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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 6 months

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Fic Snippet: A Final Chat (Traintober Day 28)

For "Day 28: Out of Service" I'd like to offer a scene that teeeechnically I've already published in Autumn Chapter 2.

It got rather overshadowed by the Sudrian Guest Star in Chapter 1 and the Engine Religion Talk in Chapter 3, but this is my personal favorite scene. I think it can be read as a stand-alone even if you are not up to speed with the Coppernob series.

After the day's work is over and a bunch of chatty engines have left, we segue into the quiet reveal.

Barrow Central, October 1919

The passenger tank 70 wasn't on the train, though. No one commented on this. He remained on track one, where Poppet usually lingered by the greenhouse for a final chat. But tonight she made herself scarce.

As shadows began to creep into all the nooks of Barrow Central, 70 and Coppernob watched the cars and the people pass outside the station. There was a definite uptick of activity. People were returning from Sunday dinners with their family... readying themselves for the start of a busy new week.

"Will you have another turn to Coniston in the morning," asked Coppernob quietly, after a while of this street-watching, "or are you to report straight to the Works?"

70 made the indistinct sound that serves engines well for a shrug. "Not to the Works. The big sheds, with the others. Seems they'll have me wait here, till I'm sent for..." Coppernob didn't fill the silence, and at length 70 continued, voice steady and hollow. "It would be wasteful to send me back home. There's not any work for us now, with the summer over, and the Atlantic Tanks settled on the branch lines."

Coppernob still looked ahead. These talks always went better, when you were looking elsewhere…

"You had a good summer," he observed, dispassionate.

"Yes," said 70. His tone was just the same. "I'm glad that our lot had one last summer season, with all that terrible business over."

"Was it the same, as before?"

70 thought it over.

"Not quite, no. I don't think the world will ever be the same. It's... it's as if an innocence was lost, inn'it? Our visitors were happy, at our beautiful lakes... but it was in a different way." He gave a hollow little chortle. "My brother 1 said, when he was sent for, that he was well pleased to give 'all this rubbish' a miss!"

"Hmm."

"Mmm," 70 agreed.

The headlights of a passing car briefly threw 70 into full illumination. A ship bellowed in the distance.

"I don't agree, though." There was the slightest wobble to 70's voice, though he pressed on. An engine till the end. "If there had to be a war, I'm proud to have done my bit, and seen things through to the other side of it. Nobby..."

Coppernob waited.

Here it was.

"I want to see more, yet." 70's voice was an aching whisper.

"I know."

Coppernob's flat bluntness steadied the younger engine, who sighed with something that at least resembled a self-deprecating laugh. "I don’t mind telling you, Nobby. I’m scared. Not of what's after this week, exactly, but the week itself. I've all sorts of queer feelings jostling around in my boiler... perhaps it will be easier, when I'm sitting cold for a spell. Lady! I — I hope I don't let my lot down."

"1 and 2 went bravely," said Coppernob, without discernible emotion. An observer. A chronicler. "So did your second series."

"I mustn't be the one to shame us," agreed 70.

"You won't," said Coppernob. Still speaking with a disinterested surety, though verging into reminiscence. "You were never one to cause some embarrassing scene. 'Course, you had some mischievous days... I expect during your big rebuild Mr Mason took away all the marks Queen Mab left on you and 73?"

70 finally grinned. Coppernob did look upon him now. 70 looked very young again, a light in his eyes, and this was how Coppernob wished to remember him. "She put a dent in 73's cab, somehow? If the light's just right you can still see it. Gosh! How the old dame did terrorize us for that lark."

"You two were fortunate," said Coppernob, with a sort of mocking severity, "that my brother and I were away at the time, and that you were left to her tender mercies. We were quite disgusted when word reached us."

"Nay," grinned 70. "You and old Crozzer would have bashed us something fiercer, but the sentence would have been shorter. All that summer long, Her Maj made us pay — and pay — and pay." His eyes glinted, and he spoke with an abrupt new mournfulness. "She must be gone now, too."

"Yes," agreed Coppernob, again dispassionate. "'Ninety-five, I've heard. It was her time... she gave fifteen more years of good service to that railway we sold her on to. They even named her. She would have been pleased, to be named properly again."

"Oh, but her new name didn't suit her any better than her number here did. She was always Queen Mab. But how on earth was it, anyhow, that the both of you were away, that summer? Ever since I arrived, one or the other of you was always in residence at the docks."

"Hmm. I was often sent to Whitehaven as tunnel pilot. And Crozzer was banking at Lindal, I believe?"

"Don't be daft. We had the 'Neddies' by then."

Coppernob went on his dignity. Even if one of the young engines was to be cut up at the end of the week, there was no need to call him daft. "A spare engine was needed at Moor Row, with two of theirs in overhaul. The work was considered too heavy for us, so they sent up a Neddie instead, and number Four went to Lindal."

70 looked shrewd. "Oho — too heavy for you? And you took that lying down, did you?"

Coppernob frowned in what certainly felt an austere, saturnine, intimidating sort of way. "I do not know what you are implying."

"I knew you well before you were a glasshouse engine, Nobby! Moor Row's not a far hop from Whitehaven. How long did it take you to skive off over there and try to show 'em up?"

