Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Whenever anyone – be they human or machine – asks me to tell them a story, I imagine that the stories they want are nothing like this. They want a tale of heroes going on grand adventures, of fantastic journeys and the emotional triumphs of good over evil, with the evil punished and the good riding away to protect their world for years to come. Adult humans make me laugh when they discuss such stories, talking about their apparent distaste for them. They're too childish, they say, they're too simple and too unrealistic. They make me laugh because I know they still enjoy them. They are truly no different from machines in that regard, I feel. They like them because of their simplicity, their unrealism. They provide an escape from the stresses of the complicated real life. Such are the same reasons that machines enjoy them so. They are so different from reality. They are comfortable and hopeful. They can make an individual believe in goodness, even when real life may tell them otherwise.

But I am sad to say that this won't be that sort of story. This story won't bring comfort. This story has no heroes or adventures.

This story is about machines – the train engines, my own children, as I like to call them – and humans, both at their very best and their absolute worst.

This story is terribly frightening.

This is a story that I had not wanted to believe when I witnessed its events for the first time. I wanted to believe that I myself had been dreaming, that what I had witnessed was a mere nasty trick of the eyes. I never thought that anyone could be capable of what had happened.

This story frightens me.

I understand if you have many questions, dear listener. If I were you I would as well. I too would be wondering what on Earth could frighten the guardian of all engines. What could possibly ever terrify Lady, the Magical Engine, the very same machine who withstands the rugged mountains and the tests of time just to watch her fellow engines live and grow with their human companions? Even I am shocked. That may be the reason why I am telling such a harrowing story today; I am shocked by it. This is a natural reaction to such events, yes, but these events are so harrowing, so very heartbreaking that even I am not sure if its ending will be truly "happy", not in the fashion that you are used to. Even with all of the hope that I am told I instill in others, I have very little hope that those within this tale will ever be completely alright.

But they may surprise me. They might be alright. In just a few weeks maybe they will end up like those heroes from other tales, completely unscathed by their experiences after a long battle. Maybe my children will grow just as I have seen them do before. Maybe their humans will do the same. It has happened before. Maybe everything will be fine.

But I am still unsure that that will happen. Too much has happened to them already. When I tell you what happened, you will understand why.

But please, heed my warning.

This is to all of you, whether you are human or machine.

This story is frightening. It frightened even me. It exposed me to what could happen if neither species had any kindness, and the aftermath of such effects.

To all you humans: do not think me prejudiced. I hold no grudges against your species, or any species. I have seen great humans, devious humans, ignorant humans, the most kind humans, forgivable humans, and most certainly horrible humans. You are no different from machines in that regard. It's a curse of holding such high intelligences; you are so diverse that it is impossible for you to be the perfect person. As such, do not think I am fabricating events simply to posit a simple but wrongful message. I have seen far too much of humanity to dare lie in such a way. That is not what I intend with this. But I must warn: there are humans in this story that are kind, that are ignorant, but there are others still who are horrible. Absolutely horrible. I apologize if you do not want to stay after hearing that, my dear human listeners, but I cannot be dishonest.

To all you machines, I give the same message. You are just as diverse as humans, so it should be no surprise that the machines I will speak of are both good and bad, as much as I despise such simple terms. You have probably heard loads of stories of my engines, of both the good and the bad, but I am afraid this won't be the same as those that you are used to hearing. This may be painful. This may be hard to hear. But it is the truth. It is hard to listen to, but it is true.

To all my listeners who may be engines, I apologize if this story terrifies you. I send the same message to all of you.

To all of my listeners, be they machine or human: I greatly apologize if I upset you.

To all my dear listeners:

I am sorry.

Chapter Text

Part 1 – The Past

We will start with the sunrise.

The sunrise always looked beautiful on the Island of Sodor. The orange rays just beginning to peek over the horizon, bathing the land in a warm glow, had been captured by numerous painters and it'd been rumored for years that photographers were dyeing their own photos just to recreate that gorgeous Sudrian sun. On the railways, drivers and firemen who made early-morning deliveries often joked with their engines that they were the luckiest on the entire island, simply because they had the luxury of seeing such a sight for themselves.

Other engines had always dreamed of glimpsing it, even for just a moment, because their friends had always described it in such lush detail that it was impossible to resist. One such engine was Percy the Small Engine. He often found it unfair that his job made him the closest to seeing the event and yet he'd never get the chance. He took the mail train, often that which ran late at night. Depending on whether anything delayed him, he delivered the mail any time from early evening to midnight, or from midnight into the wee hours of the morning. He, out of any of his friends, should have had the greatest chances to see the sun rise. But every time the opportunity came, Percy either had a less than optimal view, or he was so tired that his driver willingly took up all of his controls for himself just so that the little engine could take a brief nap before taking on the rest of the day's work. Percy often blamed himself for incompetence, which both of his crew members always vehemently denied and then said that it was only bad luck, nothing more.

That being said, Percy could still recall the specific mornings when he did seize that opportunity, when he did manage to hold his eyes open for a scrap of a second longer and see what everyone had been talking about. He'd only done it five times in his entire life, but each time Percy had to agree: the sunrise was beautiful. It was just as beautiful as he'd imagined.

Today was one such morning. Percy was on the final stretch of his mail run, heading straight for Knapford, when his driver snapped him out of his daydreaming by tapping on his cab door and pointing out towards the countryside.

"Look, Percy!" said his driver, "Look!"

Percy did, and there it was. Inch by inch the sun crept above the landscape, its bright rays turning the sky orange and making way for its natural light blue. Eventually it rose high enough to catch Percy in the eyes, but he didn't close them. He just kept watching the sight unfold.

"Look at that, mate," his driver, who was named Peter, told him, smiling as he patted the engine again, "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

"It certainly is beautiful," said his fireman, named George, who kept his attention on Percy's controls even as he stole a quick glance himself. He gave Peter a slight nudge. "It's almost even more beautiful than the last time we saw it, eh?"

Peter chuckled. "Oh yes, definitely." He peered further out of Percy's cab, looking towards the engine's face. "What do you think, Percy?"

All the other times Peter had asked him that question about the sunrise, Percy had laughed. He'd replied yes, it is just as beautiful as I'd imagined, and then gazed at the sight long enough to imprint it into his memory.

This time, Peter and George's smiles faded away as they listened to Percy's response, a response that was nonexistent. Percy was silent. He didn't even give Peter a grunt of acknowledgement. The only sounds in the area were Percy's soft chuffing and the distant songs of waking birds.

Peter and George looked at each other, George shaking his head. Peter took in a breath through his teeth as he gave Percy's side one more pat.

"Er…. Percy?"

"What?"

Peter's eyebrows rose. Percy had sounded jumpy, as if Peter had pulled him out of a deep dream.

"Oh… O-Oh, yes," Percy stumbled, "It's… It's beautiful, Peter."

And that was it. He said nothing more.

Peter frowned as he leaned farther out of Percy's cab, as if trying to look at the engine's face. He glanced back at George, who gave him a wince and a shrug.

They continued in silence. The little engine could have been a regular, nonliving machine, he was so incredibly quiet. When they passed the next signal box on the line Percy didn't even whistle in response to the signalman, who was smiling and waving at them as they went by; Peter had to pull the cord to the whistle himself, just to make sure they didn't appear rude.

Eventually, their run came to a close, and Percy had to place his mail cars back into their usual siding. Peter and George were still frowning even as they made their way back to Tidmouth sheds. Once or twice Peter opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He'd done that before, several times in fact, for the past week. I suspect he'd always had the same questions on his tongue – Are you alright? Are you upset? Do you need to take a break? – but since three days ago he'd never asked them. He would always get the same answer, an answer that Peter himself couldn't find an answer to.

By the time they made it back to Tidmouth, the sun was far above the horizon. The other engines were just beginning to wake up and squint at the sunlight. Some of them yawned. Some of them let off a light wheesh of steam as their crews lit their fireboxes for the long day ahead. To outsiders, there isn't anything wrong with this picture. It is just a normal scene of engines waking up and waiting to hear their day's work. But to those familiar with Sudrian engines, specifically those of Tidmouth sheds, this scene is most troubling.

Because there was something seriously wrong with the engines, something out of character for all of them. They shared the problem that Percy had had on his mail run.

They were quiet. They did not speak to each other, not even to give each other those quick friendly greetings that they were known for. They were all slow to open their eyes, even when their crew finished lighting their fires. Those that did seem awake only stared at the ground with solemn expressions. None of them smiled or appeared excited to start work. Overall, I would say that they looked like the saddest group of engines who ever lived.

Edward was the first engine to say anything. He was staring at the rails, just as Henry and Emily were doing, but when he heard Percy approach the turntable he started, looking up with widened eyes. For the first time that morning, a kind smile spread across the old engine's face.

"Ah, good morning, Percy," he called, "How was the mail today?"

The other engines seemed to perk up at the sound of Edward's voice. Emily, Henry, and Gordon all glanced up and, upon seeing the little engine, they eaach tried a smile as well. Before Percy even had a chance to answer Edward all three of them chimed in with their own greetings.

"Oh, yes, good morning, Percy!" said Henry, "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, Henry!" Emily agreed, sounding as cheerful as she could muster. "Yes, how was the mail this morning, Percy? Any delays?"

Gordon rumbled with laughter. "Ha! Delays? Nonsense! You've taken the mail so often, there was nothing you couldn't handle, eh Percy?"

This should have surprised Percy into speaking enough. Gordon was never the sort of engine to greet his companions with such positivity; mind you, he is not an unkind engine, but he is quite pompous and has a nasty habit of putting down other engines, most often for their sizes or for their jobs. To hear words from him that befit Edward instead, Percy should have at least reacted to Gordon's speech.

But, alas, this story does not act so predictably, dear listener.

Even I felt a pang in my boiler at what happened next.

Percy remained silent. His face didn't even twitch at even Edward's greeting. He just rolled onto the turntable, waited for it to stop in front of his berth. It was as if Edward hadn't spoken at all.

Every engine that had a smile dropped it. Emily and Henry looked even sadder, however Gordon seemed appalled. He clenched his teeth and let out a quiet groan, only ceasing it when Edward shot him an annoyed glance and sharply cleared his throat.

Emily bit her lip as she watched Percy back into the berth right next to her own. Her eyes resembled those of a mother looking down at her saddened child. Her boiler was bubbling with tension, both from what she was seeing and from what she feared.

When Percy's driver stepped outside, Emily let out a gentle wheesh to grab his attention. "Is he… alright?" she whispered.

Peter let out a sigh and took off his hat, turning it over in his hands. "…No, definitely not…" he muttered back, shaking his head, "I think… I think he might still be thinking about– "

"Peter, I can hear you."

Both Peter and Emily froze. So did the rest of the engines, since they had all been listening. After hearing nothing from the green engine for most of the morning, such a reaction is understandable.

Emily gulped as Percy looked up at her. His expression hadn't changed at all, and his voice had reflected that; small, sad, and hollow.

"…Sorry if I'm not talking, Emily, I just…" Steam streamed out from under his frame as he let out a sigh. "…I don't know…"

Peter looked at the ground.

A few seconds of silence passed before Edward broke it again. "Oh, it's alright, Percy. None of us can stop worrying about him. It's only natural." He sounded just as kind and collected as he usually did, as if he wasn't struggling to sound genuine.

In the middle of his speech Edward stole a quick glance at yet another aspect of the scene that was most unusual, but perhaps even more worrying: the berth between Edward and Percy, usually filled with the best companion they could have ever had, now empty. No engine had stayed in it all week, not even for the past two weeks. None of the engines liked to remember this fact. I do not blame them; I don't enjoy recalling that either.

Edward looked back at Percy as he continued, "It's…. it's been a week, Percy. We've had him back for a week. He's safe now. Don't worry. And I'm sure everyone at the Steamworks has been taking great care of him."

"Yeah!" Henry, who'd been a silent listener this entire time, suddenly jumped in with his own input. "I– Just yesterday, Percy, I had to take a load of new parts to the Steamworks, and I saw him! He… He's alright. He's okay, Percy, really. They… I think they just have to work on him a little while longer. He'll be okay."

Edward's eyes brightened at Henry's declaration. "Yes! They have been doing everything they can to fix him. I'm sure it won't be long before he's fit to work. Believe me, this time next week, he'll be back on the rails again."

The old engine inched forwards, earning himself a better view of Percy's face. He still wasn't looking at him, though that didn't deter Edward.

"It'll be painful when he comes back, but that's why we need to stay together, Percy," he said, in that soothing voice he was known for, "We'll help him, and help each other. We'll recover from this. It'll take a while, but we can make it. Do you understand?"

Everyone in Tidmouth sheds, both engine and human, seemed to hold their breath as they waited for Percy's answer. The little engine gave Edward a quick glance, then gave it to the empty berth. Then he looked back at the ground and bit the inside of his cheek, as if thinking.

Finally, he spoke.

"…I suppose…"

Edward's smile faded. He creaked as his frame sagged slightly. He, too, adopted a saddened expression, though he did not just match his companions. He was upset, confused, and even slightly disgusted. I imagine he wanted to erase everything he'd said.

Thankfully, none of them had to worry about the ensuing silence. The sputtering of an approaching car quickly filled it, and all of the engines watched as a very familiar blue vehicle parked just beside the tracks. Two railways workers stepped out from the front seats, and one opened one of the passenger doors so that the man everyone was waiting for could step out.

Sir Topham Hatt, nicknamed "The Fat Controller" by the machines that work for him, stood tall as he addressed his engines. "Ah, yes, good morning everyone," he said, smiling as he held up his clipboard, "Here are your jobs for today."

They all whistled in response – even Percy gave a small peep of acknowledgement – but even then they did not seem as comfortable as they usually were at seeing their boss. I know why. I witnessed everything that they witnessed, everything that was off-putting about him. But just like them, based on what had happened in the previous weeks, I understand with all of my heart why he was that way.

Just like the engines, Sir Topham Hatt was different. His voice boomed as normal, but anyone with a keen ear would notice that he didn't sound nearly as confident or controlled. He didn't stand as straight. But the biggest change belonged to his eyes.

I have often heard that the eyes are the windows to an individual's soul. In my early days I did not believe in such statements. I thought them charming but not really harboring any real truths. But now, after all that has happened, I believe this statement certainly contains at least some truth. I do not believe that the eyes reflect the soul but their state of mind, whether they are troubled or content or hurt or at peace. These states can often go unnoticed in the eyes if the individual is particularly skilled at acting or mimicking expressions, but I believe they are most noticeable when their states change.

Such had happened far too much in the Sodor residents at this time, not the least of which to the Northwestern Railway's diligent controller.

Sir Topham Hatt's eyes looked empty and somber, as if he had seen something haunting, something that, try as he may, he cannot push out of his mind's eye.

Even his tiniest actions reflected this; just as Edward and Percy had done before, as he lifted his clipboard his eyes flitted towards the one vacant berth in the sheds. It was a fleeting look, easily unnoticed, but it was there nonetheless.

Of course, nobody said anything about this. Sir Topham was already listing off the engines' jobs.

"So," he declared after clearing his throat, "some of you, this'll be the same as yesterday. Gordon, you have the express."

Gordon's mouth twitched upwards. "Naturally."

"Henry." Sir Topham pointed at him. "There's a goods train due for the mainland this afternoon. I'd like you to take that as soon as possible, please."

Henry gulped, but he still answered, "Y-Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

Sir Topham had his mouth open to state the next order of business, his finger pointing at the next engine he wanted to address. But he paused, raising an eyebrow as he looked up and down the sheds. Then his gaze fell upon yet another piece of the Tidmouth scene that did not fit: the berth that separated Gordon and Edward, the only berth that had its green doors shut tight.

Sir Topham furrowed his brow, though he didn't seem cross.

"James?" he called. Then, louder, "James! James!"

A spluttering noise came from the sheds, from that closed berth. Then came a huff, then a wheesh. Then, the doors clattered open, and out puffed James.

Henry and Emily both bit their bottom lips as they looked at their friend. Edward fought a wince. Gordon rolled his eyes, but no one paid him any mind. All anyone had any attention for was the red engine who called himself splendid.

"S-Sorry, sir," James stuttered when he saw Sir Topham walking towards him, "I-I was just waking up. My fire took a bit to get going." He put on his best smile. "I'm ready for my jobs, sir. Absolutely ready."

But Sir Topham just frowned at him. "James," he said, his voice cool, "are you alright?"

The edges of James's smile faltered. "Eh, y-yes, sir. Absolutely, sir." The more he talked the more that smile faded. "W-Why would you think otherwise?"

Sir Topham sighed. "James…" Then, he shook his head and pulled his pen out of his pocket. "No… No, I can't…" he muttered.

When his boss began scribbling something out on the papers on his clipboard, James's grin fell completely. "Uh..." His eyes widened as he looked from Sir Topham to the papers, papers to Topham. "…Uh– Sir, what are you doing?"

"James, you know I'd never let you do a job if you're this uncomfortable with it," Sir Topham declared, placing the pen back into his pocket. He looked his engine straight in the eye as he spoke. "And I cannot sit well knowing that you'd be upset pulling Annie and Clarabel. You– "

As soon as Sir Topham said the coaches' names something snapped inside of James. He looked at his boss as if he'd called him a phrase most offensive. "What do you mean I'd get upset?" he demanded, "Who said I was uncomfortable pulling coaches?"

Sir Topham looked like he'd been expecting this reaction, and yet he still wished it hadn't happened. "No, James, it's just that I'm worried about you. Mason told me that you were very uneasy yesterday while you worked on– "

"Mason!?" James said his driver's name as if he was physically disgusted by it. He glanced into the sheds. "Why would you tell him that!?"

James's driver called from the engine's cab, sounding stern and yet somehow nervous at James's outburst. "Hey, I only did it to help you! You think I'm just going to let you go out and– !"

James's ensuing groan drowned him out.

"Sir, I can take them, seriously," he insisted to Sir Topham Hatt, "You don't need to worry about me. I'm fine. I can do it. I– "

"James, I can't let you do that on good conscience!" Sir Topham raised his voice, though he still didn't appear angry. His words betrayed his worry. "You haven't been the same since we brought Thomas back, none of us have, so I– "

That name. Those two syllables, one after another. Familiar to everyone on the island, even to some who lived far away from it. Familiar to, not the least of which, James.

That name did the most damage.

In an instant James became indignant. He glared at his boss now, letting out a hard wheesh that made even Gordon flinch.

"Who cares!? I'm fine! That has nothing to do with me!" James cried, his voice wavering, "I need to be useful! I'm not upset! I can run that branchline! I can pull those lousy coaches just fine! Just watch me! I CAN DO IT!"

With that, before anyone could do or say anything else, James barked at a nearby worker to turn the turntable.

"N-Now, James," Sir Topham tried to recover, but it was too late. James wasn't listening anymore. He just kept grumbling as he finally sped out of the sheds, over the turntable, down the rails, his driver and fireman yelping at him to calm down.

As they disappeared behind the distant buildings, Mason poked his head out of James's cab to give Sir Topham and the rest of the engines a quick apologetic shrug.

Everyone sat stunned. Even Percy had snapped out of his hollowed state to stare after James, his mouth agape and his face pale.

Sir Topham Hatt stood there frozen for another few moments before he placed his hand on his forehead, letting out a sigh. He then stepped back, clearing his throat to bring the other gaping engines' attention back.

"Er– sorry about that, all of you," he said, though his booming voice sounded even less certain now, "Now, so… I'll have to– "

"Sir?"

Percy piped up for the first time that morning. He gave his boss a look akin to that of a curious yet frightened child. "Is… is James going to be okay? At all?"

Sir Topham did not reply immediately, which only appeared to distress the engines more. "…Well…." He said finally, "…I'm… I'm not sure, Percy. We'll, uh… we just need to help him, okay?"

It was a very condensed version of what Edward had said. Percy didn't seem totally convinced, but he still gave a quiet "…Okay…"

"Er, yes, okay. Right then." Sir Topham cleared his throat a third time, straightening his posture as he looked down at his clipboard again. "So, uh… it looks like James will be looking after Thomas's branchline today after all. Then, Emily –" He went back to pointing. "– do you mind taking some scrap to the scrapyard for me today?"

Emily gave him a small smile. "Not at all, sir."

Sir Topham smiled back, nodding. "Excellent, then Edward, you've got your own branchline to run, and then Percy…"

He looked up at the green engine just as Peter poked his head out of his cab. He shared a look with Sir Topham, one that spoke of concern and understanding, but also great risk.

Sir Topham nodded at Peter, then addressed Percy again. "Now, Percy, I have a very important job for you today. A new shipment of paint cans is due to arrive at the docks very soon –"

Percy was already beginning to say his "Yes sir" when Sir Topham concluded his sentence.

" – and I'd love you to take them to the Steamworks for me. Could you do that today, please?"

It took a moment for this to register in Percy's mind. But when it did, Percy's entire face shifted. His mouth fell open, his eyes widening as he stared at his boss. "The… The Steamworks, sir?"

Sir Topham's smile was very kind. "Yes, Percy. Can you do that?"

Percy's answer surprised everyone in the sheds.

"Yes… Yes sir, I'd like that very much! Thank you sir!" Percy smiled for the first time in what felt like months to his friends. He peeped his whistle as a final thank you, and before Sir Topham even told him to, he was off to the docks.

Edward blinked as he stared after Percy. "Wow," he breathed, his boiler actually growing lighter for a change, "…he seemed so sad, I'd thought the Steamworks would be the last place he'd want to go to!"

Emily whistled in agreement. "I'd thought he'd ask you for a different job, sir," she told Sir Topham Hatt.

Sir Topham chuckled, a breezy, relieving sound. "So did I, Emily, but I am pleased to see him acting optimistic. I think we all need that, right now."

His voice was lighter than ever. He stared after the trail of steam that Percy was leaving behind and he let out a silent sigh. His shoulders sagged a tad with it. He finally looked relaxed again; after what had happened last week, that had seemed impossible. The poor man had been at his tensest as he'd shuffled his engines around, figuring out who would take which jobs while one of the best of his fleet was at the Steamworks. What only added to the stress were the circumstances that'd placed that poor soul in that place to begin with, the horrors that Sir Topham could never imagine happening to one of his engines. But it had. And, as he worried about running the railway and working smoothly, he also worried for that soul at the Steamworks. He would ask the engineers a little too much how he was doing, and at the ends of conversations with his colleagues, he often wondered aloud if he would truly be alright after what had happened. His colleagues were just as worried, both for the soul at the Steamworks but also for their boss. He certainly wasn't a young man anymore, however the stress he exhibited only made the other workers wonder if his health was diminishing due to it. Sir Topham's wife mentioned this to him four nights ago, making the man promise not to worry as much. But, of course, once he stepped into his office the next day and saw his map and engine figurines littering his desk, the worry came rushing back.

But it wasn't just that one engine he worried for. He worried for the rest of the railway. I'd noticed this as well: after news of what happened spread, there wasn't a soul who didn't seem affected by it. Every engine, every driver, every fireman and engineer, even the non-engine machines seemed to radiate stress after the word reached them. Such I understand, since I was just as deeply affected.

This deserves repeating: what happened was enough to shake the entire island, to shake even me. That's how horrible it was.

So, with an entire railway shocked and stunned and stressed, you can imagine, dear listeners, the relief Sir Topham must have felt as he watched Percy race towards the place that should have been his least desired. At last, at least one of his fleet appeared optimistic about the situation. Such had felt impossible, but seeing Percy try made Sir Topham Hatt smile. It made him believe that everything really could be alright. It gave him relief. It gave him hope.

The same happened with Percy's crew. As they left Knapford, George let out a hearty laugh. "Atta boy, Percy!" he cheered, "That's the cheery little engine we know!"

Peter let out his own chuckle as he peered out Percy's window. "Yeah, I won't lie to you mate, I didn't think you'd be this happy to take stuff to the Steamworks!" Then he stuck his head out of the cab again, placing his hand on Percy's side.

"… I know why you're doing this. You want to see Thomas, don't you?"

Percy let out a few peeps from his whistle. "…Yes…" he said, his voice trembling, "…I… I just need to see him… Oh, Peter, I can't wait to see him again… He'll be so happy to see me! I can help him feel better!"

Peter chuckled again. "I'll bet he'll be happy. He has one of the best friends ever, Percy!"

They continued on, Percy now humming a tune to himself. Peter let out a relieved sigh just as Sir Topham had. After the attitude the little engine had had all morning, hearing him speak so happily made it so easy for Peter to smile.

But, because this is just that sort of story, he had to lose it as soon as he'd gained it.

Because in the middle of the journey to the docks, George tapped Peter's shoulder and gave him a concerned look.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice suddenly rough, "You sure he'll be okay? You sure he'll help him feel better? After what those bastards did to him?"

The questions made Peter grimace. He shook his head. "I don't know, George…" he admitted. Then, softer, he added, "…I don't know…"

They reached Brendam Docks, where the trucks of paint cans sat lined up and ready in a siding. Percy coupled up to them, thanked the workers, and then began his second journey. He kept humming the same song as he went along, a song that he and his best friend had created together.

After another thirty minutes, Percy arrived. The tall, bustling building of the Steamworks stood high above the little engine. As he approached, his boiler bubbled with sudden apprehension, which he couldn't make sense of. Where did all of his optimism go? Was he really about to panic like this? When his best friend needed him in there? He had so many questions for himself, none of which he could answer easily.

But when he felt Peter's hand on his side for what felt like the millionth time that day, Percy quickened his pace. His apprehension faded away, replaced with determination with a hint of anger. My best friend needs me, he told himself, I can't be a scaredy engine now.

The Steamworks, just like usual, was bustling with activity. Sounds came from all directions; the sizzle of molten slag as it was poured into part molds, the clinking of lift chains and hand tools, the engineers' chatter as they decided what to work on next. Such noise would seem assaultive to those unfamiliar with railway repair centers, but the many engines and engineers had grown most accustomed to it.

Likewise, as Percy chuffed into the main building, the racket did not bother him. He had only one engine on his mind, an engine he was already scanning the room for.

He entered just as Victor the Busy Engine came pushing a small flatbed of parts into the nearby buffers. He looked up and smiled when Percy peeped a greeting at him.

"Ah, hello my friend!" Victor greeted back. He eyed Percy's trucks. "I assume you've brought our new rounds of paint?"

Percy grinned. "Yes, Victor! I came as fast as I could!"

"Excellent. We've been so dry on paint lately." Victor raised an eyebrow as he thought. "I think we even used up our last can just yesterday…" Then he snapped out of it and looked back at Percy. "Anyway, thank you so much, Percy. Kevin!" he now called out, "I need you to help unload all of this paint!"

"Coming!" Kevin the Mobile Crane sped in from the other side of the room, his hook waving wildly in the air. "I got it, boss! No worries!" Then he noticed Percy, and his face lit up. "Good morning, Percy! Did you get to see the sunrise today?"

"Good morning to you too, Kevin. Yes, I did manage to see it, thank you," Percy replied, but the little crane was the last thing on his mind right then.

As Kevin and some engineers unloaded his trucks, Percy wheeshed at Victor to stop him from rolling away. Victor's smile faltered at this; he looked confused as to what Percy still wanted, which made Percy feel awkward. The green engine bit his lip as he mumbled, "…Erm… Victor…? Is… is it alright if I…?"

Peter sensed his engine's discomfort and leaned out of the cab. "I'm sorry, Victor, but is it at all alright if we quickly see– ?"

"Can we see Thomas?" Percy blurted, cutting his driver off.

Now, it might have been our collective imagination at work – mine as well as those within the building – but I definitely remember the entire Steamworks growing slightly quieter at Percy's question.

A muscle jumped in Victor's cheek. He took in a breath, glanced about the room.

Percy blinked as the silence stretched. Right when he considered asking again, Victor spoke.

"Why, y-yes Percy, you may. Absolutely. Just leave your paint cars and follow me."

Percy's boiler bubbled again, though he wasn't sure if it was from nerves or excitement anymore. It really could have been either. But when Victor fixed him with a sharp look and said this, Percy determined that he really was a little nervous:

"But, Percy, please be aware, he is still recovering. His body has almost completely healed, but his mind definitely has not. If he appears off, it is because of that. Do you understand?"

As much as he hated being spoken to like a child, Percy didn't dare argue with Victor. He'd understood that long before he'd arrived here; he'd even understood the previous week, when he'd finally seen his best friend again after so long and realized the horrors he'd endured. He had a good idea of what he would see when Victor showed him; he knew it would be painful to see him again, in this state, but he had to. Percy had made a promise – he would help his best friend, he would show him that he wasn't alone.

Percy took in a breath just as Victor had, then let it out in a quick sigh. "Yes. I understand. I'm ready."

With that, Victor quipped "Come along, then" and began rolling backwards. After Peter uncoupled him from his trucks, Percy followed on the standard gauge tracks.

Despite each time he'd scolded himself for being so jittery, Percy still felt tense as Victor led him to the very back of the room. Eventually, the narrow gauge engine stopped in front of some buffers and cleared his throat.

"Thomas," he called gently, looking upwards, "you have a visitor."

Percy held his breath he looked up as well.

There he was. Percy's best friend, Thomas the Tank Engine. He was suspended in the air, thanks to the lift the engineers still had him on. He looked normal, save for the large areas on his buffers and boiler where his paint had been scraped off. Percy felt a rush of relief at this; he was a stark contrast to how he'd looked a week ago. A week ago, his buffers had been bent, his sides were dented, his signature #1 had been blasted off completely – it was still gone, but now he didn't have any ugly scars where his number had once been.

His body seemed fine. But his face certainly was not.

A swath of bandages concealed the left side of his face, wrapped around his funnel and extending so that it completely covered his eye. Slight stress lines ran across his forehead. He had his right eye closed, as if he was sleeping, and a tiny frown on his lips.

Percy's mouth went dry as he stared at him. As if his eyes were acting on their own, they kept going back to the bandages. His mind kept going back to what he knew was underneath them, what he'd seen when Thomas had first arrived back on the island. To make matters worse, the injury extended beyond the wrap, crossing over the bridge of his nose. Even though it was just a patch of scarred skin, looking at it again plunged Percy right back into his pit of unwanted memories. He saw it all again – watching them pull Thomas on a flatbed back onto the island, yelling at every machine and human to stay back because they absolutely needed to get him to the Steamworks as soon as possible, and when Percy saw his left eye and his dented frame and his streaming face he understood immediately –

Victor blowing his whistle snapped Percy out of his daze. "Thomas," he said again, somehow even gentler than before, "Percy has come to see you."

Percy's boiler bubbled again, this time as seeing his best friend actually stir. He let out a quiet moan, his right eyelid twitched. Then, he opened his eye.

He searched the room for a moment, and then his gaze rested on Percy. He blinked once. He said nothing.

Percy tried to ignore the pang in his boiler and smiled up at his friend. "Hello, Thomas," he said, pouring as much warmth into his voice as she could muster.

Thomas blinked at him again. Then, he looked away. "…Hi, Percy…"

His voice was flat. Small. Emotionless. Everything that the voice of Thomas the Tank Engine should not have been.

Percy waited. When Thomas didn't say anything more, he piped up again. "…How… How're you this morning? Are you feeling better?"

Thomas didn't even look at him. He stayed silent, as if his voice had been stolen from him.

Percy's smile threatened to fall. "Um… You… you definitely look better. Almost good as new! And don't worry about your paint, Thomas, you'll be– "

"Percy."

With just that one word, Thomas shut Percy up and froze him to the rails.

Thomas stared at him. His right eye had darkened, his brows had furrowed.

"Percy." Thomas's voice sliced through the Steamworks air like a knife. "I… I really don't want to talk right now… I really don't…"

As I watched these events unfold, I felt a sharp pain all throughout my frame. It traveled from my firebox, through my boiler. I knew instantly that I was experiencing what Percy was feeling; his heart had broken, and so mine did too. That is one of many blessings and curses of being the engines' guardian, for I am a spiritual empath, if you will. When I watch over my children, I feel what they feel. Any pain that overtakes them, it overtakes me as well.

And this pain – Percy's pain – was immense.

"I… T-Thomas, I…" Percy struggled to curb his stutter. "I… I just wanted to– "

"Percy, I don't want to talk right now."

"T-Thomas, I just want to help!"

"Percy."

"I haven't seen you in a week! Wh-Why can't I – !?"

"Oh, Percy! That's enough!"

Rapid tapping on Percy's cab complimented the new voice. Peter was leaning out again, trying to get his engine's attention.

"Er, so sorry Thomas, but we can't stay anymore." He pointed at the clock on the nearby wall. "We've got so much more work to do. I really wish we could stay, sorry about that. It was really great seeing you again, mate!"

Thomas just grunted and looked away again.

Percy's heart broke for a second time. Even as Peter urged him to leave, Percy kept staring up at his good friend, his eyebrows knitted and his bottom lip trembling. He saw Thomas from before what had happened – he could see him smiling, he could see him laughing, he could hear him talking to Edward and to Sir Topham and hear them both talking or even singing that tune that they'd co-written – Percy saw it all.

Then the memories shattered and dropped Percy back into reality, where the engine he called his best friend was actually the one right in front of him, the one who sounded broken, the one who didn't seem to want anything to do with him. That's the engine Percy saw.

Percy swallowed hard as he slowly chuffed backwards. On his way out he caught Victor sighing and looking at him with an expression full of sorrow. He told Percy silently, "I'm sorry".

After Percy spun on the turntable to face the Steamworks entrance, he exited. As soon as they were out, the little engine hissed.

"Peter," he snapped, his voice fit to crack, "You d-did that on purpose… d-didn't you…!?"

"No! Percy, we really needed to leave! We have a schedule to follow, remember?"

Percy sniffed. "I… I really thought he would… h-he would want to…"

This time George spoke up. "It's…. I know you wanted to help him, but…. Er… Seriously, Pete, help me out!"

Peter let out a soft groan. "It… All we're saying is that we expected something like that. He… you remember what happened to him, Percy, you don't need me to tell you that. He suffered through… a lot. He needs a lot of time to heal from that. Nobody just… gets over anything like that after just one week. It'll take time. But that why it's so important that you did what you did just now. It-it's just like what Edward said. We just need to be there for him, and you were. We just need to keep that up, and he'll be fine. I tell you what, we'll come back tomorrow. We'll check on him again, but this time you have to stay calm. I'll coach you, don't worry. We're all helping each other cope with this. It'll take some time but if we keep it up, he'll be better far sooner. I'm certain he'll love that. Alright?"

Silence followed, not unlike that which filled the majority of their morning. Percy eventually peeped in response, but neither Peter nor George was certain what it meant. I was, and my heart broke upon hearing it.

Chapter Text

Later that same day, Rosie the Small Red Engine was at the Vicarstown Goods Yard, hard at work with her regular job: shunting trucks and lining up goods trains so they'd be ready for their engines. Now, Rosie was normally hard-working anyway; even I am still impressed at her relentless energy and passion; no matter the job she never appears to tire from the effort. But today, somehow, Rosie had even more of that energy.

Since she'd arrived just two hours earlier, she'd been, as some would say, on fire. She shunted, readied the goods trains, and pushed the empty trucks into neat lines faster than she'd ever done before. The other workers had a difficult time mimicking her pace. Some of them muttered to each other their amazement that she could work that hard for two hours.

Her driver was amazed as well – however, his amazement had long-since transformed into concern, then full-fledged worry.

The goods yard workers didn't pay her as much attention as he did. They saw her work, saw the determination etched into her face, and when she didn't even as much as sigh from effort, they merely shrugged and continued their own duties. It didn't seem to bother her, so why should they have worried?

But her driver did. He'd been her driver ever since she'd first puffed out of that workshop all those years ago. He knew her very well, perhaps the best. He knew when she was truly happy, and when she truly wasn't.

As she shunted and lined up those trucks in the goods yard, Rosie's driver knew that she definitely was not happy. Nobody else did, but he knew what it meant when her firebox was crackling as loud as a campfire; he knew what it meant when she hissed every time she wheeshed.

Soon, he could not stay silent any longer.

As Rosie bumped four loaded trucks into a siding so hard she made the buffers creak, her driver leapt out of her cab and immediately placed his hand on the side of her boiler.

"Whoa whoa, girl, calm down," he said, rubbing her side with gentle motions. He'd flinched a tad when he first touched her; Rosie's boiler was so hot that he felt it even then. He knew what this meant as well, though of course it did not calm his nerves at all.

"Hey, hey," he told her in a hushed voice. He inched forwards, glancing at his engine's face.

"Hey, Rosie, what's wrong? What's going on?"

Rosie's facial expression had been unreadable all morning. Now was no different, but once she heard her driver's voice it finally shifted. She looked pained as her eyes darted to the ground.

"…S-Sorry, John…" she muttered, "I just…" She clenched her teeth.

John knitted his brow. "Rosie," he said, his tone now soft and soothing, "come on, seriously. What's going on? You've been acting strange all week. Come on now, what is it?"

Rosie pursed her lips as she listened. "I… I-I'm sorry, but… I just… Th-This might not make sense, but… I feel like I have to work like this…"

"But why?" That came from her fireman, called Al, who'd been leaning out of Rosie's cab and listening silently this entire time. As Rosie said her piece, he fixed her with an incredulous look and threw his hands up into the air. "You've been such a diligent engine for years, you don't have to keep straining yourself like this! Why would you– ?"

"No, no, Al, it's fine," John interrupted, "I know what it is." He walked until he was right in front of Rosie, so he could look her in the eyes.

