Archive of Our Own ^beta

The freight shed was many things. Firstly it could hardly be called a shed anymore, it was a haphazard collection of extensions from over the years. As trucks had come and gone the shed needed to be larger, or hold new equipment or power sources. Of course budget was tight, even when the yard was at its fullest potential. Building a new shed was just not on the cards. Not when the engines had just gotten a new set of sheds built, and the coaches' shed had undergone a refurbish. No, there was little money left for the freight, so they had to make do. Corrugated metal and tarp, eventually covered with wooden panels and here and there, brick even. Every wall outside and in was different, but that was where the memories lied. Each section was a piece of history, of an era of freight, an energy that couldn't be replicated in uniform paint.

The freight shed (or sheds) was messy. In part due to the previous occupants and the haphazard nature of the building, but not helped by its current residents. Boxes of spare parts and paint buckets were shoved into corners and piled high. Most of the pieces of scrap made sense, but not all. There were no boxcars at the yard, yet hinges of their doors were kept in plentiful supply, and brakes of cabooses that the shed hadn't seen in decades. There was also the freight contents itself, coal dust traipsed along the ground and the odd nugget of the stuff that had fallen out of Porter's backpack at some point.

Splinters of wood were another regular occurrence, from snapped planks no good for selling so Lumber would sneak them home. Just in case he always said. Just in case of what, who knew, but they had come in useful to prop the shed door open when the latch broke that one summer. It could get awfully stuffy in there, with its metal walls and ceilings. Two steamers living there didn't help that bit of course. Though sometimes a bit of wood could come in handy in a pinch when coal was in short supply.

Oil you would think would be a slightly cleaner affair. The tanks were far too big to be stored inside so were under a tarpaulin outside, weighed and counted meticulously. Never mess with that plastic sheet or what was underneath it, unless you wanted to face the wrath of Slick. However Slick was not the cleanest, wiping her dripping hands on herself or on any surface. It would drip from her tank onto the floors, and hand prints would smear black shapes across the walls. There were also the marks from her tank where she'd lean against the wall and scuff it, or even put a hole in it if Slick was harsh enough with her landing, which was often in fact.

Now hydrogen would be the neatest. Coolant bottles and gas canisters could easily sit on shelves out of the way or be piled up in a corner somewhere. But unfortunately due to the cramped nature of the shed, and the fact it was so full of stuff from everyone else, Hydra had to shove his stuff wherever he could find space. It also didn't help that Slick was fond of moving his stuff, hiding it. That just caused more of a mess from Hydra moving everything else to try and find his equipment! Then you had of course, six sets of armour, plating and pads that were left around for repairs, repaints or just forgotten about. All in all it made for a very full shed.

The freight shed, with six occupants, was also busy. A truck or engine seemed to be coming or going always, even with Momma taking on less work. At some point, after Hydra arrived, she suggested a chalk board, filled out weekly with everyone's shifts. It would help everyone know where everyone was at any time. But then Lumber's shift patterns kept changing, and Slick was being demanded in her down time by the engines, and Porter's shifts were getting so far and few between some weeks he had nothing to fill out. So it stopped becoming a habit. Momma still did fill out hers though, so they all could find her if they needed.

With this business and messiness brought noise. Both the high pitched squeals of quarrels and shouts, but also the sing song melody of laughter and joy. Lumber had his harmonica of course, and Porter would tap out a tune on anything that could make a noise. The three of them talked and laughed, and sometimes Rusty would be roped into their antics. Hydra less so, but he was often the target of their games, and they were usually harmless. Sometimes it seemed like Hydra was just happy to be included. There was also the whistle of two steamers, the roar of fireboxes and the familiar clank of wheels and brakes as they all moved around the shed.

And the shed was alive, at all hours of the day. Even if it was the dead of night, someone would be coming home, or going out, or doing something. Sleep was not purely something for nighttime, no it was when anyone had a few hours to themselves. Of course sometimes that would be interrupted by another's antics, but they weren't afraid to bat a truck away, or throw a pillow at a steamer breathing too loudly.

The night that followed the World Champion Railroad race though, Momma would have begged for any kind of life. Even if it was a bicker she'd have to go and put a stop to, it would be something. She often said the place was like a war zone, but tonight it really felt as though the inhabitants had fled such a place. Everything was frozen in place from before the first final, back when everything was alright and the shed had (for the first time in a while), all six inhabitants within it.

Now there were just two.