"I did not abandon my post," said Coppernob, with dignity, "until number 100 returned from the workshop."

"'Course."

"It may then be true," Coppernob conceded, "that, after two days working Moor Row, I was compelled to admit that perhaps they'd had a point."

It got 70 to laugh, and so it was worth it. "Two entire days!"

"I'll hear a little less of that from you , my good engine. It turned out those heavy loads on that twisty, hilly, godforsaken little branch were no joke. I am not sure you should have lasted longer."

70 gave a last chuckle. Then, after a few moments' pause, melancholy re-settled over them both. The sun was fully set, now, and the sky outside the circle of station light inky black.

"One Hundred," mused 70. "Old Keekle. Fully sixty years, she had. And I've not seen fifty."

"She had the security of mastering a job few other engines could hack," said Coppernob... knowing where the other engine was going with this. "Sixty years is very rare."

"But fifty isn't."

"Not on our railway, at least."

"Not on our railway. It was what nearly everyone had. Until Mr Pettigrew..."

"There's no point in thinking this way. You know this."

"Perhaps I do know. But I can't help how I feel. Mr Mason would have kept me on the rails two or three more years. And that's not so much in the scheme of things, I know; I'm sure it's childish of me to make complaint of such a small thing. And I could maybe keep my mouth shut, if it were only that. But, then... it's... I'm not quite worn out yet, not quite. I can sense the use that's left in me. It makes an engine itchy and anxious and... it feels just as though I've left behind work that still needs doing. I know it’s not my fault, and yet I feel a guilty conscience. Like I've cheated our owners."

"Then you go and you slam that feeling deep into a lost mineshaft where it belongs," said Coppernob sternly. "They. cheated. themselves."

He didn't raise his voice, but those final three words were old Coppernob at his fiercest and bitterest.

And at those words 70 was able to let it go. The guilt, at least, was not his load to carry.

#jobeywrites #traintober #traintober 2023 #ttte fic #ttte oc #coppernob things #furness ocs #angst #ttte #the railway series

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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 7 months

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Let's gooooooo!

(If you're sensitive to angst and/or unfamiliar with my writing, do review the tags on AO3. This is a companion piece to Springtime, but whereas Springtime skewed hopeful, this one will in the end skew, y'know. The other direction.)

#there will only be two parts to this fic #each part is... long #so brace yourselves #ttte #the railway series #jobeywrites #ttte fic #ttte coppernob #coppernob things #ttte oc: poppet #furness things #various furness ocs #untagged canon characters!!#you'll have to read to find out #or else wait for other people to tag them in the notes ;)

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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 1 year

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Tidmouth 1968. Oliver meets the Sodor diesels.

#dang i meant to keep this close to the vest and edit it a bit more #but it's past 10 and i have no impulse control left sssoooooooooo up it goes #a one-shot fic but it's like 8000+ words #ttte #ttte fic #jobeywrites #the railway series #ttte oliver #ttte boco #ttte daisy #ttte bear #ttte douglas #i'm finally really happy with my diesel characterizations #bear's a bit rough still... i've had the least practice with him... but i have conveyed how i imagine him pretty well #Not the BoCo PoV Fic You Were Expecting From Me Sorry #also This Fic Has No Plot (But You Probably *Did* Expect That From Me)

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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 1 year

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me: *keeps referring to this as 'a bit of an epilogue' when by word count it's longer than a couple of the other chapters*

Anyway, read on to find out how the Frenchman's wormed his way to a permanent place in the Jobeyverse.

And then... THAT'S ALLLLL FOR NOW, FOLKS! Thank you for reading, and tune in next time!

#a beloved new OC ngl #also you can find out the dates many of the engine characters were scrapped! that's fun 😇#(actually you'll notice i did not give this info for one of the characters... i hadn't realized it when i was writing but his end is superr #depressing)#(like yes believe it or not i spared readers some of the worst angst)#ttte fic #jobeywrites #coppernob things #springtime (war is over)#all done!

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jobey-wan-kenobi · 1 year

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Untitled fic number 66?

This one also goes out to @weirdowithaquill!

So, this is for a fic that was meant to be a "day in the life" sort of deal, a sort of spiritual prequel to Ex Condor, but this time it is Edward in 1947.

Although it's an "ordinary day" (at least—it starts as one) there are mounting clues (and Thomas coming right out and saying it) that the engines are anxious about what nationlisation is going to mean for them. (There are rumours that the Fat Director will move to Manchester to become controller of the entire Midland region! Which is actually their best-case scenario, but still a daunting prospect.) It is also helpful to know that this is in the same universe where Topham Hatt and Charlie Sand have some mutual tension that everyone tries to shove under the rug in order to carry on with things.

This scene is technically at/right after the climax of the plot. I still plan to finish and publish the whole fic one of these days but it might be years. In the meantime, we all already knew that FC1 would retain control of the North Western even under nationalisation so how much of a "spoiler" is this? I ask you.

I also ask you to consider that early RWS!Edward — eager, childlike, and wholehearted — is really freakin' cute, and you do not want to wait years to read this.

