Chapter Text
My eyes nearly popped out of my head at what he said in shock, but I kept my voice steady as the rain drummed against my boiler like impatient fingers on a regulator handle. "That would be most agreeable, sir," I hissed through my whistle valve, watching Hawkesworth's serpent-cane twitch toward D5703's crippled frame—her pistons seized mid-stroke like a beetle pinned to corkboard. The scent of scorched oil and wet coal filled the space between us, thick enough to taste on my tongue like liquid guilt. Somewhere beyond the water tower, a loose coupling chain rattled three times in the wind. Always three.
"Perhaps you can take D5703 to the 'smelters' as soon as possible," he murmured, his voice curling through the rain like steam from a hidden leak. Hawkesworth's cane twitched—a fractional movement that sent droplets scattering from the silver serpent heads—but his expression remained as polished and unreadable as fresh boiler plating. Behind him, Malin shifted his grip on the shovel, knuckles whitening against the worn handle, while D5703 wheezed a final plume of blackened exhaust across the turntable. The scent of hot metal and diesel despair hung thick between us, punctuated by the rhythmic *tick-tick-tick* of cooling rails contracting in the downpour.
"Understood sir." I understood what he meant—Hawkesworth wanted me to shunt D5703 onto the siding next to D5701 myself. The irony burned hotter than my firebox—the executioner being ordered to prepare his own guillotine. My wheels groaned against the wet rails as I backed toward D5703's crippled frame, her buffers sagging like a defeated boxer's shoulders. Rain hissed on her overheated boiler plates, the steam smelling faintly of scorched lubricant and something vaguely organic—like burnt hair from her seized bearings.
D5703's driver—a gaunt man with oil-stained overalls—looked up as I coupled to her with a clang that echoed across the silent yard. His eyes, red-rimmed from diesel fumes and sleepless nights, met mine with a look that said he knew exactly what game we were playing. "You're waisting you're time," he muttered, spitting a blackened wad of chewing tobacco onto the tracks where it sizzled beside D5703's leaking axle box. "She won't budge an inch, she's useless."
"Now that's not really needed sir..." I began, my voice modulating into the measured, proper tones of a well-spoken knockoff Castle Class, steam curling politely from my whistle like a butler clearing his throat. The rodwork clanked reassuringly as I nudged forward—just enough to demonstrate willing cooperation without actually committing to Hawkesworth's thinly veiled directive. My buffers met D5703's with a decorous *clang* that wouldn't have sounded out of place in one of Reverend Awdry's gentler anecdotes, the impact precisely calibrated to seem earnest while leaving her immobile seized pistons untouched.
"He's right, I am useless, I want to reunite with my sister in the scrapyard," D5703 moaned, her voice thick with self-pity as her pistons wheezed a final plume of blackened exhaust across my buffers. The scent of scorched Crossley oil and defeat clung to her battered frame like cheap perfume as I nudged her gently toward the dead-end spur, my coupling hooks straining against her dead weight with all the enthusiasm of a pallbearer at a stranger's funeral. Hawkesworth watched from the platform edge, his serpent-cane tapping an irregular rhythm against his polished brogues, while D5703's driver slumped against her cabside, his oil-stained cap pulled low over eyes that had long since stopped expecting mercy from this railway.
Rain sheeted down in earnest now, blurring the chemical test results pooling on the platform into illegible streaks as my wheels slipped and D5703's driver had left her cab, his boots kicking up gravel that pattered against my buffers like hailstones as he walked away.
I began pushing her as I tried to cheer her up as we started our journey, "D5703, I admire your perseverance—no other engine could have limped this far on such dreadful Crossley parts." The rain slackened to a mist that softened the scrap yard's silhouette ahead, where D5701's battered frame waited like a specter at the end of the spur. D5703's wheels screeched protest with every rotation, her mismatched bogies wobbling like a drunkard's gait as we inched past the water tower. Its rust-streaked tank wept rivulets onto our couplings, the water tasting of iron and old regrets as it dripped into my sandboxes.