"…You can't stop thinking about– ?"

"Hey JOHN!"

John, Al, and Rosie all winced at the new voice. Another worker was glaring at them and shaking his head. He lifted his clipboard, tapping it so hard that it even those on the other side of the yard could hear it.

"Will you quit slacking over there!?" he demanded, "There'll be enough deliveries to sink a battleship today! Stop gossiping with your engine and get back to work!"

Rosie cringed as John let out a groan. Then, shaking his head, he climbed back into the tank engine's cab.

"Sorry about that, Rosie," John told her as they chuffed out of the siding, "I thought we had enough time just to take a breath."

The corners of Rosie's mouth twitched upwards. "That's alright, John. Thank you, anyway."

But then, as she switched tracks and began pulling yet another goods train to the right siding, her wisp of a smile faded. She let out a sad wheesh as she sighed.

"…I'm sorry, but, I just… I can't stop thinking about him…" she said, her voice quiet, "He… y-you remember how he looked, right John? You remember what they… what they did to him?"

John looked mournful. So did Al.

"…Yes, I do remember…" said John, "I… I've never seen an engine look so tortured…"

Al nodded. "Yeah. I never thought I'd ever see the blue rascal look like that! I didn't think anyone would be able to hurt him like that!"

Rosie had been silent about how she felt about this the entire week. Now that she'd begun letting the words out and she saw that her faithful crew were catching them, she didn't want to stop. She could have talked about it for the rest of the day.

But before she could, a whistle and a familiar voice split the air.

"Hey, Rosie! I've got some trucks here for you!"

Rosie started, then relief flooded her boiler when she saw Stanley the Silver Engine puffing up beside her on the next track. He shot her his standard friendly grin as he passed her.

"Empty trucks here, Rosie!" he said, showing his cargo as he went along, "Thought you'd need them. There'll be a lot of deliveries today!"

Rosie actually found herself smiling at this sight. It amazed her how easy it was; after what she'd seen last week, she hadn't been sure if she'd be able to smile again, not with that image of Thomas haunting her. She figured that was just because of who Stanley was; nobody could frown when around him, he just had that sort of nature.

"Yes, thank you so much, Stanley," she said, riding backwards onto his track. She arched a brow and chuckled as she buffered up to the trucks. "Believe me, I am very aware of all the deliveries today."

Stanley laughed as his driver uncoupled him from his trucks. "Yes, things have been rather busy lately. But the Fat Controller has enough engines to give work to, including us. We should handle all of this in no time!"

Rosie gave a chuckle of her own, but as she pulled the trucks away and into another siding, John leaned out of her cab and squinted at the trucks. He furrowed his brow at what he saw.

"Er… excuse me, Stanley?" John asked the silver engine as Rosie came up beside him again. "But… why did you bring us trucks all the way from Brendam? Surely we're not so busy that you had to travel that far to find empty ones!"

Rosie's smile faltered. She hadn't even noticed the logo inscribed into the trucks' buffers, which indicated that they had, indeed, come from the docks.

What surprised her even more was Stanley's reaction to the question.

He stopped smiling. For once since she'd known him, Rosie actually saw Stanley look uncomfortable. His eyes flitted towards the ground as he bit the inside of his cheek.

"Well, they, uh… they are from the docks, but they… I didn't pick them up from there. I picked them up from the Steamworks. They were Percy's. He'd taken some paint cans in them and left without taking the trucks with him. They said he just… forgot about them."

At this, Al let out a groan. "How on Earth does someone just forget their trucks!? They didn't just fly off of his couplings, surely!"

"N-No, actually, it wasn't like that at all," said Stanley, somehow appearing even more uncomfortable than before. "He…"

He took a pause and looked Rosie in the eyes. She wasn't sure what he meant by it until she heard what he said next:

"…He wanted to see Thomas. Just say hello. So they uncoupled him, but… when he was done, he couldn't remember to pick them back up. He just sped off to his next job."

And just like that, Rosie understood. As if she'd seen the events for herself, she understood.

"Oh no…" she muttered.

Stanley wheeshed sadly. "…I'd had a feeling his friends would try to see him today. But… it couldn't have been a good visit if it made him forget his trucks like that."

Rosie's boiler tensed. "Oh my goodness… do you know what happened? When he saw him?"

"No, but it can't be good," Stanley replied, "Victor told me Thomas was… not in a good mood. Which, you know, is to be expected and all that, but… he said that Percy looked like he couldn't recognize him anymore…"

Rosie winced. Her heart ached, for Percy, for Victor, for Thomas, for everyone. Hearing this recount, seeing Stanley so sad when she'd always thought that impossible – the reality of the situation came crashing down onto her smokebox.

This wasn't the first time it did, though. Of course, it had already crushed her last week, when she'd steamed into Knapford and saw Thomas again and heard for the first time the horrific explanation to why he was there, why he looked like that, why it would be a long long long time before anyone would feel even slightly alright again.

Her thoughts were buzzing in her smokebox so loudly that she almost didn't hear her name being called.

"Rosie! Rosie!" That goods yard worker who'd yelled at her earlier was approaching. He heaved a sigh when he made it to her, as if he'd been running. He held up his clipboard as he addressed her, "Er, yes, Rosie, you're not doing anything right now, are you?"

Rosie blinked. "Um…" She glanced around, at the trucks and trains she'd worked on all morning. "N-No, sir, I don't think so. What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing's wrong, I just have another job for you," said the worker. He motioned with his clipboard towards the tracks behind her, those that ran out of Vicarstown. "Sir Topham Hatt just called. He wants you to take some goods to Knapford."

"Really?" Rosie's eyes grew wide. "But… why do I have to do it? Why can't another engine do it?"

The worker shrugged. "That's what I asked him. But just about every engine is too busy with their own work right now. It has to be you."

"But, I-I already have enough to do here! Why can't– ?"

"It's alright, Rosie, I can take over here for now," Stanley chimed in. His standard smile finally returned to his face as he gave Rosie a reassuring whistle. "Go on and get some fresh air. I've got nothing else to do right now, I'm sure I can handle this yard for you!"

The earnestness in Stanley's voice made Rosie chuckle. "Oh, alright," she said, peeping her own whistle in gratitude, "Thank you ever so much, Stanley!"

After she said goodbye to her friend and John coupled her up to her appropriate train, Rosie and her crew left Vicarstown and went on their way.

As they went along, Rosie remembered everything she knew about Stanley's personality and tried to copy him. She smiled, whistled at other engines and the waving signalmen. She even sang a little rhyme in her head: "I will get these goods to Knapford, I won't tire or whine, any job I can do will be divine!"

She did it all throughout the journey, even though it was actually a mask. It was all to stop herself from thinking about Thomas again. She didn't have any trucks to shunt to do that for her; this was her only option for that now.

It amazed her how long she did it without letting up. Very soon, she felt her mood actually beginning to lift. She started to feel like she would be okay after all.

Then she arrived at Knapford, and when she halted for a signal she spotted something that made her smile disappear.

She saw Thomas's trusty coaches, Annie and Clarabel, resting in their shed, at the left side of the yard. Now, Rosie had never taken the two out herself, she'd barely interacted with them the entire time she'd lived on the railway; she didn't know their personalities that well at all. But she knew upon seeing them right then that something was terribly wrong.

The coach that Rosie could see at this angle – she wasn't sure who she was – was staring at the rails, looking particularly sorry for herself. Not only that, but Rosie also noticed that her brows were furrowed slightly. She did not appear happy in the slightest.

Rosie's own brow knitted at the sight. "John?" she called, "Those are Thomas's coaches, right?"

John peered out of Rosie's cab. "Oh… why, yes they are, Rosie. Why do you ask?"

"They don't seem very happy. Do you know think something happened today?"

At the same time that John said "I don't know, possibly", Rosie thought, "Definitely."

Her second thought was that it had to do with Thomas, a thought that she forced out as soon as it arose.

The signal turned green. Rosie passed through the station and left her trucks on their required siding. Afterwards, she could have left. She could have raced back through the way she'd come, eager to make it back to Vicarstown. But I knew Rosie. I knew she wouldn't do that.

And, just as I'd predicted, as Rosie came back down the tracks she put her breaks on so that she came to a stop where she could look into the coaches' shed.

"Excuse me?" Rosie asked, "Annie? Clarabel?"

The coach Rosie could see started at the engine's voice. "Oh! Oh… Oh, it's only you, Rosie."

"Oh!" exclaimed the other coach, her voice muffled by the shed's walls, "Annie, has Rosie come to say hello?"

Rosie gave them a warm smile. "Yes, I have, but… I couldn't help wondering if... you were alright? You looked rather upset when I saw you just now."

At this, Annie faltered. Then, her brows furrowed again, even more so than before. The old coach groaned, "Ohhhh, it's nothing you should concern yourself with, dear. We've just had a rotten day, that's all…"

The coaches obviously knew as little about who Rosie was as she did of them. Because she was concerned, even more now after what Annie had said.

"What?" she asked, "What happened? Did something happen while you were– ?"

"It's just James!" moaned Clarabel, "He took us on our branchline today!"

Upon hearing that name, Rosie couldn't fight her ensuing cringe. "Oh no, what did he do? Did he run out of brake fluid again?"

Annie rolled her eyes. "No, but he certainly was not fun to be around today!"

"He was grumpy all morning!" Clarabel said, "He barely said hello when he came to pick us up!"

"He made the passengers most unhappy!" Annie followed, "You would think he'd at least try to ease their tensions after they all found out that Thomas is incapacitated!"

Rosie flinched, jolted backwards an inch. The more Annie and Clarabel talked, the more it sounded like their voices were breaking.

"Excuse me?" she finally cut the coaches off. "I'm sorry if I upset you, but…"

Her voice trailed off when she saw all of the anger drain from Annie's face. Then the coach heaved a sigh, averting her eyes from Rosie's gaze again.

"Oh, I'm so sorry you had to hear that, dear," she said, her voice far softer than before.

"Yes," called Clarabel, "Sorry, Rosie. We're just… we're not very happy right now."

Rosie's boiler panged.

"…It's not just because of James, is it?"

At this, Annie winced. "…I-I'm so sorry, Rosie, but we just…" She stopped, sniffed, blinked hard. When she opened them, they were misty.

"…we just miss Thomas so much…" Clarabel finished for her sister. Her voice was as soft and small as Annie's had been. "We… it's difficult to even think about him…"

"No one has even told us what happened!" Annie wailed, "We don't even know if it's a bruise in his buffers or a breach in his boiler!"

This made Rosie's face grow pale. "You… what? You don't know what happened to him?" she asked, breathless.

"No!" exclaimed Clarabel. This time, the sheds didn't muffle at all; everyone at Knapford could easily hear the miserable coach's voice now. "The Fat Controller came to us last week and only told us that Thomas was hurt! That was it! He didn't tell us how badly he was hurt!"

Annie hmphed her agreement. "He's been gone for two weeks! I'd thought he was just going to the mainland for a goods run and that was it! What could have hurt him enough to put him in the Steamworks for this long!?"

But Rosie wasn't listening. She'd stopped when Clarabel cried that they didn't know how badly Thomas was hurt. She was not being rude, mind you. Rosie would not do such a thing. No, the poor child was remembering what she saw at Vicarstown station not that long ago, when she saw Thomas again and her world had shattered.

Rosie swallowed hard as she addressed the coaches again. "You… you don't know how bad it was?"

"No!" Annie cried, "And I cannot stand it any longer!"

"Neither can I!" Clarabel agreed, "I've hardly been able to sleep! I'm so worried about him!"

Rosie wanted to say something else. But nothing came to her. Because what sort of answer could anyone have to that?

The ensuing silence stretched. Rosie stared at Annie, and Annie stared back. Annie seemed to be searching Rosie's face, as if searching for an answer to her million questions.

Then, before Rosie had a chance to say anything more, Annie gasped, making Rosie start.

"Oh… Rosie?" Annie said in a tentative voice, "…Do you know what happened to him?"

"What?" Rosie was startled by Annie's question. "Er… I… Y-Yes, but…"

Rosie trailed off when she saw the pleading look in Annie's eyes.

"Please, Rosie," said Annie, her voice wavering, "if you do know… please, what happened to our Thomas?"

"Yes! Please tell us, Rosie!" said Clarabel, her voice mirroring her sister's. "It's made us ever so upset, please tell us what happened. How badly was he hurt? We need to know why he's been away from us for so long!"

Rosie struggled to find a response to this. She kept remembering what she'd seen, and then looked back at Annie's sweet face, and then remembered again.

The two coaches seemed to radiate love for the little tank engine; if anything were to happen to him, Rosie couldn't bear to even think of their reactions.

"…You're absolutely sure you want to know what happened?" she still asked them.

Annie looked determined. "Yes. Absolutely sure. I cannot go another day without knowing."

And Clarabel agreed, "Neither can I."

Rosie felt yet another pang in her boiler. But she still told the coaches, "…Alright. You deserve the truth."

John switched the points, then drove Rosie onto the same track as the coaches. Rosie chuffed close to them, only halting when the shed roof's shadow covered her smokebox. Before she began she let out a sigh and gave the two a very appropriate warning:

"Alright… you won't like this. At all. Thomas was hurt. Bad. He… He went to the mainland to deliver some trucks, but… he wasn't allowed to leave…"

~x~

On the day that Rosie and the island saw Thomas again after so long, she'd believed it was going to be a normal day. She'd spent the morning shunting at the Vicarstown goods yard, then made a few deliveries of her own that afternoon. She'd had some rather pleasant conversations with other engines that day as well, particularly Toby and Emily. It could have been a normal day.

But, then again, doesn't the most pleasant calm tend to precede the hurricane?

Rosie was bringing her empty trucks back to the goods yard when it happened. She'd pulled into the junction, prepared to race down the rails towards the yard, but then she heard the shrieking. It was shrill and sharp, enough to send chills through her frame. She looked towards the source of the noise – Vicarstown station, just up ahead. She squinted, and she could barely make out the events unfolding: passengers backed away from the tracks, adults held their children close or shielded their eyes, a big white diesel engine that she had never seen before passing through the station and pulling a flatbed with a small steamie perched on top of it, a steamie that was making perhaps even more noise than the humans watching.

Rosie watched the diesel approach. But then she laid her eyes on their cargo again, and her boiler lurched.

She thought she recognized him.

She did recognize him.

Then the diesel passed her, close enough to give her a full glimpse of what she dreaded. And then her world changed.

Because Thomas was the engine on that flatbed. Because most of Thomas's paint had been scraped off. Because Thomas was covered in dents and scratches and one of his front buffers was bent and he was crying his eyes out but his left eye was swollen shut and Rosie couldn't even imagine what had happened to injure it so gruesomely.

Rosie hadn't seen him since a week ago. Now he was back. And seeing him again made the color drain from Rosie's face, made her boiler run cold, made her pray that everything she'd just witnessed was just her mind's sick joke.

She sat there far longer than she should have. She only finished her mission to the goods yard when John urged her, but even then she needed to take a moment before she could move again.

She didn't find out the full story until the next day, when she earned herself the chance to ask Sir Topham Hatt. But that day, when she saw that state Thomas that was in, Rosie was already completely affected. Her day was no longer normal. Her good mood evaporated. Her mind swirled with questions and worries and that image, of Thomas on that flatbed, looking like that.

It stayed with her even as she finished her jobs for the day. My poor child, she couldn't sleep that night because of that image. Every time she shut her eyes she saw it. John had sensed his engine's distress and slept in her cab to curb her anxieties, however when she did fall asleep she only woke up in tears. She told her driver that she was worried. So, so worried. But, alongside this, she was scared to discover the truth behind that image, the reason something so horrible should have crossed anyone's vision.

That image haunted her that night, just as it does now.

~x~

Rosie couldn't bear to look at the coaches as she explained. She didn't pay their comments any mind. She only focused on ridding herself of the words. As she said them she felt a sour taste on her tongue; she still couldn't fathom why they wanted to hear this, it made her boiler ache simply thinking back on it.

When she finally finished, the only sounds in the area were the chuffs and whistles of engines entering and exiting the station nearby. Neither Rosie nor the coaches said a word.

Eventually, Rosie looked up again.

Annie had twin tear streaks running down from her eyes.

"Oh… B-But… how…? H-How could…? Oh, m-mercy…" She swallowed, choking on her words.

"B-But… that… oh Thomas!" Clarabel wailed, "Our little engine! H-He'd– He– He'd never hurt a-anyone! He– He d-didn't deserve…! He– ! How dare they treat him like that!"

Rosie sighed. Tears pricked her own eyes. "N-Nobody deserves that, Clarabel…" she said, "He… Wh-what they did was wrong… so incredibly wrong– "

"How is he now?" Annie demanded, "He– He's been at the Steamworks, right? They've b-been fixing him? H-He should be a little better now…"

Rosie winced, and that gave Annie the answer that she needed.

The old coach sniffled. "Oh, R-Rosie… I… I-I'm s-s-so…" Her voice dissolved as she sobbed quietly. Clarabel did the same.

Rosie was stunned. Even though they'd asked her to do it, she still couldn't believe she'd just done that to these old coaches. She watched and listened to them cry, wishing she had something to say that could ease their hearts.

Two sweet old coaches, brought to tears by the news of their engine's predicament. That image fit in perfectly with the rest of the island. Hearing such an observation is horrifying, yes, but it is also true. The entire island, as I have stated before, did not know what to make of the situation. They learned of what had happened to Thomas on the mainland, and they reacted similarly to Annie and Clarabel, most definitely to Rosie. They cried. They screamed. They begged to be told that it wasn't true. It followed them throughout the day, throughout the nights. When a few days passed, they were still in shock. They weren't sure if anything would be completely the same again.

Rosie realized this as well, how Annie and Clarabel in that moment reflected the rest of Sodor perfectly. And once she did, it disgusted her.

Her firebox flickered. She didn't want to see this anymore. She'd seen far too much of it as of late, and even though she totally understood why it kept occurring, she'd grown tired of it. Seeing Annie and Clarabel break down like this only intensified these feelings. She felt like she had to do something. She had to help them.

"Do you want to see him?"

She blurted it without thinking. Though, surprisingly, she did not have any regrets.

Annie and Clarabel quieted once they heard this. Annie stared open-mouthed at the red tank engine, her reddened eyes wide.

"R-Really?" she asked, her voice wobbling. "Y-You… You'd be willing to take us to him?"

John had poked his head out of Rosie's cab upon hearing the question. He looked incredulous as he eyed his engine. "Rosie… what are you– ?"

"Oh, d-dear, you're so s-sweet, Rosie," Clarabel interrupted him, "B-But… how do you know if he's fit to be seen? Is he repaired enough?"

"I'm sure he is, Clarabel," Rosie replied, "It's been a week. They've been working extremely hard on him. And Percy went to see him this morning! He's definitely fixed by now! He'll be overjoyed to see you both!"

John looked even more flabbergasted now. He began, "Rosie– !" but Annie cut him off.

"Oh, thank you, thank you Rosie!" Fresh tears streamed from Annie's eyes, but the coach was laughing. "Oh thank you!"

"Yes, Rosie! Thank you ever so much!" Clarabel continued for Annie, "Our dear Thomas! We'll see him again!"

Rosie smiled; she felt as though it was her first genuine smile in weeks. As it spread across her face, a surge of warmth spread throughout her frame.

"Alright then," she stated. "Let's go to the Steamworks!"

It took a bit of convincing for John to allow this. When he eventually said yes, Rosie coupled up to the coaches and began the journey to the Steamworks. But as they went along. Rosie could feel John's eyes burning holes into her. We can't do that, he'd told her. We just can't. What about what Stanley told you? What about what happened with Percy? Are you truly certain that he's alright with visitors after that? Rosie had asked herself the same questions, but she'd refused to answer them. She simply told John with firmness that they needed to do this, for Annie and Clarabel's sake, for Thomas's sake even.

Rosie couldn't stand watching the coaches sob like they had. She needed to make someone happy right now, and this was how she would do it.

Unfortunately, for all of her determination, my child had no power against the cruel sword of fate.

When they arrived at the Steamworks a worker stopped them before they could enter. He told them that they couldn't see Thomas, not right now, or today.

"He's sleeping right now. He's under a lot of stress. You should probably come back tomorrow."

He'd looked so sorry as he'd said it, though it didn't do anything to curb the numbing in Rosie's boiler.

As Rosie pulled away from the Steamworks, she listened to the coaches. She listened for any cries, any moans of agony. She heard nothing. That fueled her feelings even more than noise could have.

"It… It'll be alright, Annie, Clarabel," Rosie told the coaches, her tone hardening, "I swear you'll see him tomorrow. I'll take you first thing in the morning. Don't worry. You will see him again. I'll make sure of that."

And she would. She reminded herself of it long after she'd put them back in their shed and then went on her way back to Vicarstown. She'd etched it into her mind; her heart would make sure that she would not forget.

~x~

I am certain that plenty of you human listeners are confused when I refer to the machines' "hearts". After all, they have no hearts, correct? Such a question makes me laugh; isn't the answer obvious? Us machines have no biological hearts in our bodies. We have no organs that match your own, only mechanical parts that appear to "mimic" those organ functions. For example, a steam engine's firebox. That is the closest they have to a biological heart.

However, we do have spiritual hearts. These are not limited to machines, of course. Every living thing has a spiritual heart; it is what we refer to when we describe events such as "she broke my heart" or "his heart sang with joy". It is just another aspect of being alive that machines and humans share. They are also incredibly similar; if a human heart had been replaced with that of a machine, you truly would not notice. They are equally sensitive, equally breakable.

And, from what I have told you so far, it is obvious that they are equally enormous, no?

Chapter Text

Shortly after Percy had left the Steamworks, Thomas the Tank Engine closed his good eye again. He didn't fall asleep. His mind was far too busy for that. He'd learned quickly after they'd brought him back here that if he just rested his eye and looked peaceful, everyone would leave him alone. He considered it one of the only aspects of this aftermath that he was entirely content with.

I never would have thought that Thomas, of all engines, would one day push any of his friends away like he'd done to Percy. Thomas actually felt the same way. As he'd watched his best friend chuff away he'd heaved a sigh, one that sounded regretful and longing. However, only a few seconds passed before Thomas tossed that feeling away. He told himself that he was saving both himself and Percy like this. Nobody wanted to remember what had happened, especially not Thomas or any of his friends. So why should they torture each other with the reminders?

So Thomas shut his eye. He stared into the black behind his eyelid, hoping Percy would understand in due time.

He only earned himself thirty more minutes of rest before he heard his name:

"Thomas?"

For a moment he thought it was Victor. Then he analyzed the voice and realized he'd only heard it a couple times in his entire life.

"Er… Thomas? Wake up, buddy."

With a groan, Thomas opened his eye and looked down.

One of the engineers, a tall, thin man with ginger hair and an oil-stained uniform, was standing below him. He smiled and waved when Thomas's gaze landed on him.

"Hey there," he called, "Sorry for waking you up."

Thomas grunted. "…It's fine…" he mumbled.

"Uh– yes, yes, good, well, Thomas, you'll be happy to hear that we've got some good news for you."

Thomas raised his brows slightly. "Good news?"

The engineer nodded. "Yessiree. See, the good news is that, well, you're almost fixed!"

The engineer's smile seemed to widen when Thomas's brows rose even more. "Really?" the engine asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"Yep!" The engineer gestured towards Thomas as he spoke. "We've buffed out all your dents, your buffers are good as new – yeah, it took a bit of work, and you'll need one more safety check and a new coat of paint before you leave, but, yeah, you're almost good to go, buddy!"

Thomas glanced down at his own buffers, their paint as scraped as that on his sides and boiler, but now faultless. He remembered when they'd actually fixed these new buffers onto his front; it'd been just yesterday, even. He remembered how gentle the engineers had been as they removed his bent buffers, which he'd been endlessly grateful for, especially since the last time anyone had touched his buffers it was to bend them so that hot pain shot through his frame –

Thomas pulled himself out of the memory before his boiler could run any colder.

"O-Okay then, yes, thank you, so… then, when should I…?" Thomas's voice trailed off when he noticed the engineer walking away. Then he saw that he was not walking away from him but towards the series of levers off to the side. He pulled one of them, and Thomas's boiler lurched as the lift lowered him to the floor.

"Um…" Thomas watched as the engineer called over one of his colleagues, then began heaving a ladder with him over towards the little tank engine.

As I have stated before, I can feel exactly what my children are feeling in any given moment, I can see what they are thinking as they feel these things; in this moment, however, when I felt the ever-increasing twists within Thomas's boiler as he watched the two humans, I was confused at first. An amateur mistake on my part, I will admit. It took me several seconds to realize that his nervousness was not because of what the men were doing; instead, it was because he had no idea what they were going to do. He'd never had this problem during his previous trips to the Steamworks, even when in situations similar to this, when he saw the engineers approaching and couldn't fathom why they were. Even he felt confused at this development, even as he was experiencing it.

Truly, even the smallest pieces of Thomas's life were affected by what happened.

Thomas tried to swallow the fear. "Um… am I getting my safety check now, or…?"

"No matey, definitely not." The second engineer shook his head. This one was slightly shorter than the ginger-haired man, and his hair was black and pulled into a small ponytail. "You're not actually one hundred percent yet. Your frame and everything is fine for now, but…" He took a pause, tilting his head as he looked Thomas up and down. Then he pointed towards his own face.

"…we just need to treat your eye for a little while longer. That's all."

"…Oh…"

"Ehh, don't worry about it, bud," said the ginger-haired engineer, smiling at Thomas as he leaned the ladder onto his buffer beam, "Hey, at least you've still got your eye, right? Yeah, you'll be blind in it for the rest of your life, but it really could've been worse, yeah?"

Thomas's eyebrow twitched. "Yes…"

"And besides, it's not like you'll be in here for months, anyway," the engineer went on, beginning to climb up closer to the engine's face, "I can only say, thank God you machines heal much faster than us humans. Otherwise, you'd have to stay in here far longer!"

"I know…"

"What's even better is that you don't really get infections, do you? None of you machines do, really. So you don't even have to worry about that. All we have to do is just keep it clean and– "

"I know, alright!?" Thomas snapped, making the poor engineer flinch. He then huffed and grumbled under his breath, "…I know how my own body works…"

The ginger-haired engineer said nothing more. He turned to look down at the engineer with the ponytail, who simply shrugged and gestured at his companion to continue.

"Er– alright, then." The ginger-haired engineer slipped on a pair of gloves he'd attached to his belt, a pair quite separate from his standard work gloves, and then began reaching towards the bandage over Thomas's right eye.

When the little engine felt the man's hand on his face, all of his frustration seemed to disappear. He flinched, squeezing his good eye shut and clenching his teeth. The engineer immediately withdrew his hand.

"It– It's alright, buddy," he soothed, "I just have to take it off really quick and– "

"No, I know, I know, I'm just…" Thomas groaned through his teeth. "…Nothing, it's fine. I'm fine."

The ginger-haired engineer hesitated for another few seconds, then carried on with his task. With the same level of care one would give their own child if they had a wound as severe as this, he unraveled the plaster from Thomas's face. Thomas kept bracing himself as he felt the man's hand graze the scarred skin, though he didn't voice his discomfort.

When the ginger-haired engineer looked back at Thomas's right eye, after he'd completely removed and bunched the bandages into a tight bundle, he winced at what he saw.

"What?" Thomas asked, opening his good eye.

"Er– n-nothing, Thomas, really," the engineer stumbled. He climbed down the ladder to toss the bundle into the trash bin the engineer with the ponytail had swiftly brought over. Then, a third workman approached, one wearing black overalls rather than the standard blue. He carried a bucket of soapy liquid, along with some thick cloth and another roll of bandages.

He handed them to the engineer with the ponytail, who handed them to the ginger-haired engineer, who briefly thanked them before climbing up the ladder once again.

Thomas watched the man move nearer to his bad eye again, watched him slip the bucket handle into the inside of his elbow and dip the cloth into the liquid.

"Alright, this may sting a little," he warned Thomas, holding up the soaked cloth, "You ready?"

Thomas felt like groaning again. He resisted and simply told the engineer, "Yes, fine, I'm fine… I'm ready…"

The engineer gave him a curt nod, then began wiping down the right side of Thomas's face.

Thomas couldn't help squirming under the engineer's touch. The engineer hadn't been lying, the soap definitely stung, except that wasn't the only source of his discomfort. As the cloth grazed his scars he remembered how he received them in the first place. I could feel his firebox sparking, even though it had been long-since cleared out. I could hear him telling himself over and over again: It's going to be fine, it's going to be fine, it's going to be fine.

Then there came a series of noises that made that mantra fall to pieces.

Poor little Kevin the Mobile Crane, he had the misfortune of racing into the room carrying a load of boiler tubes. He stopped a bit too suddenly and, before he could even try to stop them, the tubes fell to the ground with a hard clatter.

The noise made Thomas gasp and open his eye wide. And things only got worse from there.

Because the noise of Kevin dropping the boiler tubes didn't only frighten Thomas. It frightened every engineer in the area, including those working with the molds that would produce new steel parts. They'd just finished creating a sheet of clean metal, and were now pulling it free to make room for a fresh round of molten steel. But one of the two workers flinched so hard at Kevin's mishap that he lost his grip on his tool, and the steel dropped back into the mold and the excess slag with a sharp hiss.

That hiss travelled across the room and struck Thomas like a crowbar. He heard it and all of a sudden he was not in the Steamworks anymore. That hiss took him back to the last time he'd heard such a noise, when he'd heard it so often that he'd barely been able to sleep. It took him back to when he'd heard that sound so closely and so loudly, to when he'd felt the worst pain of his entire life, when he'd first received the injury that had given him those putrid scars.

Thomas gasped, his entire frame freezing over. He started, jumped – then, he let out a loud yelp as pain flooded the left side of his face once again.

Because Thomas jumping, along with the sizzle of the slag and the clatter of the tubes, startled the ginger-haired engineer so much that he'd lost his balance on the ladder and had to struggle to regain it. Unfortunately, in that struggle, the poor man's hand accidentally shot forwards and poked the little engine's injured eye with the disinfecting cloth.

Everyone watching the scene let out a gasp. Some were silent, others were not.

The ginger-haired engineer slapped his free hand to his mouth as he looked down at Thomas, who'd squeezed both of his eyes shut and bitten down hard on his lower lip. His shoulders sagged as Thomas let out a low whine. "Oh my goodness… oh, Thomas, buddy, I am so, so sorry, are you alright? I didn't mean to– "

"N-No, i-i-it's alright," Thomas strained through clenched teeth, "I-It's– "

The ginger-haired engineer ignored him. "No, seriously, Thomas, I'm so sorry." He reached out to touch the engine's cheek. "How is your eye? I didn't hurt you too badly, did I– ?"

"NO!"

The ginger-haired engineer flinched again, his hand retreating in an instant. This time, he actually appeared quite scared as he looked down at the tank engine's face, and I completely understood why.

Thomas was scowling. He'd bared his teeth at the engineer, opened his good eye to reveal the pure anger swirling in it. It was watering, he had a lone tear streaming down his cheek, but his rage still shone through.

That look that he gave the ginger-haired engineer could have burned through steel.

"I'm fine…" Thomas growled, glancing away from the engineer to stare at the ground once more, "….Please, just… just get it over with…"

The ginger-haired engineer did not do as Thomas said. He continued to stare at him; I'm assuming he was taking in everything that was new about the little engine, from his bad eye to his sudden snappiness.

Now, this engineer did not know Thomas personally. He'd never driven him, he'd never seen him outside of the Steamworks. Even when he had worked on him within the Steamworks he'd never engaged in any conversation with the engine, he'd never even told him his name. But Thomas was an engine that everyone knew, even if they'd never spoken to him before. He was just that talked about all over Sodor. The ginger-haired engineer's coworkers had told an endless supply of stories about him, all detailing how cheeky yet kind, how troublesome yet charismatic the little tank engine truly was.

But this little tank engine sitting right in front of him? He was nothing like that in the stories. I imagine the engineer was thinking about the exact same thing that Percy had a mere half-hour ago; about how different he was now, about what had happened to make him like this.

The ginger-haired engineer took another few seconds before he continued wiping down Thomas's face. Though he'd been gentle before, this time he appeared so gentle that he seemed to be barely touching his face at all.

Thomas didn't squirm this time. He just kept scowling at the ground. But inside of him, there seemed to be a war waging. His anxieties had returned, though he kept trying to push them down. He repeated the same mantra as before – "It's going to be FINE." – though it didn't seem to be helping him at all. In fact, it seemed like he could not have been more upset as he did right then.

Unbeknownst to Thomas or the engineers who'd been working on him, Victor had sped into the room upon hearing the earlier commotion. He hadn't said anything as he'd watched the engineer accidentally harm Thomas, as the little tank engine had growled at him to continue treating him, even though it had sounded like Thomas wanted to bite his hand off.

As the engineer finally finished his job and climbed down from the ladder to grab some fresh bandages from his coworkers, Victor glanced at Thomas and winced.

Then, the light sound of a hook tapping Victor's boiler diverted the narrow gauge engine's attention away from Thomas.

"S-Sorry, boss…" Kevin stood there, his hook drooping so low it almost touched the floor. He bit his lip as he looked at Victor with clouded eyes. "I… I-I tried to be careful, b-but… th-they just…"

"Hey, it's alright, little buddy," Victor whispered, his voice as soothing as ever, "You didn't mean to drop those boiler tubes. It was just an accident– "

"Y-yeah, but… I-I just wish it didn't… y'know…" Kevin's voice dropped so low that one could barely hear him. "…I just wish I hadn't scared Thomas like that…"

Victor's firebox sparked. He looked back at the tank engine, who was now having the left side of his face swathed in yet another wrap. He furrowed his brow, suddenly serious.

"…Boss?" Kevin piped up, "Are… are you okay?"

"…Yes, Kevin. I'm fine," Victor muttered. He began to back into the other room. "Come on, now. We have work to do."

Kevin still didn't appear entirely comfortable, though he still raced away, in search of his next load to carry.

As he watched his good friend speed off, Victor's facial expression softened. Later that day he would give Kevin a full, reassuring talk, though I could feel his regret at not doing it then. However, Victor had had only two things on his mind then, both of which stopped him from talking further with Kevin; both his thoughts of work, and his thoughts of Thomas.

The day proceeded; Victor continued pushing flatbeds, Kevin carried loads of parts, and the engineers made new parts or helped any machines that came in for any repairs or refurbishments. Thomas remained at the very back of the room, keeping his eye shut once more. None of the engineers spoke to him again for the rest of the afternoon. None of them so much as talked to each other about him, thought I could see that they all had him on their minds.

One worker did have to speak about him though, however it was only to tell a very disheartened red tank engine and her two old coaches that they had to stay away from him for now.

Only when night fell did anyone speak to him again. Numerous engineers had to leave work and return to their families for the night, and before they left a handful of them bid Thomas a quick goodnight. He only gave them quick grunts in reply, however whenever a worker uttered a "Sleep Well", a flash of frustration sparked in his firebox, and I couldn't help wincing.

Because for the past two weeks, the poor thing hadn't slept very well at all. Not even after they'd brought him home had he slept well. It wasn't because the Steamworks made it difficult to sleep, in fact, for the past seven nights, the area had been devoid of activity, perhaps the most since it had first been built. No one had suffered any accidents that had warranted an overnight stay, and most deliveries had occurred during the day. Thomas should have been sleeping as if he was back in his comfy shed again.

But he didn't. When he shut his eyes something would always keep him in the waking realm, as if holding him back with chains. Memories would swarm his mind, tension would grip his frame. Even when he did manage to fall asleep he would either awaken prematurely, or feeling as if he hadn't slept at all; something had happened in the middle of the night that had made rest near impossible.

But, as the stars crept across the sky and the sounds from the workers lowered, that frustration Thomas had felt dissipated. His brow smoothed out, though he still didn't look happy.

As his eyelid fluttered closed and exhaustion overwhelmed him, Thomas sighed and quietly prayed that tonight would be different.

I heard his prayer. Oh, how I heard it. I heard it, and I felt it.

I answered him, bidding this night to be the most peaceful he'd ever had, with no interruptions, filled with dreams of his work and his friends and the family he had waiting for him to return to Tidmouth sheds. My poor child deserved at least one night like that, especially now.

But some would argue that I should have known better. I had bid this on every night before, from the moment he'd arrived back home to now.

And, based on what I have already told you, what I bid clearly has very little effect on what actually occurs, no?

That night, Thomas did sleep, however his dreams did not contain a trace of his family, his friends, or even Sodor. They did to him the same as they'd done throughout the week, when he'd actually trusted his mind enough to succumb to the night, making him feel like he was reliving the same pain he'd endured for a week and thought that he'd have to endure until his wheels and frame were nothing but dust.

All he'd wanted was one peaceful night.

~x~

Thomas opened his eyes and groaned. His axels ached, his frame creaked, and his smokebox wouldn't stop throbbing. He couldn't believe it; the Steamworks was at its absolute quietest thanks to all the workers leaving for the night, and yet he still couldn't keep his eyes shut for more than a few hours. Not even the fact that he was no longer suspended on the lift, rather sitting on the familiar track below it, gave him enough comfort to relax.