NO ANGST. ALL CLOVER. GOOD VIBES ONLY.

---

The return had to be the best run of Edward’s life. Clarence hushed him a good few times, when Edward absent-mindedly began to sing; the engine had no idea how the saloon could keep so calm but he did appreciate it, for without being checked he should have shouted the news from the hilltops. The joy throughout the whole train was palpable, and he felt it in his very heat-pipes. At first he didn’t have much steam to spare for self-control or rational thought… though a good eighty or ninety miles in and it all the sudden became easy. His wheels went numb and seemed to pound along of their own accord, his heart was somewhere up in the stars, and he was simply at one with the night.

The journey seemed to merge into eternity, and yet it was all too soon that they approached old Furness territory, came to the bridge, went through the tunnel, encountered the gradual side of their own hill. When they pulled into their own station at quarter to two, Edward felt both exhausted and sure that he could have gone twice as long. It was a wonderful heady rush. Little wonder, that it had taken Gordon two decades to stop regaling them all with reminisces of when he had been run-in on the East Coast Main Line. Edward whistled for first one triumph, and then again for the other. And then again because he was laughing and couldn’t help it.

There had never been such a night as this. It must be a dream. It was all too good to be true.

But controller, assistants, and crew all disembarked, and they were in just as high spirits. The small party in Clarence had evidently had a drink or three to celebrate, and Mr Hatt was remarkably light on his feet.

On the platform, he and Mr Sand accidentally made eye contact, and Mr Sand cracked, ducking his head to partially hide a slow grin. “Well done, sir,” he said, sounding as though the words were being pulled out of him against his will, “congratulations.” And then Mr Hatt smiled too, and somehow everyone collectively burst into deep belly laughs. They all clasped hands and shoulders yet again, as if they needed the touch to be sure everyone else was real. Edward whistled again, sheerly for seeing them so happy, and even Clarence went so far as to eye the noisy little gathering with a certain benevolence.

“Good news, sir?” enquired the stationmaster, emerging from the house, in full uniform and looking harried.

“Does it look bad?” retorted the Fat Controller, all booming merriment. “I cannot announce it tonight. But conjecture, man; conjecture!”

“Very good, sir.” The stationmaster flashed a sincere if baffled smile of his own, but went on soberly: “I beg your pardon, sir, but we need Edward down the branch line; the harbor train still hasn’t been taken; and there’s a gentleman on the phone for you, he’s been calling every hour—”

Every other man present gave a good-natured, even rather chucklesome groan.

“Ahh,” said one of the assistants. “Right back into it.”

“Our carriage is about to turn back into a pumpkin,” sighed the other, amused.

“If it’s Manchester,” the Fat Controller told the stationmaster, “then never mind. I’ve taken care of it. Tell them to read the papers tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid it’s Ulfstead, sir.”

The Fat Controller, still smiling broadly, sighed and ground the palms of his hands against his eyes. “And to think I fought to keep this job. Very well, stationmaster. I will be just a moment. But I must overrule your arrangements for the harbor train. This engine and his crew have earned a rest.”

“We have a relief crew at the ready. But the loaner is still laid up, and Myron was re-routed to the mainland. There are no engines in steam to be had. If not Edward, we’ll have to ask the L.M.S. to take it—”

“Give them a last hurrah,” said Mr Sand flatly. “Makes no odds now. This engine is off-duty.”

“No, indeed,” protested Edward, only a little breathless. “I’m up for it! That train’s none too heavy nor fast. The L.M.S., indeed!”

Mr Sand chuckled a bit, but shook his head and sounded firm. “I know you’re flying high now. But you’re going to feel this, tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry to contradict, driver, but that just is what it is. We can’t pass off that train, tonight of all nights.” Edward whistled without even realizing it. “The L.M.S.! To-night!”

Everyone except the stationmaster, knowing well the source of this indignation, simply had to laugh for sheer pride all over again.

“Ahem!” the Fat Controller coughed pointedly, “I believe I am the one who makes these decisions. In fact I have a little piece of paper here that says so…”

This time even the stationmaster genuinely smiled. The outcome of Mr Hatt’s emergency meeting was becoming more and more obvious each passing minute.

The Fat Controller, chuckling at his own joke and his own victory, held his watch up to the lamplight, and then carefully pocketed it. “Stationmaster, tell his lordship I have just arrived and will call him back on the hour. I trust I may use your phone, and, in the meantime, my men will fill you in. We won’t say no to a little hospitality, either. Driver, Edward will take the harbor train. I assure you that I shall have his morning timetable covered so that he may have a lie-in. If you insist that only you can prepare him properly I am sure the relief won’t argue with you. And Edward—” He turned around, and added with great seriousness. “Thank you.”

Edward blushed. It was plain that his controller was referring to more than taking on the harbor job. It was even a great deal more than simply the ride he had been given that evening.

It encompassed all the thirty-odd years of reasons that the Fat Controller had not wanted Myron to be the engine to take him, not on this occasion, and Edward was warmed through, deeply touched. “My pleasure, sir.”

After the Fat Controller spoke another few low words to Clarence, Edward took him away to the carriage shed. Clarence yawned a little, once they were out of sight and earshot of the lit station. Perhaps the strange comment about turning into a pumpkin had shaken him out of his usual reserve.