"You will reunite with your sister, but she isn't in the scrapyard," I said gently as we approached the spur. D5703's pistons hitched—a wet, broken sound—and for the first time since coupling, she looked at me properly. Rainwater streaked her rusted nameplate like tears. "Sir Stephen Hawkesworth will be helping us with repairs," I murmured, "including sourcing proper Belfast parts for your Crossley engines most likely."
"My... my sister is alive?!" D5703 gasped, her exhaust puffing unevenly as we rounded the bend toward the outer city limits to go to the other side of the island. The scent of fresh machine oil and hot metal drifted from a passing maintenance shed—a promising contrast to the acrid diesel fumes clinging to her frame. My driver, Acar, leaned out to watch the points ahead, his oilskin coat flapping like a crow's wings in the wet wind. "Steady now," I chuffed, feeling her tremble through our coupling chains. "We're taking you to her now, it'll just be a few hours."
D5703's engine sputtered—not the death rattle from earlier, but something almost... hopeful. "All these weeks," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, "I thought Mahpot had sent her to the smelters after the accident at Ditmouth Junction."
The rain eased as we rounded Hawsden Curve, revealing the old wartime spur tangled in wild brambles, "I couldn't just shunt a diesel to her death," I murmured into my steam. D5703's wheezing hitch sounded suspiciously like a sob, her battered buffers pressing gratefully into mine as we rolled past the overgrown turntable pit where I'd hidden D5701—its rusted rails singing beneath our wheels like a nursery rhyme only forgotten engines remember. Ahead, the crossing signal flickered from red to green with the exact same shade of emerald as the twins' stolen paint, and I wondered if Mahpot had already calculated how many days' coal this treason would cost me.
D5701's silhouette emerged from the mist like a ghost story's punchline, her Crossley engine venting thin diesel tremors that smelled of Belfast linen and last chances. "Sister!" D5703 whistled shrilly, her pistons seizing again—this time from joy rather than mechanical failure—as we coasted to a stop beside the refuge siding.
"Sister!"
The word hung in the damp air like a whistle's final echo, bouncing off Hawsden's abandoned signal box with unnatural clarity. D5701's headlight flickered to life—a feeble glow cutting through the mist that swirled around her battered frame like steam around a condemned engine's last breath. Her pistons gave a weak shudder at the sound of D5703's voice, sending oil-blackened raindrops pattering onto the overgrown tracks between them.
I felt my firebox pulse with something warmer than mere steam as I uncoupled from D5703's trembling buffers. The diesel sisters reunion made my valve gear tighten—not with the usual strain of overloaded freight, but with the peculiar ache one feels watching lost things find their way home. D5701's battered pistons wheezed in recognition, her exhaust plume curling toward her sister like a withered hand reaching across years of rust and regret. "They said you'd been scrapped!" D5703 whistled shrilly, her mismatched bogies wobbling as she rolled forward on the moss-eaten rails. A thrush nesting in D5701's smokebox vent took flight in a flurry of wings, startled by the sudden vibration of two Crossley engines humming in imperfect harmony.
Rainwater dripped from my whistle valve as I watched them nuzzle buffers with the tender clumsiness of long-separated siblings. The scent of wet brambles and diesel oil thickened around us, undercut by something sweeter—the faintest whiff of Belfast machine shops lingering in their valve gear. "Matthew hid me," D5701 murmured, her voice still rough with disuse but warming like an engine coming up to pressure. Her headlight beam flickered across her sister's dented flank, illuminating patches where wartime austerity plating showed through the peeling green paint. D5703's pistons hitched with a sound suspiciously like a sob, her battered frame trembling against her sister's as though afraid she might vanish again into the mist.
