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Gordon yawned as the morning sun shimmered across his paint. He opened his eyes, taking in the sights and sounds of Croavans Gate locomotive works. He smiled.
"Another one down," he whispered to himself. He blinked, the sun blinding him as he tried to reacclimate to his surroundings. He could feel steam slowly rising in his boiler. He yawned again.
"Ah! You're awake, my friend. How does everything feel? Nothing out of place, I hope?"
"Hello Victor. At the moment, I feel grand. I dare say they did a better job than the Doncaster boys back in my LNER days. But of course, I'll want to take a few laps on the test track to run myself in. But I'm sure the lads did a fine job."
"Well, that's great news. I'll pass it along to the workmen but-" Victor was cut off by a loud clanging and scraping, like metal parts were dropped on the concrete floor.
"Dios mío... ¿Qué voy a hacer con ese chico?" He turned his attention back to the A1. "I'll send for someone to crew you shortly. I have to go see what manner of confusion Kevin's causing now."
Gordon chuckled as the small Cuban engine departed.
An hour of waiting later, and he was finally moving under his own steam. His crew brought him out and onto the test track. Gordon hummed as he looked down at his new front end. It was a weird experience having a 3rd piston. It wasn't uncomfortable, it would just take some getting used to.
He pulled onto the oval and slowly began to pick up speed, from a crawl to a jog. He took it slow; he didn't want to break something at high speed. He picked up speed from a jog to a sprint.
Gordon smiled. He hadn't felt this good in decades as his surroundings began to blur. His subconscious opened his regulator wide and tore down the test track. "Come on, come on, come on," he muttered to himself with a wide grin. But just as he reached ninety, the red signal dropped. Flynn closed his regulator and slowly started to bring the mighty engine to a stop.
"Oh, come on," Gordon moaned. "Just when it was getting good..."
He pulled up to a nearby water tower as a very familiar man approached him.
"Very well done, Gordon!" Sir Topham bellowed. "You put on quite the show. I'm happy to see you out of the works finally."
"Thank you, sir! It's good to finally be under my own steam again."
"I was hoping you would say that. In 3 months from now, a grand steam gala is going to be held at the NRM, and the main event is a race. And I thought I'd ask you if you wanted to attend."
Gordon smirked. "Sir... is this one of those things where you have already done it and you're just running it by me?"
Sir Topham smiled. "That cleverness is why you were my father's favorite, Gordon. But I did want to tell you, your, ahem, the Flying Scotsman will also be attending."
Gordon's face soured. "I see. Thank you, sir..."
It had been 2 weeks since Gordon returned to service. He enjoyed pulling his express again.
He pulled into Tidmouth, his passengers spilling out onto the platform. The blue Pacific let his thoughts wander.
"Don't fall asleep on me, lazybones!" Gordon rolled his eyes. "Don't make me drag you behind my express again, little Thomas."
"Ha! I'd like to see you try."
Gordon just rolled his eyes. "Are you just here to pester little Thomas?"
"Noooo, well okay, not all. I did want to ask about your rebuild, primarily how do you think Hatt got the SHS to sign off on all those fancy new modifications they did to you?"
Gordon smiled. "The Sodor Historical Society is a pain in the side of any engine on Sodor who needs a massive rebuild. They fight tooth and nail to keep the engines as close to their original specs as possible."
"Oh, well, you know they tried to put up a fuss, but the Fat Controller was able to justify it, saying that with my new modifications, I would be able to bring more tourists to the island or something like that. Clearly, it worked-"
A shrill whistle cut through the air. "Oh, lady have mercy," Gordon muttered. An unforgettable A3 flew into Tidmouth.
"Oh, hello little brother. I wasn't expecting to see family today. Well, how's the weather for you lads?"
"Hello, Scotsman, and for the-"
"Oh, lady above, Thomas, THE tank engine in the metal, we meet again, my small blue friend." Thomas smiled, but Gordon could tell it was forced.
"Hello, Scott! Two famous engines like us, the press should be swimming in good pictures, aye?"
"Famous engines who? I was unaware Sodor had any famous engines, certainly none as grand as me." Before either could say anything, Scotsman's guard blew his whistle.
"Oh, would you look at that. Sorry, lads, must be off." And with that, Scotsman pulled out of Tidmouth, whistle blaring.
Leaving a skulking Gordon and a very annoyed Thomas.
"What an asshole. I'm glad he's going to that railway gala so you can kick his tender in that race."
"You don't know the half of it." Gordon chuckled. He was pulled out of overhaul early for the gala. The NRM thinks it will bring in more revenue to give him a proper overhaul. In fact, I'm not even worried about him. I'm worried about Bittern."
Thomas's nose scrunched. "You're worried about a bird? I'm sure you're faster than that, Gordon."