“That was probably the last important turn of duty I shall I ever have,” he mused aloud, as he was shunted into place under shelter.

“Nonsense,” said Edward. “You’re wanted quite often, and there’s no new saloon coming.”

“I said important turn of duty. I know I shall take the directors and their wives to many another picnic or club, and you will never hear me murmur a word against it. But that was the last of the backroom deals where history is written that I shall ever host.”

“The last, and the greatest, I suppose?”

“I did not say that.” Clarence sighed his eyes closed, but he was smiling a little too, well-satisfied with himself. “But this much I suppose I may say. It has been a fine life, collecting secrets.”

“And never telling them,” Edward said… a little too gravely.

Clarence, being no fool, opened one sleepy eye.

“You’re just a locomotive. You wouldn’t understand.”

#ttte fic #fic snippets #jobeywrites #ttte #the railway series #ttte edward #the fat controller #charlie sand #ttte oc #ttte coaches #wip ask game

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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 1 year

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In which the situation becomes so serious that Coppernob gives up bullying young Mathers!

HA HAA JUST KIDDING 😁

#the germans would have to be bombing barrow or something before nobby felt things were too serious for *that*#... ... ... too soon?#jobeywrites #ttte fic #ttte coppernob #coppernob things #also: the return of 15 and 18!#... i don't expect anyone to remember them but they were among my favorite one-scene wonders from AHITN #15 is mary's boyfriend #and 18 was the Sharpie who was all like 'murderous rocks? janky bridge? oh if onlyyy! pleeease sign me up! (my life is boring 😓)'

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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 2 years

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The One Where Nobby and Poppet Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss Edward

The One With A Couple of Unlikely Heroes

The One Where Jobey Regrets Some of the Bits She Wrote in Previous Chapters

The Grand and Sometimes Funny Finale

The One Where Everyone, Including the Humble and Weary Author, Gets By 🎶 With a Little Help From Their Friends 🎵

#shoutout to fellow insomniacs and americans who stay up too late #for the love of god do not try to read this right away #at least not the whole thing #it is quite long and #having read it a couple dozen times meself #i can tell you from experience it tastes a lot better if you are alert and have a good block of time to enjoy #ttte fic #ttte #the railway series #ttte coppernob #ttte oc #ttte edward #ttte thomas #jobeywrites #(people who find this post in the morning you're fine i guess)#(go on call off work and read the whole thing at once)#(you know you wanna)

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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 1 year

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Two of Edward's brothers try to slink back into Barrow Central without anyone noticing *checks watch* 18 hours past due?

Coppernob and Stationmaster are super understanding!

#ttte fic #ttte #the railway series #ttte coppernob #ttte oc #jobeywrites

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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 2 years

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Seagulls (derogatory)

#thank you for waiting — i did also draft chapter 6 at the same time so we are that much closer to the grand finale #for now enjoy the penultimate <3 #ttte #ttte fic #a hole in the net #ttte coppernob #ttte oc #ttte edward #jobeywrites

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jobey-wan-kenobi · 1 year

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What's the baby 124 + 125 post?

Excellent choice, sir! Mainly because this is one of the few where don't mind unloading the entire thing.

I wrote it as a sort of prologue for my other WIP about 125 (later Edward) and 36 (who was originally 124, but got promoted). The larger fic takes place during WWI, where the idea was that both engines were sent to Sodor for war service. This WIP makes full use of the IoS notion that Edward was such a poor steamer that his original railway dngaf about getting him back. Really leans into him being a mess of an engine. In contrast, his twin 124/36 is a stellar performer... and rather condescending. They drive each other batty. Sodor is sort of a coming-of-age for them both.

And maaaaybe, by the end, they will have grown up enough that they can respect each other.

Maybe.

Anyway the baby post is a "fifteen years earlier..." sort of prologue where 124 first comes to life in the workshop (kinda too reminiscent of my fic where Henry comes to life!) In his first few days the themes for his life are already established...

(tagging @honorary-twat to make sure they don't miss this...)

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Glasgow, 1900

It’s funny, how engines come to consciousness. There is something there, before they are yet steamed, even as they are being built. A dim, subpersonal awareness. It absorbs the language of its makers, concepts of distance, and the universal dreams of its own kind.

Something in the air of the shop made Furness Railway No. 124 anxious before he was even brought to life. Birth was one overwhelmed moment—and then relief. Sharp eagerness. Now, he reckoned, he could get to the bottom of it… find out what had unsettled him even in the primordial sleep.

He couldn’t speak, for no human had yet spoken to him. So he gazed around, patient, even wary. A soldier in unknown terrain, doing recon. The workshop was too busy for anyone to have yet noticed that he had come to life. Even from where he was positioned, able to see perhaps a fourth or fifth of the space, he saw many scurrying small men and many great half-built frames. He knew the latter would be other engines, one of these days. Sometimes those half-built frames frightened engines both new and old. 124, still minutes young, only eyed them with curiosity. His gaze was slow-moving and comprehensive. By exploring in this way it took him half an hour to realize, with a start, that there was another engine on tracks beside him, between him and the brick wall of the works. This one was lifeless too, but very much more than half-built. Some men were working on his undercarriage, but to 124 the engine looked to be already complete, or else extremely close.