Acar leaned out from my cab, his oilskin coat dark with rain as he squinted toward the overgrown turntable. "Best get movin', lad," he muttered, wiping diesel residue from his brow with a sleeve that left a grey smear across his forehead. "Controller Mahpot'll have our tickets if we're late coming back."
Just then Moe oiled forwardwith some more extra parts for both sisters, his pistons gleaming with the sort of earnest enthusiasm only found in steam engines who'd never questioned their place in Controller Mahpot's hierarchy. "I brought crosshead pins and Belfast gaskets!" he puffed cheerfully, oblivious to the heartfelt family reunion unfolding before him. His driver, a wiry man with perpetual grease stains on his overalls, began unpacking toolkits with the methodical precision of someone who genuinely believed every locomotive deserved proper maintenance—regardless of whether they ran on steam or diesel.
"Good news Moe, Sir Stephen Hawkesworth, is going to be help us now!" I chirped happily as ever, my whistle letting loose a cheerful peal that echoed across the mist-draped spur with the sort of bright, optimistic tone that would've made Reverend Awdry nod approvingly. D5703's pistons gave an excited little wheeze—the diesel equivalent of a gasp—her battered buffers nudging against D5701's with such force that a family of field mice went scrambling from their nest in her valve gear.
"That's good Boss, cause me, Howard, and Harry were starting to have a problem with the scrap," Moe honked cheerfully, his pistons pumping with earnest vigor as he nudged forward to inspect D5701's battered cylinder casing. The standard BR Class 08 diesel shunter smiled wider than I remember seeing him before.
"Wait, what problem with the scrap?" I asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Moe's cheerful face faltered for just a moment—like a locomotive's headlight flickering in a sudden downpour—before he regained his usual sunny demeanor. "Oh, nothing too serious, Boss!" he whistled brightly, his pistons pumping with forced enthusiasm. "Just that more scrap is missing than we have been taking up here."
The air grew suddenly still, as though the entire railway were holding its breath. "What do you mean more scrap is missing than you have been taking up here?"
Moe coughed awkwardly, his wheels shifting on the wet rails with a sound like crushed Coke cans. "Well, Boss," he wheezed, smoke curling out of his engine, "ever since Controller Mahpot started that new scrap initiative, there hasn't been as much scrap coming to the scrapyard."
"B-but that doesn't make any sense...?" D5703 stammered, her pistons hitching with a wet clatter that sent droplets of oily condensation pattering onto the overgrown tracks between us. The scent of diesel and damp earth grew heavier as I processed Moe's words, my own steam plume curling tighter like smoke from a vexed factory chimney. "Surely scrap wagons don't just vanish into thin air like some troublesome wagons!" I huffed in my most proper rectory meeting voice, though my boiler pressure was rising faster than Sir Topham Hatt's temper during budget season.
Moe's cheerful demeanor faltered like a failing injector as he rolled forward hesitantly, his buffers barely touching mine with the gentle clink of teacups at a vicarage garden party. "Well, Boss," he wheezed in that earnest way of his, "Should me, Howard, and Harry look into that for you?"
"If you don't mind Moe, yes please."
"On it Boss!" He oiled away cheerfully, his pistons pumping with the sort of enthusiastic efficiency that would make any Fat Controller proud—though I couldn't help noticing how his usual bright horn sounded just a tad thinner as he disappeared into the mist, like steam escaping from a slightly overtightened safety valve. The rain chose that moment to slacken to a drizzle, allowing golden shafts of morning light to pierce the gloom over Hawsden Spur, where D5701 and D5703 now stood coupled cab to cab like reunited sisters at a Sunday school picnic, their exhaust mingling in hopeful little puffs that smelled faintly of Belfast linseed oil and second chances. Still the thought persisted, why was there less scrap now than before? My drivers stayed silent as we rolled onward into the morning mist, steam curling from my funnel in thoughtful puffs like smoke from a schoolmaster's pipe. The rails gleamed wet beneath my wheels as we left Hawsden Spur behind, where D5701 and D5703 stood reunited—their battered frames silhouetted against the dawn like two scrapped storybook engines miraculously restored for one final chapter. Never before had I felt such kinship with diesels, nor such unease at Moe's innocent observation about vanishing scrap—a mystery tickling at my buffers like an unanswered whistle in the night.