"Ngh…I… I must get some rest…." he muttered, "R-Really useful engines need their sleep… and…

"…and they don't remember things like that… th-they don't… I can't keep remembering it… Th-The Fat Controller will never let me go back to work if I don't forget– "

Then, a loud crash sounded outside, startling Thomas out of his thoughts.

For a few moments Thomas didn't say anything. He simply stared with wide-eyes at the Steamworks' still opened doors, into the darkened area outside the building.

"…Victor?"

No answer.

"V-Victor? Kevin?" he tried again, a little louder this time, "Is that you?"

Only silence answered him.

Thomas furrowed his brow.

For whatever reason, he found himself drawn to the noise that had startled him.

He began to roll forwards, equal parts intrigued and confused. He moved with little hesitation.

He rode over the small turntable, out of the building. "Victor? Kevin?" he called once more in a hushed voice, letting out a few light peeps of his whistle at the same time, "Anyone? Are you there?"

Still, no one answered him.

But then, Thomas had to stop. He looked straight ahead, squinting.

He didn't find what he was looking for. Neither Victor, Kevin, nor any other machines or any of the workers came out to see him. He didn't hear any more sounds that caught him off of his guard.

Rather, in the distance, he saw a light. A floating light. It approached him, accompanied by the distinct rumble of wheels on the track.

Then, at the same time that Thomas realized that the light was from an engine's lamp, and that he could also hear the chuff of a steam engine alongside the rumbling, a second light appeared. It emerged from the shadows behind the first lamp, far lower to the ground, and switched to the track beside it.

Thomas squinted harder and turned on his own lamp, clearly trying to distinguish who the two machines were, what they could want at this time of night.

He did not seem to realize how close they actually were to him. They entered his lamp's glow far sooner than he'd expected, however that was not what made him gasp.

He recognized the two engines. Their faces had been, dare I say it, burned into his mind. They shredded every ounce of calmness he might've possessed, making his entire frame freeze over.

The large reddish-brown steam engine sat on the tracks to the right of Thomas, those that ran into the other end of the Steamworks. He fixed Thomas with a cold stare, his eyes blazing. And the diesel engine, her teal livery all-too familiar in Thomas's mind, she sat on the same tracks as Thomas, so that she could speed up and smash his buffers if she wanted to. But it seemed as though her eyes were paralyzing him the most.

They were just as icy as he'd remembered them, even icier than the steam engine's. They cut through Thomas's frame, into his heart.

The diesel engine sported the same deep frown as the steam engine. However, once she saw Thomas's expression, her upper lip curled into a snarl.

"Did you honestly believe we'd let you get away from us, little tank engine?"

"N-No…" Thomas's throat felt like he'd swallowed a load of sand. He began to roll backwards. "…N-N-No…Y-You… Y-You didn't– "

"Oh, but we did," hissed the steam engine, narrowing his eyes at the little tank engine, "You know you shouldn't have left us with all that work on our own…"

"N-No… N-No no no…!"

"Do you know how hard it is for just two engines to do all of that work!? Do you!?" the diesel engine growled, her eyes wild as she picked up her pace ever so slightly. "Well, I'm sick of it! I'm sick of you leaving us to grovel on our own! It's time you faced the consequences!"

"NO!" Thomas screwed his eyes shut, his voice rising to a desperate cry. "No! Y-You can't do anything to me! You can't take me back there! I-I'm home now! They stopped you! Y-You can't hurt me anymore– !"

"Oh, but we can."

The new voice sent Thomas into an even deeper panic. He opened his eyes to see a man, dressed in a dark red suit, step out of the diesel engine's cab, looking at Thomas with the same cold stare that his engines shared.

Some might tentatively compare the way he was looking at Thomas to how Sir Topham would whenever he discovered one of the little engine's mishaps. But I vehemently disagree. Even when at his angriest, Sir Topham's eyes had never possessed that sheer hatred that that man's had, that glint that betrayed a desire to deliver far harsher punishments than anything the Northwestern's controller had ever done to a machine.

The sorts of punishments he imposed, Sir Topham would never even think about.

The man walked slowly towards Thomas, lifting what looked like a coil of rope in his right hand. Then Thomas saw the handle and the frayed edges of one of the ends, and he felt as though he couldn't breathe.

My poor child, upon seeing the weapon, he raced backwards into the Steamworks as fast as he could.

"Run, Thomas! Run!"

A pair of voices echoed in his mind. He'd heard them before so many times, except this time they sounded as if they'd been ripped right from his memory.

"Go Thomas! Keep running! Just run, Thomas! JUST RUN!"

"No! No! Stay away from me!" he cried at his tormentors, squeezing his eyes shut yet again. A few tears seeped out from under his closed lids. "I-I won't let you hurt me! I'm safe now! You're gone! You're all gone! You can't– !"

Thomas bumped into a set of buffers then, halting him. A sudden rush of heat washed over his frame. He opened his eyes, glanced around. He let out a mix of a cry and a gasp, his face growing pale.

The Steamworks had disappeared. Everywhere Thomas looked, he saw the place that he'd been so desperate to forget: the massive steelworks building where ladle cars full of boiling slag were always rushing past, gigantic magnets were always humming, and the sounds of scraping metal, furious shouts, and sizzling melted steel were always present.

Thomas stood there, frozen to the spot. Just when he'd prepared his wheels to whisk him away from this dreadful place, one of those magnets shot down and snagged him by the cab with a loud clang. It lifted the struggling engine an inch off the ground, suspending him in midair.

"NO NO NO!" Now the tears were stinging Thomas's eyes as they streamed down his cheeks. He wrenched his body back and forth, but the magnet held onto him fast. He could only watch as the man approached him at that same slow, ominous pace.

Soon, the man was close enough to Thomas to smack him. He gripped the coiled whip he'd brought until his knuckles were white.

"You've been a very naughty engine," the man said, his voice low and rough, "Running away from us, shirking your duties…" He lifted the whip, giving Thomas a perfect view of it. "…you ought to know better by now. We do not tolerate naughty engines around here. You deserve everything you're getting…"

"NO! Get away from me! Just stay away!" Thomas screamed, "I'm not your engine! I never wanted any of this! Why can't you just leave me alone!?"

The man narrowed his eyes at him, scoffing. "…You pathetic, disgusting little creature…" he muttered.

As the man began uncoiling his weapon Thomas went silent. His eyes flickered towards the diesel and the steam engine, who sat just behind the man. The bright light of the molten slag in the nearby vats shone against their paintwork, painting them in a harsh glow and illuminating their nameplates – FRANKIE and HURRICANE, respectively – to remind Thomas of exactly which engines sat there and watched as their manager treated him like an animal.

The steam engine seemed indifferent, looking at the floor as if waiting for this to be over with. But the diesel engine kept staring Thomas right in the eyes, her eyes wide and her cheek twitching. Her eyes glowed with a hatred that Thomas had never seen before in another creature, let alone another engine.

"N-No!" Thomas kept wriggling against his bonds, involuntary cries escaping him. "No! No! You can't hurt me! You won't!"

The man said nothing and took one step forwards.

"NO! G-Get away! STOP IT!"

The voices returned, just as frantic as before, but Thomas could do nothing about them:

"Run, Thomas! Keep running! Get out of here! Just run, Thomas! Just RUN!"

"NO, SIR! PLEASE NO! DON'T– !"

Then the whip came down.

~x~

Thomas woke up then, screaming and thrashing as if he was back at the Steelworks.

"NO! NO! GET AWAY! STOP IT! PLEASE!"

His cries rattled the entire Steamworks. Several workers jumped backwards upon hearing him, stark terror in their eyes. Kevin had been carrying yet another load, but when Thomas's screech reached him it clattered to the floor just as the boiler tubes had done just that afternoon.

"Thomas!" Victor raced into the room, his eyes darting around for the little blue engine. "Thomas! Thomas!"

He sped towards the trembling engine as fast as his wheels could carry him, stopping only when he bumped into the buffers. "Thomas! My friend, what is it? What happened?"

Thomas didn't pay Victor or his question any mind. His frame shook with his every sob. Syllables kept tumbling out of his mouth, as if his crying was slicing his words in half.

"What's happened?" A worker rushed in and turned to Victor. "Victor, what's wrong with him?"

Victor, still watching Thomas, winced. "He's had another nightmare… I think it might have been the same as last time…"

The worker adopted Victor's pained expression. "Oh no…"

As Victor called Thomas's name again, more workers flooded the area, all rushing towards the terrified engine. One of them was the engineer with his hair in a ponytail from earlier that day, the one who'd helped the ginger-haired engineer treat Thomas's eye. He walked the closest to Thomas, worry shining in his eyes.

"Thomas, hey, matey don't panic, it's alright," he said, his voice barely audible over Thomas's sobs. He placed a hand on the little engine's buffer beam. "You're safe now– "

"NO!"

The engineer snapped his hand back to his side immediately after Thomas shrieked and jolted forwards, scaring the poor man and the rest of his colleagues into each leaping a foot backwards.

"NO! DON'T TOUCH ME!" Thomas gave everyone in the room a stare of pure terror, his good eye wide open and his breaths coming in shallow gasps. "JUST STAY AWAY! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Thomas prepared to scream more. Then, there came a loud whistle and a shout that made even the engineers flinch.

"Thomas!"

The entire Steamworks fell silent. Thomas looked towards the source of the shout: Victor, who was panting himself due to the effort he'd put into creating such a loud noise in his small whistle.

Despite this, Victor's facial expression only contained the same worry that he'd had since Thomas had disappeared on the Mainland.

"My friend." Victor's voice was as cool and soothing as it had ever been. "It's alright. It was only a dream."

Thomas still appeared shaken, though Victor's words seemed to bring him back to reality. He looked around the room, at the many engineers that had rushed to help, each looking just as concerned as Victor.

Eventually, his gaze settled on the floor again.

It felt like a long while before he tried speaking again.

"…S-Sorry...I-I-I s-saw them again…" His voice was so quiet, it was a wonder anyone heard him at all. "Th-They… I… I-I'm sorry, but– "

"Don't apologize, my friend," Victor interrupted, a soft smile on his lips, "You have nothing to be sorry for. It was only a dream. You're safe now– "

"I-I was back there, Victor!" Thomas suddenly cried, his face crumpling as tears filled his good eye once again. "Th-They… I saw them! They came to bring me back! They whipped– !"

"Thomas, that was not real." Victor cut him off yet again, yet this time his tone had a soft edge. "You are not on the Mainland anymore. You are not in the Steelworks. You're on Sodor. You are home. You're safe. Everything is okay, I promise you."

Thomas sniffed and looked his friend in the eye. "But… B-But…" He struggled to find any words to counter Victor's affirmations.

Eventually his struggles died and he fell silent. He looked to the ground again, thoughtful.

The entire room appeared to hold in a collective breath as they waited for the little tank engine's response.

Then, after what felt like another long while, Thomas took in a ragged breath, let it out, and mumbled "…Okay…"

That collective held breath came rushing out of the engineers and out of Victor. "Good," said the engineer with the ponytail as his coworkers dispersed, "Just… try to go back to sleep, alright mate? You're safe with us, I promise."

A few of the other engineers voiced their agreement, telling Thomas not to worry and that everything would be fine as they exited the room. Thomas didn't reply. He kept his eyes on the ground, looking both very exhausted and very unsure at the same time.

The engineer with the ponytail had his hands close to his chest. He looked like he wanted to give Thomas's buffer beam another reassuring touch, but then he seemed to think better of it and left the little tank engine with just a simple "Goodnight".

Victor was the last one to take his attention off of Thomas. He kept watching him, as if waiting for him to fall back asleep or to see if he'd have another extreme reaction, and only rolled away when Kevin came up next to him and tentatively whispered that the engineers had work for them to do. Even when he finally left the room and got to that work Victor did not seem entirely focused, and neither did Kevin, nor any of the engineers.

After they'd witnessed an event such as that, is it any wonder that they were all distracted?

As the engineers left him, Thomas let out an inaudible sigh. He looked even more tired now, however his mind made it impossible for him to even think about rest. He remembered his nightmare. He remembered the whip in the Steelworks manager's hand. He remembered the overwhelming heat of the molten slag. He remembered those two engines – neither of them had cared about his agony. He remembered the two voices who'd begged for him to get away. He remembered the whip striking him, and he remembered the unbearable burn in his face from its impact.

Thomas did not sleep again that night.

Chapter Text

"Alright then, Bridget, Stephen, you all ready for your harbor trip?"

"Absolutely, grandfather!"

"Splendid. Alright, are your life jackets tight enough?"

"Grandfather, we've checked them twice, now. They're fine."

"Oh, but you can never be too safe, Stephen. Do you remember when Skiff and I got lost at sea when we weren't ready to go?"

"Hee hee! Of course we do!"

"Well then, now you see how important it is to stay safe! Now, Skiff and Jason will take good care of you. Are you sure you're alright with going on your own? You don't mind if I stay back here and– ?"

"Yes, grandfather!"

"Alright, alright, I was only making sure. You two have fun and take care! I love you both!"

These were the last words Sir Topham Hatt exchanged with his two grandchildren before Skiff the Railboat took them with a splash into the Arlesburgh harbor. He'd promised them the trip after his last attempt had failed, however his duties as railway controller had left him unable to carry out the plan until now.

It was not an ideal time to try again, actually. Those duties of his had not lightened at all, he was just as busy as he had been for the past week; in just that morning alone, the morning when James had raced out of Tidmouth in a huff to run Thomas's branchline and Percy had to deliver those paint cans to the Steamworks, the poor man had had to swap around no less than seven engines, including Rosie for that goods train to Knapford.

Despite that, he'd still met his wife and their grandchildren outside his office a little after lunchtime and, after a quick goodbye to Lady Hatt, he took Bridget and Stephen in Winston the Track Inspection Car down to Arlesburgh, promising them that Skiff would give them an absolutely fabulous trip this time around.

Even more calls to swap engines would soon follow his departure; however, as much as they'd protested, he'd left his two assistants to take over in his stead.

I believe I know the reason why he'd made this decision like this. I believe he wanted to prevent his grandchildren from worrying about him, and to get away from that office full of work so that he could stop worrying as well. Even if for a few hours, he'd needed to get away.

It seemed as though he was not the only one in need of a break from his job; rather than sailing with his own captain, Joe, Skiff was sailing with one of Joe's good sailor friends from the harbor, Jason. I do not blame him for that decision, since he and Skiff had been making nonstop tour journeys ever since eight in the morning.

So, with Bridget and Stephen happy and Sailor Jason guiding Skiff along their journey, Sir Topham Hatt and Captain Joe simply walked along the harbor, engaged in an amicable conversation as they went along.

The conversation did concern the goings-on on the railway, and they made no "small talk" as some would say, but I believe that that might've been because Sir Topham still wanted to put on an air of professionalism even though he was out of his office.

"So, Joe, how have the days been treating you, lately? How have the tours been?"

"Oh, it's been busy as ever, that tends to happen in the springtime, but aside from that it's been grand! Just the other day we had a tourist whose young daughter could not stop talking about how much she loved the colors of the ocean!"

"Did she really?" Sir Topham chuckled. "Now, that's the kind of child I've had loads of experience with! I can't tell you how many times a young one has come up to me just to say that they love all the engines! Oh, it's adorable…"

I could see the stress beginning to leave Sir Topham's face as he spoke. It warmed my firebox seeing the man actually put a genuine smile, however small, on his face. After all that he'd had to endure for the past few days, he deserved at least a small amount of levity. They all did.

Though in hindsight, after what he said next, it pains me that the moment could not have lasted longer.

"In any case, how has Skiff been?"

Captain Joe's face instantly perked at the little railboat's name. "He's been really well, actually. Very well."

"Really?"

"Of course. I swear, he's the happiest little boat I've ever seen. He's always so optimistic, telling me every day that he thinks it'll be a great day!"

"Wow… did something particularly good happen to him lately?"

"No, he's just… a very happy little boat! He's far happier than Duck or Oliver, anyway."

At this, Sir Topham's contented smile disappeared. "…Really?"

Joe shrugged. "Yes, they've both been ever so down-in-the-mouth lately. Actually, whenever they go by, Skiff always tries to cheer them up! It's rather sweet, I think."

The entire time they'd been walking Sir Topham had had his head up, his eyes bright as they scanned the areas they passed. But now, after those statements from Joe, he lowered his head until he was looking down at the red bricks below him.

"Mm," he muttered, "I see…"

Joe, bless him, tried to continue the conversation, though after Sir Topham only kept answering with small, blunt words – such as "Yes" and "Really?" and "Hmm" – he stopped talking altogether.

The two of them finally stopped walking when they reached the lighthouse. They leaned over the railings and looked out at the ocean, waves lapping at the foundation below and the salty sea wind blowing against their clothes. Neither of them spoke again for a few minutes.

Joe was the one who broke the silence, but only after he looked at Sir Topham's face and saw his downcast expression.

"Sir?" Joe frowned, furrowing his brow. "Are you alright?"

"…Yes, Joe," Sir Topham replied in a low voice, "I just have a lot on my mind right now."

Another pause, lasting far longer.

Joe had to break it once more:

"…How is Thomas doing?"

Upon hearing the name Sir Topham looked even more pained. He winced, taking off his hat to run a hand over his bald head.

"…Not so good, I'm afraid…" As hesitant as the man had seemed about giving this information to others – especially to regular passengers on my child's branch line, who were constantly inquiring about when the little engine would return to them – to the point of refusing to tell it at all, when Joe asked about it, Sir Topham sounded as if he couldn't get the words out fast enough.

"He's… he's fully repaired now, but it'll be a while before he can go back to work. They… damaged his eye enough to blind it, so he'll need plenty of practice riding the rails with only one eye…"

Joe, just like everyone else on the island, had heard the story of what happened to Thomas long before now. But he was clearly one of many who hadn't known every detail; he'd most likely only heard the abridged version of the story, just like Annie and Clarabel had, which only told that that Mainland Steelworks had held Thomas captive and had hurt him in ways no engine on Sodor had ever been hurt before.

So when Sir Topham told him how they damaged Thomas's eye, the many ways in which they hurt him, the man, understandably, turned pale. "Dear Lord… that-that's awful! How could anyone do something like that to a machine?"

"I don't know!" Sir Topham's solemnness suddenly shifted and he became indignant. He strained out a groan as he pulled his hat back over his head. "It's disgraceful! Absolutely despicable! Treating my engine like that!"

Just as I have said before, up until now Sir Topham had always refused to give details on the situation to all but a select few. But it seemed as though now, after all of the stress he'd been under, chatting with Joe did the same to him what speaking with her driver had done for Rosie earlier that morning; as soon as a few words came out, a flood of them followed.

"But…. The truth is, Joe, that isn't the only thing I'm worried about," Sir Topham went on, "I'm dreadfully worried about him. He hasn't been the same engine since we brought him back. Not at all. The engineers at the Steamworks have told me, those Steelworks workers did far more damage than we'd ever thought. He can't sleep very well, he's so nervous all the time, he hates to be touched, he's snappier than he's ever been… I've never imagined that Thomas would ever snap at anyone!"

Joe winced. "Sir…"

Sir Topham replied with only a huff, turning away from his friend and slamming his hands on the railing this time.

The loud clang seemed to bring him out of his anger, and his shoulders slumped as he let out a sigh.

"…I'm just not sure what to do with him… I want to help him so much, but… oh, I don't know, I just don't know how I can…"

Captain Joe was completely silent. He did open his mouth as if to answer, though nothing came out. He closed it and turned back to the sea.

Yet another long pause proceeded. All anyone could hear were the sounds of the ocean waves, gulls squawking, and the nearby chatter and footsteps of the occasional passers-by. It seemed as though both men had to stop periodically to let their thoughts catch up to them, so to speak.

This time, however, Sir Topham was the one to speak up again.

"…It'll be even tougher for him to go back to work without Bob or William to help him…"

At this statement, Joe let out an even louder wince. "Ooh…Oh yes… that's right…"

They were, of course, referring to Thomas's driver, Bob, and his fireman, William. They'd been with the little engine since he'd been built, worked with him long before Sir Topham had purchased him and brought him to Sodor.

"…Have their families begun planning services for them?"

"Yes."

"…Have you been invited?"

"Of course. I was good friends with both of them."

"Okay. When do you have to go?"

"Bob's is in three days. William's isn't until next week."

"Mm… I still can't believe that… how could anyone be capable of that?"

Sir Topham sighed, leaning his cheek against his palm. "I don't know…. I know there are some truly awful people on Earth, but…."

He said nothing more. He did not need to. The pain and fire clouding his eyes said far more than words ever could.

Joe winced again. "…poor Thomas…" he muttered, shaking his head, "…Well, we can only hope that he gets better, right?"

Then, Sir Topham, seemingly out of nowhere, furrowed his brow. He looked at Joe's face, one eyebrow raised.

"Joe," he said, his tone suddenly suspicious, "…is Skiff really as happy as you say he is?"

At this, Joe looked even more uncomfortable. He inwardly sighed and bit his lip, silent.

"…He's not, is he?" Sir Topham went on, "Joe, I'm only asking because I know he can't be completely cheerful after what happened to Thomas. He…. Have you even told him what happened to Thomas?"

"I, er… yes, I have, sir, but– "

"So what's really going on?" Sir Topham's voice had gained a slight edge. Not enough to convey rage, but just enough to send a chill through my boiler. "Skiff cannot be that happy if he knows that his friend had suffered like that! He– !"

"Whoa, sir, calm down," Joe interrupted. His voice was cool, but his frantic words betrayed his nervousness. "I… I wasn't lying when I said Skiff is optimistic. I don't know if he's truly happy, but… he's doing his best to keep everyone else happy. Oh, when I first told him, he was the complete opposite. I had to stay with him that evening just to make sure that he stopped crying. But after that…. he started noticing how upset everyone else was. So he…. Just kept smiling. For them. I think he just thinks it's the only way he can help."

Sir Topham, much to my surprise, only groaned at this information. He turned away from Joe, his fingers now drumming against the side of his temple.

Joe took a moment before leaning against the railing again, his face far less relaxed than it had been before.

Once again, it took a bit of time before either man said anything more. Sir Topham's eyes lost their flames again, and he sighed, refusing to look back at Joe.

"…Er, sorry about that, Joe," he said, "I'm just… frustrated."

Joe merely shrugged. "Oh… it's alright, sir. I completely understand," he replied, "Everyone's worried. It's only natural.

"…Still, I think Skiff has the right idea here."

"What?" Sir Topham snapped his head back up to stare at Joe.

"There's just no use worrying about it all the time," Joe explained, "All we can do is help the poor lad, and each other. We can't do that if we just keep being so negative. When Thomas comes back, what's he going to think when he sees the entire island miserable? That definitely won't help him, so why bother worrying?"

Sir Topham only appeared to get more annoyed at Joe's words. "Joe– "

"Besides, even if he isn't coping well now, who's to say he won't get better soon?" Joe went on, "That's what happened with Skiff, after all."

Sir Topham had had his mouth open, perhaps to argue his own point further, however when Joe mentioned Skiff, he adopted a look of confusion. "…excuse me?"

"Sailor John," Joe stated. I saw a brief flash of flame in his eyes as he spat the name. "Skiff told me, that pirate treated him horribly. He treated him like absolute rubbish, even when Skiff followed his every order. He wouldn't stop kicking him, and Skiff, bless his little soul, he told me he'd lost count of every time he'd threatened to tear him apart!

"But now look: Skiff is absolutely fine. He was mistreated, but he came through after that. He hasn't had any nightmares or anything. He's not even skittish. If you ask me, it doesn't look like his time with Sailor John affected him at all! He told me just the other day, what that pirate did to him was wring, but he knows that things can only get better. Who are we to say that Thomas won't think the same?"

"Joe." Sir Topham seemed to resist snapping at his friend now, however he still said his name as if he was physically disgusted by it. "How do you know Skiff wasn't really affected? How do you know he isn't just telling you that so you don't worry about him?"

Joe's expression turned slightly stony at this. "Sir. When I became Skiff's captain I promised him I would never keep secrets from him, and he promised the same for me. If he isn't feeling alright, he would tell me. If Sailor John is on his mind, he would tell me. Skiff would never lie to me about that.

"Sir, I'm not saying that Thomas has to just 'get over' what happened to him, definitely not," he added when Sir Topham looked as if he would interrupt him again. "I only mean that there might be a chance that you're worrying over nothing. All Skiff needed was a new job and everyone at Arlesburgh to support him. Maybe that's all Thomas needs as well."

Once again, Sir Topham fell silent, apparently unable to counter Captain Joe's statements. I do not believe that he simply couldn't find the words to say; I could see in his eyes, he had plenty to say about what his friend was proposing. No, my dear listeners. I saw him gritting his teeth, clenching and unclenching his fists, and concluded that the poor man was simply trying to control his anger.

I won't lie to you all: upon realizing this fact, I was flabbergasted. The Northwestern's controller had never been this easy to set off before. I definitely felt a sliver of fear at seeing him ready to shout at his good friend if he dared to say anything more. I was certain that Sir Topham was feeling the same way; how could such a kind and patient man all of a sudden become so easy to enrage?

I am certain that you all can guess the answer to that question, dear listeners. Everyone else on the island could as well. Sir Topham himself surely knew.

I'd seen him withhold it like that several times before within the past week. He'd done it in his office at Knapford, when he'd received yet another call that an engine needed to be swapped out. He'd done it when one of his assistants had told him that a supply of goods from the Mainland needed to be delayed for an indefinite number of days. He'd even done it at home, in the evening, after the stress of the day had weighed on him enough.

I could tell he was disgusted with himself for acting like this, which was most likely the reason why he kept checking himself to make sure he didn't snap at anyone.

Unfortunately, what happened next seemed to make Sir Topham forget all of that.

"Excuse me, but, are you Sir Topham Hatt, the Northwestern Railway controller?"

Sir Topham turned around.

Just behind him and Captain Joe stood a young man of around twenty years or so, dressed in a simple coat and long pants. He'd arrived just a little bit before Joe had begun talking about Skiff, and had remained in that spot until the two men gave him a long enough silence for him to speak up.

But when Sir Topham saw him, along with the clipboard and pencil he held in his arms, he looked as though he could not be more displeased.

He furrowed his brow, muttering so quietly that really only I could hear him, "Ohh… give me strength…"

Despite this, the young man only smiled as he approached Sir Topham and Joe. "Yes yes, you are Sir Hatt, right?" he said, holding up his clipboard, "I'm with the Sodor Times, sir, and I would love for you to take the time to answer a few questions for me!"

The man's chipper tone only seemed to annoy Sir Topham further. "First of all, it is Sir Topham, not Sir Hatt," he growled, folding his arms, "and secondly, I thought I told you all I wasn't interested in talking to you all right now…"

Joe, still standing beside Sir Topham, regarded the newcomer with a look of confusion. "Sir?" he asked in a whisper, "What do the Sodor Times want with you?"

Sir Topham, continuing to shock me, did not even look sorry as he rolled his eyes. "Oh, the same thing they wanted the last time they came here…" he hissed under his breath, "…You'll have to excuse me for a moment Joe, I need to take care of this…"

And so he began to approach the young reporter, motioning for him to come with him, leaving Joe looking quite confused and worried.

"Oh, thank you so much, sir!" said the reporter as Sir Topham led him past the nearest building, into a space clear of any passers-by. "I promise, this won't take a minute. Please, tell me, how do you feel knowing that one of your engines is– ?"

"Listen, you…"

The reporter actually flinched as Sir Topham swiftly cut him off, his voice as sharp as a knife. He pointed an accusatory finger at the young man, an inferno spiraling in his eyes now.

"Listen," he hissed, "I already told you all, I'm not interested in any of your questions. I'm not interested in anything you have to say about my engines. You can keep it all to yourself, I'm serious. I already said, I don't want you poking your noses into my railway's business– "

"But, sir, you have to understand," the reporter interrupted, "the entire island knows already that something happened to one of your engines. We just want to get the right facts and– "

"That is none of your business!" Sir Topham snapped, his eyes wild. "I decide when you get to know what happened! I– !"

"But – Sir, there is also the matter of the engine himself," the reporter went on, "Everyone wants to know, and he's one of your most popular engines. Tell me, Sir Topham, is he okay now? Is he behaving strangely? Do you believe he might be going ma– "

"THOMAS IS NOT MAD!" Sir Topham roared, making the poor man jump yet again. "Who dreamed up that, eh? Your editors!? This is a private matter, don't you dare slander my machines like that!"

"Uh– S-Sir, I'm not slandering him! I'm only asking you to confirm if the rumors are corre– "

"Get out. Right now."

"I– what?"

"Go on! Get out! Leave us alone! I'm not in the mood to answer questions from you! Go on, get out!"

"But, Sir– !"

"Get out!"

"Sir, the people only want to know the truth– !"

"GET THE HELL OFF OF MY RAILWAY!"

This sent an icy chill down my frame, through my heart. I am sure it did the same to everyone who'd had the misfortune of overhearing.

Sir Topham did not even wait for the young reporter to leave on his own. He crossed his arms again, shoved past him, and skulked out of the area, leaving the poor man wide-eyed and gawking.

Sir Topham kept his eyes on the ground as he stomped his way back to the lighthouse, shaking his head and grumbling to himself about nosy reporters and hurtful rumors. As he walked he nearly tripped on a crack in the brick road, which made him hiss, though he kept going.

He only seemed to snap out of his anger when he was a mere five feet from the lighthouse and a familiar voice called out to him:

"Sir?"

He froze in his tracks, his head snapping back up.

Captain Joe stood there, just as Sir Topham had left him. The only difference was that he was looking at his friend with more worry than ever.

"…Sir?" Joe repeated, "…Are you sure you're alright?"

The fire in Sir Topham's eyes fizzled away. He looked back at the area where he'd spoken to the reporter, and then winced.

I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was reflecting on everything that had transpired back there. He was thinking about how angry he'd become, how he'd stooped to swearing at the poor man simply to make him go away.

As he walked back to Joe's side Sir Topham told him that he was feeling alright, but I'm certain that Joe knew that that was a lie. I certainly knew it.

Soon enough, Skiff's tour of the harbor was over. Sir Topham thanked both Skiff and Sailor Jason for taking Bridget and Stephen for the ride, thanked Joe for letting them go, and then after a few quick goodbyes he loaded himself and his grandchildren into Winston for the ride back to Knapford.

Bridge and Stephen were glowing with excitement as they told their grandfather every detail of the trip, including how fun and friendly Skiff and Jason were. Sir Topham smiled and nodded and replied whenever he needed to, though he clearly was not as cheerful as he could have been. He was probably still reflecting on his behavior that day, how he'd acted in front of both Joe and the young reporter.

As they drove, I noticed that Winston even looked rather concerned for the controller. Several times he looked like he wanted to question Sir Topham about his mood, though he never did. He must have figured that it simply wasn't the right time to ask, I believe; who would dare to ruin two grandchildren's excitement like that by making them aware that their grandfather was not in a good mood?

When they arrived at Knapford there was a bit of a scene occurring; nothing particularly alarming, mind you, but still eye-catching nonetheless. Just in front of Sir Topham's office stood his two assistants and Lady Hatt, conversing. What caught my eye about it was how worried the three all were. They were talking in hushed voices, and kept glancing back at the office door or even at the clock right above it.

But then, when Lady Hatt finally looked out at the rails and saw her husband driving up the track, she heaved an enormous sigh.

"Oh, Topham, thank goodness you're back," she said after they parked Winston and walked up to the station, "Bridget, Stephen, how was your trip? Did you have fun?"

"Yes, grandmother! Loads of fun!" the children chorused.

But Sir Topham was frowning. While his wife embraced their grandchildren in a hug, he addressed his assistants, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm sorry, but what's going on?" he asked, "Why were you all so eager for me to come back?"

His brown-haired assistant, Gerald, bit his lip and took off his hat do he could run his fingers through his hair. "It's just…" He motioned towards the office, though he didn't say anything more.

The blond-haired assistant, named Evan, finished for his partner: "Your meeting with the machine psychologist, sir. He arrived half an hour ago. He's been sitting in your office since he came."

"What?" Sir Topham's eyes widened. He looked up at the clock with an incredulous look on his face. "But…. I– We scheduled the meeting for three-thirty! Why would he come so early?"

Gerald shrugged, placing his hat back onto his head. "He just… He said he preferred being early, sir," he said.

Sir Topham groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ohhh… Oh, never mind, it's fine. I'll see him now. It's fine."

With that, after a quick goodbye to his wife and grandchildren, Sir Topham straightened his hat, took in a fresh breath, and then entered his office.

The psychologist was leaning back in a chair seated right in front of Sir Topham's desk. He wore a black overcoat and matching pants, with a white shirt underneath, much like how Sir Topham dressed. The only physical differences between the two men were that the psychologist had a slightly stockier build, a slight beard, and wore rounded spectacles.

The psychologist looked up as soon as the door creaked open. He turned around, fixing his gaze on Sir Topham. The corners of his lips twitched upwards when he saw him.

"Ah, Sir Topham Hatt," he said, standing up, "It is an honor to finally meet you." He held out his hand.

Sir Topham shook it immediately, smiling back at the man. "It is an honor to meet you," he said, tipping his hat, "Dr. Adam Johnson, correct?"

The psychologist nodded. "Indeed."

It ought to be noted that this was the most amiable the two would be for this entire meeting.

"You have no idea how happy I am that we're able to do this," Sir Topham told Dr. Johnson as he sat down in his own chair, "I'm just… nothing like this has ever happened to any of my machines before, so I'm extremely grateful for this."

Dr. Johnson gave him a curt nod, though he did not appear nearly as optimistic. "Mm," he said, "Yes, the engine. So, tell me, Sir Topham: you've already said over the phone that he has been behaving strangely since you brought him back, how exactly has he been behaving?"

"Alright, so, he has… not been the same engine. At all. He's extremely snappy, he can't stand it when his friends come to see him– "

"Has he always been snappish or difficult in some way?"

"What– ? No, of course not. Thomas is one of the cheeriest little engines I've ever seen – well, he was. He was rather well-behaved, and he always loved his work and all of his friends. He was rather cheeky at times, but he's definitely got better over the years."

"Hmm…" Dr. Johnson muttered. "Interesting…" He bent down to pick up the clipboard he'd leaned against the side of the desk. He set it down in front of him, pulled a pencil out of his pocket, and began to write.

Sir Topham paid no mind to his scribbling and went on explaining. "He's been dreadfully fearful since we brought him home, as well. He's been having terrible nightmares of what happened to him, and he cannot stand it when anyone touches him. He isn't– "

"How does he react when he is touched?"

"What? Oh, um… well, definitely not well. The engineers at the Sodor Steamworks, they're still repairing him there, they've told me that he hisses at them, sometimes he cries out, but he always starts or jumps like somebody's slapped him– "

"Any other significant mood changes?"

"Well, he certainly isn't happy, not at all. Not even reminding him of getting back to his branchline will cheer him up. And… because of all of his nightmares, he isn't nearly getting enough sleep as he should. He's so exhausted all the time. And some nights, when he wakes up from a nightmare, he is… I can only describe it like this, I've never known Thomas to become so incredibly scared before."

"Do the engineers do anything about his behaviors?"

"Wh…? O-Of course. They're always reassuring him and trying to calm him down. It barely works, though. Just the other night, they woke him up from one of his bad dreams, but he'd seemed to believe that he was still dreaming and tried to push them away when they reached out to him…"

It was then that Sir Topham seemed to notice Dr. Johnson's facial expression. He was still jotting down notes about what Sir Topham had said, however his brow had furrowed.

"Um…" Sir Topham cleared his throat. "…I'm sorry Dr. Johnson, but what are you doing?"

Dr. Johnson did not answer him immediately. His eyes skimmed over what he'd written so far.

Then he shook his head, tut-tutting as he lightly pushed his notes away from him.

Sir Topham furrowed his brow, though he appeared more nervous than anything else. "…Dr. Johnson, what is this about?"

Dr. Johnson was emotionless as he removed his glasses so he could look Sir Topham in the eye. "I'm sorry, Sir Topham," he said, "but I'm afraid we may have to remove the engine from the railway."

Sir Topham's eyes grew as wide as tea saucers. All of the color drained from his face. "I… I– what?" he asked in an incredulous voice, "You… I need to get rid of him?"

Dr. Johnson didn't even blink at Sir Topham's reaction to his words. "It is only in your best interest," he stated flatly. He tapped his notes with his finger. "From what you have told me, your engine does not seem to have a sound mind anymore. I have worked with many engines that behave like him, and all of them have been far too dangerous to– "

"Thomas isn't dangerous!" Sir Topham spat, "Did you even listen when I told you what happened to him? He was held captive and abused! I'd say it's quite understandable why he's acting the way he is! And he's never hurt anyone, he'd never even hurt a fly! He– !"

"But he has changed, Sir Topham, you've said it yourself," Dr. Johnson continued, "He snaps when others touch him, and he doesn't seem to care much about going back to work or caring for others. He doesn't sound like a kind engine at all, certainly not a useful one. I've worked with an engine that sounds just like him, actually. She was sweet and charming, but then she had a dreadful accident. When they finished fixing her, her railway thought everything would go back to normal. But she displayed a number of mood changes. She wasn't sweet at all anymore. She had to be sent away and scrapped after she finally snapped at her fireman and drove over his leg. We don't want any similar incidents happening anymore– "

"You…" As if Sir Topham couldn't look any more incredulous. "…are you saying that Thomas will hurt someone? Are you saying that if we keep him here, he'll only be a danger to everyone!?"