124 to be sure was inexperienced. And yet he had been born with a great stock of intuition for his own kind.

When he had twitched with surprise to see the other engine, he had attracted the attention of some of the workers. They stirred, pointed, even smiled a bit, but no one spoke to to the engine yet. They checked the pressure gauge, took some other readings, and sent an apprentice to go fetch the master engineer, while they mostly continued with their work—not rushing, but never slacking, either. It was one of the busiest periods in the shop all that year, and indeed 124’s first impression of life was that there was no moment to lose.

The master engineer checked his pressure valve, too, before coming round to 124’s front, where he nodded to the engine in satisfaction and welcome. “Hello, there! You’ve certainly come to very quick.”

124 knew, instinctively, that he’d been praised. Like any engine, no matter how new, he instantly adored the feeling. “Thank you! What do I do now?”

The designing engineer chuckled. “Practice some patience. I can see you’re ready for the world. But the world’s not quite ready for you! We must do all sorts of tests first, you and your brother too, before we ship you out.”

“Is that my brother, then?” 124 looked over at the engine beside him.

“That’s right. We’re on schedule to bring him to, tomorrow. He’s to be 125. You’re 124—”

“I know,” said 124, with considerable self-satisfaction. He’d overheard something, somehow, before—in the before time that he was already forgetting. But he knew instinctively that it was unusual that he had come to with knowledge of his name.

“—and I am your creator,” the master engineer went on, voice placid and untroubled, though it deepened slightly when he continued. “You will call me ‘sir’, and my men, too. We’ve taken a great many pains in your making, 124.”

124 absorbed everything about the past moment, and realized that he had made an error. “I’m sorry I interrupted you, sir.”

“You’re just come to, and excited,” said the master engineer kindly.

“Yes, sir.” For a moment, 124 could hardly restrain his eagerness, and wanted to ask how soon he could move. But some instinct held him back. He wanted to behave properly. There were so many firsts ahead of him, and he was resolved to get them all right. “But I won’t do it again.”

The master engineer gave a slight smile. “You’re a clever one. Quite a few of your older brothers were like that, too. I’m proud to have made you, 124, and I believe you’ll be a credit to our shop. For now, you must wait. The performance team are preparing to come and test you. You needn’t be anxious at all about the tests; that’s our concern. Your concern is to mind what you’re told. One of our drivers will begin to explain your controls, and you must listen to him very carefully, for until you learn them you can’t be of any use.”

That was more motivation than 124 even needed.

After being idle and unfocused so long, it was warm and exciting enough to be worked over by the performance team and addressed; besides, 124 was so curious about what he learned of the unseen panel by his lovely crackling firebox that he tried to get his driver to explain more than the basics. The driver snorted and said that there was no point in hearing more until they were able to move… and then the team lead said that they may as well. There was still daylight, and the yard was clear: They couldn’t do a full test run, but they could get in a driving lesson.

Venturing outdoors, cramped and smoky though the sky was, still proved such an overpoweringly exciting experience that he didn’t even mind his fire being let to go out. Most engines suffer their first experience with the cold very much, but then, most don’t take in as much life their first day as observant 124 had. He had already quite mastered his basic controls, and he had distinguished the various men far more carefully in one day than some works engines would if they had served in that shop for a year. He sank gratefully into the shallow but still restful unconsciousness of sleep.

After only a couple days of the same, 124’s busy mind had picked up a great deal about his world—his whole world, and not just the high-vaulted workshop and the cramped, slow testing tracks that surrounded it, weaving in and out of the industrial neighborhood.

He had, perhaps, picked up more than a brand-new engine should.

It wasn’t all due to his unusual acumen. Possibly it was due to him being unusually alone, among his kind. They tried to steam his brother the following day, but were thrice unsuccessful, instead working late into the night, running tests, and trying to find what they had forgotten. There was a little works engine, but she was kept busy, and had long since learned to be uninterested in the engines who were steamed to life only to be so quickly shipped out. Every other engine there was still just at the stage of being barely a frame.

So 124 paid a great deal of attention to the talk of the men, and he soon understood that they didn’t consider him nearly as special as he felt. They were never harsh with him, but, even apart from being busy with their work, it was the still-barely-begun engines that were the matter of interest. They dropped their tools and their jobs often to peer over diagrams and work orders and correspondence. 124 and 125 were old hat. They had already now made eight of their sort for the Furness Railway alone, and dozens and dozens, nearly identical, besides. The men were trying to dispatch the twins as quickly as they could, not only because the owners had paid well to put a rush on their order, but because the interesting job would be the rest of the Furness batch.

It was thus that 124 discovered the cause of the anxiety he had been born with. On the one rail, it was very nice to think that his railway needed him to arrive so badly—especially when 124 knew (for he’d been told, with approval) that he had learned his controls very quickly, and could be trusted to start taking trains at once. He was eager to be needed and useful.

But for so short a time! For it was the new engines that they really wanted.