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"Switch lines with me tomorrow Marilyn." The offer hung in the sodden air—an uncharacteristic breach in their rivalry, more shocking than the fallen tree. Marilyn's steam valves hissed open, then shut. Somewhere in the flooded undergrowth, frogs began singing.
"You're on Maddison," Marilyn puffed after a pause that lasted just long enough for rainwater to drip from her buffer beam onto the flooded tracks below. Her voice carried that particular blend of grudging respect and simmering competition familiar to any engine who's shared a shed with pushy twins. The frogs fell silent as our wheels began turning—Marilyn's pristine Brunswick green gleaming under the storm-washed sky while Maddison's identical paintwork was becoming dirty.
Finally Maddison was pulled out from the flooded siding, her buffers dripping with murky water and her firebox steaming weakly—a sorry sight compared to Marilyn's polished perfection. Sir Stephen Hawkesworth watched from the platform with that unreadable serpent-cane tap-tap-tapping against his polished brogues, while Percy Darjeeling fussed about like a mother hen. "There now, Maddison, easy does it—mind the points!" he called, though his voice lacked the usual warmth reserved for engines that hadn't nearly derailed themselves chasing imaginary scrap trains. Marilyn rolled forward with a condescending little puff, her pistons moving with the smooth arrogance of an engine who'd never once doubted her place in Mahpot's hierarchy.
The twins coupled with a clang that echoed across the still-dripping yard, their buffers meeting in a way that looked cooperative but carried the subtle tension of two alley cats forced to share a windowsill. Moe whistled cheerfully from the turntable—"Jolly good teamwork, ladies!"—his optimism as misplaced as a sunny day in November in the United Kingdom.
"Yeah it was, not like you'd know what that's like." Marilyn scoffed, her pistons hissing steam in that particular condescending rhythm that made even the stationmaster's cat arch its back. The twins' buffers clanked together with the practiced synchronization of engines who'd shared every rail since their paint was fresh—though now they carried the subtle friction of siblings forced into cooperation. Rainwater dripped from Maddison's coupling chains as she rolled forward, her usual brassy whistle muted by the damp air clinging to Ditmouth Yard like coal dust to a fireman's overalls.
"Why can't you be more like Matthew? You're always so rude for no reason!" Moe honked crossly as he rolled past the twins, his battered chassis dented from years of enthusiastic shunting—the sort of damage that comes from believing every locomotive deserves kindness, even spoiled green ones. Marilyn's boiler pressure spiked with an audible hiss, her polished buffers twitching like a cat's tail about to lash. The stationmaster's collie, lying in a patch of sunlight by the coaling stage, perked its ears at the sound.
A curious hush fell over Ditmouth Yard as Marilyn's steam valves snapped shut with a sound like a schoolmaster's ruler hitting a desk. Maddison's wheels inched forward with uncharacteristic hesitance, her pistons pumping in irregular bursts that sent oily droplets pattering onto the wet rails beneath them—the sort of mechanical stutter an experienced driver might recognize as the locomotive equivalent of biting one's tongue.
"Maybe with a nice clean you'll look like a really useful engine again." The words dripped from Marilyn's boiler like condensed steam on a cold morning—equal parts barbed wire and honey. Maddison's firebox pulsed with something hotter than mere steam as she rolled parallel to her sister, their buffers barely kissing the damp rails with the tense politeness of two ladies who'd much rather be exchanging paintwork than pleasantries. Raindrops glittered on Marilyn's brass nameplates like liquid gold, while Maddison's own plating bore the dull patina of an engine who'd spent one too many nights in the damp siding.
