, “That's not something you should feel guilty for.”
Diesel 10 stared at the smaller vehicle, struggling to make sense of the words that had come from his mouth. He'd scrapped those vehicles. He and Pinchy ripped them apart. He could still hear the metal tearing. How could he feel anything but guilty about that?
“What you did wasn't nice but it was the only way you could help them.”
He remembered the hoarse voice of an old lorry saying, “Just make it quick.” He remembered the cam-shaft dangling obscenely from his claw.
“The day you arrived we – me and the other diesels I mean – were warned to keep away from you. We were told you were dangerous.”
Diesel 10 was inclined to agree with that assessment. But then the black shunter said, “You don't seem dangerous to me. You seem strong.”
“Strong?” He didn't understand.
“Yeah,” the other vehicle said. “That's good; there's a lot of engines here that could use someone strong to look out for them.”
Diesel 10 still didn't understand. He was dangerous to be around, not useful. However, before he could ask what the shunter meant, a driver called from the shed's main door. “Come on Diesel!” he said. “We need to get the trucks ready for quarry train.” The smaller engine rolled his eyes and reversed out of the shed.
Finding himself confused but no longer overwhelmed by the sudden storm of shame and guilt, Diesel 10 tried to make sense of this railway and his place in it, tried to make sense of anything.
There was a clunk as Mary set down a heavy box on the shed floor. When had she left to get that? How much time had passed?
“Those are for you, if you want them,” she said.
He couldn't make out what was in the box. “What are they?”
“Just some leftover paints.” She lifted the box again, tilting it to allow him a better view. He saw tin cans and a large chip brush. “The painters said it was fine to take them.”
But what were they for?
Apparently his lack of understanding was obvious because Mary said, “No one's going to mind if you want to paint on the walls in here. If you want to make a new memorial you can.”
Pinchy reached out and carefully took the box, setting it on top of a stack of crates.
“Thanks.”
***
It was two days later and Diesel 10 had his first official job.
“Railway regulations mean you've had to be classed as a work vehicle rather than a locomotive,” Mary explained. “So you're going to be loading up a cargo of cut logs for the timber mill. It should be a nice run to the forest and back. Sound good?”
He asked questions, probably too many, probably stupid ones, kept being surprised when they were answered. Eventually they set off. It was a lovely day, cool and bright but Ten was too preoccupied thinking about the upcoming job and how it would go to appreciate the weather.
He just had to move some wood. That sounded easy.
But what if he messed up? What happened if he wasn't useful? What if he was only good for – No, don't think about that.
He just had to move some wood. It wasn't part of anybody; it had come from trees.
He just had to move some wood.
Diesel 10 was concentrating so hard on that thought that he almost crashed into the branches strewn across the rails. Pulling up sharply, he took in the chaotic scene that faced him.
There were dozens of stripped branches, each about as thick as a human limb, scattered everywhere with the largest concentration being on top of a (non-living) flatbed and a small diesel railcar.
“Hello!” said the railcar, sounding remarkably chipper given his predicament. “I haven't met you before. You certainly are a big diesel. What are you called? My name's Philip.”
“How did you get under all that?” Ten asked rather than answering the railcar's question, still struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.
“I was helping!” Philip said happily. “I was bringing the cut off branches to the saw mill. I was going really fast because I wanted to go back and get more and be extra useful but eh...” his voice turned sheepish, “I didn't realise they hadn't been tied down yet. They all fell when i started going down the hill.”
It was easy to move the branches; a few scoops from Pinchy and they were gone. It took less than a minute.
“That was amazing!” exclaimed the boxcab, zipping forward excitedly. “I've never seen a diesel engine who could do that! Are you new? Are you staying on Sodor? Let's be friends!” Philip spoke so quickly that Diesel 10 wouldn't have had time to respond even had he been able to keep up with everything being said.
“So are you staying? What are you doing in the woods? Do you want to be friends?”
“I'm supposed to move some logs,” Ten said, managing to answer the question of why he was there at least.
“Oh. I'll help!”
Rather sceptically, Diesel 10 glanced at the broken branches now lying haphazardly to either side of the tracks. Oblivious to any concerns, Philip darted backwards up the hill.
Despite the little boxcar's extreme enthusiasm there were no further accidents. Philip quickly and happily shunted the empty flatbeds into place for the larger diesel to load, chatting incessantly as he did so. When Ten set off for the saw mill he called out a final cheerful “Bye new friend! Hope I see you again soon!”
Those words replaying in his mind, Diesel 10 rolled along the track.
Philip's energy level was overwhelming and unfamiliar but he... didn't hate it? The smaller engine seemed incredibly innocent and Ten found he wanted him to stay that way.
“You did well there,” Mary said.
He did?
“You really helped that out that little guy and he certainly took a shine to you for it.”
The idea that anyone might like him... that was unfamiliar too, another thing he had no clue how to respond to but maybe didn't hate.
The tracks shone like chrome in the bright sunlight. Even with the heavy train of logs it was so much easier to move than it had been just a few weeks before.
Everything about Sodor seemed too good to be true. And maybe it was. But it was better than where he came from. It might be too much to hope for but maybe, just maybe he could have a place here and be better too.