Juxtaposing Sir Topham's anger, Dr. Johnson simply shrugged. "Sir Topham, I've worked with plenty of machines in my life, including engines. I know how their minds work, and how they behave towards humans. They are incredibly fascinating creatures, certainly, but they are also still quite mysterious. You never know what a machine is really thinking. You can only assume and predict it based on how they act. And from what you've told me, it sounds like this engine does not think very highly of anyone, let alone humans, and an engine as unpredictable as this is just not fit to work anymore. You certainly wouldn't allow an angry and unpredictable dog to guard a flock of helpless sheep, would you?"

Now, Sir Topham only looked disgusted. "…he isn't a dog," he said, "and nobody on this railway is a sheep! He's completely safe, he's just– !"

"Sir Topham, I apologize once again, but by law I cannot let you keep an engine like this on your railway. It's simply too risky."

Sir Topham didn't respond this time. I could see him taking in deep breaths, hiding his hands under the desk so he could clench and unclench them. He looked just as he had back in Arlesburgh, just barely managing to prevent himself from exploding with anger.

Dr. Johnson seemed to wait for Sir Topham to say more. When nothing came, he continued talking himself. "Sir Topham, it is only to keep you and your workers safe. The last thing you'd want is your railway failing because your passengers are too afraid to board a train, or because your workers cannot return due to injuries caused by a machine. It truly is in your best interest that we take him off your hands. But, never let it be said that our railway committees are not a generous bunch. I understand that this engine runs one of your branchlines, so we'll be sure to send you the funds to purchase a replacement– "

"I can fix him."

Sir Topham sounded as if he'd barely managed to stop himself from snapping at Dr. Johnson. But his statement was still sharp and sudden enough to make the other man immediately stop talking.

Sir Topham leaned over his desk, his hands flat on top of it as if he might shove it away from him. He looked Dr. Johnson straight in the eyes.

"He hasn't hurt anyone," Sir Topham stated, "He's just… upset. You've dealt with countless upset machines, surely. He has not brought anyone any harm. You can't take him away if he hasn't caused any harm, correct?"

A muscle twitched in one of Dr. Johnson's eyebrows. "Sir– " he began, but Sir Topham was speaking far too quickly for him to continue.

"I just explained, he's one of the kindest engines I've ever known, but he wasn't always like that. He has been a problem in the past, but we fixed that, and now he's far better that ever before – well, yes, he was better, but this should not be any different. We can fix him again. I swear, we can get him back to normal in no time."

Dr. Johnson listened with his chin in his hand and a frown on his face. His eyes, once again, conveyed no emotion, though if it were up to me I would determine that that fact was far more frightening than if he showed frustration or anger.

"Just give us until the end of next month, at least," said Sir Topham, "He'll be fully repaired in a week, and then we can fix him and put him back on the rails. I swear, he'll be back to normal by the end of next month."

Silence followed this confident statement. Even I felt the tension in the room as Sir Topham waited for Dr. Johnson's response.

Finally, right when I thought that the silence could not go on any longer, Dr. Johnson sighed, shaking his head.

"…Alright, then. Until next month."

Sir Topham looked as if he'd fall out of his chair in relief. He let out the huge breath I'd noticed him holding, and with it came his smile. It was one of the first genuine smiles I'd seen on the man's face in a long while.

"Oh, thank you ever so much, Dr. Johnson," Sir Topham said, nearly breathless as he stood up. Dr. Johnson got to his feet as well, and Sir Topham walked with him to the door. "I promise you, we'll have him back on the rails in no time at all."

Dr. Johnson curtly nodded as he shook Sir Topham's hand a second time. "Bear in mind, Sir Topham, I still need to receive confirmation from the railway committee, you still cannot keep him here without their consent," he said, "but, if they approve, I wish you the best of luck with your plan."

Sir Topham nodded, a tad more enthusiastically than would be expected of a professional railway controller. "Thank you ever so much. You won't regret this decision, I assure you."

"I'll phone you when I have their answer. I'll have it in three days' time, maximum."

"Of course. Thank you so much, Dr. Johnson."

Dr. Johnson left, taking with him the sound that he'd provided. Without him, Sir Topham's office was almost deathly quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

Soon after Dr. Johnson's departure, that smile that Sir Topham had gained began to fade away. He walked at a snail's pace back to his desk and sat down. He leaned over his desk again, this time setting his elbows on it and pushing his fingers into his temples as he took in and let out an enormous breath.

Eventually, his eyes flitted towards the little figurines on his desk, the metal models of engines littering a flattened-out map of Sodor. I hadn't even noticed that they were still there; Sir Topham hadn't even put them away when Dr. Johnson had been here.

For a moment Sir Topham simply stared at the models. Then, as slowly as he'd walked over there, he reached out and grabbed one of them, the one that sat near the edge of the map, the one that was painted blue with the number 1 carved into its side.

Sir Topham turned the engine over in his hands and sighed.

"…Oh, Thomas…" he said aloud, "…Don't you worry. I won't let them take you away. Never…"

The emotion in his voice sent a chill through my frame and an arrow through my heart.

It's during moments like those that I wonder if I really cannot feel the feelings of humans, not like I can with those of my children. But I have known Sir Topham for a long time, I have observed him perhaps the most out of any human on Earth, so maybe by this time I simply have a natural understanding of him.

Likewise, I could tell that Sir Topham was not only reflecting on his affinity for Thomas, nor was he only reflecting on Dr. Johnson's reasons to take him away from the railway.

In his eyes, I could see a feeling that I had felt in so many of my children over the years:

Guilt.

I understood completely why he felt that way.

Because when Thomas had left for the Mainland to take a train of goods to Bridlington, he hadn't done so with Sir Topham's permission. That had been James's job, but due to a conflict between the two Thomas had decided to take the train himself.

If something similar to this had occurred before, Sir Topham would have demanded that they come back immediately. Then, once they had, he'd have given them a good scolding and punishment.

But, this time, Sir Topham had allowed it. He'd even approved of it. He'd let Thomas continue his journey on the Mainland, and had sent a protesting James to work on Thomas's branchline.

But then a week passed and Thomas did not return. Sir Topham's approval of the switch-up had long-since dissipated, and so he contacted the police forces in Bridlington and every tow and city near it, determined to find his lost engine.

And when they did find him, when the news of what the poor engine had been through finally reached Sir Topham…

I am certain that the poor man had never looked that distraught about any of his decisions before. Absolutely not.

So as he sat in his office that day, cradling the little figurine, I was sure that he believed that this was his way to make it up to Thomas. He wouldn't let them take him away. He would help him get back to his work and get back to his normal kind and cheeky self.

He wouldn't lose him again.

Sir Topham went back to his work a little after this. He stayed in his office for the rest of the day, looking over papers and taking calls and fiddling with his figurines.

But, in hindsight, this moment makes me wince. The man was finally in a relative state of calm, though when he sees the terrible states his engines are in several weeks from now, it will look as if this state was all for naught.

He couldn't have prevented them from entering those states, though. He'd had no way of knowing what the cause of it would even be.

Because the cause of it had come while he'd still been talking to Dr. Johnson. They'd still been arguing about sending Thomas away, because supposedly he could become a danger to the railway.

And the engine who'd eavesdropped on this information, a certain splendid red engine, had panicked and run off before he could hear Dr. Johnson agree to let Thomas stay until he was better.

Chapter Text

As you already know, James had not been having a good day. That had been evident ever since he'd left Tidmouth sheds that morning.

No matter how much his crew begged him, he didn't slow down. He made workers leap back from the track, made the signalmen leap to their levers, made his fellow engines curse at him and demand to know what on Earth was wrong with him, he still didn't stop. He had his destination – the yard near Knapford station, where Annie and Clarabel's shed resided – at the forefront of his mind, blocking out any other thoughts or stimuli.

When he sped past the station, into the yard, his driver Mason practically threw himself onto James's brake lever. I could see the veins in the man's hand pulsing as he gripped the lever hard and wrenched it backwards.

I am certain that everyone at Knapford, even those at the very edges of the town, heard the terrible screeching from James's brakes.

He managed to halt just beside Annie and Clarabel's shed, though so suddenly that, when they poked their heads out of his cab immediately after, his driver and fireman looked ready to collapse.

"James! What on Earth has gotten into you?" Mason sounded more concerned than cross with him as he peered out, looking at James's smokebox with wide eyes.

His fireman, Oscar, however, was the complete opposite. He shoved past Mason, looking at James with eyes as wide as his coworker's, but filled with far more disgust than disbelief. "James, what are you thinking!? Do you not remember what happened last time you went that fast!? You destroyed the damn sheds, you silly engine!"

"Goodness me, whatever could be making such a racket?"

"Ohhh, your brakes, James! Your poor, poor brakes!"

Annie and Clarabel, as you could've expected, had been jolted out of sleep by James's abrupt arrival, and in that moment made their presences known.

Annie huffed when she saw James, slowly inching forwards to switch to the coaches' tracks. "You'd better not pull us that fast today, James! Or ever again!"

"Yes!" Clarabel agreed, "My chassis is still aching from the last time!"

James rolled his eyes as he backed up to the shed. He groaned, though I am certain he hadn't meant to make it as audible as it was.

"And you ought to stop with that attitude now!" snapped Clarabel, "You'll only make the passengers upset!"

"He's already upset them, Clarabel!" said Annie, "They've been upset ever since Thomas came home!"

Just as it had back at Tidmouth sheds, that name seemed to trigger something inside of James. He clenched his jaw, his eyes suddenly wide and wild.

"…shut up…" he muttered through his teeth, but the coaches either didn't hear him, or they were simply too frustrated at him to care.

"It's a wonder the Fat Controller still keeps you here, James!" Annie went on, "I can't even imagine how your fellow engines feel, you're being ever so horrid lately!"

"What even happened to Thomas, James?" Clarabel finally asked the dreaded question, that which, when she said it, it made both poor Mason and Oscar tense up. "The Fat Controller already told us he's at the Steamworks, but he never said what for! What could've happened to him on the Mainland run that put him in the– ?"

"Oh, would you two just be quiet!?"

As he shouted it, James buffered up to Annie hard, hitting her buffers so hard that he actually sent the two coaches backwards an inch. It silenced them both, making them gasp and look towards the red engine with shocked expressions.

"…We're here to be useful!" James growled, "Not to sit around chattering all day! So, if you don't mind, let's get you to his stupid branchline as fast as possible… then we can get this job done faster…"

A few quiet, tense moments passed before James actually left with the two coaches, because his outburst had apparently scared Mason so much that it didn't occur to the man to couple him up, not until Oscar jabbed him in the ribs and pointed at Annie's coupling rods.

Platform 1 of Knapford station, the first stop James needed to take, was bustling with people, as per usual. Many of them were regular passengers on Thomas's branchline, though I did spy only two newcomers that day. New passengers were certainly not unusual for that train, except that day had perhaps the fewest I had ever seen.

James wordlessly entered the station, his eyes only on the tracks below him as he blew his whistle. Annie and Clarabel's doors swung open, and the passengers began their usual organized scramble to find their seats.

The routine for Thomas's branchline demanded that James leave Knapford, then take the line down to his next stop in the little village of Dryaw. But what happened next was most certainly not a part of that routine, and knowing how James had been feeling these past few days, anyone could guess that he definitely did not want any part of it.

Because just then, as the passengers piled into Annie and Clarabel, Paxton the Young Diesel pulled into the platform right next to James, honking his horn to signal his arrival.

When the little diesel saw James, bless his heart, his face broke into a smile.

"Oh, hello James!" he called in his naturally cheery way. He glanced at Annie and Clarabel. "Oh, are you taking Thomas's coaches again?"

James paid him no mind. He just kept staring at the ground, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line.

However, these details did not deter Paxton one bit.

"Wow, I would love to pull passenegers on Thomas's branchline one day, it must be so lovely!" he went on, "And he's told me so many great things about Annie and Clarabel! They must be a delight to work with!"

The coaches, as to be expected, flushed pink and could not help smiling, but when they looked back at Paxton their grins were already fading. "Er – thank you Paxton, but…." Annie piped up, "…I don't think– "

"I'm going to Ffarquhar Quarry, myself," Paxton continued, "I need to pick up some trucks of stone to deliver to– "

"Paxton."

It was the only thing that actually made Paxton drop his cheery demeanor. It actually made him flinch, he was totally unprepared for it.

James had shut his eyes when he'd snapped at Paxton, taken in a deep breath, held it before releasing it. Then, after enough time had passed, he opened his eyes once again, but only to resume staring at the ground with that same angry expression.

Paxton stared at James, looking him up and down. "Um… are you alright, James?"

"Erm– " Annie cut in before James could even open his mouth. She gave Paxton an apologetic smile. "So sorry Paxton, but… you'd best not talk to James anymore… he's not feeling very well today…"

Before Paxton could say anything further, the stationmaster blew his whistle. James, still refusing to lift his gaze, peeled out of the station as fast as his crew would allow, leaving Annie and Clarabel, now heavy with passengers, to bid farewell to the rather bewildered diesel.

On the journey to Dryaw, James both did and did not heed the coaches' prior words. He went down the line at a far faster pace than Thomas tended to do, however it was still not nearly as fast as last week, definitely not. I could see that the coaches were rattled, but still pleased at this development.

But, when I saw it, I could not help but feel uncomfortable. Yes, James was going slower, but not without both Mason and Oscar keeping a close eye on his speed gauge and his brake lever. Without them, James would've likely gone so fast he could break through a brick wall.

At Dryaw station, even more passengers waited. There were significantly fewer there than there had been at Knapford, but this tended to be the case for such a village.

James looked up just in time to blow his whistle. He braked hard as he approached the station, though due to his speed this time his wheels did not emit many sparks. I saw both Annie and Clarabel heaving silent sighs at this.

The routine continued – James stopped beside the platform, Annie and Clarabel's doors opened again, some passengers left while others climbed in.

But, just like at Knapford, the routine had to be broken somehow.

"Mister James?"

James, miraculously, looked.

A young bespectacled boy was standing a little further ahead from the station, about a foot away from the tracks but close enough so that he could see James's face. His eyes lit up when he saw James look at him, and he shuffled a couple inches closer.

In his hands, the boy held a palm-sized wooden figurine of a steam tank engine.

"Uhm… Mr. James?" the boy asked, adjusting his glasses with one hand before continuing, "Do you know when Thomas is coming back? We miss him, and my mum says– "

That did it.

"Oh, would you all just LEAVE ME ALONE!?"

Not a soul at that station didn't react to this. Every passenger froze in their tracks, Annie and Clarabel gasped, Mason and Oscar flinched, and the poor boy who'd addressed James leapt backwards, his expression suddenly filled with fear.

James glared daggers at the boy, his teeth bared and his cheeks colored a harsh red. He wheeshed hard, sending streams of steam out from his undercarriage.

"I don't know when he's coming back!" James roared, his frame shaking in his rage, "Why do you all keep asking me!? I just want to take you to your stupid stations and be done with this! What am I to you all!? The all-knowing engine!?"

The poor boy, his legs were trembling as he stared at James. His eyes, large and round behind his glasses, were filling up with tears. A woman, presumably his mother, rushed from the platform to clutch his shoulders, shooting James an incredulous look.

James took no notice.

"Go on! Go away!" James spat, "Get on a coach and leave me alone! I don't know when Thomas will come back, I don't even know if he'll come back at all! Go on! GET– !"

"JAMES!"

Oscar's shout seemed to echo around the station. Afterwards, the only sounds anyone could hear was the scuffs of shoes as passengers finished rushing into the coaches, and muffled sniffling from the boy as his mother tried to calm him down.

James opened his mouth to continue speaking, but Oscar stopped him.

"James, that's quite enough!" Oscar barked, shooting the red engine a look that reminded me of fathers when they would scold their children. "You stop that right now!"

Mason knitted his brow and put a hand on Oscar's shoulder. "Oscar, please, just calm down– " But Oscar ignored him.

"Any more of that and I'll get Sir Topham Hatt to keep you in the shed for the rest of the week! Understand!?"

James rolled his eyes, let out a low growl, though he didn't say anything more.

Right before they left Dryaw, both Mason and Oscar looked to see the stationmaster glaring at them. They looked away as soon as they'd seen it.

The stationmaster blew his whistle, and with a heave, James left the station.

"James!" Annie whispered, pure disbelief filling her eyes, "What on Earth has gotten into you!?"

James said nothing. It only seemed to distress the two coaches, as well as James's driver, even more than if he'd snapped at them to be quiet again.

The journey to the next station was completely silent. And the journey to the station after that, and every journey afterwards. All waiting passengers seemed to understand, just from looking at James, that he was in no mood to speak, and so no one asked him about Thomas, a stark contrast to last week, when it had looked like everyone was inquiring about their usual engine.

All throughout the journey, even when looking away from Oscar kept his angry expression on, while Mason only looked eternally worried.

A few times, Mason looked between his coworker, his engine, and even the coaches, and I could see his shoulders rise and fall as he sighed.

James did not even say anything when the job concluded, when he finally made it back to Knapford and his remaining passengers disembarked from the coaches. He did not return Annie and Clarabel's quick goodbyes when he brought them back to their shed. I had never heard my child become this quiet before.

Despite everything he'd said before, every time he'd made it clear that morning that he didn't want to talk, when James left the coaches and went into a siding for a brief rest, his fireman was not finished scolding him.

"James." Oscar's voice was rough as he hopped out of his engine's cab and marched in front of him. He folded his arms as he glared at James, who was once again looking towards the ground.

"James," Oscar repeated, "Look at me."

James did not.

"James."

James furrowed his brow.

"James."

"What…?" James spat the word, still refusing to look at his fireman.

Oscar narrowed his eyes. "You know exactly what I'm talking about…." He pointed an accusatory finger at his engine. "I know you're not feeling alright, but what happened in Dryaw was totally uncalled for! What do you think those poor passengers think of you now, huh!? You probably scared them half to death! Oh, don't you roll your eyes at me! This is serious!"

"Well, it's not my fault they're always so nosy!" James finally spoke, his voice sharp and snappish, "They need to mind their own business and just be patient– !"

"They're just worried, James."

Mason jumped from James's cab then and made his way to the front of his engine, his face and tone far calmer than Oscar's ever were.

"They probably don't even know what happened to Thomas. And they all love him so much, it's only natural that they'd be curious."

Then Mason furrowed his brow. He folded his arms just as Oscar had, though when he looked at his engine I could only see his classic kindhearted concern shining in them.

"James, is there something you're not telling us?"

James's face did soften at this, though definitely not because the question relaxed him. "Excuse me?"

"James, you're clearly not alright," Mason explained, "You haven't been yourself all week, and Oscar's right, what happened in Dryaw was not called for at all. You've never spoken to anyone like that before."

James's right eyelid twitched. "What does that matter?" he asked, "At least I got my work done! That's all I need to do around here, be as useful as possible! Who cares if I– ?"

"It totally matters, James!" Mason cut in, "You're not alright, you haven't been alright since Thomas came home. Does it have to do with Thom– ?"

"Don't we have another job to get to?" James asked quickly, his eyes darting between Knapford station and the tracks beneath him, "Come on, we can't just sit here talking all day! We've still got work to do, surely!"

Oscar let out a loud groan in response, just as Mason opened his mouth to continue speaking. "Alright then, James, you want to keep working until your wheels ache, who are we to stop you, eh?"

With that, Oscar began walking back to James's cab, his every step seeming to stab the ground.

Mason lingered for a few moments, looking from Oscar to James's face, though eventually he followed behind his coworker.

As they pulled out of the siding, Oscar poked his head out of James's cab yet again to say, "I hope you weren't hoping for a job you actually like, James. Sir Topham Hatt needs us to take some waste trucks down to Whiff's Waste Dump. We need to pick them up at the yards."

I expected James to groan loudly at the prospect, even protest that it wasn't a suitable job for an engine like him. Even after all that had happened, I was still expecting what I usually saw from my child.

Needless to say, my expectations were shattered.

James huffed a quiet "…Let's go, then…", then began moving again.

I remember how, as he made his way to Knapford Yards, I took note of everything that was going on in James's mind. It was not as if I had never seen it before, you listeners ought to know that by now, but it still pained me as I listened to the turmoil within my poor child.

Oh, how I wished I could carry his burden for him, rather than with him.

I also remember overhearing the conversation between Mason and Oscar as they traveled to the yards.

"Why are you always so harsh on him?" Mason muttered to his coworker, his brow furrowed, an unusual sight to see on such an amiable man, "You do want him to get better, don't you?"

Oscar merely rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't you blame me for this!" he hissed under his breath, "He's been like this all week! It's not my fault he won't tell us what he's thinking!"

"I'm not blaming you, I just don't think yelling at him is the right way to make him talk. Have you ever tried that on another person? It doesn't work!"

Again Oscar rolled his eyes, except this time he groaned alongside it. "Yes, but your method isn't any better! Every single time you've tried to get him to talk he shuts up just as much as he does with me!"

"He's probably just worried about Thomas, Oscar. You have to treat that delicately- "

"Right, and when he actually stops acting so stubborn, you can tell me all about it..."

Mason did not say anything more for the rest of the journey.

Soon enough, James arrived Knapford Yards. He picked up his waste trucks, which had just been shunted there by Charlie the Playful Engine, and he left without returning the little engine's timid hello. He didn't even complain about the trucks' horrid smell.

The Waste Dump was carrying out its usual business. Whiff and Scruff were shunting what few full trucks there were underneath the cranes so they could lift the rubbish into the compactors, and when they weren't doing that they were shunting the many empty trucks into the sidings.

Of course, the only piece of the scene that was unusual were the engines themselves. Whiff and Scruff, as the entire railway knew, were the absolute best of friends. As they worked they were always, always chattering away to each other, sharing island gossip and cracking jokes and laughing with each other. They were one of numerous pairs on the island that, should they be separated, neither one would have any idea what to do with himself.

But on that day, and every day for the past week, the two did not look like such a pair at all. They worked in total silence, their attentions only on their work. They were not avoiding each other's gazes, mind you, however whenever they stole a glance at the other's face, they always quickly looked away as if they hadn't seen anything.

I knew exactly why – because neither engine could bear to see his best friend looking so sad.

So it was quite the heartwarming sight when Scruff heard James chuff into the yard, and upon seeing him, the little engine beamed.

"'ey, Whiff!" Scruff whistled merrily at his friend, who was just finishing his work with some empty trucks, "James has brought us some more rubbish to scrunch!"

"What?" Whiff's eyes immediately lit up upon hearing Scruff's voice. Then, when he saw James, his face mirrored Scruff's.

"Oh, hello there, James!" Whiff chirped as he raced into the center of the yard, "It's so nice to see you! How are you today? Lovely morning, isn't it?"

Oh, my dear Whiff. The genuine joy in his voice only made James rolling past him without even looking at him all there more heartbreaking.

Whiff's smile fell as he watched James stop, Mason hopping out of his cab to uncouple his trucks from him. "Erm... James, are you alright?"

"Er- I'm sorry, Whiff," Mason said before James could say a word. He gave Whiff an apologetic smile. "James... isn't feeling very well today. He doesn't want to talk right now, okay?"

Now, Whiff's entire face fell. "Oh..." he mumbled, his gaze darting towards the ground.

Scruff had been watching the scene unfold, and when he heard his best friend speak in such a soft voice, he raced to his side as if to protect him from oncoming danger.

"Well, we hope you feel better soon, James," Scruff said, still putting on a kind smile despite the situation, "Thanks for the trucks! Cmon now, Whiff, let's get scrunching!"

He was not nearly as enthused as he usually was saying those words, but it was enough to make Whiff peep his whistle in acknowledgement.

Scruff helped Whiff take the trucks to the compactor as James left the Waste Dump. But as they went, Mason looked out of James cab to look back at the sight they were leaving: Whiff and Scruff, as silent as they had been before James arrived, except now they somehow appeared even sadder than they had been before.

I could tell just from looking at Mason's face that, although definitely not as much as Oscar, he was growing quite frustrated with the effects his engine was having on everyone around him.

I should note here that James was not actually ignoring Whiff's questions. A bit unbelievable, but it's true. He'd listened to everything the other engine had said, and even to everything afterwards. I'd felt his boiler bubbling as Mason spoke for him and his firebox only grew hotter when he heard Scruff speak to his downcast friend.

Right then, James's mind had been split into two. To use a visual, it resembled a pair of human beings competing in a very heated tug of war.

The human at one end of the rope – one half of James – kept growling at the other, "Just stop this! Look at what you've done! You're making everyone miserable! You just can't stop being horrible, can you!?"

The other human only growled back, "Just leave me alone, just leave me alone, just leave. Me. ALONE."

This sort of thing had been occurring in James's mind ever since that Mainland diesel had brought Thomas home. It had even occurred earlier that morning, when that little boy had asked him when their engine would come back to them. From what you've already seen, it is easy to tell that the second human always growled louder than the other, drowning it out until it became the loudest thought in James's mind. Often enough, the thought left his mind and came out of him verbally. The consequences of that always brought the other human – the other thought – right back, thus repeating the entire cycle over again.

James knew this was a terrible thing, this battle inside his mind. But my poor child did not even want to touch the other thought, the thought that berated him for being horrid to everyone. I could see why; that thought had come about because of what had happened over a week ago. my child had never experienced such an intense thought before, neither the intense feelings that came with the thought.

He did not want to feel such things. All he wanted was to go back to when he was James the Splendid Red Engine, an arrogant yet amicable machine who had confidence and an ego that rivaled even Gordon. He wanted to go back to when those thoughts didn't exist.

James was still ruminating on this when he arrived at Knapford station, stopping at Platform 1 to wait for the engines further down the line to move on out of the way. On the way here Oscar had informed him about their next job – journeying to Brendam Docks to pick up a new delivery – and James, silent as ever, had quietly prayed that this job would be over as quickly as the last had been.

But then, mere seconds after he'd stopped at the platform, James heard something that instantly grabbed his attention.

"…you've already said over the phone that he has been behaving strangely since you brought him back, how exactly has he been behaving?"

"Alright, so, he has… not been the same engine. At all. He's extremely snappy, he can't stand it when his friends come to see him– "

"Has he always been snappish or difficult in some way?"

"What– ? No, of course not. Thomas is one of the cheeriest little engines I've ever seen – well, he was. He was rather well-behaved, and he always loved his work and all of his friends. He was rather cheeky at times, but he's definitely got better over the years."

"What?" James wondered aloud, raising a brow at Sir Topham's office, "...who's that?"

"Hm?" Mason pokes his head out of James's cab at looked where his engine was looking, "Oh, Sir Topham Hatt is just talking to a machine psychologist. He invited him to his office so he could tell him about what's... going on with Thomas, right now."

Oscar grunted his agreement. "Yep. He's supposed to tell him how we can help him, too, how to get him back to normal."

For the first time in a week, I felt pure relief flood James's boiler. The corners of his mouth actually twitched upwards. The war in his mind actually quieted down.

"He's going to help us fix him," he thought, "He... He's going to be OKAY. He'll be back to normal and working on his branchline again and I won't have to do his jobs anymore..."

How it warmed my heart hearing such thoughts from James.

I would've given anything to make sure those thoughts continued.

Because when James listened further…

"…Dr. Johnson, what is this about?"

"I'm sorry, Sir Topham, but I'm afraid we may have to remove the engine from the railway."

James's good mood shattered. His eyes widened, his face turning white as a sheet. His gasp drowned out those from his crew.

That familiar twitch returned to James's eye.

The fighting humans returned to his mind, tugging harder and shouting louder than ever before.

The rope they fought on stretched and stretched and stretched until –

It snapped.

A series of new thoughts arose where the rope had been:

"They're taking him away."

"They can't fix him."

"He's broken."

"He's leaving us."

"He'll probably be scrapped."

"James? James!" Mason's voice barely reached my poor child. He stared off into space as if in a trance, his thoughts a whirlwind in his mind.

"JAMES!"

It wasn't until Oscar shouted his name that James snapped out of it.

"Come on, James! The signal's green!" Oscar snapped, smacking the side of the engine's cab. "Let's go, come on!"

"Uh– " James swallowed hard and managed to blow his whistle, then peeled out of the station.

But on his way to Brendam, James had only one loud thought echoing within his mind:

"They're taking him away, and it's all your fault."

~x~

Out of all of my Sudrian children, I'd always found James most peculiar. Not that I found him odd or anything of that sort, but it had always seemed strange to me how static he'd always been. No matter how many mishaps he found himself in, no matter how many punishments or tellings-off he received from Sir Topham Hatt, he never seemed to remember them as well as others could. If he was humbled one day, by the next it looked as if nothing had happened at all. He always remained as vain and arrogant as ever afterwards; I can remember only a few times when he did retain a lesson he'd learned, such as when he promised Percy he would not play tricks on him anymore, or when he fretted about his paintwork not out of pure vanity, but because he did not want to disappoint Sir Topham Hatt or the esteemed Mayor of Sodor. At those moments, I can remember James at his most humble. He'd actually seemed to mature and grow from his mistakes.

But this mistake he believed he'd made? James did not "mature" from it, that much should be clear. I would not dare call how he'd been feeling all week as "character development" as I know it, certainly not. True character development should not leave someone with a war in their mind. True development should not leave one wishing they could return to the past, and right their wrongs before they even had the chance to occur.

~x~

Before all of this happened, before Thomas had even left for the Mainland, James had been in a particularly good mood. Sir Topham Hatt had given him his favorite job – pulling passenger trains – for three days in a row, as a reward for his good behavior, he'd said.

James had certainly missed the part about how it was a reward, however.

"The Fat Controller gives me all the best jobs!" I remember him thinking as he dropped off passengers one day, "I must be his favorite engine!"

James had liked the sound of that prospect. He enjoyed it so much that he began creating a little rhyme inspired by it. Then he added more and more to the rhyme, until by the end of that week he had written an entire song:

"Somebody has to be the favorite!

The one that everybody wants to see!

Somebody has to be better than the rest!

Somebody has to be so good that they're the best!

Somebody has to be the favorite!

Somebody has to be me!"

Eventually, James simply could not stop singing the song. Strangely enough, nobody complained that much. When he sang it for his passengers they simply laughed and clapped along. Other engines were quite annoyed at first, however eventually they learned to ignore it; they were used to James and his antics, and figured that he would grow bored of it soon. Not even James's crew had minded that much; yes, Mason had shook his head and Oscar had rolled his eyes, but they both agreed that he was simply having fun. Where was the harm in that?

Well, according to a certain blue tank engine, there was quite a bit of harm, in fact.

Indeed, on a railway where no engine card that much about James's latest antic, Thomas had been the sole detractor.

"You're not the Fat Controller's favorite, James!" Thomas had told James one morning, after listening to James's song far too many times.

James had laughed, "But of course I am, Thomas! Why else would he keep giving me the best jobs? Aren't you about to take pigs to Farmer Trotter's, anyway? Oh, that's an amazing job!"

James's teasing continued even beyond that. As Farmer Trotter loaded the pigs into Thomas's truck later that day, James had gone by, the trucks behind him filled with a brass band – and James had instructed them to practice using his song as inspiration.

Thomas had never looked more annoyed than he had then.

Of course, James payed no mind to Thomas's complaints. He was in a good mood, and he certainly was not going to let one engine ruin that for him.

He did almost ruin it for him, though, only almost.

One morning, as James filled his water tank at Knapford, Thomas came by looking rather smug indeed. James had wondered why on Earth he was sporting such an expression after staying mad at him all week, but Thomas then revealed why himself:

He'd just overheard Sir Topham Hatt saying that since Henry had just had an accident, he needed another engine to pull his goods train for him – and, James just happened to be the engine he'd chosen.

At first, James had been indignant. After so many days of pulling passengers, out of nowhere he had to go back to his least favorite job on the island.

But then, in the middle of his complaining, James realized something that made his confident smile come right back to his face.

"Oh… that must be the goods train that Henry was going to take to the Mainland!" James laughed as Thomas's face fell. "Oh, what an adventure!"

As he left the yards, James couldn't help but add insult to Thomas's injury by bursting into yet another verse of his song.

James did not look back at Thomas after that. He kept singing for the rest of the day, and began the next day continuing the song as he made his way towards Vicarstown Goodsyard, where Henry's trucks were supposed to be.

He certainly did not expect them to tell him that Thomas was already taking the trucks himself.

As you would expect, James was not happy with this news. Neither was he when he told Sir Topham about it, and the man responded with a smile and told him that it was not a problem; since Thomas was away, James would have to work with Annie and Clarabel on his branchline until he returned.

James's poor behavior with the two coaches did not begin right when Thomas returned from the Mainland. It began the moment James first coupled up to him just that morning. All week he treated them the same way: he went far too fast, ignored their comments about his speed, snapped at them when his patience had reached its limit.

"It's just not fair!" I remember him thinking after four days of this, "Thomas gets to spend so much time on the Mainland, and I'm stuck here working on his backwater branchline! Why should he get to have such an epic adventure! Does he believe he's Sir Topham Hatt's favorite, now? Only his favorite engine deserves such a job, and it certainly is not him!"

Eventually, James's grumpy mood got to the other engines, and even to his own crew. It became so bad that, after seven days, Mason decided that something needed to be done about his engine's mood.

So, on the seventh day, a week after Thomas left, Mason drove James to the Steamworks that afternoon for a break from his work and for a fresh coat of paint.

"That always cheers you up, right buddy?" Mason had asked James, smiling and patting his side.

James's eyes had lit up. Though he was still rather grumpy, he could not deny that the prospect of having his paint reapplied did always make his firebox flare with delight.

My poor child, he never would have expected what happened next. No one would have.

James had been dozing off while the engineers repainted him at the back of the Steamworks. He paid their brushes no mind, paid no attention to their small conversations. He was cozy in his own mind, nearly sleeping due to how relaxed he was.

But then something new brought him out of this state. He heard distant shouting. Then the shouting came closer; it sounded like a man, yelling at the engineers to make room, they had to get to work, this was an emergency.

But upon hearing one very specific noise, layered underneath all the shouts, James had to open his eyes.

He thought he could hear someone crying.

What James saw shook him like it had done to Rosie. Just like it had done to Sir Topham, and Percy, and everyone on the island who'd had the misfortune of seeing it before.

In came that large white diesel engine, grunting at the engineers that he was hurt, badly, he needed repairs immediately. James wondered who "he" was, but when he looked at the engine's flatbed, his boiler turned icier than ever before.

He thought he was dreaming. It couldn't be real. But it was.

He saw Thomas. He saw his dents. He saw his scratched paint. He saw his damaged buffers. He saw his tears and his reddened face and the horrid scar where his left eye was.

He listened to his stifled sobbing.

Right before the engineers took Thomas to the other room and put him on the lift, Thomas opened his good eye. His gaze darted around the room, as if he was making sure he was where he thought he was.

Then his gaze landed on James.

I remember James's face growing deathly pale as he locked eyes with his friend. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly feeling as if he'd swallowed sand.

Thomas stared at him for a few moments – still sniffling all the while – before shutting his eye again with a soft whine.

I had never seen James look so stunned before. He did not even seem to realize his jaw had dropped until one of the engineers painting him pointed it out.

Even when they finally took Thomas into the other room, James could not get that image of him out of his mind. It was all he could think about, even when the engineers finished his paintwork and Mason had to prod him out of the Steamworks.

"…What on Earth could've happened to that poor lad?" Oscar asked as they made their way back to Tidmouth.

Mason had shrugged. "I've no clue… oh, the poor thing looked like he was in so much pain!" Then he'd glanced at James's firebox, seemed to notice how much it was sparking.

"James?" he addressed his engine, his voice filled with concern, "…Are you alright, buddy?"

James hadn't answered, which was enough of an answer as he could've given.

Eventually, like many other engines, James did hear the story of what happened to Thomas, what had happened to make him look like that. But along with this, James was thinking about the past.

He was thinking about everything he had said to Thomas before.

He remembered how much he'd boasted about being Sir Topham Hatt's favorite.

He remembered how he believed that only the favorite engine could take a goods train to the Mainland.

He remembered how Thomas had gone right to the Mainland not long after James had said this.

Now Thomas was back. And something absolutely unimaginable had happened to him.

James had not hurt Thomas. He hadn't whipped him or done anything that those at that Mainland Steelworks had done to him.

And yet, after thinking on it enough, James could not help but feel as if he had.

Chapter Text

James told no one about what he'd heard that day. I'm certain that many, including myself, would like to believe that he knew how badly the whole island was suffering at the moment due to the recent events, so he did not tell them about the prospect of Thomas leaving out of fear that it would aggravate everyone's already-heavied moods. He didn't want to shock them too soon after their last shock. But that was not the case; James is not nearly that benevolent of an engine. After hearing it, James immediately wanted to forget it. He didn't want everyone to know, because that meant he would keep hearing the news everywhere. Engines would ask him about it, as well as all the people and non-engine machines. Who knew how often they'd do so? To him, they'd likely ask him about it every second during every day. He would always be reminded of his biggest mistake. He did not want that at all. So he told no one.

Life on Sodor continued as well as it could have. Percy pulled the mail train every day. Gordon pulled the Express. Rosie shunted trucks in the Vicarstown Goodsyard. Henry, Edward, and Emily were all assigned miscellaneous jobs per day, but put every ounce of effort they had into them. James put in just enough effort to get by, keeping to himself and saying just enough to everyone to stop them from questioning further. Sir Topham Hatt did what every railway controller did, explaining who would do what and what needed to be done next.

