Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Down by the old train tracks, the police assemble. There are more than a dozen of them here tonight, more in one place than the sheriff has seen in over ten years. They’ve brought in state troopers and a couple of K-9 units to assist them with the task at hand. Faces are grim. Evening has fallen and every moment the darkness deepens.

Scott McCall is upstairs in his bedroom, brushing his teeth, when he hears a thump from the front porch. He freezes in the act of spitting out of mouthful of white suds. His mom is working the night shift at the hospital tonight. She isn’t supposed to be home for hours. Who, then, is making thumping noises on his porch?

     Scott knows it’s unlikely to be a criminal; New Sodor is a peaceful little town. But the teenage boy has an overactive imagination. Visions of serial killers with hockey masks and dripping knives swarm to the forefront of his mind. He can’t help it.

     Scott snatches up a baseball bat from his open closet and creeps downstairs as quietly as he can. He slips out the backdoor, onto the partially covered porch. There’s another thumping noise, but this one sounds like it’s coming from overhead. Scott frowns and takes a step towards the edge of the porch.

     Without warning, a face and shoulders appear, hanging upside down from the edge of the porch’s roof. Scott jumps back, clutching the bat to him. A moment later, he recognizes the face.

     “Jesus Christ, Stiles. What are you doing?”

     “You wouldn’t answer your phone,” Stiles Stilinski protests. He’s Scott’s best friend and has been for years. He has a boyishly round face with a slightly upturned nose and a fuzz of close-cropped brown hair.

     “I thought you were a predator,” says Scott. His heart is still hammering in his chest.

     “A predator?” Stiles snorts derisively and drops nimbly down onto the porch. He moves with the feverish energy of an ADHD sufferer. “Listen, I just heard on my dad’s dispatch. All the officers in New Sodor are being called down to the old railway to form search parties. State patrol too.”

     “Which railway?” asks Scott, curious in spite of himself. Stiles’ father is the local sheriff. “What for?”

     “They’ve found a body.”

     “Murdered?”

     “Not sure. They just know it was a girl, about college age.”

     “Well, if they found the body, what are the search parties for?”

     “See, that’s the best part. They only found half of it. We,” Stiles declares, tapping Scott on the chest, “are going to find the rest.”

The next thing Scott knows, he’s hopping out of his friend’s old junker of a jeep and following him reluctantly into the ragged woodland around the defunct Elsbridge Light Railway. It’s one of about twenty disused rail lines crisscrossing the countryside around New Sodor, all built back when the American pioneers thought the Age of Steam would last forever.

     “I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” he mutters.

     Mist curls about the boys as they approach the tracks. Stiles clicks on his flashlight. “You’re the one who’s always bitching about how nothing ever happens in this town.”

     “I wanted to get a good night’s sleep before our first practice.” He and Stiles both play on their high school lacrosse team.

     “Yeah, because sitting on the bench takes so much energy.”

     “No, because this year I’m going to actually play. I’m going to make first line.”

     “It’s good to have a dream,” Stiles says amiably, starting off down the line of overgrown rails that leads away westward. “Even a pathetic dream that will never come true.”

     Scott punches his friend lightly on the arm. “Ass.”

     “Loser,” says Stiles, punching him back and grinning.

     “So which half of the body are we looking for anyway?”

     “You know, I didn’t even think of that.”

     “And what if whatever killed this body is still out here?”

     “Didn’t think about that either.”

     “It’s good to know you planned this thing with your usual level of attention to detail. You might at least let the severely asthmatic kid carry the flashlight.”

     Keeping up with Stiles’ rapid strides is already putting an uncomfortable pressure on Scott’s congenitally shitty lungs. He feels in the pocket of his jacket for the reassuring weight of his inhaler.

     “Wait,” says Stiles suddenly. His voice is urgent. “Oh crap. Get off the rails, go, go!”

     Scott looks up and sees what his friend has spotted: a cluster of flashlights moving slowly their way. The beams sweep back and forth over the ground. It doesn’t look like they’ve spotted the boys yet.

     Stiles pushes Scott, who has begun to wheeze softly, towards the tree line. Scott stumbles on ahead and ends up behind a wide maple, which he leans against gratefully. Stiles is about to plunge after him when a familiar voice stops him in his tracks.

     “Stiles!”

     He turns around slowly, a sheepish expression already forming on his face. “Yes, Dad?”

     Sheriff Stilinski stumps over to his son, glowering mightily. The other flashlights follow in his wake. One of the officers starts pulling out handcuffs, but the Sheriff waves them away.

     “No need deputy. This little delinquent belongs to me.”

     Stiles gives a little wave.

     “So,” his father says, “do you listen to all my phone calls?”

     “No,” says Stiles quickly. “Well, not the boring ones.”

     The sheriff grunts. “Where’s your partner in crime?”

     “Who? Scott? No, he stayed home. Said he wanted a good night’s sleep before our first lacrosse practice.”

     Unconvinced, the sheriff turns towards the trees and calls, “Scott!”

     Behind his tree, Scott tries to wheeze more quietly.