124 was not yet two days old, when already he understood that he was not exactly a new engine. He had been designed to be replaced, as quickly as the engineers now before him could work.

And that feeling was not so very nice at all.

Fortunately, 124 was not the sort disposed to defeat. This knowledge made him anxious, irritated, and determined. It drove him half-mad, wishing to be shipped out, as fast as possible, and to get started. They needed to be out there. They needed to be on their railway, learning as quickly as they could to do their job so well that they would be indispensable.

But first, of course, his twin would have to wake up.

Days had passed, and 125 still couldn’t be steamed to full pressure.

The men were as impatient as 124. The other four—the even-larger Seagulls, as they joked—were of a newer design, and the men were eager for the challenge.

Of course, in 125 they had a challenge on their hands already.

This was no fun sort of challenge, though. It was a mystery, and an absolute bother.

The performance and engineering teams alike were put under great pressure to get the second engine in the rush order up to steam. They tried to be professional, especially since they were aware that 124, obediently quiet, was nevertheless paying his usual sharp attention—engineers in such a shop are as much nannies as mechanics—but by day three there was still a fair amount of swearing through gritted teeth. They checked, and double-checked, and to the naked eye everything seemed fine.

“I think the engine is just plain contrary,” muttered the performance team lead at last, to the master engineer.

The latter frowned. “I have to doubt it. None of the rest of this sort were like that.”

“Number twelve?” asked one of the senior engineers, with a bit of a twisted grin.

The master engineer still didn’t crack the glimmer of a smile. “Nonsense. They complain that he came out headstrong, but he’s always been eager enough to get steamed. They all were.”

“Some of them were shy. Thirty-three, if I’m remembering right, had to be specially coaxed—”

“Oh,” cried 124, involuntarily, “but he just moved!”

Everyone looked over, but the engine looked to them as still and dumb as ever.

“Forgive me, sirs,” said 124. “But I saw—something.”

“He gives those signs of life,” agreed another engineer. “He’s trying. We’re trying. Something isn’t connected right, somewhere.”

“We ought to do some dismantling,” said another. “Starting with the pipes.”

“We told them the engines would arrive this Saturday,” said the master engineer, severely. “We never promised he’d be conscious—but he has to be in one piece!”

So they didn’t dismantle the pipes, or much anything else. The firebox was cleaned and scrubbed, a different grade of coal was brought in, and they tried again, late into the night.

124 was jealous of all the attention focused on his brother—of course. Locomotives are incredibly sensitive to this sort of thing. It does not mean that they are specially selfish (nor, of course, specially selfless). It just comes naturally. You are always aware of the little tells that reveal if someone is richer or poorer than you.

For engines, human attention is currency. It’s what determines the duration and the quality of their lives.

So, they notice. Who gets more of it than they do… who gets less. It would be sheer obliviousness to not pay attention.

So indeed, 124 began to feel rather ignored. But not to the point of stupidity. He wanted very badly for them to find a solution to his brother’s problem.

They were twins—only the two of them, against a wide world—and 124 hardly expected to thrive if the other didn’t.

The next morning, with another indifferent fire on their hands, the performance team decided to summon the works engine to shunt 125 into the yard. The movement might stir up the fire until he could move on his own power. That wouldn’t be ideal, but at least it would demonstrate that it was possible to get the new engine’s boiler up to full pressure.

“Excuse me, sir,” said 124 quietly. He felt a strange tenderness all the sudden. “I’d be happy to do it.”

“No, 124.” The performance lead wiped his brow distractedly. “You’re too big and clumsy for such work. Not to mention,” he added, belatedly trying to soften the blow of these unconsidered words, “the operations team is more familiar with Lucy. We don’t want any accidents, now do we? Not with the both of you still mint condition!”

124 murmured something meaningless and respectful. Inwardly, he was fuming.

Unfortunately, an engine at the works has few such secrets. The men certainly noticed the change in his steaming, and grinned knowingly among themselves, and occasionally someone would pat 124’s running board as he passed. It was a gesture of comfort and support, but 124 found it patronizing, and hated it.

Anyway, the yard experiment was unsuccessful. After two hours the works engine shunted 125, still steaming weakly and utterly lifeless, back in the spot next to his twin. 124 closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, so that he wouldn’t be provoked into saying something that good engines shouldn’t.

He was terribly impatient. If 125 had steamed to life when they had first tried, they could have been sent out by now, and arrived home early. They could perhaps have already started their work before Saturday…

124 should have begun to sometimes hate his brother, much as he sometimes hated the men. But then, every so often, as the men worked to build up his steam, there would be swift flashes of life from 125. For seconds, a face identical to 124’s would start to emerge—flickering in—then almost at once flickering out.

It was brief, but it was enough. Every time, it amazed 124 too much to stay altogether angry.

For all they were anxious to bring 125 to life, the team dispatched to him grew smaller every day. Every day new parts arrived, which were to be used to assemble the even-larger Seagulls, and so every day one or two more men were switched from one project to the other.

There was a murmur going about that 125 might have to prove a write-off. The master engineers looked very grave about this.

The men stayed very late each night—until there came an evening where the head engineer ordered everyone to clear away from the troublesome engine. “Give him space,” he said grimly. “If it’s shyness, then all our fussing has put too much pressure on him.”