Victor and the Steamworks engineers continued helping Thomas as best as they could. The engineers continued cleaning and re-dressing his eye, while Victor provided a comforting voice whenever he saw the little engine even slightly distressed or restless. Thomas kept thinking about the island, his work, the Steelworks, the manager, his eye, everything, though he never mentioned any of it; for the majority of the day he continued what he had been doing since they'd brought him back, shutting his eye and never stirring in case anyone dared to interact with him again.

After a few more days - five, to be precise - the engineers finished their work.

~x~

When that day finally came, Thomas hadn't realized it. He'd woken up from his dozing that morning to let the engineers change his wrap, just as he had every day now, but the engineer that was treating him, after taking off the bandages, let out a hearty laugh.

"Oh, glorious day!"

"What?"

"That's it, Thomas. You're done. Your eye's healed!"

Some more engineers came rushing into the room to see, along with Victor and Kevin. Upon seeing Thomas's face, Victor's own face lit up with the brightest smile I'd ever seen on him.

"By Lady's funnel, Thomas," he said, "It's true! You're almost ready to get back to work!"

Kevin, bless his little soul, could hardly contain his excited gasp. "Yeah, Thomas! You look good as new!"

The engineer who was treating Thomas, a stout man with brown hair that reached his shoulders, chuckled as he climbed down from the ladder. "Indeed, Kevin." He took his hat into his hands as he addressed Thomas again, "You must be the luckiest engine alive, Thomas. We thought it would take much longer than it did. It doesn't even look that bad!"

Thomas said nothing. He stared at the engineer with a cool, calculating expression. He looked from him to Kevin, then to Victor, then to all the other Steamworks workers who'd entered the room. Despite his silence and relatively calm face I could see in his eyes, there were a million things he wanted to say but couldn't decide which. There were a million emotions rushing through him, each of them strong and intense.

My heart ached for my poor child, for that engineer. For everyone in that room.

When Thomas looked at the engineers, at Kevin and Victor, he felt confused, disgusted, betrayed, even. He looked at their smiles and thought them fake. He repeated in his mind what the stout engineer said - "It doesn't even look that bad" - and wanted to bark at him for daring to say that.

Surely, not all of those elated smiles on the workers' faces could've been a facade. But it pains me to say that it was just as likely that many of them were so. That was exactly what Thomas was suspicious of.

The silence stretched. Eventually, Kevin cleared his throat and inched forwards.

"It's... It really isn't that bad, Thomas," he said, gesturing up at the engine's face with his arm, "Really, you can barely even see it when you look from far away. Nobody will notice anything - !"

"Show me."

"We- what?"

"Show me, come on. I want to see it for myself."

"Uh... s-sorry, Thomas, I... well, it's not exactly- "

"Kevin, I said show me."

"But-"

"Show me!"

This quickly made Kevin gulp and rush to the other room. He returned carrying a small mirror, and he held it up for Thomas to see.

Thomas peered into the mirror.

He hadn't seen his own reflection since before he went to the mainland. He never got a chance to see his face when it was freshly injured, when all the poor child could think about was how much pain he was in. He'd had no idea what he could look like.

I know, having witnessed it myself, that Thomas's face did not look nearly as bad as it had been back then. But to Thomas, when he looked at himself now...

I felt his heart sink.

It looked as if a creature with enormous claws had raked them down over his left eye. His scars ran from the edge of his smokebox to the bridge of his nose, and the flesh in between was mangled and discolored. His actual eyeball had suffered the most damage; it hardly resembled an eye anymore, just a pale, round, indiscernible mass with a light gray marking - formerly his pupil - sitting in the middle of it.

Thomas winked. A mangled eyelid winked back at him.

"...Thomas?"

Thomas looked back at Kevin and the rest of the workers. "What?" The word came out in a rough, cracking voice.

Victor, the one who'd called Thomas's name, kept his face calm and his voice level as he puffed closer. "My friend, if you aren't alright, then you must tell us. It is perfectly okay if you are not alright after seeing that. We understand."

Oh, Victor. Bless you to the ends of the Earth.

Thomas's mouth hung open as if he still couldn't decide what to say. But then the tiniest, nearly insignificant spark shone in his eyes, and for a moment I believed he would actually calmly agree with Victor.

Alas, the spark dissipated as quickly as it had formed.

"...N-No... No, I'm fine," Thomas snapped, "It's... I- I just never thought it would look like that, that's all..."

Victor furrowed his brow. "Thomas," he said, his voice still calm but now containing a slight edge, "I'm serious, you need to tell us when you aren't alright. You - "

"I just said, I am okay!" Thomas raised his voice, the muscles in his face twitching as he kept a tight grip on the full extent of his anger. "You don't need to keep checking on me - !"

"We're just worried about you, Thomas. If you want to get back to work as soon as possible, then we need to make sure that you're - !"

Right then, Thomas's grip slipped.

"HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU ALL TO LEAVE ME ALONE!?"

Not a single individual in the room didn't flinch or jump backwards. Even a few engineers in the nearby rooms were startled out of their work focus.

"Seriously!" Thomas was close to screaming now, his voice breaking. His eyes were wide open, sending daggers at his startled crowd, his bad eye flashing. "When I say I'm fine, none of you believe me! Why can't you just believe me for once!? Or just leave me alone when I ask you to!? None of you even want to look at me, so why are you forcing yourselves to!? Go AWAY!"

No one dared to interrupt him, nor even utter a noise of shock. All of them just stood where they were, staring wide-eyed at this little engine, now panting with the effort of yelling, looking directly at the floor to let his crowd know that he was done with them, totally done, they had to leave now, just as he'd just loudly requested. After a few more moments of harrowing silence, they did; one by one the workers dispersed back to their respective work stations, slowly filling the Steamworks back up with sound. One of them - the stout engineer who'd told Thomas that his eye was healed, as I recall - called over his shoulder that they'd give Thomas his new coat of paint a tad later, but it wasn't a call so much as a forced whisper, making me doubt that Thomas heard him at all.

In that moment as the workers left the room - just as I had and will do many, many times during the course of these events - I looked at that poor little tank engine sitting in that room and realized once more that he was Thomas. The little engine who'd stopped at nothing to defend his good friend and mentor from unjustified teasing, who'd risked his life stopping Sailor John from taking that buried pirate's treasure for himself and hurting his timid railboat further, who'd given up his chance at winning the Great Railway Shunting Competition so that a fellow competitor wouldn't get hurt, who ran his own branchline alongside the two coaches he'd scrap himself for, who always made up for his mistakes when he made them, who would do just about anything to make sure his family were safe and happy - he was the exact same engine who sat in that room, his paint scraped and his left eye mangled beyond repair, with a mouth in a constant frown and a tongue as sharp as a butcher knife. This fact struck me just as hard as it had the several hundred times that it had struck before. Even then, it was unbelievable. I couldn't believe it.

And, as I quickly found out, neither could Victor.

He watched the workers with disbelieving eyes as they left, his mouth wide open in a gape. Out of nowhere, an uncharacteristic flash of anger coursed through him. He wanted to call them all back over, to snap at them that they were all wrong and that they were selfish for even thinking about walking away from this situation. Then, as quickly as it had come, the anger disappeared, and Victor let out a low sigh, feeling hollow.

Though it was certainly surprising feeling such emotions within him, I could understand why Victor had become frustrated with the engineers. Because when he looked at Thomas, he couldn't help seeing himself in him.

It was several years ago, when Victor was first brought from his home country of Cuba to the Island of Sodor. He arrived by ship late at night, along with a little green narrow gauge engine from Ireland, the Blue Mountain Quarry's very own Luke. Luke had been ever so excited to be there, to get to his new job at the quarry, that he begged the workmen to have him be taken off the boat first. Victor would have gladly shared the little engine's enthusiasm, had he been under the right circumstances. But along the journey the chains fastened across Victor's buffers and wheels had snapped, leaving Victor teetering on the edge of the ship and making the mere concept of joy foreign to him. My poor child, he'd never been more scared than he had been then. He'd called to the workmen, but they ignored his cries, not understanding his native Spanish and far too focused on Luke and lifting him off of the ship.

Victor could do nothing as it happened - as Cranky the Crane lifted Luke from the ship, by simple, cruel chance, the little engine knocked into Victor's lamp, shattering it and pushing him off the edge.

He could do nothing but scream as he fell into the icy water below, the impact of both the water and the hard concrete dock denting his frame and bending his buffers.

Victor still shuddered whenever he recalled the memories. He had many a sleepless night caused by them, many sudden flashes back to the pain and the terror and the confusion. When they'd retrieved him from the water and carried him to the Steamworks, he'd wondered how he could ever recover from that, if it was even possible to recover.

But then, Victor had been surprised: he did recover. He was fixed up again, he had a new coat of paint, and within just under two months he was ready to begin his new job in his new home.

It is not as if Victor is the exact same engine he was before his accident, absolutely not. As stated before, there are still moments where the dreadful memories bubble up unprovoked, and Victor must use one of his calming techniques to ensure that they do not have a lasting effect on himself or his performance. But he became well enough again to work. He didn't let what had happened take over his life. He got better. He recovered.

But he never would have been able to do so if it hadn't been for the humans - all the workers and engineers at the Steamworks who'd taken care of him after the accident.

They'd been gentle when buffing out his dents. They'd been ever so patient as they taught him his second language. They'd comforted and reassured him when the memories returned and kept him awake at night; even when he couldn't understand English quite yet, Victor had still been soothed by their soft words and kind smiles.

To this day Victor believes that, if it hadn't been for them, he would not be doing as well as he is right now. Had they not taken care of him as well as they had, he would be in a far worse place.

Which was precisely why, on that day, two and a half weeks after Thomas had been brought here, Victor could not help his irritation at watching the workers back away and mind their own business after Thomas had reacted in distress. He knew these humans from his own experience. They'd helped him recover, they'd done everything in their powers to help him. Even during the few times when Victor had been snappish with them, the engineers hadn't backed down and had stayed at his side until he felt alright again.

Victor could certainly understand why the engineers may be afraid to approach Thomas this time around; after all, he was not his young friend, he had not experienced what he'd been through. Yes, there had been moments in his recovery when Victor had had bursts of anger, but he'd never screamed at the workers like Thomas just had.

But Victor knew that it was possible to recover from such horrid events. He'd done it himself. It may take longer with Thomas, and it definitely won't be easy, he felt, but he wouldn't give up on trying to help his friend as much as he could. It pained him to think that at least a few of those same workers who'd helped him after his own accident were now giving up on a distressed engine who, despite appearances, needed their help more than ever.

"Well," Victor thought firmly, furrowing his brow, "If they won't put in the effort to help, then I will."

Kevin scurried over and interrupted Victor's thoughts to ask him if he ought to get back to work now. Victor, his gaze fixed on Thomas as he spoke, replied that yes, he would get back to some very very important work indeed, thank you Kevin, keep up the good work.

After Kevin disappeared into the other room Victor consulted his driver; then, once he had his approval, Victor approached the nearby turntable.

"Thomas," Victor said as he steamed onto the tracks right next to the little tank engine, "how are you feeling?"

Thomas stared at the floor, his scowl as intense as it'd been when he finished shouting at the engineers. He said nothing in response to Victor's question, not even giving him a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Thomas." Victor's voice was firm but gentle. "I am only trying to help you. You are my friend, and I'd rather have my funnel dented than see you suffer like this anymore. Please be honest with me, my friend. What are you thinking about? How can I help?"

For a few moments, nothing happened. Thomas kept his eyes on the ground, looking as if he hadn't heard Victor at all. Then, in a split second, it all changed. Thomas's face relaxed, his scowl retreating into just a deep frown. His brows knitted, and his frame creaked as he heaved a sigh.

"I... I- I'm so sorry, Victor," he mumbled, softer than Victor had ever heard from him, "I'm sorry if I've been rude to you all, but I'm just..." He squeezed his eyes shut then, wincing. "I... I... I don't know..."

Victor moved forwards an inch to get a better look at Thomas's face. "Thomas, I do not blame you for being upset. What happened to you was... horrible. Utterly deplorable. It disgusts me knowing that someone actually did that to you. You have every right to be frightened and angry."

"But what am I supposed to do now?" Thomas blurted, almost making Victor start with his sudden loudness, "I... E-Everyone keeps saying that it'll be okay and I'll go back to work but... but... Victor, I just don't know! I don't know if that'll happen! The memories won't go away, and I only have one eye left, and I'll be getting a new - !"

"Ssshh," Victor cut him off, "Thomas, you mustn't keep thinking that - "

Thomas ignored him.

"I just... I can't stand it when those engineers keep talking to me as if... as if nothing happened!" Thomas's voice broke on the final word in that sentence. "They're all so happy and keep pretending everything's fine when it's not! They have no idea how awful it was! They don't know how - !"

"Thomas, I know exactly what that feels like."

Thomas actually stopped talking once he heard this. He glanced down at Victor for the first time that entire discussion, his good eye shining.

Victor hadn't yelled at him - he still had enough control to keep his voice stern yet low - but the way he'd flinched slightly at the statement, Victor still felt a stab of guilt at responding the way he had. Despite that, he continued.

"I... Thomas, I understand exactly what you're saying. I know how you feel. Do you remember when I told you about my accident on the ship? I had never been more afraid in my life. I felt like no one could understand my pain, like I would be sad and angry and afraid until the day I was scrapped.

"But look now: I'm alright, Thomas." Victor smiled up at his friend now, hoping that the optimism in his face would inspire him to do the same. "It took a while, and certainly, not every day is perfect, but I am alright."

Far contrary to what Victor wanted, Thomas furrowed his brows once again, scoffing under his breath. "Victor, you fell off a boat," he hissed, "You weren't hurt they way I was. You weren't kept from coming home, you weren't beat until - !"

"I never said we were the same," Victor interrupted him yet again, speaking fast so that Thomas had no choice but to listen to him, "We are totally different cases, yes, but I understand what it is like to feel scared out of your mind, and then feel hopeless when the fear seems to follow you for weeks afterwards.

"All I want you to know is that you shouldn't give up hope. It will be very rough going forwards, but you can recover, Thomas. I recovered, and I know you can too.

"I know you might not believe me, but we all believe that, even the engineers." Again Victor felt guilty, this time for telling Thomas something that not even he fully believed, but he wanted his friend to be as hopeful and positive as possible. "Some of them might not understand what you're going through, but they all want to help you get better, you must remember that. We are all doing everything we can to help you. I promise."

Thomas studied Victor's face, his ever-present smile and bright eyes, and then turned his gaze back to the rails in front of him. Victor could see in his eyes, he was processing everything he'd told him. Victor quietly prayed that he'd listened to at least some of his speech, anything from it.

Then Thomas sighed again, his anger leaving his face, replaced with a type of sadness that Victor couldn't quite name.

"...I understand what you're saying, Victor, but... it hasn't made any difference. Not at all."

"Kind words can only work so much, my friend," Victor replied, "Even I know that. What I have told you will not fix what has happened. But what we choose to do about it will decide if we will be alright. That is why we are helping you: we want you to be alright again."

Before either engine could speak further, an engineer suddenly called from the other room, asking Victor to come back so he could help pull a new load of boiler tubes into the Steamworks. Victor sighed as he felt his driver pat his cab, signaling that they needed to leave Thomas before Victor could finish speaking to him.

Victor gave Thomas one last warm smile as he began to move forwards. "See you later, my good friend," he said, "We'll always be here if you need help, alright?"

With that, Victor spun on the turntable and entered the other room, before he could see Thomas looking up and watching him as he left the room.

Before he could see that Thomas was thinking about what he'd said.

"Kind words can only work so much, but what we choose to do about it will decide if we will be alright."

Those words ricocheted within Thomas's mind. He considered what they meant in relation to recent events, and he winced as a dull ache spread through his heart. All of a sudden, he wanted to apologize to all the workers he'd yelled at before; they'd only wanted to help, he thought, they probably didn't realize what Victor knows, about how kind words can only work so much.

"But... they know what happened to me," a part of him argued, "They... They should already know that! Just talking isn't going to fix me! It can't change what happened!"

"Yes, that is true, but they haven't been ONLY talking to you to fix you," another part of him reasoned - the clearer-thinking and more dominant part of him, thank mercy. "Victor said that what we choose to do about what happens to us decides if we'll be alright. And Victor's right, the engineers HAVE been doing everything to make sure that happens. They fixed my buffers, they're giving me a new coat of paint... they couldn't fix my eye, but... it doesn't hurt anymore, they did everything they could with it."

My heart jolted at what happened next, I thought I was imagining it; when it became clear that I wasn't imagining such an occurrence - the corners of Thomas's lips twitching upwards, the first barest hint of a smile he'd had in a very long time - my firebox erupted with warm flames.

Just as it did at what he thought next, as he peered through the open window next to him and eyed the yellow rays the sun was casting on the green Sudrian countryside.

"I... I'll do my best to stay positive... if it'll help me get better, I'll try..."

Hearing such small yet significant optimistic sentiments from my child... oh, my dear listeners, I wish I could express the joy I felt right at that moment.

I wish I could express it just as much as I could the agony I felt at what happened next.

It did not happen immediately after Thomas's revelations; the world may be cruel and thoughtless, but I can find at least a tad bit of solace in that my child finally had a chance to relax for a few moments before strife found him again. He closed his eyes just as he always had these past few weeks, except this time it was to genuinely rest and recuperate after the commotion from earlier. He opened them again when he heard the familiar sounds of boots on concrete floors approaching him, and his firebox fluttered when he saw the paint cans in the engineers' hands. He made no conversation with them, they did not attempt any with him, and he still tensed when he felt the scrapers take off his leftover paint, doing the same when he felt the brushes' bristles graze his frame, but he was significantly less stressed out than he had been since before he'd gone to the Mainland.

Although - and bear in mind I am certainly not proud of myself for this - looking back, during that tranquil scene, I could not help the gnawing premonition that it would not last for very long.

How I wish I'd been wrong.

It wasn't until Thomas's paint was nearly dry that things began to turn sour again. Thomas had his eyes shut once more, but began to stir when he listened to the muffled voices from the other room. He was familiar with these voices - the voices of the numerous engineers and workers that traversed the Steamworks. One voice, however, stood out from the rest. He'd never heard this voice in his life, a voice that sounded both sharp and rough, one that commanded attention and yet was too soft to come from a controller or director.

At first, Thomas didn't care much for the voice, figuring it was probably just another engine's driver or fireman asking for help with a load they'd just brought in, or perhaps an entirely new machine beginning their first day of work on Sodor. Then he heard footsteps approaching him, and he opened his eyes.

The newcomer was not a machine but a human, a tall thin man with short dark hair and a mustache just above his lip. He was wearing the standard engine driver's uniform, a light blue coat with a matching cap, and he had his arms folded and his eyes -

Thomas gasped silently, his throat growing dry and his boiler churning.

"Bob...!?"

If machines had a live, beating heart, his would have been thundering out of him.

"B-But... you... I... I-I saw... y-you and William were - "

"Pardon me?"

Thomas blinked, and the image of the man in front of him became clearer; he was not his former driver but a man he'd never seen before. His hair was a shade darker and a tad larger than Bob's had been, his mustache the same way, and when Thomas looked closer, he could see that his eyes were not light brown but grey.

The man squinted up at Thomas, then dug into his wrinkled pockets and produced a slip of paper and a pair of spectacles. He slipped the glasses onto his nose, his eyes scanning the paper.

"...You're the tank engine they call Thomas, right?" the man asked.

Thomas recognized the man's voice; it was just as raspy and yet soft as it had been through the walls. Thomas wasn't sure if he liked the sound of it.

"Um..." Thomas blinked again, reoriented himself. "I... who are you? Sir? Sir?"

The man began walking before Thomas had finished speaking. He squinted and clucked his tongue as he made his way over to the little engine's right side.

Thomas frowned. He opened his mouth to repeat his question when the man said "Ah, yes, you have the right number. You're the one." He made a satisfactory noise in his throat as he took a look at Thomas's cab and back buffers, whistled when he came to his left side. "...Quite the beauty, aren't you? Blimey... an E2 in such pristine conditions... damn if Sir Topham isn't a lucky man to have you."

His words were utter oxymorons to how he spoke; he didn't sound particularly pleased or unhappy with his revelations. To Thomas, everything that came out of his mouth was just... dull. As if he couldn't be bothered to be here and yet he was forcing himself to.

Thomas furrowed his brow as the man came back into his view. The man barely seemed to notice, glancing from his piece of paper back to the engine. When he looked back up at Thomas's face, however, he frowned as if he'd just seen something nasty, and Thomas realized with a jolt what he was looking at.

"Hmm... That eye sort of ruins the image, though, as do the scars..." the man said, putting a hand to his chin thoughtfully. Then, shaking his head, he added, "Oh well, never mind. No use complaining about it. It's what I have to work with."

"Um," Thomas grunted, "...Pardon me, sir, but... who are you?"

The man paused in the middle of placing his glasses and paper back in his pocket to raise an eyebrow at Thomas. "Did Sir Topham never tell you?"

"...Sir Topham hasn't spoken to me in two weeks."

"Really? Then who on Earth has been - ?"

"Sir, who are you? What are you doing here?"

Either the man didn't detect the sharp edge in Thomas's voice, or he chose to ignore it. He patted his pockets and cleared his throat. "My name is Don. I'm your driver, and I'll work with you when you're fit to go back to your regular jobs. I understand you're blind in your left eye, it was in your descriptions that you need to learn how to move properly again, tomorrow we'll start a bit of that so you can be a regular working engine again..."

The man went on, though Thomas couldn't hear him. The loud crash in his mind, followed by a stream of racing thoughts, was drowning him out.

Thomas ruminated as he listened to the man talk - Don, he'd called himself Don. He'd ignored Thomas's questions. He talked about him instead of to him like the little engine wasn't even in the room. He'd looked Thomas up and down as if he was a museum display rather than a living, breathing creature. What's more, he'd called himself Thomas's driver. Not even his new driver, just... his driver, as if he'd always been there, ever since Thomas had first been built.

Thomas remembered how he'd momentarily mistaken Don for Bob, his previous driver, and a sour taste touched the back of his tongue.

"Thomas? Thomas, excuse me?"

Thomas came back to the real world to see Don snapping his fingers at him, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. Once seemed to notice that he had Thomas's attention, he folded his arms as he shook his head up at him. "Sir Topham didn't tell me you had trouble paying attention..." he muttered.

"I- I- " Thomas stumbled over his words. He'd never met a man like this before. How on Earth am I supposed to respond to him? he thought.

When Don opened his mouth again, however, Thomas gave up trying to find the right words and said the first thing that came to his mind:

"...You're my new driver?"

The sentence came out in a raw, forced voice, as if it physically hurt Thomas to say it out loud. Don appeared to take no notice.

"Oh, don't tell me you're half-deaf as well as blind," he groused, "I just told you that. I'll train you to move with only one eye, then you can start working for the railway again. We'll start tomorrow morning, around nine-thirty. Does that make sense?"

"I- I-" Thomas stuttered again, "I... Y-yes, that does, but -"

"Right then." Don held up a hand as if commanding Thomas into silence. He shoved his hands into his pockets, spinning on his heel. "I will see you again tomorrow, then. You... just sit tight until then, alright?"

He began walking towards the door.

"...W-Wait sir!"

Stopping and turning around when Thomas's urgent call reached him.

Thomas thought he knew what he wanted to say to the man, something so important that it absolutely could not wait until the next day. But when Don's piercing grey eyes met his own, Thomas felt it drift out of his mind. Once again he groped for the right words to say to a man like this.

"...You're really doing to work with me?" he finally said, "You... Sir Topham Hatt really asked you to drive me from now on?"

Don made no indication that he heard the slight shake in Thomas's voice. "That's what I've been saying to you," he said, as if it was the most rudimentary fact in the world. He turned back around and held up his hand in a half-hearted wave. "Take care, now."

And then he was gone.

Thomas gawked at the doorway where Don had disappeared through. Everything that just happened had felt so surreal to him, Thomas almost believed it was all a bizarre dream he'd just woken up from.

Or, rather, he was trying to convince himself it was.

Thomas recalled everything that had just transpired, from the moment Don entered to when he left. He replayed all of Don's comments about his make, his shape, his attention span, his paintwork, his eye. He heard him yammering on and on about how well-kept and beautiful Thomas was as an E2 engine, never truly addressing him until Thomas made his voice heard.

For the first time in his life Thomas felt ill thinking about his shiny blue paint and bright number one.

He thought about the future, about what Don had said.

He'd have to learn how to be useful again with only one working eye with a man he'd never met before driving him, who talked as if he'd never spoken to a machine in his life. He had a new driver - a man who'd said he'd train him to be useful again.

I felt all traces of optimism leaving my child as he came to these realizations, and with it came the scowl, the same scowl that I had seen far too much on my poor child's face lately. The sight left a gaping hole in my heart; if machines did have physical hearts, it would look as if a flurry of bullets had torn through mine.

For a long time Thomas sat there, his teeth clenched and his lips pulled back in a snarl. He stared at something invisible in front of him, both eyes wide open and filled a kind of fury I'd never seen come from him before - which is saying quite a lot, since I'd seen more forms of anger come from him within these past few days than I'd seen in a lot of engines their entire lives.

He glared like this at the ground, thinking of only one thing:

"A new driver... a NEW DRIVER..."

He kept on thinking about it until -

"Thomas?"

- his own name dropped him back into his surroundings.

"Huh?" Thomas glanced at the entrance to the other room, where a lone engineer stood inside the rails. He was a tad disoriented by the wide smile on the engineer's face, even more so by his thought that the smile somehow appeared genuine.

"Thomas, we've got great news for you!" The engineer's elation showed in his bright voice. "You've got some visitors!"

Thomas took a moment before replying "...Really?", raising an eyebrow as he did so.

The engineer seemed oblivious to his flat tone, nodding so hard that his cap slid an inch onto his forehead. "Yep," he said, jumping out of the room and gesturing up the rails. He added "I'm sure you'll enjoy this company." before he walked away.

Thomas watched the rails and listened to the approaching sounds of chuffing and wheeshing steam, along with the clatter of couplings and tremors in the rails from the weight of whoever was coming. But above all of that, he heard three distinct, familiar voices.

When the visitors came into the room and Thomas saw them and reacted to them...

I truly should be used to seeing heartbreaking things now, but I'm not. I certainly was not right then.

Rosie puffed into the room, Annie and Clarabel coupled up behind her. She gasped when she saw Thomas, her face paling.

A muscle jumped in Thomas's cheek. A flame sparked in his firebox; he already knew what Rosie was here to do, as well as what she'd seen on his face that had startled her.

"Oh my goodness..." Rosie muttered under her breath. Then, an enormous smile spread across her face.

"Thomas!" she exclaimed, nearly laughing in her relief, "Oh, thank Lady you're alright!"

Both Annie and Clarabel chittered upon hearing Rosie speak.

"Oh, Rosie, is it true?" Clarabel said breathlessly, "Thomas, are you there? We've been ever so worried!"

"Yes!" Annie agreed, peeking out from behind Rosie's cab as the red engine made her way onto the turntable, "Nobody told us what happened at all! Not even the Fat Controller!"

"Rosie told us everything a few days ago. Thomas, we're ever so sorry we never saw you before, but the engineers always said it wasn't a good time for visitors, but we just had to - "

"Clarabel, I see him! I see him! Oh, Thomas, thank mercy- You've been repainted! You look as if nothing happened!"

"Does he really, Annie? Oh Thomas, you truly have no idea how worried we've - "

"His face!" Annie gasped then, cutting her sister off. "Thomas, your beautiful face! Does it still hurt? Are you - ?"

Rosie silenced the two coaches with a quick peep of her whistle. "Okay Annie, Clarabel, we shouldn't overwhelm him," she warned, though still grinning she added "I'm sure he's already overwhelmed by seeing you two again!"

"She's talking about me as if I'm not in the room," Thomas thought. He clenched his jaw.

John hopped out of Rosie's cab, ready to uncouple the coaches from his engine. But before he did he squinted across the room and, upon seeing Thomas, relief flooded his face just as it had done for Rosie.

"Thomas," he called, jerking his hand once in a wave, "It's great to see you again! The whole island's been so worried about you."

"Pff, if that's not an understatement," said Al, leaning out of Rosie's cab. He gave Thomas a curt nod, motioning with his thumb towards Rosie. "You worried this one for sure. Ever since she saw you when they brought you back she's been working her little buffers off to keep herself from thinking about you, she said she couldn't stand to see you like that. Neither could I, honestly! You looked pretty banged up, Thomas."

I felt that both John's and Al's words were genuine, which only made it harder to feel the bubbling heat within Thomas's firebox and see the muted fury in his eyes. Those poor humans had no clue how Thomas felt about what they'd said; for all I know, they were thinking that he hadn't been able to appreciate such kind words in days.

Contrary to her crew, Rosie could sense that something was not right.

She stared at Thomas as John uncoupled her from the coaches, her bright smile fading away. She looked over his scarred face again, taking in every detail in his expression. She noticed that he hadn't smiled at all this entire time. His lips hadn't even twitched once. When was the last time I'd seen him scowling like that? she wondered, and realized that she couldn't even remember.

She thought with a tense boiler, "What on Earth is going on?"

John pulled the lever to the turntable, turning Rosie so that she could face Thomas. He then leaped back into her cab and drove her closer to the engine she hadn't seen in person in what, to her, felt like months.

Rosie's brows knitted as she approached Thomas. "Thomas, I'm so sorry we never visited before," she said, her voice cool, "But... the engineers kept telling us that you weren't in the mood for visitors, or that you were too stressed out to - "

"Why did they let you in this time?"

I winced at seeing Rosie flinch. It would never stop feeling painful to watch others react that way to Thomas's newfound snappiness.

"Uh- Uh- " Rosie was speechless. She blinked a few times to bring herself out of the shock. "I- Th-They said that you were well enough to start work again soon, and that you- "

Thomas cut her off with a harsh laugh. "Hah! What else did they tell you? Did they tell you I was desperate to see your face again?"

Rosie gasped at the same time that Annie and Clarabel did. She swallowed hard, her mouth as dry as sandpaper.

"...Thomas," Annie piped up, sounding surprisingly calm despite what she'd just heard, "...What's wrong? Why are you so - ?"

Thomas silenced her with a stern look that made Rosie gasp again. "I told them a million times, I don't want anyone to see me!" he barked, "I don't want to talk to anyone right now! Why does everyone keep saying I need what I don't want!?"

Annie looked as if she'd been slapped, and though Thomas couldn't see it, Clarabel looked the same way.

"T-Thomas..." Annie's voice quivered, her eyes shining.

"W-W...W-We've been so worried!" Clarabel shouted suddenly, her own voice breaking with emotion, "Thomas, y-you... you have no idea - "

"I told them, I don't. Want. Anyone. To see me!" Thomas growled, "None of them are helping me by letting you all in here! You think I actually want you to see me like this!?"

Annie and Clarabel both cowered under his glower, and I do not blame them. Thomas's voice was not particularly loud - he was still exercising some semblance of control over it - but the two coaches had never heard their little engine speak to them like this before. He'd been frustrated around them, certainly, and they'd argued countless times, but right then? Thomas sounded like he wanted nothing to do with them, the same sweet old coaches whom he once said he'd never tease them ever again if doing so meant saying goodbye to them forever.

The coaches both worked to stifle their sobs, though a few anguished squeaks still escaped them. Rosie overheard them, and all of a sudden something snapped inside of her. The shock on her face transformed. Her brows furrowed, her teeth clenched as she glared at Thomas.

John, who'd seemed to sense Rosie's mood shift when her firebox sputtered with more intense flame than normal, leaned his head out of her cab and placed a tentative hand on her side. "Rosie, easy now- "

Oh, dear John. You were never going to stop her with that.

"What in Lady's name is the matter with you!?" Rosie demanded, the fury in her eyes reflecting Thomas's, "How can you say such horrible things!?"

Thomas's glare and voice were still somewhat controlled as he responded to her, although I sensed him losing his grip. "You can't believe this, Rosie? What do you think? Do you think I'm just supposed to- just keep my mouth shut and be happy after everything that's - !"

"Do you have any idea how they've felt this whole time!?" Rosie interrupted. She glanced towards Annie and Clarabel. "They've missed you so much, Thomas! They - !"

"How do you think I'm feeling right now!?" Thomas countered, finally raising his voice to match Rosie's, "I feel like I've been taken to the scrapyard and back! That Steelworks tortured me! They treated me like filth, Rosie! Like- Like I was just a horrid animal! And when I get back here, everyone keeps acting like nothing ever happened! Everyone keeps trying to tell me I'll be okay, but guess what? I'm NOT! I haven't - "

"They waited weeks to find out what happened to you!" Rosie screamed, "Nobody said a word to them and they were worried sick for days! They cried their eyes out when I told them! They love you to pieces, Thomas! How can you just dismiss them- !?"

"None of you even want to understand how I'm feeling, do you!? No one ever listens to me when I tell them what I want! You all just keep making my decisions for me!"

"No we're bloody not! We just want to help you- !"

"Well you're not helping! At all! Do you even know what - !?"

"We all know what happened, Thomas! It's why we're all trying to help you- !"

"I'll tell you what doesn't help me! Everyone assuming I'm be alright when I'm not, giving me visitors when I just want to be alone, the Fat Controller ignoring me- !"

"He isn't ignoring you- !"

"-and getting me a new driver who doesn't even- !"

"I can't believe you can't see that -!"

"ROSIE!"

Rosie flinched. So did Annie and Clarabel. And so did Thomas.

John leaned out of Rosie's cab, his chest heaving from his shout. His cheeks turned pink and his face relaxed, possibly because he sensed how much he'd startled his engine. He then cleared his throat and placed his hand on Rosie's side.

"Um... We- I think we ought to go, Rosie," he said softly, moving his hand in a soothing circle along Rosie's frame, "We... We still have a lot to do. And I think Thomas needs a break. Come on. Let's get Annie and Clarabel back to their shed."

Rosie opened her mouth to protest, but then though better of it. She wheeshed in reply, choking down the sob that'd risen to the back of her throat.

But she still was not done with Thomas. As she reversed onto the turntable she shot him yet another glare, this time filtered through a sheen of fresh tears, and muttered just loud enough so he would hear, "...What else did that Steelworks do to you?"

Thomas simply looked away, the look on his face never wavering.

Rosie took the tearful Annie and Clarabel out of the Steamworks in silence, leaving Thomas to ruminate just as he'd been prior to her arrival.

I could not believe what I'd just witnessed. Thomas had never spoken to anyone like that before, and he and Rosie had certainly never screamed at each other before. I could not be angry with him for this, though. When he'd spoken such horrible words to Rosie and Annie and Clarabel, he was hurting. He was aching after meeting Don, plagued by memories of the Steelworks and of Bob and William and what had befallen them, and he hadn't had much time to process such thoughts before Rosie had arrived. His pain had come out in his harsh words, and Rosie just couldn't see it. All she saw was Thomas acting unexpectedly and uncharacteristically hateful towards the ones who loved him the most, and she'd reacted, fueled by her own anger and shock that he'd ever speak to Annie and Clarabel like that, fueled even more so by her memories of watching the coaches react to the news of what had happened to him.

I wanted to fix everything right then. I wanted to erase what had happened - the Steelworks, what happened to Bob and William, Thomas's pain, his argument with Rosie, all of it - so that the island could go back to how it used to be, with Thomas home and safe and happy and nobody was worried about him or whether or not he'd be okay. But to do that I need to be far more powerful than I am.

"She doesn't understand..." Thomas thought, swallowing the lump growing in his throat, "None of them do... if they just understand... but they don't... they won't... I'm not alright... I'm not alright..."

That night Thomas had another nightmare. He opened his eyes to find himself in a dark limbo, his mouth bound and his wheels in the tight grips of chains. The chains were pulled taut in all directions, making him feel as if his wheels would rip right off. Voices echoed all around him. He thought he recognized them - Sir Topham Hatt, Rosie, Annie, Clarabel, Percy, Victor, Frankie, Hurricane, the Steamworks engineers, the Steelworks manager. He struggled against the chains. They only wound tighter around his wheels. Even more chains shot through the dark and latched onto him. His muffled screams rubbed his throat raw.

When he jumped awake, the moon still shining through the Steamworks windows, he thought about how he'd felt when he'd argued with Rosie that day. He'd been hurting, yes, but he'd also felt... well, good. He'd felt as if everyone was making his decisions for him, getting him a new driver, giving him visitors when he didn't want them, deciding he would be alright when not even he believed that. He'd felt like everyone had an iron grip on him, yanking him in all directions, pulling even harder when he resisted them and silencing him when he protested that it wasn't what he wanted.

He'd finally had enough of feeling like that. So he'd told Rosie and Annie and Clarabel exactly how he felt, and thought it had left him upset, he'd felt triumph. He'd felt as though he'd taken control of his life again, broken the chains that others had been using to puppet him.

He wanted to have that kind of control forever.

Chapter Text

When I think about what happened next, I am always reminded of when Thomas had accidentally crashed into a stationmaster's house. He hadn't been too damaged, but that had been the least of the young engine's worries. At the time, Thomas had never been more mortified in his life. I can still remember how red his face had become when Percy, Toby, Donald and Douglas laughed at him and at the bushes and plaster that decorated his front, as well as how pale he'd grown when Sir Topham Hatt told him that another qualified, more revolutionary diesel engine would take his place on his branchline while he was being repaired. Thomas had been taken to the Steamworks in disgrace, believing that he would never recover from the shame his accident had caused him.