The bigger engine rolled his eyes. "No, you ignoramus, Bittern the A4 just broke a preserved steam record. He went 92 miles per hour. It's impressive. I wonder how he will fare, which reminds me, that new build... what's her name? Tornado. I think she has a reputation for being quite competitive. I hear her temper runs hotter than her firebox." Thomas smiled. "Well, I'm glad I'm going."
Gordon groaned. "Try not to flirt with every engine in attendance, Thomas."
"I won't! I won't flirt with you... or Scott..."
Finally, the guard blew his whistle.
"You are genuinely hopeless."
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Gordon flew down the track, his wheels pounding the rails, rain pouring down around him, but he pressed on. He was falling behind Bittern, but he was slowly gaining on him. He looked to his right; Scotsman was just behind him; he could keep pace, but Gordon was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to overtake.
Gordon looked in front of him; there were coaches on his line! Slamming on his brakes, sliding as his wheels failed to gain traction, he couldn't look away. He careened into the coaches, flinging off the rails and onto the other line, rolling onto his side right in front of Scotsman, who wasn't stopping...
Gordon jumped awake, his eyes darting around the shed. He locked eyes with Bear, who had a look of concern on his face.
"G-Gordon, a-are you?"
"Yes, Bear. Goodnight."
"N-night, Gordon..."
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Bear tells me you've been having nightmares again," Boco said, pulling alongside Gordon.
"That little gossip," Gordon cursed. He only told me. Don't worry," Boco soothed. "You know you can talk to me and Rebecca, right? We care about you, you know." Gordon sighed. "Yes, I know. It's just... difficult." Boco smiled. "I have full confidence in you, my shooting star..."
Gordon blushed. "I, uh... thank you, Bo... I, ahem, I need to, uh, go. The Nor'wester..."
"Nope! Boco has a sly smile. Sir Topham has ordered you to rest. The gala is only a week away, so for the time being, he's ordered me and Becca to pull the express in your absence."
"Well then," Gordon grinned, "you're late." The smile from Boco's face dropped. "Shit!" Gordon couldn't help but laugh as the Metrovick sped away, but his mind still lingered on what Boco had said.
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The day had arrived. If Gordon could sweat, he would be sweating bullets. He, Henry, and James, who was suspiciously covered in a tarp, were going to York under their own steam while pulling Thomas on a flatbed. The train would be Henry, then James, then Gordon, who would be pulling Thomas.
"You know," Henry joked, "I think this will be the smallest consist I will ever pull." Thomas laughed. "Well, if Gordon makes you do all the work, I wouldn't be so sure, right, Gordon?" Thomas immediately took note of the blue Pacific's silence. "Hey, Gordon? You feeling up to this?"
"Huh? Oh, uh, yes, I am. Just have to calm my nerves..." He couldn't see it, but Thomas looked concerned for his ally. "You know, Gordon, if you don't win the race, no one is going to hold it against you, right? I mean, you're up against 2 A4s, a brand new Pacific, and the original record holder. It's a tall order."
Gordon scoffed. "I know that! I already told you I'm not worried about Scotsman, and Spencer hasn't gone flat out in decades; he's probably gonna hurt himself. It's just..." he sighed, "it's nothing. We should be getting underway."
The NRM had built a massive loop line around the museum for the race. It was impressive how quickly they were able to build it.
The trio of engines pulled into the yard, where men immediately started to unload Thomas as the tender engines left their smaller counterpart to refuel.
"Gordon," hummed, "you're here for the Strength competition, correct?" Henry looked at his fleetmate, confused. "Yes? I did. You just think I was here for fun?" "No, no, I mean, why didn't Sir Topham choose Murdoch?" "That's simple," the Black Five smiled. "He and his sister, Evening Star, absolutely cannot stand each other. From what I hear, it's mostly petty sibling stuff."
"He should be lucky to have a living sibling," Gordon huffed. Henry and James shared a look and burst into laughter. Gordon rolled his eyes. "Oh, and what, pray tell, is so amusing?"
Henry spoke first. "It's... it's just that it's rich coming from you of all engines." James roared with laughter.
Gordon seethed. "If you're going to poke fun at my family's issues, then both of you can go to hell."
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Tornado arrived at the NRM under her own steam, only pulling two coaches. They were for members of her trust. The journey was exciting, but then again, anywhere other than Darlington was exciting for her. She was the newest thing in steam, and she was going to prove it, whether they like it or not.
Tornado arrived to a blitz of cameras and humans all crowding the platform, all wanting a look at her. She couldn't blame them; she was very striking from her smoke deflectors to her rich blue paint. She would be clambering to see herself if she was in their position.