“Do you think that’s what it is then, sir?” asked the foreman.

“I don’t know. But I hope so, because we haven’t the time for it to be anything else. We’ll try again tomorrow. Bring your lucky rabbit’s foot!”

124 couldn’t sleep that night, and not only because he was still struggling with the discomfort of his own fire having been dropped. Now that he had experienced what it was to be fully steamed, like most new engines, he tasted death each time he was left to cool.

In the stillness and dark, convinced that there was no one else, 124 hissed to his still unborn brother.

“They need to do your tests tomorrow, if we’re to be shipped out on time.” He didn’t feel as stupid as he’d thought he would, talking to nothing and no one, hearing his low voice not even quite breaking the silence. “We’re needed at home… for now. You must steam up.”

More silence. Bits of dust could be seen floating lazily in the moonlight that illuminated the windows.

The next morning, 124’s fire wasn’t lit. There was no need; he was fully tested, approved to leave, ready. They lit 125’s, and left him to try to steam, quite abandoning the twins.

124 tried to strike up conversation with Lucy, the workshop tank engine.

“Don’t ask,” she snapped.

“Don’t ask what?”

“Your sort always ask what it’s like out there, what’s going on in the world, all that rubbish.”

124 had a few questions. He decided that Why shouldn’t I ask? was more urgent than “My” sort?

She snorted and eyed still-lifeless 125. “The head engineer wants everything calm over here, doesn’t he? And I can’t stay sweet, if you ask me. Who knows! There’s a war in South Africa, and influenza, and Olympics, and big new ships, and big new locomotives. I don’t see nor hear much any of it, anymore. I used to work the rails too, you know. Now I’m stuck here. Not that I’m such a fool, as to complain about being wanted. But don’t ask me about ‘the world’. You’ll find it all out soon enough, little racehorse!”

“I am not a horse!”

“‘Course you are. A racehorse, good for nothing but short bursts of speed, and needing far too much fuss to even do that much. Like the ones who took over our line, years ago. ‘Course,” she added, with oversweet malice, “you’re more of a colt, really.”

“Do you mean to say,” inquired 124 coldly, making the most of their height difference to gaze down upon her, “that I’m small?”

Lucy was strictly unawed.

“As your sort go, yes. You’d better keep up a good gallop on that English main line of yours, for you don’t have much of a future in goods, once they make enough of your new cousins. Yet you’re not small enough, to find a nice useful niche, like I have.”

“Lucy, lass!” hollered one of the workers, needing her down the other end of the yard, and 124 was secretly relieved to not need to figure out a way to be rid of her himself.

Without his fire lit, 124 couldn’t get all that angry or worked up. Yet he ached to move, to finally leave the works. He shouldn’t mind galloping till his wheels fell off! He was full of unused life and resolve. And he only felt more and more restless, as he felt the mounting steam coming off 125. It was ticklish, and only reminded him of his own lack.

After a while, he realized it was really quite a lot of steam—at least, by 125’s standards.

Without much expectation, he looked over, and found his brother awake. He didn’t flicker back out again; he was in full steam, and really, really there, eyes slowly roving over everything… just like 124’s had done, five days earlier.

Some instinct kept 124 quiet. Brothers they might be, but an engine’s first words are not for other engines. Their creator had the right to speak first. He knew that intuitively.

The master engineer was indeed close by that morning, and did not need to be summoned: He was one of the first of the men to notice. He quickly made a gesture for the rest to keep their peace, and make no sudden movements, as he watched 125 from the corner of his eye for a while. He seemed to believe that 125 could be all too easily startled back into unconsciousness.

And yet his resolve to stay away only lasted so long. Even for someone as experienced as him, it’s very hard to resist new life.

“Are you finally with us, then?”

“Yes!” 125 sounded delighted. “Oh, thank you. This is much better than before!”

“Before?” The master engineer’s furrowed brow couldn’t help smoothing out into a faint smile, as he swiftly grasped for the soap bubble. “Why, what was it like before?”

“Why, it—was—” In his turn, the brand-new engine’s face fell by degrees into confusion and frustration. “—it was like being… I don’t seem to remember, now.”

“None of us do,” said the master engineer, wistful. He hadn't really expected to be able to peek behind the veil. “Man and machine alike. It’s the price of being alive.”

“Oh, but I was just there.”

The master engineer gave one last smile at his creation’s dismay. “Let it go. Didn’t you just say that this is better? Besides, we have no time to lose. Do you know who I am?”

125 didn’t. At least, no machine ever has the word for it, to match the instinct. But when the engineer identified himself as his creator, 125 looked down at him with frank, dazed admiration, and heard the first simple rules for his life with gratitude.

“You’ve given us a great deal of trouble, 125. Why did you come to now, and not earlier? We wanted you to steam up days ago.”

“Oh?” Blank and confused, 125’s fresh delight at existence began to fade into regret. “I—I really don’t know, sir.”

“I suppose you were too overcome, and held back,” said the master engineer, not altogether unkindly, “but now that you’ve done it once, you won’t be frightened again, will you?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, sir. It’s so exciting, being alive.”