Of course, as you can probably tell, dear listeners, that belief did not last for very long. And, much like with Victor and his accident, Thomas possibly never would have recovered from his embarrassment if it weren't for the humans who'd treated him.

The engineers had chatted away with him while they repaired him, asking him questions and making jokes and making sure that he was feeling alright every day. They had laughed and joked about Thomas's accident, but not like the other engines had before; rather than tease Thomas for his blunder, the engineers had reassured him about it, telling their own tales of making silly mistakes in their lives. One engineer related how he'd once dropped a box of tools on his foot because he hadn't been carrying it properly, while another explained that just a week ago tried to boil tea in a saucepan rather than a pot to test his theory that it was possible to do it that way.

At first Thomas had been resistant, reluctant to relive his own mortification. But, eventually, he smiled more and laughed along with the engineers. On his last day there, as the engineers finished and polished his final repairs, he was making his own jokes about how silly he'd must've looked with a windowpane hanging from his smokebox. When he returned to the sheds that day, he didn't even mind it when Percy and Toby teased him yet again. The engineers had made sure that, even though it still embarrassed him, he could look back on the accident without wishing he could find a tunnel to hide in.

I remember that every time because, on the morning when Thomas was supposed to begin his training with Don, the interactions between Thomas and the engineers was totally different.

Thomas was awake long before the morning engineers arrived for work. He finally heard them from the other room after waiting a few hours - which felt like, to Thomas, an eternity - the sounds of their footsteps mingling with the chatter and greetings and steps of the night engineers as they left for the day. He kept his eye on the door; then, after he waited a couple more minutes, the door rattled open, and a small group of engineers entered.

They gave him his final safety check. They put him on the lift. Finally, they lifted Thomas into the air and into the other room and carefully placed him onto the flatbed that Paxton the Young Diesel was pulling.

And all throughout this process, everyone involved was totally silent.

The engineers made no conversation with Thomas, and seemed to be avoiding eye contact with him. During his safety check they spoke in hushed monosyllabic sentences; when they fitted him to the lift they didn't even speak to each other, only making hand gestures and signaling what had to be done next.

If someone were to watch such a scene and still remain unconvinced that the humans were acting as such because of their late experiences with Thomas, then they definitely would be when they also notice how the engineers were doing their best to avoid touching Thomas; even during his safety check, as they climbed into his cab and checked his firebox and gauges, they did not stay in there any longer than they had to, scuttling out like they were rabbits with a wolf standing right next to them.

Thomas noticed this about them as well. From what had occurred the previous day I expected at least a twinge of relief from Thomas that they were being careful not to trigger any unwanted memories or anxieties again, but when I took a look at his feelings I saw a blend of emotions that seriously concerned me. Anger, frustration, fear, sadness, ruefulness, flashes of hatred. Yes, my dear listeners, you heard me correctly - Thomas truly felt like he hated the engineers, at least a tad. Why he hated them, his reasons were numerous, diverse, and contradictory. He hated them for avoiding touching him, he hated them for not communicating with him, for taking care of him and speaking to him in the fashion they had been the entire time he'd been in the Steamworks. Perhaps even more bizarre, however, was that my child didn't completely hate them for these things. In fact, part of him actually loved the engineers for them. He loved them for being careful with him, for respecting his past wishes and leaving him be at the same time that he hated them for it.

He went back and forth with himself as he watched them work around him; love or hate, love or hate, love or hate...

The lift maneuvered Thomas into the other room and onto the flatbed I mentioned before. Once the workers made sure that he was secured onto it, they signaled to Paxton's driver, and with that, the little diesel honked his horn and pulled out of the Steamworks.

Thomas blinked a few times and winced silently as the early morning sunlight hit his face for the first time in over half a month's time. He looked around, at the tracks and sheds and signal boxes. He listened to the familiar sounds of a bustling railway, to the wind that sailed past him and grazed over his skin and scars.

But apart from his wincing and blinking, Thomas had no strong reactions to being outside again. His face didn't even twitch when a few engines inevitably passed by, either gasping or whistling or honking or calling an excited hello. He looked down, at the chains holding him to the wooden flatbed, and ruminated more on how he felt about the engineers.

More specifically, how he thought he was supposed to feel about them.

"Victor said that they were just trying to help... but... everything they did only made me feel worse... they couldn't see that nothing they were doing was working.

"But... at the same time... they were still trying to help, weren't they? Isn't that better than not caring at all? And they actually listened to me this morning. They were being so gentle, and they weren't pestering me or asking me if I was 'alright' when I clearly wasn't. They... they were listening.

"But the way they wouldn't even look at me... are they scared of me now? Can't they see that I'M scared myself? I'M scared half to scrap every day because of what happened to me! THEY don't know what it's really like to be scared out of your mind!

"...I was acting really rude though... I just kept yelling at them... only when they were trying to help...

He went back and forth like this, just as he had done before. He couldn't decide which argument was absolutely correct; was he right for yelling at the engineers for ignoring his wishes and showing no sign that they understood his plight? Or was he wrong for such actions? Should he have kept his mouth shut the whole time and just agreed with them when they told him everything would be alright? Even when he felt the opposite was true instead? Should he have tried harder to make the engineers to understand him, without letting his emotions take hold of him? Was that even possible? What should he have done? Should he have done nothing at all?

All of these questions - and so many more - were making his smokebox ache, but he couldn't take his mind off of them. He continued thinking about them the entire journey.

Soon, though, his mind drifted, applying those questions instead to Rosie. Then to Annie and Clarabel. All great friends to him, knowing him far better than any of the engineers did.

He was so focused on his thoughts, in fact, that he didn't notice how uncharacteristically quiet Paxton was as he pulled him along.

Paxton made two stops before their final destination, one at a coal hopper, and the second at a water tower. Paxton's driver filled Thomas's bunker with coal and his boiler with water as quickly as he could, then they were off again. Thomas found himself feeling oddly nostalgic at the feeling of having fuel again; it reminded him of work and his friends and how happy he'd been before he'd gone to the mainland.

It also reminded him of Bob and William, which, once he realized it, made his nostalgia dissipate, replaced with a hollowness that he'd felt all too much as of late.

Paxton took Thomas along the more rural routes, until they came to a siding with an old wooden shed at its end. Thomas hadn't really been expecting a certain place, but he still felt a twinge of disappointment when he finally glanced up and saw the dingy little area; and he didn't even know what part of Sodor he was on anymore, he'd been so distracted by his thoughts. Then he realized he was on one of the lines attached to Edward's branchline, a line so rural that most trains didn't pass through here until the early afternoon.

As Paxton came to a stop just before crossing with the siding, Thomas took a look inside the shed, and who he saw did not help lift his mood at all; a silhouette of a tall, thin man wearing a railway driver's uniform, his mop of hair sticking out from under his cap, his head down and his glasses on his face as he studied a small, unknown item in his hand. Don. The new driver.

I felt Thomas's heart jerk.

This is it, he thought. This is the part where I start getting better.

Don lifted his head when he heard Paxton's driver leap out of his engine's cab. He stepped out of the shed and, when his gaze found Thomas perched on the flatbed, his eyes lit up and his mustache twitched upwards in a grin.

"Oh, that's wonderful," he called as he approached. He put what he'd had in his hand back into his pocket, but not quick enough to keep Thomas from seeing it; it had to be snapped shut, and Thomas caught its golden surface glinting in the sunlight. A pocket watch. He'd been looking at the time as he'd waited for Thomas to arrive.

Thomas wondered for how long he'd been staring at that watch before now. Five minutes? Ten? Twenty?

Thomas never thought that he could become annoyed with someone this quickly after meeting them.

Don addressed Paxton's driver, "Thank you so much for bringing him here, Mister..."

Paxton's driver chuckled and tipped his cap. "Robert Brown," he said. His voice had a slight rasp just as Don's did, except Thomas felt far more comfortable listening to him speak instead. "It's great to meet you, Mr. Jackson. I hope you're enjoying Sodor so far."

Don rumbled a laugh. "Just Don is fine, thank you. And thank you, I'm enjoying it very much. It's just as quaint as I'd imagined. My wife had always told me how wonderful it would be to live here, I'm very pleased that that turned out true."

"Really?" said Robert, sounding genuinely interested, "That's great. Does your wife still enjoy it as much as before you moved here?"

But Don was walking away before Robert could even finish his last sentence.

"Now then," he said briskly, "Let's get this done then, shall we?"

Thomas had been looking away from this interaction, staring at the grass beside the track as he ruminated further on his situation. But when he felt the left side of his flatbed give slightly, he snapped back to attention.

He looked to see Don climbing up onto the flatbed, and when he realized where the man was headed, what he was planning to do, he stiffened, his eyes growing wide.

"Oh no."

This time, if machines had physical hearts, Thomas's would've been pounding out of his frame right then.

Don paid Thomas's reaction no mind, never even glancing at the engine's face to see it. He walked up to Thomas's cab, placed his hands on his buffer beam, and heaved himself into the cab.

Thomas felt as if his boiler was tying itself into knots. He felt like Don's hands were laced with poison, burning his frame and controls. He wanted to scream. He wanted to knock Don out of his cab and test yet again if he could go on without a driver, just so that he'd never feel a human's touch again, never again be reminded of the scars that one of the cruelest humans he'd ever known had given him. He didn't want to be reminded of the numerous reasons why a human's touch now felt so foreign.

I almost thought he would do that, actually; after seeing how much pain the thoughts brought him, I wouldn't have been surprised.

Then, of course, how shocking it was that he didn't, and instead worked to keep himself from doing so.

He tried everything he could to divert his attention away from Don and his thoughts. He looked straight ahead, keeping his jaws shut tight to prevent even the tiniest whine from escaping him.

He still looked angry, however; yes, still because of Don and the situation, but also because of something I had seen only twice before in my young child, but even then they were never nearly as intense as now.

I listened closely to Thomas's thoughts, heard everything that he was telling himself.

Never should a mother have to hear such thoughts coming from her child, such startling, horrid thoughts.

"Just shut up! This is ridiculous! What's the matter with you? You can't go the rest of your life without a driver! You can't live without humans at all! WHY are you still so scared of them!? What happened at the Steelworks was a long time ago, you should have forgotten about it all by now! You do WANT to be useful, don't you!? Then stop complaining and get to work!"

You listeners understand how startling it has been seeing all the changes in my child, but this change certainly startled me the most. To hear such thoughts coming from him...

I truly wish I really was as all-knowing as I am thought to be. I truly do. If I was, I would have ended all of this suffering the instant I saw it on the horizon.

While Don familiarized himself with Thomas's controls, Robert went around to the back of the flatbed and lowered the ramp attached to it. When Don finally reached out and pointed his thumb upwards, Robert nodded and told him that he was all set to go.

Thomas's anxiety came flooding back as his firebox flared to life for the first time in weeks. He suddenly felt out of control, like an invisible hand was moving him to a place he'd never been before and had no idea what to expect from; it did not help that there was an unfamiliar driver in his cab, a man who he'd only met yesterday and already wasn't too fond of him. Despite this however, he still bit his tongue to keep from voicing his panic. His determination to become a normal, useful engine again seemed to almost be punishing him for even the notion that he was nervous.

Still tense, Thomas waited. Then his axels creaked, his frame shuddered as his wheels began to turn.

The fact that he was moving backwards with no vision to see where he was headed did not assuage his fear at all.

It was over in seconds, far quicker than it felt in Thomas's mind; he rolled backwards, down the ramp, until he was off the flatbed and on the siding's tracks. He stopped with a wheesh of steam that actually made Robert start a tad.

"Hmm..." Thomas heard Don muttering to himself, "...Never seen a firebox spark quite like that before. And that steam... hm. Seems a little too forceful. Oh well, no matter. Probably just from lack of use. I can work on that as we go on."

"You can work on that?" Thomas thought with a stab of bitterness, "YOU can work on that?"

Despite his anxious state, he couldn't help reflecting on how glad he was that he didn't have a new fireman as well as a new driver today; he didn't know what he would do if had two of Don in his cab talking about him like that.

Don then leaned out of Thomas's cab and waved to Robert. "Anyway, thank you ever so much for your help, Robert," he said, smiling, "You seem like a nice chap, hope we can stop by a pub sometime?"

Robert chuckled and tipped his cap yet again. "Sure, sure. We'll see. You two take care now. Good luck, Thomas!" He then walked back to his own engine, patting his side as he jumped into his cab.

"Come on then, Paxton," he told the little diesel, "The quarry's waiting for us."

"Oh! Uh..." Paxton stammered, having been lost in his own thoughts the entire time he'd been here, "Y-Yes, Robert. Let's go."

Then Paxton surprised me, truly surprised me; even though he hadn't said anything to his friend the entire journey here, as he began to move onto the main line, he actually smiled and called behind him, "Bye, Thomas. Hope you feel better!"

Thomas didn't reply. He barely even heard Paxton. He was far too busy thinking about Don.

Speaking of which, when Paxton and his flatbed were finally out of view, the man himself cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Now, then, it's about time we got to work. I'll be both your driver and fireman, for now. Until Sir Topham Hatt hires a new fireman to work with me. He said that it would be easier if you practiced with only me first, less stressful. And we need to begin with short-distance tracks as well; I understand that you have worked on this railway for years now, but you've never done it with only one eye, so that's what we'll be working on today. There's another siding up ahead to the left, where your blind spot is, just a few yards away, so we'll just practice going past that for now. And I need to report everything back to Sir Topham so he can document the progress, but I don't think you'll be much trouble. We need to work quickly, and diligently. Do you understand?"

Thomas hesitated. He thought about refusing - "He's speaking to me as if I'm a CHILD" - but before he could do so he blurted, "Yes sir. I understand sir."

Don grunted "Good," and with that, went back into Thomas's cab and scooped some extra coal into the little engine's firebox.

I'd noticed ever since I first saw Don that he seemed to have a very casual air about him. His conversations with Thomas so far lacked any empathy or compassion, though he hadn't sounded mean either; he just seemed both indifferent and determined at the same time, he wasn't worried about Thomas or his job, but he still acted professional and wanted to do the job well. There truly isn't a better word to describe him: he was very casual, very laid-back.

It occurred to me that he probably believed that Thomas felt the same way, that he would cooperate with his new driver immediately and give him no trouble at all. He hadn't noticed any of Thomas's signs of distress, or, if he had, he didn't seem to believe that it would be a problem.

So I can only imagine the surprise it gave him when it turned out that this job would not be as smooth as he'd wanted.

Thomas moved just a few feet out of the siding when things began to turn awry. Don kept a hand on the wall inside the cab, steadying himself while Thomas chugged along at a steady pace, and kept his eyes on the tracks ahead through one of Thomas's windows when his attention turned yet again to Thomas's firebox. He looked down, at the sparks emanating from the flames, and he frowned. It was the second time that day that he had seen such a sight.

Don shrugged and turned his attention back to the window, but a sharp hiss and a clatter on the floor made him look again. Then, for the first time since talking to Robert a little bit ago, his casual demeanor shifted, except this time he gasped and jumped at what he saw.

A hot coal was lying in the middle of the cab floor, having leaped out of Thomas's firebox, tiny wisps of flame still surrounding it.

At this, Don looked truly perturbed for once since I'd first seen him. His brow furrowed, and his mustache quivered as he let out a huff. He grabbed the coal shovel leaning against the wall and used it to flick the coal back into the firebox, and then he yanked down on Thomas's brake lever.

"Oi! Thomas!"

"What- !?" Thomas cried out. He hadn't been expecting his brakes to go off right now, it startled him so much that three more hot coals jumped onto his cab floor. He heard Don exclaiming, and his boiler felt as if he had an entire school of fish swimming around in it.

Once Thomas came to a halt, Don leaped out of his cab and marched up to the engine's front, his arms folded and his face reminding me of a couple other disgruntled workers I'd seen on railways other than Sodor.

"Oi," Don snapped again, looking up at Thomas's face, "what's going on here, eh?"

Thomas swallowed hard, his good eye looking Don up and down. "Um... wh-what do you mean, sir?"

"What's going on with your firebox, eh?" Don gestured towards Thomas's cab as he spoke. "It's going absolutely bonkers in there! Don't tell me Sir Topham forgot to tell me that you have a faulty firebox too!"

The surprise that Don's abrupt actions had invoked in him drained from Thomas's face right then. He furrowed his own brows. "...My firebox isn't faulty, sir, not at a- "

"Then why is it spitting coals at me, sparking at me, for God's sake!?" Now Don sounded well and truly angry. He pointed an accusing finger at Thomas. "You'd better stop that or you won't be seeing me again anytime soon!"

Thomas was thinking "What a blessing" at the second half of Don's final sentence, but his boiler jolted when he realized what he'd said before that. He shot Don an incredulous look. "Beg your pardon?" he stumbled.

Don rolled his eyes like he couldn't believe Thomas had asked him that. He then shut his eyes and put a hand to his chest, taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a quick sigh. "Alright, look," he said in a slightly calmer voice, though from his choice of words it was obvious he was still frustrated, "if you want to keep misbehaving like this, that's fine. But just know that it means that you won't have a driver to help you become useful again. You machines all do want to be use- ?"

"What?" Thomas interrupted, flabbergasted, "Of course I want to be useful again!"

"Then why in God's name are you throwing coals at- ?"

"I'm not doing that!" Thomas snapped, "I have no control over what my firebox does! I- !"

"Well, whatever's making it do that, could you please just try to control it? You can't tell me you engines have no control over your bodies whatsoever!"

Thomas narrowed his eyes, clenching his teeth. He stared down at Don for a long time. He realized that this man simply wasn't going to listen to him, and he muttered, "...Fine... sir..."

Don nodded. "Good. Right then," he grunted, walked back to Thomas's cab, "Now, let's do this a little more smoothly, shall we?"

Thomas didn't respond. He looked straight ahead, at the horizon in the distance, that grumpy expression on his face unwavering.

Perhaps it was just the stress of observing these recent events making my imagination run wild, but I swear for a split second I saw a spark of flame flash in Thomas's blind eye.

They continued on. Thomas moved at a steady pace, keeping his eye on the tracks and on his destination. Even though what he'd said wasn't false - those flung coals were involuntary, a side effect of his mounting anxiety in that moment - he tried his best to calm down enough to prevent it from happening again. But quite contrary to what he wanted, I sensed his anxiety growing even stronger when he tried this, even more so because he was also trying to focus on just far too many things - where he was going, the coal in his firebox staying put, steadying himself so that his now-off-balance depth perception wouldn't make him panic - my poor child was stressing himself out so much.

From sheer force of luck, because it certainly wasn't from Thomas's efforts actually working, the rest of the journey passed without any more problems. Thomas's firebox had still sparked, and some coals were tossed about more forcefully in there, but none had leaped at Don's feet. Thomas stopped at the siding and released the large breath he'd been holding, a blast of steam streaming out from behind his wheels.

Don poked his head out of Thomas's cab once he'd halted. "Hmm," he said, producing his pocket watch again, "...took a tad longer than I'd wanted, but good on ya for stopping your firebox's nonsense. Right then, let's head back now."

Thomas said nothing, because what could he really say to a man who rarely asked what he thought or felt?

Heading back to the shed was just as, if not slightly more, stressful for Thomas as traveling to that siding had been. I understood perfectly why without even needing to check his thoughts; moving backwards was always a tad more difficult for machines than moving forwards, that much should be obvious, but of course it would be even more difficult with one of your five senses permanently damaged and a man that you don't even like at your controls.

Thomas tried telling himself that it would be over soon, tried retreating into a small daydream to distract from the discomfort; but alas, when his mind began to wander to the memories that he'd rather forget, he ceased his attempts at distraction.

He rolled back into the siding and the shed just as the first train that day thundered down the line.

Don hopped out of Thomas's cab then, told him he'd be back the next day, they'll work even harder tomorrow, he should take care now.

And then he left, shutting the shed doors behind him before Thomas could say anything else, leaving the little engine in a cloak of darkness.

Thomas sat there for the rest of the day. He heard the birds chirping outside, heard the wind whistling through the small cracks in the shed's wooden foundation. He listened for the trains that would rumble past; steam whistles peeped, diesel horns blasted, wooden boxes rattled, passengers chattered and tittered. He wondered who any of the engines were. Were those his friends out there? Was it Edward? Or Percy? Emily? Henry? Rosie? James? Or even Gordon, of all engines? Was it any of them going by, never giving that siding or that dingy old shed a second thought, rushing past it completely oblivious that one of their good friends was locked in there in the dark with no one to talk to?

At some points Thomas squinted at the gap between the shed doors, which provided him with some semblance of light, trying to snatch a glimpse of any of the engines' identities. Each attempt only made his smokebox ache from the concentration.

Eventually, around mid-afternoon, Thomas closed his eyes as if he was sleeping. He might've been able to trick someone into believing he really was sleeping, had his brow not been furrowed and his jaw not been clenched. Then he clenched his jaw even tighter, squeezing his eyes shut tighter and twisting his face into a grimace that, when I saw it, my mouth opened in a gasp and an icy chill snaked through my frame.

I had seen that face on him before. It was an expression full of struggle and pain and hurt, an expression he'd worn often during his captivity at the Steelworks, when his grueling days finally came to a close and the workers left him in the shed they'd chosen for him, away from the main building, in the shadows of the trees that loomed behind the fences that surrounded the area.

What happened next reminded me of those moments as well, except this time I felt like I was watching a perfect recreation of what would occur during those evenings.

Thomas's frame began to tremble. His lips parted to reveal just how hard he was clenching his teeth, his every breath and ragged.

His throat tightened; he could feel the tears building behind his good eye.

"N-No... S-Stop... S-S-Stop it..." he mumbled through his teeth, his voice strained, "J-Just... J-J-Just stop it...! S-S...S-Stop crying... Just s-stop crying, you silly engine...! J-Just... No... N-No, stop... stop crying..."

For me, this is definitely one of the most heartbreaking moments in this story, when I realized how consistently Thomas kept redirecting his anger.

At first he would be angry at the Steelworks manager, the engines and workers there who were responsible for his current state. But then he would forget about them and become furious with the Steamworks engineers, with Victor, Sir Topham Hatt, everyone on the island; he would quietly curse them and resent them for their reactions to his turmoil, believing that they were treating it all the wrong way even though he himself had no idea how to properly do so. As he'd sat in the shed Thomas redirected his anger at Don after that; he couldn't even think of the man without feeling disgusted.

He went back and forth on who he was upset at the most, who he should really blame for all the pain he was going through.

But then his boiler churned and his heart hardened when he thought about it further, thought about how there was one other person he could blame for this:

Himself.

I'm afraid I'm not jesting, my dear listeners; as Thomas listened to the other engines doing their jobs while he was all alone in his dingy little shed, he was snapping at himself for daring to feel upset about it. He felt that he didn't deserve any tears, he didn't deserve the comfort that he craved. He felt foolish, stupid, dumb, like he was the reason for the entire world's problems. He thought back to before all of this, when everything was good and right and perfect, and determined that if he'd just done something different, then he could avoided this pain he was causing himself and his friends.

He thought that, if he hadn't taken James's goods train for the mainland to prove he was worthy enough to be Sir Topham's favorite, then all of this wouldn't have happened.

If he just hadn't done that, then everything would still be alright. He would still be working with Annie and Clarabel on his branchline. His friends would still surround him. He would still be happy. Nightmares wouldn't plague him every night. Horrid memories wouldn't attack him when he would try to push them away. His eye wouldn't be damaged and his face wouldn't be scarred. Sir Topham Hatt would still talk to him.

Bob and William would still be around.

I wanted to snap him out of this. I wanted to comfort him and show him what I already knew, that he shouldn't ever blame himself for what had happened, that no one could have predicted that his one decision would lead to his and his past crew's fates.

My temptation was so strong that, when he finally drifted to sleep that evening, I was one wheel-turn away from rushing into his dreamscape and embracing him as if he'd been built just yesterday.

I stopped myself before I could. I knew how he'd react if he saw me again; as much as it pained me, if I appeared to him then I would have only made him feel worse. He didn't need to see me, not after the last time.

I knew exactly what it felt like to believe that you're the cause of everyone's problems.

~x~

Thomas did sleep that night, but he was restless and tense. He couldn't recall any of his dreams when he woke, thank goodness, but he felt as if he'd barely slept at all. He was still yawning when Don arrived, though the man said nothing about it. He simply gave the little engine a quick hello, and then climbed into his cab and instructed him on what to do.

The next couple of days followed the same routine as that first day; Thomas woke up, Don arrived and lit his firebox, they rode along the rails for the bulk of the morning, and then Don left him in the shed with the doors shut and Thomas listened to the outside noise until evening, when he'd shut his eyes and wait for some semblance of sleep to come to him.

Although the days were relatively peaceful, they were certainly not even close to good. Every day Thomas rode a little further down the line successfully, but Don kept noticing small flaws and scolded him for them, always reminding him that he would report it to Sir Topham Hatt later. Thomas always acknowledged Don's complaints, promising to do his best next time. As he promised this I always heard him snapping mental curses at himself for not working hard enough at this. But Thomas had been working hard, he had been doing his best the whole time, I had seen all of it. He was doing the best he could for the state he was in; his fatigue hindered his ability to focus, his anxiety made it even harder to connect with Don's driving and keep steady on the rails. Had Don been more knowledgeable on how machines work he might've noticed this, but of course he never did. He just carried on doing his job as he seemed to believe.

Some of you might be wondering about something I said earlier, about how Thomas had felt powerful after shouting his point of view at Rosie and his coaches, how he'd wanted to feel that way for the rest of his life. What happened to that, Lady? some of you must be asking. If Thomas really wanted to be in control again, then why isn't he snapping back at Don when he's made it clear that he hates the man and would stay in that shed for the rest of time if it meant he never had to see his face again?

I understand your questions, dear listeners; I wondered the same thing until I looked closer. I saw how much he wanted to go back to how it was before; he wanted to go back to work and forget as much of this horrible experience as he could. He wanted to at least feel normal. He realized that working with Don was how he would get to that point, and so despite his strong dislike he held his tongue and refused to complain.

But these conditions he set for himself only worsened his mood even more. As the saying goes, an unhappy engine can't be really useful, and this certainly proved it.

And my child really should have realized that he couldn't stay complacent forever. He hadn't with Rosie, he hadn't with Annie and Clarabel, and he definitely didn't with the engineers at the Steamworks.

It was all too certain to happen again.

~x~

On the fifth morning of his training, Thomas slept in a little longer than usual. He still didn't wake up feeling very restful, but he stayed asleep for another hour nonetheless, one hour later than when Don usually arrived.

He finally snapped awake when the shed doors swung open with a loud creak.

As you have heard before, Thomas already wasn't pleased to see the man again. But right then, when Thomas saw his face, a pang of fear twinged in his boiler.

Because Don did not look happy. Not at all. He walked past Thomas as if he didn't exist, scowling at the ground and grumbling to himself with his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Um..." Thomas piped up as Don climbed into his cab, "...what's the matter, sir? Did something happe- ?"

"The damn traffic, that's what happened!" Don growled, making Thomas start, "Blindin', some- some people, I swear! Why can't they just pay attention to the bloody road!? Then they wouldn't have any accidents and make it harder for the rest of us to live!"

A chill went through Thomas's frame upon hearing this. "...An accident, sir?"

Don scoffed as he shoved coal from Thomas's bunker into his firebox. "The bloody twit wasn't looking at the road at all! He wouldn't have spun out if he'd just paid attention like a normal person! I just can't believe how stupid some people are!" He hawked and spat out the doorway of Thomas's cab. "Ugh... he deserved that accident, if you ask me..."

A loud gasp burst from Thomas's throat; he never thought to resist or stifle it, he was that shocked by Don's words.

"Uh- Uh- " It took a moment before Thomas found his voice again. "...H-He... h-how could he possibly deserve it, sir?" he asked, incredulous, "He only made a mistake, a-a-and... th-that's not something that- !"

"Any mistakes you make are your own fault," Don hissed, "You should be logical, think before you do anything, that way you don't become an idiot." He groaned under his breath, shaking his head as he checked Thomas's gauges.

"...at least he won't be causing any more damage anymore, not for a long time..."

Don muttered this just loud enough that, regardless if he intended so, Thomas heard every ounce of venom dripping from his voice.

Thomas gaped, his mind racing with a million thoughts. Then, his entire face shifted. His brow furrowed and his eyes were set ablaze; inside of him, a hurricane raged.

"Sir." The word came out like a stab. "Nobody deserves an accident. Not even someone who- "

"But enough chattering," Don interrupted, yanking hard on the string to Thomas's whistle, "we have work to do, remember?"

"No, sir!" Thomas snapped, "You can't seriously think that -!"

"I said, enough!" Don snapped back, "Now, let's go."

With that, without waiting for Thomas to respond, Don drove Thomas out of the shed.

It isn't that Thomas wanted to respond, though. What Don had said rendered him speechless. He took great big breaths, ground his teeth together to keep himself from screaming. Although Thomas is not at all a violent engine, even he knew that, he could not help thinking about how he wanted nothing more than to toss the man clear from his cab.

He remembered what Don had told him before, that it was Sir Topham Hatt's idea to hire him as his new driver - the controller who'd taken care of Thomas for almost his entire life, who took great care of all of his engines like they were his own children, who was always just and fair and kind whenever they made a mistake or had an accident - he thought that this man would be a good driver for him.

Sir Topham Hatt would never even think to lay a single finger on Thomas; anyone who spent five minutes with the man understood that. But despite that, when he thought about how he'd seemed to believe giving him a driver like this was a good idea, in that moment Thomas felt like Sir Topham had whipped his face himself.

"Alrighty then," Don barked once Thomas reached the piece of track that met the main line, "Let's get this done. And..." His voice sharpened. "I can't believe I have to say this to you, but- you really need to get your act together! I expect you to actually try to make this painless, alright?"

Thomas blinked. "Pardon?"

Don let out a rough sigh. "It's been five days and you're still stubborn as a donkey! Your rides aren't comfortable, your controls are far hotter than they ought to be, your firebox still looks like the fires of hell... You do know that I'm telling Sir Topham Hatt all about this, don't you?"

"I already told you sir, that's not my fault!" Thomas cried, his voice cracking a tad from his desperation for the man to just listen to him for once, "That's never been my fault! I'm just a bit nervo- !"

"You need to be ready for work again by the end of the month, do you know that!?" Don retorted, "If you can't control it, then find a way to, because I am not losing this job just because you can't be arsed to cooperate!"

It took everything in Thomas to keep from screaming. "...Sir, it's not that simple," he said through clenched teeth, "I... Sir Topham must've told you... I- just a few weeks ago, I was- "

Don pushed my poor child onto the main line before he could finish speaking.

And just like that, Thomas's anger dissipated, replaced with cold, choking dread.

Thomas stared wide-eyed at the tracks as he rolled over them, felt his mouth going dry. His breathing came in shallow heaves. He felt as though an invisible hand was shoving him forwards, into a dark forest where the fog left everything within up to cruel imagination.

And, as you'd expect, Thomas's imagination was unrelenting in it's cruelty in that moment.

Despite how futile this tactic was, Thomas let his mind spin with the thought "Calmdowncalmdowncalmdown..."

"Uh-Uh-Uh, S-Sir? Don?" Thomas's panic made his voice shake, "I- I really don't think I should- "

But he stopped. He heard muttering coming from his cab, and realized that Don was still more concerned with expressing his anger than listening to his engine's concerns.

"Unbelievable... such disrespect..." Don was hissing, pronouncing every word as if ensuring that Thomas could still hear him, "...I just can't understand why Sir Topham would keep you for so long... Can't believe he thinks you're a 'good engine', pah! If only he could see all the trouble you're causing me..."

Thomas tried to keep his attention on the tracks, took in huge gulps of air in a feeble attempt to calm his lurching boiler.

"Just don't listen to him," Thomas tried to reassure himself, "He's probably just still angry about the traffic this morning... He doesn't really think all of that... he's just upset, let him be upset..."

"You machines think you own the world," Don continued his tirade, "you don't get how much we sacrifice for your ungrateful hides!"

"It's okay, just calm down, it'll be all over soon..."

"We take such good care of you, but you never take the time to return the favor! You're too self-absorbed to behave well for the ones who decide when you're not needed anymore!"

"Getting upset will only make him worse, just hold yourself together..."

"Your Sir Topham Hatt is far too soft on you all. He lets you think you can do whatever you want, do brainless and horrid things with no concern for consequences! He doesn't even punish you, does he? He ought to wake up and keep you in line like he's supposed to!"

"You Sudrian engines have it EASY. You haven't one CLUE what real pain feels like!"

"What?" Thomas asked aloud, staring out at the distance as if he'd been snapped out of a trance.

That's not what I think it is, he thought with a trembling heart, just ignore it, it's nothing...

"Do you honestly believe that you're anywhere close to a human's equal? You're delusional, tank engine. You're a machine, a product of human engineering, built to make people's lives easier."

Oh no.

Anxiety flooded Thomas's boiler.

It's happening.

He kept hearing them: voices from the dark pits of his memory, reverberating alongside Don's complaining like an echo.

Just keep it together, everything's fine, you're safe now-

"Your controller has been lying to you. You're not someone to worry about, you're not someone to take care of. You're not someone at all. You have no rights to say so."

"You wouldn't know what to do with yourselves if we weren't here, would you? You depend on us so much, but so many of you can't even see it! Blindin'..."

"We built you, for us and only us. You're NOTHING without us. You're lucky if anyone uses you at all."

"If you really cared about being put to work, you'd stop being so difficult."

"Give up that stupid, disgusting fantasy! It's not real! THIS is real! They don't care about you! They only care about using you until you're a heap of scrap and rust!"

Just focus on the tracks, you're fine, come on Thomas, it's nothing, just stop it, just stop thinking about-

"If you don't stop this nonsense, do you know what will happen? You won't work here or anywhere ever again, that's what!"

"Real humans don't care about machines... we're their slaves, built to cater to their every whim, and if we can't do it, there's no stopping them from torturing us for it!"

He heard the shouts. He heard the curses. He felt the scorching heat of molten slag.

Just keep it together-

"I can't put it any other way, tank engine."

"You think you know fear, little tank engine!? Or pain!? I'll show you fear! I'll show you what it's REALLY like to be a machine!"

He felt the sting of the whip in his face. He felt his left eye sear with agony.

"If you don't do as you're told, you'll be scrapped."

Hold it in-

"You'll be done, finished. You'll never have the chance to work ever again."

He listened to his own deafening screams.

Stop it-

"Nothing but a heap of metal to build stronger, even better engines with."

Stop-

"This is just the way things are. We can't do anything about it."

Make it stop-

"Do you understand me, now?"

"We do NOT tolerate disobedient engines here..."

Make it STOP-

"I said, do you understand?"

"You deserve something far, FAR worse..."

Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeit-

"For God's sake, tank engine! Just answer me- !"

"NO!"

Thomas finally let out the scream he'd been holding in, the boiler-wrenching scream of an engine who felt he was being attacked by dozens of merciless creatures. He screeched to a halt so hard that sparks flew from his wheels, so hard that, within his cab, Don lurched forwards and let out a shout and a curse as he grabbed the door to keep himself upright.

Thomas panted heavily, his eyes wide open and his cheeks a harsh red. Streams of steam surrounded his wheels like a storm cloud.

A moment passed before Don opened the cab door and hopped out. He stomped towards Thomas's front, leaping away and swearing when he tried to walk through Thomas's steam; it was hotter and more powerful than he'd seen from the little engine thus far.

"Alright, that really is it, tank engine!" Don bellowed as he stood in front of Thomas, "You almost threw me onto the tracks, you did! What the dickens are you thinki- !?"

"I BLOODY HATE YOU!"

Don flinched at this, and so did I. Yet again I felt like I was looking at a totally different engine; my sweet little Thomas had never used such language before, and I wanted to believe that he never would.

But there it was. It happened.

"You just can't leave me alone, CAN YOU!?" Thomas shrieked, his voice breaking like a tree branch. His bottom lip trembled, but his eyes glowed with wild embers. "NONE of you can! Is that really all I am to you!? Is that really what you humans all think!? That I'm just a tool!? Just some piece of scrap metal that you can TREAD ALL OVER!?"

Don stared as if the little engine had just called him something quite vulgar. But he seemed to recover quickly, much quicker than I would have expected him to; he stood straighter, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow at Thomas like he was about to scold a screaming spoiled child, rather than a young engine terrified out of his wits.

"I'm only telling you the truth! You're my engine, mine! You belong to the railway! You are a tool for us! You help us to live! That's why you have to- !"

"You don't care about me!" Thomas spat back, interrupting Don, "You never did! You don't care what's happened to me! You don't care that I'm unhappy! That I'm terrified of you! Just- WHY!? WHY can't you see!? WHY can't you see me!? I have a voice! I have a face! I scream when you frighten me, I cry when you berate me! I'm a machine but I'm still alive! I'm alive just like you! I'M JUST LIKE YOU BUT NONE OF YOU WANT TO SEE THAT!"

"Don't you dare scream at me!" Don barked, his voice rising to match Thomas's, "I see that you're alive! But I also see that you're not working hard enough- !"