Once the press had taken their ton of steel, Tornado was moved to a quiet siding where her trust could make some final checks. The trust's board came.Once the press had taken their ton of steel, Tornado was moved to a quiet siding where her trust could make some final checks. The trust's board came to see her.
"Now Tornado, don't go chasing rainbows out there, girly. We don't want you breaking one hundred miles per hour yet," Tornado huffed, "Oh come on... how am I supposed to win against engines that can go faster than a hundred? I'm a steam engine. I'm meant to go fast, do hard work, and look good doing it! All you guys do is put me on a pedestal like if the second I push myself too hard, I'll shatter into a million pieces."
"No, Tornado. The last thing we need is for you to damage yourself. Repairs are costly," the director of the trust scolded.
"Ahh, but if I win the race, the money will recoup the costs," she smirked.
"No, Tornado, and that's final."
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Bittern was nervous. Sure, he had set a record, but it was nowhere near what he had hoped to set. He wanted to do his sister justice.
"Mal..." he whispered to himself. She was flickering again. They had hoped the last dust transfusion would have stabilized her. She was given about 6 months to live. Bittern held back his tears. They would do him no good right now.
He steeled himself as his crew came to make the final preparations. Come hell or high-water, he was going to win this race, not for him, but for Mallard.
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Spencer eyed his younger brother from a distance. It's not like they didn't get along. The A4s were a tight-knit group, but he could tell that he was thinking about their sister. Those two were closest out of all their siblings.
He was lost in thought when the Duke and Duchess arrived. "We will be wishing you well, Spencer, from our booth. Even if you don't win, after this, we've decided... it's time for an overhaul. And we are sorry if us putting it off has harmed you in any way. It's just... we were scared to lose you." Spencer smiled, "Don't worry, I'll be fine."
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Gordon yawned; the strength competition was underway. From what he could hear, Henry was doing well. He looked over; he could just see Thomas pulling his excursion trains around to other parts of the gala.
He looked over at James, who was resting beside him still covered in the tarp. "He chuckled to himself at how absurd he looked. Honestly, if you wanted to scare someone, I think your face would be more than enough."
"Oh, ha ha, very funny. If you must absolutely know, I'm going to be unveiled at the style competition."
"Yes, I could put that together. I'm just laughing because you look like you're going to break into Ffarquhar and scare Thomas."
James hissed, "Oh, shut up!" Before the argument could get much further, another Pacific, neither of them had seen, rolled up to Gordon.
"Oi, are ya done hogging the coal hopper? I need to get ready for the race so I can win," quite presumptuous, miss?" he waited, but the engine said nothing.
"Tornado," James called back, reading her name plate.
Gordon smiled as he slowly reversed, "What makes you think you'll win, if you don't mind my asking?"
Tornado smirked, "I'm newer, faster, stronger, and more advanced than you."
"I just got out of overhaul 3 months ago, technically I'm younger," the Peppercorn huffed.
"I have 3 cylinders."
"So do I."
"My boiler is welded, not riveted," she boasted.
Gordon smirked, "Got that in '87." He had finally reversed far enough to let Tornado use the hopper. "So I'd say we are about evenly matched, but I wish you well, little storm."
"You... want me to win?" She looked confused.
"I-I don't have any strong feelings about it. I would prefer if I won the race, but all's well if good sportsmanship is displayed. I can't be angry."
"But you just sai- you're weird."
"Wha- how- never mind. May the best engine win," he said as he reversed away.
"Why are you a ghost?"
"Oh, come on!" James huffed.
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Gordon backed into his position; he was sandwiched between his "brother" and the Newbuild. He tried to focus as the loud voice of the announcer boomed.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the final event of the Grand Steam Gala. The G.S.G was organized to show the world at large still how capable these titans of a bygone era still are today. You bore witness to the strength of the iron horses, which was won by the world-famous Henry of Sodor!"
"You have also seen how beautiful and stylish these machines of industry can be, and that honor goes to James of Sodor."
"But now, folks, get ready for the truest test of steam... Speed! 3 laps around the Circuit will determine our winner."
"First up on the line is Bittern! A privately owned A4 who just set the record for preserved steam and is itching to break it. I guess that need for speed is hereditary because next up we have Sir Spencer Williams, formerly known as Silver Fox. This sleek silver engine, who is also privately owned by the Duke and Duchess of Boxford, has a record of his own at one hundred and nine miles an hour. Truly astonishing."
"Speaking of astonishing, we have the new kid on the block, Tornado! She's just a baby compared to the others, but don't let that fool you; she is one mean and in steam machine. She's a tough act to follow
But I think our next competitor can pick up the slack. Fresh from overhaul and with some new upgrades, it’s Gordon of Sodor! With a personal record of one hundred and ten miles per hour, he’s hoping his new third cylinder will give him the edge he needs to outpace the competition.