Lumber and Porter were safe. They might be clumsy and easily influenced, but they weren't stupid. Well, Momma thought they weren't stupiud. She'd argue what they'd done today was incredibly stupid. But that lecture was for another day. She doubted she'd even be able to say anything if either of them walked through the shed door. It would likely just be scalding tears and steam and a very large hug for them both. But they were safe. Lumber had disappeared the moment the crash happened, Momma hadn't even seen him go. She understood, he was still feeling guilty from his own crash in his heat. Lightning was fine, she was back at the trackside for the final, but he still was letting the shame get to him.

Porter had stayed, held Dinah as she wept for Greaseball until she ran herself. Then he'd followed the silver entourage of Electra and the Golden Eagle to the crash site. Despite her pleas for him to let her help, Porter had picked Slick up alone. Killerwatt had picked up Electra alone, and Golden Eagle the same with Greaseball. It was like he had something to prove. Momma was a firm believer he had in fact nothing of the sort.

Even with parts of Slick flailed (Momma noticed a yellow skate being picked up by a Marshall as they trailed away), and her tank leaking, it was too much for Porter. Whether it was the physical weight of the tanker he carried, or the emotional weight of his sister dying in his arms, Momma was unsure. But Porter had collapsed, taking the brunt of Slick as his knee buckled. That was when Momma swooped in and took the tanker from him. She couldn't quite manage the tanker alone, but one of the racers, Silver Bullet she believed, helped her carry Slick. Momma didn't understand why, they were a part of Greaseball's crew after all, but she didn't question it. Secretly she was incredibly grateful for the support.

Really then Porter should have seen a repair truck himself, but he had gotten to his skates, gingerly putting weight down on the sore leg. He had told Momma he was going to find Lumber, make sure he was alright, and left before she could change his mind. At least Lumber wouldn't be alone. Porter having a distraction would be good. And maybe Lumber could make him a splint out of wood to pass the time. Truthfully Momma wanted them both back home, but at least they were together.

Like Rusty. He was in the repair shed, but he was with Pearl. Her forced uncoupling from Greaseball fortunately left her with just a few scuffs that would buff out easily. It meant she could sit with Rusty while he got the care he needed. It was after he'd taken the podium with Pearl that he'd collapsed, adrenaline wearing out as his injuries caught up to him. Converting a train was a dangerous job, and for Hydra to have done it with his own hands with Rusty on the verge of death? How desperate had the steamer been? It had saved Rusty's life though really, so Momma couldn't be too angry.

Fire damage was harsh but fixable, his snapped pipe from the damage the engine's had done to him after his crash less so. If such a thing had happened before, Rusty would be scrap. But now he was the champion, and it was of political interest to keep him alive. Plus the winnings were healthy, and they could fix any problems and make Rusty shiny again. Like new, like how Momma remembered him on his first day at the yard. Perhaps if he had converted to an oil burner none of this would have happened. Slick had begged him for as long as she had been at the yard after all.

Slick. She was at the repair shed too, though alone since her brothers took off. Momma couldn't be there. There was no point, she'd only get in the way. But also she felt, complicated about the whole situation. Part of her wanted to leave Slick in that ditch. But part of her, the louder part, wanted to lie her in her lap and wipe the gunk from her face and braid her hair and tell her everything was going to be alright. The truth was Momma didn't know that. She didn't know if Slick was fixable. Her tank had completely ruptured, Momma had pressed down on the hole to try and ebb the flow. Would the oil ever wash out from under her nails? The black liquid had coated her hands before. Now just smears remained. A reminder.

Why had she done it? Momma didn't know. Money felt like such a weak excuse to some. Momma understood money, she understood Slick's drive to fix the shed and fix Porter's knee and treat Rusty's plates and get Momma a new funnel. But to go to such lengths, to risk the life of someone you called a brother? That was what Momma didn't understand. It was almost as if racing with Electra was a punishment to Slick. It was clear she wasn't enjoying it, being dragged between Greaseball and the electric. No amount of money could be worth the torture she was going through now, could it?

Momma had never understood Slick. No matter how hard she tried to get through to her, they were at odds. Momma was against everything she stood for as an oil tanker after all, so she couldn't be too hard on the girl. But time and time again Momma was left wondering when Slick was going to run herself into the ground. Well, she got her answer. She was just grateful that Rusty hadn't gotten caught in the crossfire in the rerun, or Hydra. Momma had been concerned Slick was there just to finish the job, and to take down the gas tanker she claimed to despise.