     “Scott!” the sheriff calls again. When he gets no response this time either, he shrugs and takes his son firmly by the shoulder. “Okay then. I’m going to walk you back to your car and we'll have a long talk about a little something called ‘invasion of privacy.’”

Once the search party and Stiles are long gone, Scott takes a few puffs from his inhaler and begins the considerable walk back home. He decides to follow the train tracks for a while, since they make for easier walking.

     Around him, the mists are getting thicker. Every branch that creaks or leaf that rustles sends little chills along Scott’s spine.

     All of a sudden, his foot strikes something on the edge of embankment that squishes unpleasantly. He bends down and the coppery smell of blood hits his nose. By the light of the gibbous moon, he sees it: the other half of the body. It is the torso of a young woman, naked save for streaks of gore. Her spine seems to have been crushed just below the level of her ribs but, while messy, the severing wound is almost mechanically straight.

     Scott takes in all these details in a flash, before the wave of blind panic hits him. He begins to run along the rails, away from the corpse, as fast as his legs will carry him. His lungs begin to burn again and he reaches instinctively for his inhaler.

     He looks up, and there is something in his path. At first he thinks it is a man, a man wearing a headlamp and standing on the rails. Then he realizes that’s nuts, it can’t be a man. It’s much bigger than a man and it’s getting bigger still as it rushes towards him. He hears the deafening blast of a whistle and he realizes: it’s a train.

     Scott throws himself sideways, trying to get himself off the tracks. The lights coming at him are blinding and he can smell burning coal. He hits the ground hard and his inhaler flies away into the darkness, but it is just earth under him, not rusting steel rails and rotting wooden slats. He is off the line. He is safe.

     Then a shower of sparks, thrown up by the train’s wheels as it thunders past, lands on Scott’s chest. They burn like tiny coals, searing through his jacket and t-shirt to scorch his bare skin. For an insane moment, he swears the sparks are living things, burrowing into him like grubs. He screams and leaps to his feet. His not sure what he's running from now: the train, the pain, or the dead girl under the cold moon.

     He tears through the woodland, the fire in his lungs forgotten, until he reaches his own house. In the bathroom, he strips out of his charred clothes and examines the burn on his chest. The patch of flesh is red and livid. Oddly, the shape of it reminds Scott of an ornate numeral ‘one’.

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

At school the next day, Stiles is skeptical.

     “You can’t have been hit by a train. There aren’t any trains in New Sodor, haven’t been for decades. There isn’t even a place where a train could get onto the Elsbridge Light Railway.”

     “Well if you don’t believe me about the train,” says Scott as they start walking towards their first class of the day, “then you definitely won’t believe me when I tell you I found the body.”

     “Wait, you found it?”

     “I did.”

     “Man, that’s is so freaking cool. This is like the best thing to happen in this town since…since the birth of Lydia Martin. Hey Lydia!”

     Scott turns and sees the girl his friend is addressing, a shapely redhead with a catlike face and very full lips. She ignores them both and follows her pack of friends and admirers on into the school building.

     “This is your fault, you know,” says Stiles. “Dragging me down with your nerd shit. I’m a nerd by association.”

     Scott just smiles. Stiles’ crush on Lydia has always been, and will always be, hopelessly unrequited.

Their first class of the day is English and while the teacher makes a passing reference to the grisly murder case that was on the morning news, he only does so to remind them that they shouldn’t let it distract them from getting to grips with their new, Kafkaesque syllabi.

     It is as he’s sitting in class, watching the teacher pace back and forth in front of the whiteboard, that Scott first notices something very strange: he can see where the teacher is going to walk next.

     It’s not just that he can predict where the man is about step—that would be easy to do under the circumstances—but Scott can actually see it. The path the man is taking appears as two sets of glowing lines, one running under each foot. Where the man has already been, the lines are a dull red, but in front of him, they appear a brilliant blue. They only extend for a few yards, but the man’s feet always land exactly on the blue lines.

     Scott is confused, and a little alarmed. He can’t imagine what’s causing this optical illusion. Then he notices two new sets of blue lines that have appeared in the classroom, creeping in from under the door to the hall.

     He looks up and through the door’s large, mesh-reinforced window, he can see the school’s vice principal escorting the most beautiful girl Scott has ever seen. She has silky brown hair and even the nervous little smile she is wearing now is enough to make her cheeks dimple delightfully. Her eyes are dark and sparkling.

     The door opens and the girl and the vice principal enter, their feet following the paths of the blue lines exactly.

     “Hello everyone,” says the vice principal, “I’d like to introduce our newest student, Allison Argent. She’s just moved here from San Francisco so I want you all to make her feel welcome.”

     “Hi,” Allison says with a little wave, clearly not thrilled to be the center of attention.

     The class mumbles a response, which seems to satisfy the vice principal, who leaves. Allison makes her way towards the back of the classroom. Following the blue lines, Scott can see which of the empty desks she will choose. It’s the one directly behind him. Without thinking, he hops up to pull out her chair for her.

     There are a few smirks from the onlookers, and Scott can feel himself starting to go red, but Allison favors him with a genuine smile.

     “Thanks,” she whispers, as they both settle into their seats.