“It is—at first. But there are days when it’s not so nice, you know, yet you must always wake and come to steam when your fire is done up. I hope you intend to be a credit to this shop, for we’re known to turn out good engines. Then, too, your railway needs you to get to work very urgently.”

“Yes, sir,” said 125, slowly, guileless. “I’m very happy to do whatever is wanted. I’ll get started at once, if it will help make amends.”

“Good.” The master engineer did not speak with much conviction, but it was clear that he intended to give the benefit of the doubt until further incident. “Mr. Wylie will come over, to begin your testing and training. Mind him carefully. You have a lot to learn, and I hope you will do it as quickly as 124 here did.”

125 had not yet taken in the silent engine next to him. But now he looked, and his anxiety vanished in a wholehearted smile. “Oh!”

He did not need further introduction. By some instinct, he knew his own twin at once—and 124 could see that he did.

124 smiled, too. Despite the five days of knowledge and worry somewhat weighing down his own new wonder, he also found something wholly satisfying in that moment—as if now he had finally been completed, too.

They were two of a kind. No matter what the world held in store, it would be much more manageable, together.

It seemed there was much to manage. 124 watched, idle and resigned to “practicing some more patience,” as they crammed in 125’s driving lessons, and then all his test runs, eager to ship off the twins the next day, and to collect their bonus for meeting the accelerated deadline.

It made for a long day; they didn’t finish the last test until well after sundown. 124 was mildly jealous, for he had not yet been out of doors at night, and knew no fear of the dark. But he told himself reasonably that, after all, tomorrow they would go home, and he should get his own chance soon enough.

In the meantime, he was grateful that the series of tests seemed to go fairly well. 125 behaved creditably—no embarrassment to any brother—and, still more, seemed to have more than his fair share of a steam engine’s eager and guileless charm; the performance and operations teams, at first unenthused by the assignment, seemed to be in great spirits by the end of the long day, and bid their newest engine good-night fondly.

After all that, 124 felt relieved when they were left alone in the dark. And he should have expected that 125 would fall asleep rapidly, for his had been a much fuller first day than his twin’s.

But 125 grew fretful in the dark and quiet.

“You need to rest,” said 124. “Tomorrow’s a big day for us.”

125 sighed. “I'd like to… but… I, I don’t think I dare let my fire go out.”

124, wise with five days and nights of vast experience, tried to soothe what he had been told was a common fear. “Every engine feels that way, the first time. You must be brave. The cold isn’t so nice as being in steam, of course, but it doesn’t hurt, really.”

“No, it’s not that. What if… oh, what if I can’t get up to steam again, when I’m next wanted?”

“Oh, but won’t you?” 124 was newly anxious. He hadn’t anticipated this.

“I don’t know,” whispered 125.

“Designer said you were frightened before. But surely you won’t be frightened a second time. Getting up to steam isn’t even so hard as going cold!”

“I don’t think I was frightened! I don’t quite remember, of course…” 125’s face was screwed up with effort. “… but I could almost swear that I wanted to get to steam. I wanted to very badly, but I couldn’t. I don’t think Designer’s right—I think something was missing. It was easier to come to, once I didn’t feel so crowded ‘round. But it wasn’t that I was afraid, before. I am afraid now. There’s—there’s something, I feel it, something inside that's not quite right; I can’t help it, and if the engineers can’t find it…”

124 had grown even colder, despite not being lit that day to begin with.

“There’s nothing,” he said, with finality. “You’re imagining it. Designer said it was hard because you were too shy, and he knows far, far, far more about engines than we do.”

“Oh, of course he knows more about most things. But he doesn’t know what it’s like being an engine. I know that much at least, and I can’t help thinking that he made a mistake.”

“I won’t listen to such disrespect!”

“Oh, 124! It’s not disrespect, indeed it isn’t. It's lovely, being alive, and I want terribly to oblige him.”

125’s voice shook. 124 had never heard strong emotion before—and it couldn’t be said that he cared one whit for the experience.

“Well,” he said, backing down before he experienced too much more of it, “there’s no use fretting and staying awake all night. They won’t want us to steam in the morning—we’re not to transport ourselves! It’s only when they deliver us to our railway that we’ll be wanted, and perhaps even that might wait a night… I don’t know how long it takes to get there, from here.”

“Oh, the fireman told me. Eleven hours, including a break for the crews. He says we’ll not be there until well after tea-time. When is tea-time?”

“I don’t know,” said 124.

“What is tea-time?”

“I don’t know. But there’s no good in you trying to keep your fire lit, when you won’t move for an entire night and day!”

“No, I suppose not.” 125 sounded more cheerful, puzzling over the tea-time mystery. “Thanks for not letting me stay awake all night—that would have been foolish. I’m awfully glad you’re my brother.”

In five days of life, it had not yet occurred to 124 that engines could say such things. And he didn’t trust it, all at once. Not coming from this rather unreliable brother, still only hours old. Perhaps it wasn’t proper, for engines to be so affectionate. It was one of many things he hoped to figure out soon.

“I’m glad we’re going home tomorrow,” said 124. “Let’s get some sleep.”

#ttte fic #ttte #jobeywrites

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