Oh Hydra. He was the one that had come home with Momma. He'd dithered at first, but relented and rode behind her back to the shed. It had taken some coaxing, but a promise that they were the first that would be called with news good or bad, made him give in. It was harder to pull him away from Slick's body than it had been with Rusty. Perhaps that was because Rusty could just about talk in his half conscious state, whereas Slick was failing fast and had been ushered away from them the moment they got in. Momma didn't doubt that Hydra would have stood by the door to where they were operating all night had she not intervened.

The quietness of Hydra on the way back was disconcertng. He said not a word the whole ride. The silence when he entered the still shed though was sufficating. Momma didn't miss the way he winced at the sight of the main room. She didn't stop him from collecting the bits, tidying away what he could. Anything to keep his hands busy, to stop him picking his hair. He froze when he reached towards a photograph, faced down. It clenched into a fist and then he skated off without a word to his bay.

Momma let him go. Everyone processed in their own way, and if that was how Hydra wanted to, she would let him. It was already lonely, but without him it was like she was the last train on earth. That everyone had left the yard or been scapped and she was all that was left behind. Left behind, that was often how Momma felt these days.

She reached for the photo, turning it and lifting it with shaking hands. The shapes flickered in her firebox flames, the only light of the shed. Normally half the lights would be on by now, whoever turned one on forgetting to turn it off again when they were done in the area. The orange hues made the photo look aged, not like it had been taken that morning. All Momma wanted to do in that moment was throw the photograph into her fire, let the memories burn with the paper. But she didn't. Instead she stared, took in every detail.

Rusty and Slick were in the middle. Rusty's ponytail had been tidied, braids neatly twisting into the updo. He was facing the side, with Slick hanging onto his couplers. Her hair, usually wild and sticking up at all angles, had been tamed. Braids were tight along her head, snaking backwards until they disappeared behind her head. It had been years since Slick had let Momma braid her hair, but the previous evening she had relented. Momma had been so proud, her boy in a final and Slick his racing partner! And with only three qualified, they were guaranteed a place. All they had to do was cross that finish line and they'd be at least in bronze medal position.

Half behind Slick was Porter and Lumber, leaning on one another, with Lumber holding up bunny ears behind Slick's head. Porter had a hand over his mouth, bent a little in laughter. And then Hydra was on the other side of Rusty, hands behind his back. He was a little away from the rest of them, but was leaning towards them in a way that showed they were comfortable. Momma had gotten so pleased at them all lined up like that, that she'd whistled the most strangled sound, one that had made all five of the subjects laugh and Momma press the button in surprise. A slightly candid photo, but one that showed the true nature of them all.

If this was the last ever photo of all five of her children, at least it was one where they were all happy.

Momma didn't know how long she stood there staring at that photo, but eventually she had to look away as tears burned at her eyes. Boiling water made horrible tracks down her face, and Momma didn't want her kids to know she had been crying. If she ever got to see them again that was.

There was a shuffling and Momma looked up. There was Hydra, with a coolant bottle and sheepish look on his face. He was messing with his plating, picking at the branded vinyl on his hips. He wanted to run too, she could tell. Sometimes when things got too much, or Hydra got overstimulated he'd run, skating off. Momma always found him, bringing him coolant and gas to top up when he burned himself out of either or both. When Hydra disappeared he wanted to be found. Not like the other three trucks, Momma still didn't know where they went off to for hours on end.

Hydra may be easy to find when he was hiding, but Momma didn't have the strength to go and look for him if he did. She held out a hand, offering it to Hydra.

"Stay, please? I may have lost two children tonight, don't make a third be at risk." Momma said softly.

"I'm sorry I'm the one who came home. Not Rusty, or Porter." Hydra whispered and he sounded like he was on the verge of tears. That explained the coolant. Momma shook her head and crossed to him, pausing before wrapping her arms around him.

"I wanted you all to come home. But please, stay here and be safe, for tonight at least? Who knows what tomorrow will bring after all." Momma asked, pulling back aside from Hydra's hand which she took in her own and squeezed. Was she begging? Definitely. She would apologise later for Hydra having to see her in such a state. But right now she was desperate.

She couldn't be in the shed alone. Even if Hydra was in another room a light would be on, his tank would hum and his coolant meter would beep now and again. It would be a sign of life in this dead, abandoned shed. So Hydra nodded and pulled away completely, returning to his bay. The sound of wheels on the floor almost made Momma cry. It was so normal. And nothing was normal about this, so anything that could let her pretend it was, was a blessing.

Momma sat by the shed door for the whole night, waiting for news.

She wasn't sure if the silence from the shed or the repair staff was more deafening…