And last, but certainly not least, the first to ever do it—also fresh from overhaul—Flying Scotsman!
Gordon groaned as the crowd roared with applause for the A3 next to him He closed his eyes as the announcer babbled on. He tried to focus to clear his smokebox. Flashes of his nightmares came back to him: the ways he could get horrifically hurt or killed. He looked up; the sky was blue and the rails were dry. He shook his intrusive thoughts away, instead thinking of home, Sodor... if Boco and Rebecca of—
“GO!” Gordon's eyes shot open; his competition had begun. He shot forward, his wheels slipping slightly as he fought to make up the little ground he lost.
Already, he could tell Tornado was fighting to keep her slow lead. All five engines were gaining speed. It was hard to tell who was ahead of whom, but it didn't take them long to get up to speed. The stands full of spectators started to blur at the corners of his vision.
He looked to his left; he could see Thomas up ahead, spectating from a siding. The two locked eyes.
“Knock 'em off the rails, Gordon!” the blue tank engine shouted as loud as he could, whistling in short bursts.
Gordon returned with a short blast, smiling as he passed his ally. He sped up, throwing every ounce of steam he had into his pistons. Scotsman huffed, “That's cute; you mingle with the peasants.” Gordon ignored him, shooting forward. Tornado immediately tried to match pace, her wheels hammering the rails. Bittern and Spencer were having their own battle for the lead.
Before they knew it, the first lap was down. Scotsman was falling behind, but he and Tornado were still side by side. Gordon looked over; Bittern was pulling ahead. Tornado stopped paying attention to him and pushed ahead to catch the blue A4.
The second lap flew by. Gordon and Tornado were tied for second, with Bittern taking the lead, followed by Scotsman right behind them, and Spencer trailing.
“Come on, come on,” Gordon muttered to himself, pushing himself faster and faster. He closed his eyes, as if pulling the express. “Come on, hurry, hurry, hurry,” he whispered to the wind. They passed the marker—it was the final lap: all or nothing.
Gordon poured everything he had into his pistons. He overtook Tornado and then Bittern. He looked behind him; Scotsman was creeping up on him.
“Looks like Scotsman has got a second wind!” the announcer yelled, the microphone crackling with feedback from the noise.
He looked back; Scotsman didn’t look exhausted. He... he looked like he was in pain... he was going to regret this.
“Are you okay?” he tried to shout over the wind.
“Fine. Focus on yourself, you overzealous faker,” Scott spat with venom.
Gordon rolled his eyes. “Who are you kidding? You’re in pain! Slow down, Scott; you'll be fi—”
“NO! I'M GOING TO WIN THIS RACE AND PROVE ONCE AND FOR ALL THAT I AM GRESLEY'S GREATEST ACHIEV—”
Everything seemed to go in slow motion. There was a loud crack; Scotsman screamed out in pain as his wheels locked. He came screeching to a halt. Gordon's gaze shot back; he couldn’t see him. He looked forward—the finish was approaching. He was in the lead; he could win.
No, he thought to himself, that's something I would never be able to live with. He slammed on his brakes, sparks flying from his wheels as Tornado and Bittern shot past. He groaned and gritted his teeth as he shook from the force of his brakes.
He stopped just before the finish, his wheels groaning in agony, but he had no time to stop. “POINTS!” he cried, his voice cracking. He hoped someone would understand what he was about to do. He shot backward, his tender guiding him onto his brother's line. His crew jumped out, coupling the two.
Gordon pulled him the rest of the way, the crowd roaring his name, but he ignored them; he had a job to do. He rushed Scotsman into the NRM proper, where he was immediately swarmed with workmen. Hours went by, and Tornado came to see him.
“Hello... I'm sorry about what happened to him. I, um, hear he's your brother.”
Gordon chuckled dryly. “On paper, yes. But enough about that; who won? I, uh, didn't get to see...”
“Oh, um, that A4... the, um, blue one.”
“Bittern,” Gordon corrected.
The two sat in silence for a while before Tornado spoke up again. “I, um, I broke one hundred.” She gave a weak smile.
Gordon looked at her and smiled. “First time?”
The Peppercorn gave a small nod with her eyes.
Gordon beamed. “Very good! Well done.”
A man in a lab coat walked up to Gordon. “How is he?”
“He's damn lucky, that's what he is. His inside motion failed; that’s what the crack was, and that's why his wheels locked up. He is extremely lucky it didn't puncture his boiler; it would have exploded...” He looked at the ground. “Look, we got to him; he's going to be fine in the long run, thanks to you.”
Gordon looked at the A3 across from him. “A thanks I'll never get—not from him—but... I don't think I would have changed my actions.