"Hmmph, like you'd know what that's like."
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As I chuffed into the shed, more tired than I had ever been, I realized Maddison and Marilyn weren't there yet—only Moe stood on the turntable, his cheerful whistle sounding strangely flat in the evening air. "Moe?" I asked, steam curling from my safety valve in concerned puffs. "Where are the twins?" Moe's pistons hitched—that odd little wheeze he made when trying to phrase bad news cheerfully—before replying, "Oh Boss, Marilyn and Maddison's getting scrubbed down extra special at the coaling stag—" The rest was drowned out by an almighty clang from the yard, followed by Marilyn's shrill whistle cutting through the twilight like a rusty knife.
Rainwater dripped from my buffers as I rolled toward the cacophony—past Percy's startled gasp, past Howard and Harry's frantic shunting, past Sir Stephen's distant cane tapping an impatient rhythm as always—until the coaling stage came into view. There stood Marilyn, hissing like a scalded teakettle while a team of soot-streaked workers scrubbed furiously at her boiler, their bristle brushes scraping away layers of grime with the vigor of gardeners attacking particularly stubborn weeds. Beside her, Maddison's paintwork gleamed under the flickering gas lamps—not the factory-fresh sheen Marilyn boasted, but something warmer, like well-polished oak after years of loving care—yet her pistons trembled with the irregular chuffing of an engine trying very hard not to laugh.
"Absolutely disgraceful!" Marilyn shrieked, her whistle splitting the twilight air like a misaligned valve gear. A bucket of soapy water sloshed across her front coupling, revealing the faintest hint of work time austerity grey beneath her Brunswick green—the sort of secret every engine carries but few admit to. Maddison's exhaust puffed in perfect sync with the rhythmic *scritch-scratch* of wire brushes, her newly-polished buffers trembling with suppressed mirth.
Moe rolled forward hesitantly, his cheerful face contorted in that particular wince only an engine who'd delivered bad news could muster. "Now Marilyn," he wheezed in that earnest way of his, "Cleanliness is next to—"
"Next to WHAT, exactly?" Marilyn hissed, her pistons hammering against her cylinders with enough force to send water droplets flying like shrapnel from her freshly-scrubbed boiler. The yard lamps flickered overhead, casting long shadows that made her rivets look like the teeth of some great iron beast.
Beneath it all, unnoticed by anyone but perhaps Sir Stephen's ever-watchful cane, Maddison's wheels inched ever so slightly closer to mine—her newly-polished buffers brushing my coupling chains with the quiet solidarity of two engines who understood exactly how many shades of grey lay beneath even the shiniest coat of paint.
"Certainly not next to you, you little oily diesel reject!" Marilyn's whistle shrieked into the twilight like a misaligned safety valve, her polished buffers trembling against the scrubbing brushes with all the grace of a startled peacock. The coaling stage echoed with the rhythmic *scritch-scratch* of wire bristles revealing layers of grime accumulated since her last overhaul—each stroke exposing another inch of the wartime austerity grey she'd spent years painting over with Mahpot-approved Brunswick green. Moe rolled backward with a distressed puff of black smoke from his wheels, his cheerful optimism momentarily derailed like a toy train hitting an unexpected biscuit crumb on the nursery floor.
Maddison's exhaust curled in smug little rings above her freshly polished boiler, the evening light catching every rivet with the warm glow of well-seasoned iron. "Funny," she chuffed quietly, her pistons much more humble sounding now surprisingly, "how a proper scrubbing shows what's really underneath." Her driver—a wiry man with coal-dust permanently etched into his knuckles—grunted in agreement, polishing her nameplate with the sleeve of his grease-streaked overalls. The metallic *screech* of Marilyn's protesting valve gear drowned out whatever reply I might have given, punctuated by the stationmaster's collie barking sharply from beneath the water tower.
This was probably going to be another long night...