"I AM WORKING HARD!" Thomas wheeshed hard, sending another blast of burning steam in Don's direction, making the man flinch and leap backwards again. "I'm working harder than I ever have in my entire life! But it's not enough for you, is it!? It's never enough! So you shout at me, curse at me, you- you beat me, you torture me, and nothing can stop you!"

"What the bloody hell are you goin on about now!?" Now Don was shouting as well, far louder and far harsher than he'd done while scolding Thomas on their very first day of training. "I haven't beat you at all! I've been trying to help you! You- !"

"Trying to help me!?" Thomas demanded, his voice dripping with venom, "You mean trying to help yourself!?"

"What on Earth do you want me to say to that!? 'No'!? Of course I'm trying to help myself! This is my job, and I want to keep it! And I'm not letting some stupid, stubborn- bastard little engine ruin that for me!"

"Have you ever thought about why I'm so stubborn!? Why I'm so angry!? Why I'm so afraid to- !?"

"You've got a big mouth for such a little twit..." Don hissed. He pointed an accusatory finger at Thomas. "You know why I'm here! It's not my job to cuddle you and make you happy- that's no one's job at all! It never has been! My job is to drive you, not to babysit you!"

"It's not babysitti- !"

"That's why I'm here! Nothing else! Your controller never hired me to take care of y- !"

"I ALREADY KNOW HOW MUCH YOU DON'T CARE!" Thomas's voice grew shriller, breaking in two yet again. "You don't care about me, you don't care how I'm feeling, you don't care that you're hurting me- You don't care about anything! You never cared about- !"

"DON'T- !" Now, it appeared as if something snapped inside of Don. In an instant he changed; he looked like he was trying to mimic Thomas.

"Don't- Don't you dare- !" Don's face turned red as a beet, twisted and twitching as his disbelieving anger took hold of him. "...Don't you DARE say I don't care about anything! What do you know about caring, tank engine!? You don't- "

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!"

Don had seemed fully prepared to continue his tirade, but when this came out of Thomas's mouth...

...I do not blame Don for how he reacted. I reacted the exact same way.

"STOP IT! STOP IT!" Thomas screamed again, sounding just like - there truly is no other way to describe it, he sounded like he was being murdered. Don immediately stopped talking, his eyes widening and a sharp gasp escaping him as he flinched a wheel-turn's length away. He snapped his arms to his chest, his hands forming tight fists, as if he expected the little engine to rush and attack him.

But he couldn't see that Thomas would never truly hurt him, he wouldn't ever hurt anyone, even in this state; but I certainly understand, from the point of view of a human with very limited experience with machines, such a thought is not invalid.

As I watched the scene unfold, I too felt scared; scared for both Don and poor Thomas. My dear child squeezed his eyes shut, his entire frame shaking now as he screamed and sobbed and whimpered, "I'M THOMAS- MY NAME IS THOMAS! STOP IT... STOP IT! I'M NOT YOUR ENGINE! LEAVE ME ALONE! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! JUST STAY AWAY!"

Seeing my poor boy so upset, so distraught and so overwhelmed with terror sent a chill through my frame, made my firebox freeze up, and speared through my heart all at once. I always curse myself for my powerlessness, always pine for fate to be merciful and let me help my children in their moments of strife, especially when such moments leave them as broken as Thomas was right then; it only makes me all the more devastated when I realize for the millionth time that I am truly useless to the machines and the humans that I love so dearly.

Thankfully, Thomas's panic only lasted a few seconds. But that did not mean that things would be alright.

A single voice rang out in the area, silencing Thomas and making both him and Don snap to attention. Don whipped around to where it had come from, and his mouth dropped open at who he saw, just as Thomas did.

The owner of the voice said it again, loud and clear in the sudden silence:

"...Thomas?"

It was Sir Topham Hatt. He was staring wide-eyed at the scene in front of him, his eyes glancing from Thomas to Don and back again, looking as if he was making sure that his eyes weren't playing a trick on him. He was leaning out of the cab of, of all engines, Percy. His face was deathly pale, and just like Sir Topham, he stared with eyes as big as tea saucers and his mouth hanging in a gape like he thought he was dreaming. Unlike Sir Topham, however, he only had his attention on Thomas - and, the longer he stared, the more his eyes turned glassy and the more his bottom lip quivered.

I looked into the little engine's mind, and saw that he thought he was looking at a complete stranger.

The silence hung in the air like fog as Sir Topham hopped out of Percy's cab, his two assistants, Evan and Gerald, following close behind. As he approached closer Don began to tense and stutter apologies, but then he stopped when his new boss walked right past him. Sir Topham never even gave him a glance, as if he didn't exist at all.

Don looked rather offended at this, but then his offense turned to confusion. He watched the railway controller, his employer, his new boss, approached the little engine who'd just been screaming at him.

Thomas didn't react as Sir Topham moved closer to him. He looked as if his panic had drained his energy, with his brow creased with stress and his right cheek slick with tears, but he still kept his attention trained on his controller, his widened good eye looking him up and down.

"Thomas..." Sir Topham's gentle voice reflected the emotion his facial expression; he stared up at his engine with a knitted brow, worry shining in his eyes. He began to raise his right arm as he approached, his fingers extended.

"Thomas," he said, "...what on Earth happened?"

Thomas blinked, his eyes now fixated on Sir Topham's outstretched arm. Sir Topham was still bombarding him with questions - "Are you alright? Did something frighten you? Are you hurt? What made you scream like that?" - but Thomas wasn't listening anymore. He watched him walk closer, watched him reach out further with every step he took, but then he realized that he was reaching out to touch his buffer beam and then he remembered that this was the man who had decided that Don would be a good driver for him.

"Thomas," Sir Topham was saying. A small smile was forming on his lips. "It's alright now. What happened, my boy? You can tell me- "

"YOU."

Sir Topham stumbled backwards as if he'd been punched, his smile disappearing. His arm snapped protectively to his chest. His face turned as pale as Percy's and his mouth dropped open as a sharp gasp escaped him. The worry in his eyes disappeared, replaced with disbelief and undeniable fear.

Everyone in the area - Percy, and all the humans who accompanied him - reacted just as Sir Topham did. If you were to ask me, I would say that they all looked frightened for their very lives.

Thomas was staring at his controller with a steel-piercing glare. He was panting again, but this time it was from the strain his fury was causing him. His teeth were bared, making him look like - dare I say it - a provoked animal.

Infernos swirled in both of his eyes.

"You..." Thomas growled again. Then, in a furious roar: "...WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?"

"I- I- Thomas, I- ?" Sir Topham's voice boomed as usual, but I still detected his slight stutter. He'd never witnessed anything like this from Thomas, but I reckon he'd never seen such behavior in any machine until now. "I- What are you- ?"

"You're supposed to protect me!" Thomas wailed, making Sir Topham flinch again, "How could you do this to me!? I've worked so hard- I've worked so hard for you my whole life! Just- WHY!? Why would you give me him!? Do you hate me too!?"

"Wh- Whoa now, Thomas," Sir Topham tried again. He held his hands out as if to protect himself from his engine. "What do you mean? Who are you talking abo- ?"

"You knew! You knew he was horrible, but you still made him my driver!" Thomas's voice broke on the final word in that sentence. He choked on an involuntary sob, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath in a hopeless effort to hold it in.

"...Did you always hate me...?" he cried, in a far smaller voice than before, "D-Do you hate me so much that you'd let him drive me...? A-After everything I've done... Y-Y-You're just going to let him hurt me...!?"

Comprehension finally dawned on Sir Topham's face - and with it came the same guilt that I had seen on him the day he'd formed his deal with the machine psychologist.

"That... That's- Thomas, that's not true!" Sir Topham said, "What on Earth gave you the idea- ? Thomas, I don't hate you at all! I've never hated you! I only hired - ?"

"Then why do you want to get rid of me?"

Thomas's cold question hit them all like a gust of freezing wind; Sir Topham quickly shut his mouth, freezing to the spot, just as everyone behind him did the same.

Thomas had his eyes open again; the flames had returned to them. Thomas glared daggers at his controller, the rough breaths in his throat sounding like a low growl.

"You're going to get rid of me... I-I'm not useful... He keeps telling you I'm not useful, even though I did my best! But if I'm not better right away, then- then- "

"Thomas- "

"Then you're done with me!" Thomas spat, "You'll just- send me away, throw me out like a piece of rubbish! Is that all I am to you now!? Just a piece of rubbish!?"

"No! Now you're just being ridiculous!" Sir Topham snapped back, his voice rising to match Thomas's, "If I really hated you, then why would I- ?"

"Then why is he my driver!?" Thomas snarled, his glare flitting towards Don briefly before returning to his controller, "Why do you keep letting him yell at me!? Frighten me!? Hurt me!? Why do you keep hurting me!?"

"Alright, that's- !"

"You know I'm not alright! I'll never be alright ever again because of him! Why would you let him near me when you knew he would just keep hurting me like the Steelworks manager did!?"

"Sir." Topham's assistants rushed up behind him, a steely expression on Evan's face while Gerald only looked nervous.

"Sir," Evan said again. He reached out and grabbed Sir Topham's arm. "We need to get out of here, he's not- "

"No!" Sir Topham smacked Evan's hand away the instant his assistant's fingers grazed his sleeve. He never took his eyes off of the little blue tank engine right in front of him. "Thomas, you've got the wrong idea! I only hired Don because- !"

"I'll be scrapped if I'm sent away!" Thomas's voice rose into a scream, "You don't love me- you'd never love a damaged engine!"

"You're not damaged, you just need some extra help to- !"

"After everything I've done for you- !"

"Thomas, just listen to yourse- !"

"-you're just going to let them scrap me!?"

"Is this really what Bob and William would've wanted you to- !?"

"BOB AND WILLIAM ARE DEAD!"

Once again, Thomas's cry stunned Sir Topham and his colleagues into shocked silence. For the first time since he'd arrived in the area Sir Topham actually looked afraid of his little engine. I cannot deny that I felt the same way; Thomas had screamed that grim truth just as he'd screamed at Don to leave him alone, a scream that curdles the blood of organic creatures and turns the oil within machines' inner workings to ice.

Thomas reacted to his own words as if he'd been slapped. His face crumpled, and as his gaze drifted to his buffer beam a new wave of tears filled his good eye.

"They're dead... Th-They're dead..." Thomas repeated, another involuntary sob escaping him. He didn't continue speaking like I expected him to - he simply sat there, quietly weeping, his anger at Don and Sir Topham forgotten and replaced with the all-too fresh grief for his previous crew. He'd been working ever so hard to forget about what had befallen them. He'd tried all he could to keep the horrid memory from entering his mind again. But now that he'd verbalized it, heard it clearly in his own voice, that fact - that Bob and William, the driver and fireman who'd known Thomas the longest, who'd taken care of him ever since he'd been built, were dead - it struck him just as hard and as painfully as the whip that the Steelworks manager had lashed him with.

The ensuing silence, broken in spurts by Thomas's hiccuping sobs, stretched a tad longer than I'd expected. I observed the humans as they watched him, noticed the worry and pity on Evan and Gerald's faces, the guilt on Sir Topham's, and the stunned confusion on Don's. I wondered who would act next. I wondered if the gears were turning in any of their minds, working to figure out how they could fix this.

I do not know if that was the case for Don, Evan, or Gerald, but I can certainly propose that Sir Topham had been thinking so.

After listening to a quarter of a minute of my child's crying, I saw Sir Topham furrow his brow. He set his jaw and straightened his hat. Anyone unfamiliar with the man's personality might misinterpret this as preparation for one of his scoldings, but one look at the determination in his eyes would amend that in an instant.

Evan noticed and muttered "Sir, don't," but Sir Topham didn't acknowledge him. I doubt he even heard the chap, with how focused he was on his objective.

He outstretched his arm again and began walking towards Thomas before anyone could protest further.

He was just one wheel-turn away from Thomas's buffers when the little engine suddenly looked up. Thomas had heard his controller's shoes crunching the stones between the tracks, had realized with a jolt that someone was coming. He pulled free from his grief and fell back into reality and he saw Sir Topham's hand and he saw how close he was to him and right then I realized with a sinking boiler that things were about to get much, much worse.

"Thomas, it's alri- "

Sir Topham barely had time to jump away when Thomas jolted forwards, his buffer beam striking his controller in the chest and knocking him to the ground.

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Thomas screeched, his voice so raw that it sounded as if his anger hadn't disappeared at all.

Evan and Gerald and Don all let out simultaneous gasps, Gerald's hand flying over his mouth. Don stood in place, paralyzed, a deer caught in an engine's headlamp, which Evan and Gerald rushed to their boss's aid.

"Sir, I told you! We need to get out of here! He's not right!"

Sir Topham seemed to be deaf to Evan's warnings once again. While his assistant helped lift him to his feet again he just stared at Thomas in horror, his jaw working like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the proper words.

A small "Thomas..." was the only thing he could muster.

Once Sir Topham was standing again, Evan shot a glare back at Thomas. "Alright, that really is it, Thomas!" he snapped, then, addressing Sir Topham again, "Sir, this is serious! We have to report- !"

"No!" Sir Topham's frustration returned, making him shove his assistant's hands off of him once more. "We can't! I'm not giving up on him! Thomas, please- !"

"You're a monster!" Thomas interrupted with a snarl. Clouds of hot steam roiled between his wheels. His good eye was red - from his tears or from his fury, not even I could be sure. "You... You're disgusting! You're all horrible monsters! No! Get away from me! Just GO AWAY! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST STAY AWAY!?"

The more Sir Topham pleaded with the emotional engine, the more anxious the humans that accompanied them appeared.

"Sir, this isn't a good idea, he could seriously hurt you!" This actually came from Peter, who, along with George, had been watching and listening to the current scene from the safety of their engine's cab.

"Yes, sir!" George agreed with a sharp nod, "Come back! We have to report this- !"

Sir Topham acted like the two hadn't said a thing. "Thomas, just listen to yourself! You're not- !"

"You just can't leave me alone, CAN YOU!? You have to keep coming back for MORE!"

"Sir! It won't work! Look at him, he's dangerous! He just tried to run you over- !"

"I'll believe he's dangerous when he kills me! Thomas- !"

"JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Sir- !"

"Would you shut up, Evan!? THOMAS- !"

"HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO- !?"

But Thomas never finished that sentence. He was just forming the next syllable when all of a sudden his shaking halted and his frame froze up. Both of his eyes popped wide open, and he let out a strangled grunt, the kind of noise a human would make if a ball struck them in their back.

Sir Topham and Evan watched Thomas still, their jaws slightly slack and their own bodies frozen in place as the little engine's eyes darted between the two of them. They seemed to both be holding their breaths as they looked the little engine up and down; a mix of shock and confusion shone in both of their eyes.

Then Thomas's eyes glazed over, his gaze drifting so that it looked as if he was staring intently at the space between Evan and Sir Topham. His brow knitted, and with a soft moan he let his eyelids flutter closed.

Within the next few moments he was snoring as if he'd been asleep for hours.

Sir Topham stood straighter, peering at his little tank engine. "What the dickens...?" he muttered under his breath.

"Um..."

Sir Topham whipped his head towards the source of the voice so fast that I thought I heard his neck crick.

Gerald was standing by Thomas's left side, near his cab. He'd dashed there while Thomas had fought his controller, so quietly that even I didn't notice he'd moved until moments later. When Thomas's frame relaxed and his breathing deepened, Gerald let out a large sigh, mopping his brow with his cap. It wasn't until he'd begun scrambling away from Thomas and back to his boss that Sir Topham could've noticed the paper bag in Gerald's hands. Had he been able to look into the bag, Sir Topham would've seen that it was filled with small balls of white powder, wrapped in a tight cellophane film. But he really didn't need to look inside to know that they were in there, just the words printed on the bag's side told Sir Topham everything about its' contents.

MACHINE SEDATIVES, it read.

I could tell that the gears were turning in Sir Topham's head, and that in a split second he understood everything that had just occurred - Gerald was carrying a bag of sedatives, the kind that were usually reserved for repair shops and similar places whenever humans needed to perform a very deep and possibly painful repair on a machine, just as they would do so for one of their own - they only worked when tossed into the machine's main power source, like a car's engine, where the cellophane would dissolve and the drug would take effect immediately - for a steam engine the little ball had to dissolve inside their firebox-

And there was Gerald, standing near Thomas's cab, at an angle that gave him clear view of the little tank engine's firebox.

Despite his efforts to conceal it, Gerald's forehead began to perspire yet again when he met Sir Topham's eyes; they appeared so cold and disbelieving that they must've cut through the poor young man enough to turn his blood icy.

He had seen his boss become cross before, certainly, but never as intensely and at him before now.

"Gerald." The name came like a stab out of Sir Topham's mouth. He started marching his way to his assistant. "Gerald."

"Now Sir, I know you're upset, but..." Gerald looked even more nervous the closer Sir Topham walked. He tried to shift the bag to one hand and hide it behind his back. "I- I just- "

"Have you gone mad!?" Sir Topham snapped before Gerald could finish. He snatched the bag from his assistant, his grip on it turning his knuckles white. "What were you thinking, Gerald!?"

"I was just trying to protect you, Sir!" Gerald protested, "I was just- !"

"Why do you even have these!?" Sir Topham demanded, shaking the bag roughly, "When did you get them!?"

"I grabbed them this morning, sir! I went to the Steamworks and asked for them just in case- !"

"In case what!? In case he attacked us!? Gerald, I swear- !?"

"But he did just attack you, Sir Topham."

Sir Topham turned around and Gerald looked up to see that Don was walking up to them. He glanced at Thomas's unconscious form and sneered.

"Pah. I knew he would be trouble, from the moment I saw him. I am terribly sorry you've been afflicted with him for so lo- "

"What did you do to him?"

Don reacted to the question the same way that Sir Topham reacted to Thomas's own question of why he wanted to get rid of him.

"Uh- " Don blinked twice before he continued speaking, "Sir, I don't- "

"What did you DO!?"

Don flinched hard, and so did Gerald and Evan and myself. Yes, Sir Topham did have a naturally booming voice, but right then he shouted so loud and rough I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd develop a sore throat later.

When Sir Topham began to march towards him now, his brow furrowed and his cheeks flushed a harsh red, Don paled. He skittered backwards like a clumsy child, stumbling on the rocks between the rails, holding his hands out in front of him as if to protect himself from his boss.

"Alright, WHAT happened!?" Sir Topham demanded, "What did you say to him!? What were you doing to him- !?"

"Wait- HIM!?" Don ceased his skittering and stared at Sir Topham with an incredulous expression. He jabbed a finger in Thomas's direction. "You're worried about HIM!? What the bloody hell are you- !?"

"You told me you could do it! You told me you were great with engines!"

"I am, Sir! I- !"

"I told you what he's been through! I told you to be careful with him! Why on- !?"

"I know, sir! I know what engines are like! I've been studying them my whole life! I know how to drive them and- and take care of them! But that one just- !"

"He said you HURT him!" Sir Topham thundered, "When I told you to be gentle with him, you frightened him beyond reason! Why the hell would you- !?"

"I didn't put a bloody hand on 'im!" Don's voice matched Sir Topham's now, his British accent becoming more pronounced. "I was just doing my job! But that lazy arse- !"

"Do not talk about him like that!"

"He's a bloody machine! Why do you care so much about a piece of metal!? That's all he is- !"

"How dare you say- !"

"What about me, sir!? Does my life have less value than a brainless machine's to you!? I didn't hurt him, he wouldn't stop trying to hurt me! He nearly killed me before you came 'ere!"

"No he didn't! I could hear him screaming at you from half a mile away! He kept telling you to go away and leave you alone! You were- !"

"I only frightened him because he was being a stubborn little git! He was so disrespectful, always talking back- !"

"Thomas would never- !"

"And he hit you sir! He struck you! He's not only a bloody nightmare but a Goddamned bloody anima- !"

Then Don flinched again, jumping backwards a half-step with his hands out just like before, because right then Sir Topham let out a bark so sharp it cut through my frame and into my heart. Don's reaction to it told me that it did the same to him.

But instead of countering Don's statements again, Sir Topham sunk into a crouch, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth as he pressed his fingertips into his temples so hard that his fingernails left small crescent-moon indentations in his skin. I saw the muscles in his fingers twitching, the way they tended to whenever he tried his clench-and-unclench technique to calm his anger. A low growl came from his throat, slowly rising in volume until...

...his fingers found his beloved top hat.

He straightened-

-opened his smoldering eyes-

-pulled his hat high off of his head-

-and with a yell-

-threw it to the ground.

You are right to gasp, dear listeners, just as I did, and as they all did.

Neither Don, Evan, Gerald, nor Peter or George moved an inch, none of them said a word as they watched Sir Topham take large, rough gulps of air, his eyes still trained on his hat but glazed over with fury.

After what felt like an entire minute, that glaze finally faded.

Sir Topham's face softened, and he blinked a few times as if making sure that what he was seeing wasn't a mirage. Without moving his head he glanced at Don, and what he received from such a simple action was enough to make him snatch his hat from the ground and slap it to brush the dust off of it.

"Ahem..." Sir Topham cleared his throat as he placed his hat back onto his head. "I, um... I apologize for all of that, gentlemen," he said, but keeping his head lowered and his eyes on the ground, so to me it looked as if he was talking to no one in particular, rather than addressing everyone in earshot.

But it might've been a blessing in disguise for them however, being unable to see the utterly lost expression on Sir Topham's face - especially after everything they'd just witnessed.

"Well, um... Right then, we... we ought to get back to work then," Sir Topham continued, his voice so blank that he must've been forcing it to sound that way, "Come on Gerald, Evan. Let's head back to Knapford. And you- Don- you come too. I'd like to have a word with you in my office."

Don opened his mouth as if to protest, but Sir Topham walked past him before he'd even started to take a breath.

"Now then," he went on, finally lifting his head, "Thomas needs a push back into his shed. Percy, could you please- ?"

"Uh, sir, that's not- "

George truly did not have to interrupt Sir Topham to tell him that there was something wrong. He realized it before he'd finished his own sentence, comprehension dawning in his eyes immediately and a harsh wince escaping him.

Percy remained where he'd been ever since he arrived here, and his face hadn't changed much either, but that was exactly what made looking at him so worrying. His mouth was only slightly open while his eyes were rather wide, trained on something far in the distance that only he could see. The skin on his face had turned from grey to a white that reminded me of ghosts. He didn't react to any of the people or the conversations right in front of him, not even Peter, who was kneeling on his engine's buffer beam and waving his hand in front of his face. Percy didn't acknowledge him, did not even blink. His visage was totally frozen in the terror he'd felt when he first saw Thomas in that dreadful state.

Sir Topham took off his hat again, this time so he could run a hand over his head. "Erm... Right... I see..." he said, speaking at only half his normal volume when giving orders, "Then, Peter, George... Let's call the Search and Rescue Center and ask for Rocky. He'll help get Percy to the Steamworks. And then..." He sighed before continuing:

"...Then let's call an engine to help Thomas. They can take us back to Knapford afterwards."

This plan worked without any real bumps on the track - it's almost laughable, how ridiculous, ironic, and exceedingly cruel that fact is. While Peter stayed with Percy, George rushed to the nearest signalbox and phoned the Search and Rescue Center from there. They arrived at the scene in under twenty minutes, with Henry the Green Engine pulling Rocky the Big Crane and a flatbed behind him; Henry had just finished delivering one of his goods trains and he'd been traveling back to the goodsyard for his next one when he passed by the Search and Rescue Center and had to stop because the manager was shouting that he needed to take Rocky onto Edward's branchline immediately, there was an emergency.

When he'd taken up the job, somehow Henry knew that it had to do with Thomas.

Rocky lifted Percy onto the flatbed, and then Henry, without a moment's hesitation and before Sir Topham could say anything about it, he pushed Thomas onto the siding and into his dingy shed. There was a pause so that Don could still lock the doors afterwards, and then after that Henry offered to take Sir Topham and his colleagues back to Knapford himself; "My next train is in the goodsyard there," he'd reasoned.

Oh, my sweet Henry... my heart still twists with affection whenever I witness his kind and gentle nature come through in his actions.

They all climbed into Henry's cab as best as they could, shuffling about so that Henry's crew still had enough room to drive him as normal. Sir Topham kept his head down the entire trip, the brim of his hat concealing his clouded eyes.

When they left they took with them the sound they had provided. It was just a few hours still before other engines began pulling their afternoon trains through there, so until then the area was totally silent; you could've heard only one sound right then, but only if you pressed really close to that shed at the end of the siding, and listened for the deep breathing of an unconscious tank engine.

There is one more part to this section of the story that I wish to explain. It is simple, small enough to go unnoticed, but I cannot stop thinking about it.

What happened was that Don was the last to board Henry's cab. He'd walked at a snail's pace, hesitating a couple times to look back at Thomas's shed, and peering at Sir Topham as he lumbered behind him.

What struck me was that he didn't express any visible frustration or disgust at either of them anymore. He just looked confused, concerned even; he had the look of a man deep in thought, in questioning.

Despite his insensitive tongue and all of his horrid actions, this was not the first time I wondered just what his story was.

Chapter Text

I owe you listeners an apology - and, by extension, a confession.

I know what a lot of you must be thinking. I've explained before that, in the grand scheme of things, I am truly the worst engine my children can ever turn to when conflict finds them. I don't have the power to lessen their struggles' weight, and I certainly don't have the power to solve their problems in their stead. I can't even appear to them in their conscious, awake reality; I can only break through the barrier between myself and my precious children after they fall asleep, when they finally escape reality and enter the dream realm. Only there can they see me, and only there can they hear everything I've ever wanted to say to them.

But I'm certain that a lot of you, even if you do not say so, might be thinking that I am lying. To use a less harsh phrase, some of you might be believing that what I've said is less than truthful. How can you possibly have so little power? some of you ask, Aren't you Lady, the Magical Engine? The engine who created the very first locomotive on Earth? The engine who had the power to create engines of all kinds, and then give them to humans to be their eternal companions? Surely you can do far more than just that! If you can create these machines as we know them, then you are more powerful than any other being on Earth! If you can do that, then you must have the power to protect your engines when they need you!

But then the more cynical of you listeners ask much simpler questions: You definitely have that power, so why are you hiding it? Why are you leaving these machines, whom you say you love ever so much, to fend for themselves when you could save them in an instant?

I honestly wish I could answer "Yes" to those questions, because, even though it would expose me as a horrible mother, it would still mean that I am more powerful than I truly am.

I see what's happening with you, all of my machine listeners - all of you engines, specifically. It pains me to see the confusion and hurt on your faces and inside your hearts, and for that, I am so, so sorry. I've heard all the legends about me, all the tales and myths passed on from engine to engine; every single one characterizes me as an all-knowing, flawless deity. Conflict would find me and the humans and engines I watched over, but no matter the struggle I was always able to beat it, with the power of my compassion, my empathy, with something.

You engines have heard and adored these stories your entire lives; in them you found hope and comfort in the idea that somewhere out there, on a mountaintop that no one could find, there sat a magical engine, the engine who brought you into the world and gave you life, who would always arrive when you were at your lowest and bring you happiness again. She would come whenever you called, and even the harshest of your hardships didn’t frighten you for long, because you knew – you knew it in your hearts – that your mother would save you whenever it looked like all would be lost. She created you, and she will protect you, no matter what.

I cannot tell you all how many instances I wished that were true.

I understand why you engines may be shocked, why you may feel betrayed, even. But please know that that is not my fault, but the fault of the tales that have been passed on. Such tales are comforting, yes, but they often sacrifice the truth for the sake of comfort.

But, if I may be honest my dear listeners, although right now I would give anything to be the same flawless Lady you’ve imagined and praised in the stories, before Thomas set one wheel onto that steelworks’s land, I rarely wanted that at all. In fact, I rather despised the idea. Clearly, this was not out of malice towards my children, but rather, I felt that it would be a great disservice towards them. Although I am still their mother and I cannot stand seeing them struggle, I never wanted my children to rely on me all the time. I didn’t want them to rely on me at all. I wanted to see them grow, I wanted to see them face their challenges and resolve their issues with their own wits and their own companions – to become their own person, to put it in more human terms. Some of you may still interpret this line of thinking as cruel, which I understand, but in the long run it does create some truly spectacular results. Take, for example, just a couple of years ago, when Percy the Small Engine became convinced that Thomas wasn’t taking his fears about monsters on Sodor seriously, and that he needed to find better friends far, far away from the island to be happy again. It tore Thomas apart, knowing that he had inadvertently hurt his friend, and he did everything he could to mend their once-inseparable bond. His efforts – along with Percy’s – truly paid off when Percy met Thomas again and declared how much he missed him. Thomas had just chuckled and told Percy that he was just happy that he was safe again, and in the weeks that followed the two looked as if they’d never fallen out whatsoever.

You may have noticed that I had no role at all during these events. I did not even speak to either engine through their dreams, I never gave them any advice or explained what they each had to do to resolve their conflict. And, honestly, this was a smart decision on my part, no? Would their conflict have resolved more genuinely if I’d just told them what to do and how to feel? Would their bond have grown as strong as it did had they just followed my instructions, instead of experiencing such implicit “instructions” on their own? Of course not; if all these years of watching over machines and humans has taught me anything, it’s that experience develops individuals’ characters far more than a simple lecture can.

When I first realized this, I made a vow that I still keep to this day: I wouldn’t interact with my children, and whenever I did I would only do so on very rare occasions, only if it seems like they had no one else to turn to, if they become so devoid of hope that only a meeting with the magical engine herself can lift them to their wheels again.

Some of you engines out there must have experienced this. Even Thomas himself has, only once before, when the Sodor airport was still under construction, but the growing ire between the steam and diesel engines made it near impossible to complete it. Every engine involved felt the disappointment like a particularly rough shunt, with many of them worried that Sir Topham Hatt might not consider them useful any more. Thomas had felt this possibility quite strongly, but not as strongly as the guilt that came with it. He’d believed that he’d caused most of the conflict – from switching around Devious Diesel’s trains or boasting that he was more useful than him, or perhaps both, he was not certain, but he still felt like his own wheels alone had paved the way for the current heartache.

He knew how cross and upset everyone was, especially his Tidmouth friends, who didn’t even have their warm sheds to go back to, as they’d been totally destroyed by a vicious storm several days prior. He felt like nobody wanted to talk to him at all. How could I refuse to pay him a gentle visit, when clearly all he wanted and needed in those moments was somebody to talk to?

So I did it. On the night when he was feeling his worst I entered his dreamscape, where he was riding along a line of tracks along a small mountain. Oh, seeing his adorable shocked face upon meeting me for the first time still makes me laugh even now. He only looked even more surprised when Rusty the Narrow Gauge Diesel Engine appeared in the dream beside me, pulling a line of trucks filled to the brim with quarry stone.

I told him the simple fact that helped him amend his situation in the morning – “We all do our best when we work together” – but for once I didn’t feel as though I was reciting from a lecture. I felt those words stronger than I ever had before, perhaps because I was fulfilling what they proposed; I was working with Thomas, just as he and his steam-powered friends needed to work with the diesel engines, to heal the wounds and ensure that he became confident enough to tackle his challenge head-on.

…Perhaps that is the reason why I cannot bring myself to visit Thomas anymore, no matter how distraught he is. When I visited him then I’d connected with him more than I ever had from just observing him from behind an invisible wall; my role as a mother to him, my precious son, became ever so clear. I felt responsible for the happiness he felt as a result of our meeting; after all, if it hadn’t been for me, he never would have found it in himself to face what he believed he’d done, is that not accurate? I certainly felt so – and I felt it again when I visited him for the second time, just barely a month’s time ago.

…Once again, my dear listeners, I must apologize for any confusion and pain I’ve caused you with all of these revelations. I’m so sorry that you had to hear them like this. But I’m even more sorry that even more are about to follow.

I’m going to tell you why I can’t stand the thought of Thomas seeing me again. I will tell you what happened on that night, and everything that lead up to it. I will tell you why I now wish I truly could make all of my children’s hardships disappear. I will explain what I meant when I said I know exactly how it feels to believe that you’re the cause of everyone’s problems.

To every single one of you:

I’m so, so sorry.

~x~

            The evening before he left for the mainland, Thomas thought of how to get back at James for his showing off: he would wake up early in the morning, far earlier than he usually did, take the quickest route to the Vicarstown goodsyard, and then take James’s important train due for Bridlington himself. He thought it the perfect plan; not only would he prove to James that he was indeed worthy enough to be Sir Topham Hatt’s favorite engine, but he would also finally have his chance to explore the lands beyond Sodor. He would finally get to see the world – at least, a tad bit of it – just like he’d always dreamed about his entire life. He found the entire idea so perfect, so fulfilling, so simple.

            What wasn’t so simple was convincing Bob and William to follow through with it.

            “But it will be really exciting!” Thomas protested to his crew that evening within his berth at the sheds. All of his friends – sans Percy, who was out on his nightly mail run – were fast asleep by this time, but he still kept his voice down to a whisper.

            “I’ve never taken a train to the mainland before!” Thomas told them, “It’ll be something different– something new! It’ll be fun! Don’t you think so?”

            Bob cringed slightly and opened his mouth to speak, but William groaned loudly and slapped a hand to his forehead before he could utter a word.

            “Seriously, Thomas?” William asked, glowering at his engine from under the brim of his hat. He wasn’t usually so snappish with him, but Thomas had just stopped both him and Bob from leaving after they’d finished cleaning out his firebox, so I imagine that this discussion was only aggravating his exhaustion even more. “If we’ve told you once we’ve told you a thousand– !”

            “Easy now, Bill,” Bob cut him off. He addressed Thomas, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair, “What we mean is that… well…” He took a small pause before continuing. “…we’re not sure what Sir Topham Hatt would think if he finds out.”

            “I’m sure he won’t mind!” Thomas said, “It won’t be like going on holiday, we’ll still be working! I don’t think he’d mind at all as long as we’re not causing any delay– ”

            “Thomas, it is a holiday for you!” William snapped, cutting his engine off, “You just said how exciting it would be, and we all know how much you want to ‘see the world’! Honestly, you’d think you’d learn by now!”

            “William.” This time Bob spat his coworker’s name, shooting him a glare as he did so. When he turned back to Thomas, however, that momentary flash of anger disappeared immediately.

            “Thomas, we understand how much you want to do this, but… I guess we just don’t believe it’s necessary.”

            Thomas raised an eyebrow. “What?”

            “You’ve always loved the sights on Sodor, and you’re always so happy to speak to your friends here and do all of your jobs – I mean, you’re always at least a tad on edge whenever you can’t work on your branchline! Are you getting bored with Sodor? Because if you are then we can figure– ”

            “No no! It’s not that at all! I just…” Thomas’s eyes wandered over to James, who was sleeping in the berth right next to him, his frame creaking slightly with his breathing. Though he could not see his face from this angle, Thomas imagined that he was still grinning that smug grin he’d had on all day. The thought made him clench his teeth and shoot a burning glare at the red engine.

            “…I’m just so frustrated with James!” Thomas said, turning back to his crew, “He keeps going on and on about how he’s the favorite, but– it’s just so annoying! He won’t stop teasing me that his jobs are always better than mine! He talks about it every single time he sees me, and he won’t stop singing about it either!”

            “Come on Thomas! You know James can be full of it,” William pointed out, “This will pass! You don’t have to– !”

            “I want to show him that I’m just as special as him!” Thomas blurted, “I want to be the one to take Henry’s train to the mainland! I haven’t had such a special job in so long, and James keeps getting them every day! Don’t you think I should get one now?”

            “Oh, now you’re just being silly,” William groaned, before Bob even had a chance to open his mouth, “The whole world does not revolve around you, Thomas! You can’t just take someone else’s job whenever you feel like it!”

            “It would stop James’s boasting and it would remind Sir Topham Hatt why he made me his number one engine! He didn’t give James the number one, he gave it to me! So James can’t really be his favorite!”

            “That’s even more ridiculous! Your numbers don’t mean– !”

            “Even if it doesn’t make a difference, I’ll still have gone to the Mainland! You know how much I want to travel! It would be my dream come tru– !”

            “You still can’t just leave whenever you feel– !”

“Bill, please!”

This time William simply couldn’t ignore his coworker any longer, because at the same time he snapped Bob’s arm shot away from his side, his hand wrapping around William’s forearm in a firm, tight grip. It seemed to, quite literally, shock William into silence, as he cut himself off with a sharp gasp and shot Bob a wide-eyed look. It affected Thomas the same way; was his crew seriously going to fight each other? all because he wanted to go to the Mainland? The thought made him silently wish within that millisecond afterwards that he could take back every single thing he’d told them before.

Bob must have sensed his engine’s discomfort just as I had; he looked back to him with apology in his face. “I– So sorry, Thomas, but… could you excuse us please?” Then, shooting William the same glare that he’d given him when he’d first grabbed him, he added with a distinct edge in his tone, “William and I need to talk about this…”

So, with that, with William quietly protesting and questioning behind him, Bob left Thomas where he was and led his crewmate out of the shed.

            Thomas could only hear snippets of their muffled conversation, none of which quelled his uncertainty: “he’s not”, “Mainland”, “can’t”, “ridiculous”, “in the clouds”, “goods train”, “his dream”, “make him happy”, “working”, “but”, “Thomas”. He couldn’t believe how serious this whole matter had seemed to become; it is paradoxical to say that he didn’t believe his going to the Mainland was a big deal (because of course, by pure design, his lifelong dream was a definite big deal), but he’d never imagined that his crew would react in this way. William had always been slightly tougher with him than Bob ever was, providing his driver with an often much-needed voice of reason whenever it seemed like his coworker seemed in danger of letting his affection for his little engine override his sense of logic, like he looked in danger of spoiling him or brushing away even the worst of his mistakes; but Thomas could still remember well enough that, of all the times when his crew would argue or on the off occasion when Bob would actually lose his temper with him – most memorably, he’d done so mere moments before Sir Topham Hatt could do the same, after Thomas’s own cockiness had led to him derailing Gordon’s coaches and almost doing the same to Emily in the process – of all the moments Thomas could recall, Bob had never acted like that before. He’d never grabbed William’s arm like that. He’d never looked so angry. A troubling, paranoid thought came to Thomas: did they hate each other now? He knew how ridiculous the idea was – how could two people who’d worked together for plentiful years now all of a sudden decide they were each other’s mortal enemy? It made no sense to him at all – but it still sent a wave of worry through his boiler. What made him feel worse was the thought that, if such were the case, if Bob and William truly did not want to see each other’s faces from now on, then he would technically be wholly responsible. If only he hadn’t brought up the Mainland at all…

            “It was sort of a silly idea, anyway.” A part of Thomas, the part that remembered his previous blunders, that remembered all of his past ideas that he’d called great before realizing just how wrong he’d been, spoke up then, with a calm tone that he usually associated with Edward. “Yes, William is acting a little harsh, but, he’s not completely wrong. Think about it: we’d be sneaking off, leaving the island, taking a train meant for a totally different engine, all without telling anyone. The Fat Controller certainly wouldn’t like it! You know how he feels about schedules, about staying on time and doing as you’re told.

            “…Besides, who cares what James thinks? You are right, he is not the Fat Controller’s favorite engine, but neither are you. Nobody is. The Controller doesn’t pick favorites, he loves us all equally. When you think about it, that only makes your idea sound even sillier – why do you insist on going out and doing something so reckless to prove something that doesn’t even exist?”

            Thomas couldn’t deny these observations – his observations. He recognized them as such quicker and thought about them far deeper than he would have in his earliest days on Sodor. Back then, he never would’ve even thought about looking at situations like these with so much sense; it was always somebody else teaching him how to be sensible – Sir Topham, Henry, Edward, even Gordon, in his own way.

The way Thomas was thinking in that moment, it was as if pieces of Edward and Sir Topham and all the rest had transplanted themselves into his mind. As more and more years had gone by, Thomas took in even more pieces, leading up to his present train of thought that came to him as if it’d always been his second nature.

Thomas considered his observations, reflected on them, and then sighed his resignation.

He decided right then that when his crew came back he would tell William that he was right, that disappearing to the mainland without warning really was a bad idea, and that they really should forget that he said anything about it. He would tell them that he didn’t care much about that anymore, he didn’t even care about the situation with James anymore, he felt like he could handle his ridiculous boasting for now, he believed that he’d surely grow tired of it soon enough. He would tell them that he didn’t want to risk getting into trouble with Sir Topham Hatt, he especially didn’t want to risk getting into any accidents just as plenty of his previous silly ideas had–

Thomas had hardly finished the thought when Bob and William returned. They walked side by side with both their pairs of arms folded, however Bob held his head high while William’s shoulders were slightly hunched while he scowled at the stones beneath the rails.

“So… Thomas, we’ve been talking,” William began, “and… Bob made some very good points… I made my own back to him….

“…So, we’ve come to an agreement. I get it now. Bob’s right. It’s your dream. It’s always been your dream. So…”

“…We’ll do it. We’ll go to the mainland.”

And just like that, as soon as he heard William say it, Thomas seemed to lose every piece of sense he’d accumulated over the years. His face broke out into a big smile, and he very nearly squealed his delight before Bob quickly shushed and reminded him that his friends were trying to sleep. Thomas agreed to stay quiet, but he had to bite his lip to stay totally silent. He reminded me of the young boys that I often see at the stops along his branchline, brimming with enough energy that they couldn’t possibly sit still.

He was so excited, it was a wonder he slept that night at all.

His crew woke him up a few minutes before sunrise the next morning, just as they’d planned the night before, and they left the sheds as the first of the sun’s orange rays began creeping over the horizon. Surprisingly, none of the workers at the goodsyard in Vicarstown questioned Thomas’s arrival and not James’s; any who did shoot him an odd look or double-check their schedules simply yawned or shrugged afterwards and continued with their work.

They left the island with little hassle.  Both Bob and William were still yawning, but Thomas was as bright as he would’ve been after a ten-hour sleep. The thrill he felt that his plan would actually work made his frame bounce and his heart sing.

As they crossed the bridge that connected the island to the mainland, he even sang his own version of James’s song:

“Sometimes you have to get up early,

if there’s someplace you really want to be –

Sometimes you have to be awake before the dawn,

sometimes you’re up and out before they know you’re gone!

Somebody has to be the favorite,

and this time it’s going to be me…

This time it’s going to be me!

This time it’s going to be ME!”

I will admit, I couldn’t help my amusement and pride at listening to him sing with such cheer after a full week or so of a poor mood. He deserves this, I thought to myself, he deserves these next few hours of excitement.

Right then, to Thomas, nothing could ever spoil this for him.

I am certain that you listeners are all savvy enough to know what might have happened next.

Oh Thomas, you innocent, naïve little thing. He’d made the mistake of assuming that the line of Troublesome Trucks behind him wouldn’t give him any bother at all.

“On! On! On!”

“Faster, Thomas! It’s no fun being a slow coach!”

“Oh, please! A rusty brakevan could pull us faster than you!”

“…are we there yet?”

Just like they usually did on Sodor, the trucks seemed to always have something to say about everything. While Thomas took in the scenery around him, oohing and ahhing at the sights that he believed only the mainland could offer, the trucks provided their own commentary:

“Puh! What’s so special about a blue house?”

“I’d bet my axels that that factory’s making the next engine to replace you, Thomas!”

“So what? You see houses all the time all over Sodor! Why’s this one any different?”

“What house? And what factory? I can’t see anything back here!”

“I’ll say! All I can see from here is another truck’s backside!”

They went on like this nearly entire trip, punctuating their comments with choruses of chirpy laughter. It was obviously annoying Thomas’s crew quite a bit, judging from William’s growing scowl and Bob openly groaning and rolling his eyes after one of the trucks complained about that blue house for the fifth time. But then, surprisingly, Thomas wasn’t bothered by them whatsoever. He just kept smiling and admiring and praising aloud whatever he saw, no matter how trivial it might’ve been. It rather impressed me how mature he was about the entire situation; he truly was not going to let even the Troublesome Trucks that usually drove him off-the-rails bonkers spoil his good mood today. Watching him like that, I wondered for a moment why I had even a sliver of doubt for my child the previous night.

The real trouble was yet to come, of course.

Soon, they came to a junction. Thomas recognized it immediately, despite having never been there before; he’d heard stories from both Hiro the Japanese Engine and his good friend Henry that there was a junction on the mainland so busy, so wrought with numerous and confusing lines that they both dreaded passing through it whenever they needed to make a delivery off Sodor. Thomas recalled those descriptions as he came up to this junction, so of course, after hearing the blaring of horns and whistles and seeing just how many lines were connected to it, he would realize right away that it was the exact one that his friends had been talking about. Not that that bothered him, obviously; if the Troublesome Trucks couldn’t dampen his mood today, then how could a busy junction do so? The answer to that question was simple: it couldn’t. It wouldn’t. Thomas certainly thought so.

And like a fool I’d thought so too.

Whenever his mind went back to the moment he set wheel in that junction, Thomas now would call himself the fool, an idiot of immense proportions. He would demand of himself, why did you do that? Why didn’t you pay more attention? Why weren’t you more worried? Why, even just for one second, didn’t you stop and think about what could happen if things didn’t go your way?

What happened next really was not his fault, but of course, that wouldn’t stop him from believing it so.

The Troublesome Trucks and the noise already present in the junction were like fresh oil and a lit blowtorch; their meeting could only create an explosion. For whatever reason, while Thomas and his crew concentrated on following the track that would lead them to Bridlington, the Trucks became even chattier. They yammered and sniggered and raised their voices so that Thomas had to hear them.

“Ooh! Don’t go that way!”

“How does anyone find their way anywhere in this scrapheap?”

“Don’t get lost, Thomas! Don’t want to disappoint the Fat Controller!”

“Pff, whatdya mean? He’s probably already disappointed him today for sure!”

“Yeah! After taking us when we don’t even belong to him!”

“There’s only one place he belongs: in this mess of a junction!”

“Hahaha! Might as well build him a shed here – he’d fit right in!”

The more they said, the more Thomas realized that he couldn’t possibly ignore them forever.

At first he rolled his eyes, thought of it as just a mild annoyance. But then he heard what Bob was muttering to himself within his cab – “Oh, bloody– damn you trucks– ” – and the reality of the situation hit him like a runaway train.

All of a sudden he heard everything around him like a cacophony – the trucks’ chortling, William cursing while Bob struggled to concentrate, the clanging signals, the rush of wheels speeding down tracks that came from every direction – it was making his smokebox spin.

“B-Be quiet! Stop that! You’re distracting my driver!”

But his pleas went unheard. The trucks continued their messy directions, their jabs at Thomas and at his crew, who were having enough trouble navigating such a junction already, and the poor lad could do nothing but be dragged along for the unpleasant ride. He felt as if he’d been wrenched from the tracks and tossed into a hurricane.

The same absolutely seemed true for his poor crew as well. While William shouted futile threats at the chittering trucks Bob was constantly squinting through Thomas’s windows, checking the gauges, letting his hand hover above certain levers and only pushing them down after glancing outside a couple more times.

It felt like forever to Thomas, but they finally escaped the wild junction through a tunnel. He couldn’t help sighing his relief; even though he was still grinding his teeth at the trucks’ incessant giggling, at least now they could figure out where to go to get to Bridlington now, he figured.

So they kept going. But I could sense a low cloud of tension hanging over them as they pressed on; as determined as he was to keep his spirits up, to believe he would deliver this train and fulfill his plan, but the longer they travelled and the more nonspecific landmarks they passed, the more Thomas started to question if coming out here had been that good of an idea after all.

They kept on along the track that exited that tunnel. Said track was totally straight, without a single bend to speak of, and it continued like that for a good stretch several miles long.

After a good while – roughly twenty to thirty minutes at least – without so much as a meander, Thomas finally admitted with a grimace that they might be lost.

“Oh, well that’s great. Just GREAT.” William grumbled when they finally came to a stop. The track had taken them into a lush green forest, hardly an uncommon sight at this end of the country, however it’d been just their luck that they’d landed in the very heart of it; everywhere Thomas looked there was nothing but trees with branches both thick and thin, with a few toppled logs strewn about in between them. A couple squirrels and birds stared down at Thomas curiously from their perches before scampering away. Sunlight filtered through the innumerable leaves, which cast rustling shadows that to Thomas gave the area a slightly eerie atmosphere. But, of course, at the moment he wasn’t made nervous by the forest, but instead, by his fireman.

“Oh, this is just brilliant!” William hissed, tossing his closed fists into the air, “Not only do we get mixed up at that bloody junction, but now none of us have the foggiest where we are!”

Bob was still inside Thomas’s cab, checking over his controls. Then he stepped out, swung himself towards Thomas’s bunker and peered inside and winced at what he saw. “…Oh no, please not now…”

William spun around to face him. “What now?”

I could almost feel the discomfort radiating off of Bob as he turned to his coworker and shrugged. “…We’re almost out of coal.”

“What!?”

“And water, too. I just looked, there can’t be more than a couple gallons left now.”

“Oh great!” William scuffed a stray stone with his foot as he barked at the sky, “No fuel either! Well this is a right mess we’re in now, izznit!? We’re in the middle of nowhere, and we don’t have any means to get out!”

Immediately, the concern left Bob’s face, replaced with the same anger he’d shown back in Tidmouth sheds the previous day. He snapped at his coworker, to which William snapped back, so Bob leapt from Thomas’s frame and barked a warning, and they butted their heads together just like the night before, and as he listened to them have a go at each other behind him Thomas felt worse than ever. His thoughts from the previous night sprang unbidden back into his mind: Is my crew really going to fight all because of something I did?

If he still had enough fuel he would ask Bob and William to take them all back to Sodor this instant, to leave the goods train for James to take just as he’d always meant to, and suffer through whatever punishment Sir Topham Hatt would come up for him just so he wouldn’t have to listen to them anymore. He’d never mention the Mainland again if it meant Bob and William would never be at each other’s throats again.

And Thomas was just about to voice his thoughts to his crew when he looked up and gasped. An odd speck of movement in the distance was approaching them, on the tracks far up ahead. And then, the possibilities of what the movement could be flooded his mind with such ferocity that he felt he had to call Bob and William over just so that they could confirm if he was just seeing things or not. Surprisingly, his crewmates immediately ceased their banter and obliged without a word. After a moment of squinting, all three of them seemed to reach a collective, almost telepathic agreement; they exchanged a few surprised yet hopeful glances, communicating in a mute language that only they knew, that they all had a similar, if not totally exact same, idea.

When the speck drew close enough the light rushed right back into Bob and William’s faces, even a wild grin twitching at Bob’s lips, while Thomas only let out yet another mute gasp; he couldn’t believe that he’d been right about it.

Indeed, the speck was actually an engine; a steam engine, to be exact, a tanker just like Thomas except far larger with an astonishing ten wheels under his frame rather than just six. His paint was a maroon-reddish color, and his face looked broad and tough; Thomas could hear the rattling of full trucks the other engine was pulling even from where he sat.

(Thomas would learn this engine’s name soon, but for now he just thought of him as this nameless savior.)

The other engine had had his eyes on the tracks his entire journey through that section of the forest; when his gaze finally lifted and landed on my Sudrian child, he started like he’d just seen a herd of cows rushing towards him.

But then, before he could give it a second thought, Thomas watched as recognition dawn in the other engine’s eyes.

“Hey, you!” the other engine called, his voice booming, “You alright out there?”

“Yes!” Thomas and his crew almost said the same things in synchronicity, “Yes! We’re okay! We’re here!”

The other engine picked up a bit of speed now as he approached. Up close Thomas could spot a few details about him that he hadn’t noticed from far away; twin grey circles sat just under his eyes, and on his cheeks Thomas noticed a few dusty patches of black ash.

As the other engine came to a stop in front of Thomas, his driver and fireman leapt out of his cab and stirred the dirt as their feet hit the ground. Their uniforms looked unlike any that Thomas had ever seen back on Sodor; they wore thick orange overalls over maroon jumpers, matching gloves and hats with indiscernible symbols on their fronts; to Thomas, it just looked like a circular red patch with yellow-orange teardrops spraying upwards on it. Both of them were covered in the same ash as their engine, which made Thomas more curious than any other aspect of them; he’d seen countless engines and people become dusty like that before, especially those who worked in the quarries, but he wasn’t sure what to make of this ash, so coarse and dark. Where did they come from?

“Well then. I’ve ever seen you around here before.” Up close the other engine’s voice was still gruff, though surprisingly unintimidating, Thomas thought. Firm but pleasantly gentle.

Thomas gave him a pleasant smile. “Same to you,” he replied, “Could you help us?”

“Who’re you lot?” the driver cut in, sounding similar yet slightly rougher than his engine, “Never seen the likes a’ you before.”

“Who are you?” the fireman added, narrowing his eyes at the strangers in front of him. Neither he nor his coworker seemed to notice how much they were parroting each other’s sentences. “Where’d you come from? Why’re you out here lookin’ like a bunch’a sittin’ ducks?”

Bob stepped forwards, copying Thomas’s amicable grin. “Well, we just need a little help, if you’d be so kind.”

“Yes, please,” Thomas added, a bit more eagerly than he’d intended, “You see, we’ve just come from Sodor, and we– ”

“You’re Sudrian?” Thomas almost jumped at the big steam engine’s statement. His eyes had popped wide open, looking Thomas over as if making sure he hadn’t misheard. Thomas’s own eyes widened at the sight; never had he seen such a reaction to his heritage from a foreign machine, never had he heard anyone refer to him as Sudrian in such a tone.

“So… all of you?” The big engine went on, actually astonished, Thomas noticed. “All of you came from Sodor? That island just south of here?”

A touch of heat crept into Thomas’s cheeks; he wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or pride. Regardless, he still kept smiling as he answered, “Uh, y-yes, we are. Yes. We were supposed to take a goods train up to Bridlington, but we, um…” Here, he couldn’t help stealing a glance towards the line of trucks behind him. “…We got a bit lost on our way.”

William folded his arms, huffing a little. “A bit?” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

The trucks, who’d been listening in the entire time, chortled as they quietly chimed in with their own inputs: “You can say that again!” “He doesn’t know a signal from a station!” “Go on, tell them about how you got turned around at the junction!” “Yes! And don’t forget to mention your distracting driver!”

            Just as he’d done before, Bob ignored them all, although I did notice him shift his position a tad, blocking them from the newcomers’ view. “Yes, and unfortunately, we don’t have enough coal to make it now.”

            “You blokes’r out of coal?” the other driver suddenly chuckled. He nudged the fireman with his elbow. “Fancy that, eh?”

            Thomas arched an eyebrow at this, even more so when the fireman grinned as well, nudging his coworker back in the shoulder. He muttered something that Thomas couldn’t hear, and the driver’s face scrunched as he struggled to hold back his laughter. Laughter, as if these strangers’ situation was just a gag in a comedy. As he watched them Thomas felt his top lip curl slightly, an ill knot forming in his boiler; all of a sudden he didn’t know if he truly wanted help from them anymore.

            But the other engine, the big rust-colored steamie that’d first spotted their despairing, was the total opposite to his crew. He looked Thomas in the eye, his brow knitting and his jaw setting. “Are you really fresh out of coal?” he asked, “Are you sure you don’t have any left?”

            “Well,” Bob answered for his engine, “we’re not totally empty. When I checked Thomas’s bunker there was still a little left– ”

            “Then there’s no problem!” said the other driver suddenly, straightening his posture and brushing his sooty overalls. “We can help ya’ saps out after all! Fancy that!”

            “Yes, certainly!” the fireman agreed, already starting to make his way back to his engine, “If there’s really enough then you can just follow us, there’s tons of fuel to go ‘round back at the steelworks!”

            “Steelworks?” Thomas repeated without a breath. I noticed a familiar glint shine in his eyes upon hearing the word, the same glint they’d had the previous night after Bob and William told him of their plan for the Mainland. The sight actually almost made me chuckle; I could not help it, I always felt that way whenever I saw such youthful curiosity in my children’s eyes.

            The big engine’s own expression lit up at Thomas’s enthusiasm. “Of course,” he replied, “That’s our job, melting slag to make steel and delivering it to yards all over the country. That’s what I’m carrying in these trucks here,” he added, his gaze flitting to the train behind him, “there’s been such a demand increase for steel beams on the south ends lately, we can hardly keep up with the– ”

            “Well, come on, then!”

            The big engine started a tad as his fireman smacked his side hard, enough so that I’m sure even the last truck in Thomas’s train could’ve heard the sharp tinny sound it created. “Let’s be off then, ‘ey?” he went on from within his cab, “Don’t go muckin’ about for us ta’ getcha’ a dern’ crane!”

            Once again, both men chortled at this joke that Thomas didn’t even know was supposed to be a joke. But like that was going to sour his mood now; they were going to get help, after he’d felt like they would never be able to recover from this slip.

            Plus: not only were they getting help, but they were getting it from people who worked at a steelworks on the mainland. So, by the end of all of this, Thomas could go home knowing that he had succeeded in fixing one of his biggest blunders yet and he’d have seen more of the world than he’d imagined.

            There was such a surplus of excitement coursing through my child’s frame in that moment, bless his little soul, I felt that he could burst from it.

            Bob and William did as the big engine’s crew did and climbed back into their engine’s cab to start him moving again, although far less rowdily or unkindly. William seemed to take excruciating care shoveling the last stones of coal from Thomas’s bunker to his firebox, but when he stood back up beside his coworker he couldn’t have looked calmer; you never could’ve guessed that, just minutes ago, he’d been in the midst of an explosion to end them all.

            Thomas started up slowly, then fast enough to inch close enough to the big engine’s buffers as if to touch them.

            The big engine noticed, grinning down at him with half his mouth. “Hey,” he said in a soft voice, “sorry about my crew. I could see they were making you uncomfortable. I’m afraid their brand of humor is a bit…” His gaze drifted to his cab, and Thomas thought he saw a muscle twitch in his brow. “…well, it’s unconventional, I suppose,” he finally added, his grin fading.

            “Oh no, it’s totally fine,” Thomas replied, beaming, “I don’t care much about that. I’m just happy that we bumped into you! I don’t know what we would’ve done otherwise!”

            The big engine chuckled, a low, rumbling noise. “Eheh, well, it’s a good thing you ran into a friend, now, hey? No need to worry after that.”

            Thomas’s eyes glimmered at the other engine’s friendly demeanor; he couldn’t help but be reminded a bit of Edward when looking up at him, which only set him all the more at ease. “Oh, yes indeed! Thank you, thank you so much! Ooh, I– I’m sorry if I seem so excited, but– I’ve just never been to a steelworks on the mainland before! Is it totally different to where they make the steel on Sodor? Is your workload any different?”

            “Heh. Can’t say for sure, so you’ll have to tell me when we get there. Maybe you could help me work and let me know!”

            “Oh, yes! Yes I will! Oh– I’m Thomas, by the way.”

            “Mm, charmed, Thomas. My name’s Hurricane, like a storm! Whoosh!”

            The onomatopoeia made Thomas giggle even more. “Wow…  that’s a great name for you! I mean, lugging steel around everywhere, you’d have to be as strong as a storm!”

            “Heh heh, right as rain, that is, I must say! Well, in that case, what sort of work do you get up to on your little island?”

            They went on like that for almost the entire journey – a good thing to keep Thomas’s mind occupied, rather than keep meticulous track of the time like William seemed to be doing, every minute pulling out his watch and sneering at it.

            Bob seemed alright as he drove Thomas along. I couldn’t quite gauge his emotions from his expression, but I could at least breathe easily knowing that he wasn’t angry anymore. He was probably praying that there wouldn’t be any more trouble.

            Thomas finally pulled himself out of the conversation – a whole twenty-seven minutes later – when a bright glint in the approaching distance caught his eye; the sun shone just above the tall red buildings that peeked up from behind the treetops, bathing them in a warm orange beacon glow.

Right away, without even needing to ask, Thomas knew that that was their destination.

~x~

            “Well.” Hurricane smiled. “Here we are.”

            Thomas breathed his astonishment. “Wow…”

            To him, from the giant metal gate that marked the main entrance, this place looked enormous. The surrounding fences stretched even further than he could see. Rails lined the paths along a massive gravel hill, at the base of which lay a heap of a black tar-like substance. But, of course, the centerpiece was the huge redbrick building in the middle of the expansive land, long stone chimneys shooting skyward from its roof, billowing out dark smoke that reminded Thomas of the cozy houses he’d see in wintertimes.

            From the machine-sized opening in the building’s front he spotted the same orange glow he’d seen on the way here, and on one of the chimneys he saw the faded printing of the same symbol he’d seen on Hurricane’s crew’s uniforms.

            “So,” Hurricane said as he carefully rolled his own trucks onto a branching track, “What do you think?”

            Thomas laughed, his firebox fizzing in delight. “Hurricane, I… I just can’t believe how big it is! I’ve never seen a place this big on Sodor! Well, maybe the station in Vicarstown, but that’s still tiny compared to this!”

            “Heh, oh there’s more where that came from!” Hurricane chuckled, “It’s quite a ride around here, you’d might even call it the hottest place in tow– !”

            “’ey, you lot!” came a new, booming voice from the other end of the tracks. A couple more workers in those orange uniforms were marching towards the two engines, looking none-too-pleased under the layers of ash and dust that coated their faces.

            Thomas barely reacted to them, though, and continued taking in the sights around him.

            “Oy there!” One of the workers called again in a bark, gesturing sharply towards Hurricane’s trucks, “What’s the idea here, eh? What’re you doing here lollying when those trucks ought to be– ”

            “Oh, keep your knickers on!” came the cackling reply from Hurricane’s driver, poking his head out of the cab, “Well fancy this, we found ourselves a couple’a  stragglers, ‘ere! Wand’rin’ ‘round the forest like a buncha headless chickens!”

            “Too right!” chimed Hurricane’s fireman, jerking his thumb in Thomas’s direction, “You should’a seen the lot, without any coal’r water ta’ speak of!”

            “Some real whistleblowers, though, they are! They says they’re from the Island of Sodor!”

            That got Thomas’s attention back.

            “Sodor?” The reactions of the approaching workers ranged from surprise to gawking disbelief. “Sodor?” “The island jus’ south of ‘ere?” “You ain’t pullin’ me leg, are’ya?” “That Sodor?” “Blimey, what a way to come!”

            Thomas’s cheeks flushed at their comments, but he still chuckled “He-heh, yeah!” before something in the near distance caught his eye again.

            At the top of that gray gravelly hill stood a row of three ladle trucks that Thomas was certain hadn’t been there when he’d first glanced over there. Several steelworkers rounded their sides, gripping long iron poles that attached to hooks in the truck’s edges; with a mighty heave, they wrenched the poles downward, and the trucks swung down with them. Three thick rivers of molten slag, one from each of the trucks, then flowed down the hill and pooled at the bottom in a glowing orange lake.

            “That must be some kind of cooling area,” Thomas thought as he watched, his boiler bubbling with what little water it had left. It didn’t seem to matter what he was looking at here, everything only enamored him with the place even more.

            Then he saw the engine who’d pushed those ladle trucks up the hill in the first place. She’d almost blended in with the formation she stood upon, her livery was almost completely coated in black ash. She was a diesel engine, evident from the puffs of smoke that rose from her wheels as she rolled an inch away from her trucks, letting out an exhale that only blew a quarter of the ash off of her flushed face.

            Then her eyes flickered towards Thomas and her entire demeanor changed. Her mouth dropped, her eyes widened like she’d seen something as extraordinary as a comet or a supernova.

            Thomas still smiled and gave her a peep of his whistle.

            She seemed to compose herself as she made her way down the tracks to meet him, although Thomas couldn’t help noticing the sudden brightness in her eyes.

            “Hello there!” Thomas called as she approached, “How are you today?”

            She didn’t answer right away, just continued staring at Thomas as she came to a stop just in front of the small human crowd that had begun to form.

            “…Well, a fine hello yourself!” she said finally. Her voice, crisp and sharp but still friendly, reminded Thomas a little of Rosie back home. “What’s your name, little tank engine?”

            “I’m Thomas. How are you– ?”

            “I found him in the forest, Frankie!”

            Thomas couldn’t believe he’d actually forgotten about Hurricane. The bigger engine’s eyes glimmered as he carried his trucks some nearby buffers, although he still had to raise his voice a tad over the workers’ murmurs and comments.

            “He was supposed to take a train to Bridlington but I found him, lost as a lost thing! And he’s from Sodor!”

            “Sodor?” Frankie reacted to the name the same way Hurricane did back in the forest; her jaw went slightly slack, her wide eyes looking Thomas up and down like he was the rarest of sights she’d ever see.

            But despite his pride Thomas couldn’t help feeling a little awkward this time. This was the third time today somebody reacted to his island’s name in such a way. He cleared his throat before asking, “Um… sorry, but, why do you all get so surprised when you find out we’re from Sodor?”

            Frankie chuckled. “Oh, it’s just that we’ve heard so much about it! All the hard work you do over there, the beautiful landscapes, all the children you look after… oh, Hurricane and I have only ever dreamed of seeing it for ourselves!”

            Now Thomas flushed pink slightly as he laughed, “Heh heh, well, I don’t know about every engine on Sodor, but I certainly get to look after a lot of children! They love joining their parents to ride with me on my branchline back home!”

            “Your own branchline, eh?” Frankie sounded as astonished as if he’d told her he’d been to the moon and back. “You must be such a very important little engine, then!”

            “And a cheeky one at that!” Hurricane chimed in as he pulled onto the track beside her, “He told me on the way here, those trucks he’s hooked up to? They were meant for another engine, but he got up bright and early to take them himself! Heh!”

            “Ooh, you sound like a very funny little friend to have on your railway!” Frankie chuckled again, a light and chirpy sound. “Oh, and you said your name was Thomas, yes?”

            “Yes, that’s right!” Thomas replied, “And you’re Frankie? It’s so nice to meet you all –!”

            “And it’s very nice to meet you, too.”

            This new voice came just behind Frankie and Hurricane. They both jolted back a few inches as a smartly-dressed man – a far cry from the states of the other workers he’d seen here so far, Thomas noticed – approached from the space between the tracks. He wore a dark red-orange suit reminiscent of the colors that the workers wore, looked as lean as Bob and William but had the same air of authority about him as Sir Topham Hatt. A light dusting of stubble coated his chin and cheeks – but, then again, it could have just been the ash from all the steel-working.

            The crowd of workers parted and began to quickly disperse as he approached Thomas. He gave the little tank engine a crooked yet still warm smile as he looked him up and down.

            “I say,” he remarked, “Now I understand what all the fuss was about out here.”

             Thomas smiled back. “Hello, there, sir,” he couldn’t help chirping. His mood had taken a drastic shift since coming here; to him, their luck couldn’t have been better, getting lost and being rescued not only by a kind engine but kind steelworks workers too!

            “We’re terribly sorry for the intrusion, sir.” Bob took this time to hop out of Thomas’s cab, tipping his cap towards the man opposite him while William hopped out just behind him. “Now– are we right to assume ‘sir’?”

            The man chuckled in his throat and nodded lightly back at him. “Indeed you are quite perceptive, my good man. I am the manager of this good steelworks. And I hear you work on a railway on the Island of Sodor, yes? Could it be the famed North Western Railway?”

            William snorted and rolled his eyes while Bob tried to conceal it with a cough of his own. The steelworks manager barely seemed to notice, however.

            “But what brings you here, of all places? With that lot of trucks?” he went on, a wry glint in his eyes, “…did you perhaps get confused at a junction?”

            “Actually, yes, we did. Again, truly, we apologize, sir,” Bob said quickly before William could interject with any more sarcastic commentary, “we were supposed to take these trucks to Bridlington but we got in a bit of a muddle at that junction right at the border.”

            “Yeah, with no fuel to get us out of the mess either…” William muttered before Bob could stop him.

            Thomas’s smile faltered slightly at William’s comment but still told the steelworks manager as cheerily as he could, “But then Hurricane found us and brought us here! He was so nice about it, too!”

            “Yes,” said Bob, “so if you don’t mind sharing some coal and water we’ll be off and – ”

            “Hurricane, you say?” The steelworks manager clucked his tongue as he glanced at the big engine, who was now – for one reason or another, Thomas wondered – making his way back towards the trucks of steel he’d dropped off at that siding just moments ago.

            The manager tapped his chin as he smiled up at Thomas again. “Tell me then, little tank engine,” he said kindly, “Did he also tell you about this steelworks?”

            Thomas beamed, all too happy to sing some praises. “Oh yes, sir! He told me all about the work you do here, how exciting it is! I’ve never seen a steelworks as big as this before! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a steelworks like this at all! It’s all just so cool and interesting!”

            The man nodded slowly, his grin stretching a tad. “Hm. I see…” he muttered, seemingly to himself.

            Then, with a great sweep of his arm towards the main building, he asked Thomas boldly, “Well then, why don’t you stay the night here, then?”

            Now it was Bob’s turn to be incredulous.

            “What?” he blurted at the same time William did, staring at the steelworks manager like he’d just grown a second head, “But– but sir, why would you– ?”

            “Really?” Thomas couldn’t have sounded more excited, his firebox more crackly nor his boiler more bubbly. “Oh gosh, that would be– but– really? You’d really let us stay?”

            William scoffed loudly before the manager could reply. “Oh please,” he hissed, exasperated, “You must be joking now, right? We’re not on holiday here! We’ve got our jobs and wives to get back to! And if Thomas doesn’t get back soon then who knows what his controller will– !”

            “Oh, pish-posh,” said the manager, holding up his hand and waving the fireman’s complaints away, “I can see you’re all stressed out after today, so wouldn’t it be better to stay here? It’ll just be for tonight, I assure you my good man, it’s not like you’ll be stuck here forever. And don’t worry about that train, either,” he added, gesturing towards the trucks still sitting behind Thomas, “One of our crew can deliver it for you, after the day you’ve had. And besides – ”

            Now, he gestured right at Thomas’s smiling face, grinning that same friendly grin that had enamored him to the little engine in the first place.

            “– I can tell this one is all over staying the night here, eh?”

            William immediately opened his mouth, surely to spit a retort far harsher than before – only to stop and jolt slightly when Bob actually took a big step backward to grab his shoulder.

            “No, Bill, don’t.” Bob appeared just as exasperated as he sounded, rubbing his closed eyelids with the fingers on his free hand. But he recovered just as quickly to tell the manager firmly:

            “That’s very kind of you, sir. We’d be very pleased to spend the night over here.”

            “Yes!” Thomas couldn’t help cheering out loud. He regarded his driver with the sparkling eyes of a child with a new toy. “Oh thank you, thank you Bob! Thank you so much!”

            “Perfect!” said the steelworks manager, beaming up at Thomas. “We are all quite happy to have you here then! And don’t worry, my good man,” he added, glancing towards William, who was still staring at his coworker, slack-jawed and dumbfounded. “Your engine will be perfectly safe here with us, I assure you. There’s plenty of extra sheds behind the main building.”

            Then, with a sharp turn that ruffled the short tail of his suit, he gestured towards the diesel engine named Frankie, who was still sitting close by.

            “You there,” the manager barked, “show them to the sheds please, would you?”

            I saw something flash in Frankie’s eyes the moment they locked with the manager’s. It was ever so brief but I still felt it like a crack in my boiler.

            Thomas couldn’t have noticed it, though. He was far too excited about the night he was about to have in this new place which he thought was the coolest place he’d ever set wheel in.

            Despite this, Frankie still smiled and replied “Yes sir, absolutely sir,” in as chipper a voice as she’d used when she’d asked for Thomas’s name; and, as soon as he’d bid them farewell and headed back towards the main building, she began to roll down the hill, her eyes telling Thomas to follow.

            “And don’t worry about your trucks, Thomas,” chimed in Hurricane at the same time that William had slunk away to uncouple the very confused train in question, “I’ll be happy to put them in a safe siding for you.”

            “Thank you so much, Hurricane!” Thomas replied, still refusing to disguise any of his excitement, “Oh, and Frankie, thanks so much for letting me stay with you tonight! Do you think you could let me watch you make the steel later on?”

            “Oh, but of course! The pleasure is all ours,” Frankie replied curtly, “But you really shouldn’t be worrying about any of that right now, none of the work and fuss. You’ve clearly been through a lot today, a lot more than a very important engine like yourself should have to take!”

            At this, Thomas’s smile actually faltered for the first time since he’d arrived in the steelworks’ yard. “Tch. That’s not what my friend James thinks! Back on Sodor he just can’t stop talking about how he’s our controller’s favorite engine!” He rolled his eyes and groaned. “Ughh, I never hear the end of it, back at home!”

            “Oh really?” said Hurricane, now beginning to move to the other track to take the trucks off of Thomas, “And what do you do when this James says things like that?”

            The smile returned just as quickly to my child’s face, although far more wry than it had been before. “…well, I wake up early to take his train to the mainland instead of him, of course!” he replied, a sneaky proudness gleaming in his eyes.

            Hurricane rumbled with laughter at this answer. “Heh! Well, that would teach him a good lesson, now, wouldn’t it, hey? He is a right cheeky one, isn’t he Frankie?”

            “Oh yes!” Frankie purred, “Which is even more reason to let you rest here instead of taking such a long trip back! What an important engine like you needs right now is a nice, comfy shed where you can let that busy boiler of yours cool down…”

            And Thomas followed her down that hill after that note, as excited as he’d ever been, not a single damning thought in his mind.

            The evening arrived far sooner than he and his crew anticipated; Thomas thought in surprise how busy and stressful the day must have really been if they’d lost track of time like that. His new friends Frankie and Hurricane let him choose one of the wooden sheds himself, and he happily obliged. His crew, despite their misgivings, had to leave the steelworks at this time; the manager insisted that they go and find s spot in town with comfy beds to rest their heads on, rather than staying cooped up in Thomas’s cramped and uncomfortable cab all night. Bob and William protested lightly, but only gave up when Thomas insisted that he was okay with it, that they deserved good beauty rest too after everything they’d been through today. So, after bidding their engine a goodnight and a see you soon, they left the property for the nearest lift to take them to the nearest inn.

            When he finally drifted off to sleep that night Thomas was still smiling. He still couldn’t believe the day he’d just had. He still couldn’t believe that, in spite of the troubles today, they’d still ended up alright. He couldn’t wait for the sun to rise, couldn’t wait to wake up tomorrow in this new and exciting place, watch his new friends and their unique work, then finally deliver his train in time to head home and see James’s surely stunned face. He couldn’t wait to tell all his friends about his adventures on the mainland, his adventures at a mainland steelworks. He couldn’t wait for anything.

            He thought everything would be alright.

            Never in a millennium would he have guessed that his stay at that steelworks would take a turn for the far, far worse.