After the school day comes lacrosse practice. Lacrosse is a big deal at New Sodor High. They’ve been regional champions for years and the sport has eclipsed even football and basketball in popularity. The team captain—Jackson Whittemore—has, rightly or wrongly, gotten a lot of the credit. Now he very nearly rules the school. The beautiful Lydia is his girlfriend and he looks down on benchwarmers like Scott and Stiles.

     Scott notices that Lydia is sitting in the stands today, presumably to watch Jackson play. Allison is sitting with her, along with a few veteran members of the popular clique.

     “Well that didn’t take long,” Stiles remarks.

     “I know,” says Scott, faintly disappointed.

     “It’s because she’s hot,” Stiles opines. “Attractive people herd together.”

     Scott snorts and is about to make some reply, when Coach Finstock calls his name.

     “McCall! You’re starting in goal!”

     “What? But I’ve never played goalie before.”

     “I know,” the coach, a wild-haired man with more testosterone than is entirely healthy, whispers, “I figure letting everyone score some shots during their first practice will be good for morale.”

     “What about me?”

     “Try not to take one in the face.”

     Feeling a little ill, Scott hefts his lacrosse stick and trudges up the field to stand before the goal. The other players line up, hard rubber balls already loaded into their sticks’ netting. The coach blows his whistle.

     The shrill noise hits Scott’s ears and shakes something loose. Unbidden, images explode behind his eyes, memories that are not his own. He remembers steam, great billowing clouds of steam, and the rhythmic sound of steel on steel. He sees rolling green hills that he’s sure he has never seen before, but that are somehow familiar. He can hear other whistles, like distant echoes, and behind the whistling there are voices speaking words that he can almost make out…

     The first ball catches him full in the facemask and he goes down hard.

     The onlookers groan or snicker as he struggles to his feet. Now the next striker is stepping up. Scott concentrates on him, and suddenly the blue and red lines appear again. He can see where the player will move, see the exact place from where he will launch his attack.

     This extra information gives Scott the edge he needs. He moves a step to his left and catches the oncoming ball without difficulty. Back on the bench, Stiles blinks in surprise. Above him in the stands, he hears Allison ask, “Who’s that kid?”

     Lydia, sitting next to her, just shakes her head in wonderment as player after player tries to put a ball past Scott McCall and player after player is denied. Not every block is perfectly smooth or graceful—Scott can only anticipate footwork, not the exact trajectory of each throw—but every one is successful. Even for a veteran goalie, that kind of success rate would be incredible.

     “Literally incredible,” Stiles mutters to himself. “As in, I don’t credit what I’m seeing.”

     Now, at last, it is Jackson’s turn to strike. His eyes are narrowed in dislike and disbelief. The handsome lacrosse captain springs forward, whirling his stick out like the arm of a trebuchet.

     The shot is aimed higher than Scott expected from the movement of Jackson’s telling lines, but by sheer dumb luck he is able to catch it anyway.

     The onlookers let out a slightly stunned cheer. Even Lydia is clapping enthusiastically, despite Jackson’s furious glare.

Scott’s incredible performance continues as they move on to the scrimmage. He seems tireless. Not once does his asthma bother him, but it’s more than that. His arms and legs don’t even seem to be getting sore. Players who try to body check him rebound as though they’d hit a steel wall.

     It all comes to a head when he makes a fantastic run, catching up the ball at one end of the field and then barreling straight ahead. Defenders who move to intercept him are brushed aside as though Scott were a bulldozer, including an irate Jackson. Scott slings the ball at the opposing team’s goal with a bellow of effort. The goalie twists out of the way, not wanting to take an almost literal cannonball to the ribs, and the ball hits the net so hard that it tears. The ball pops through and lands somewhere in the parking lot, rolling away out of sight.

     The cheering is louder this time. Lydia and Allison spring to their feet. Half the team, led by Stiles, surges forward, hugging Scott and slapping him heavily on the back. Scott, grinning bemusedly, struggles out of his lacrosse helmet. Wisps of steam curl up from the sweat-soaked padding and from his hair, though the afternoon is relatively warm. No one seems to notice.

     “McCall!” Coach Finstock yells. Scott’s crowd of well-wishers melts away. “What was that? Do you think you’re at a demolition derby or something?”

     “No coach,” Scott says sheepishly. “I was just trying to make the shot.”

     “Well, you damn well did make the shot,” says his coach, breaking into a wide and slightly manic grin, “Congratulations, son. You just made first line.”

Scott, still in a bit of a daze, is the last one to leave the locker rooms. Jackson is waiting for him in the hall. He tries to shove Scott up against one wall, but looks puzzled when the push fails to move the younger boy so much as an inch.

     “What the hell, McCall?” he snarls. “Where are you getting your juice?”

     “What?”

     “Where. Are. You. Getting. Your. Juice,” Jackson repeats.

     “Um, my mom does all the grocery shopping,” Scott says, bewildered.

     Jackson rolls his eyes. “Don’t try to pull that crap with me. No way a wimp likes you gets that good without a little chemical help.”

     “Oh! You mean steroids!” says Scott, getting there.

     “No shit. So what are you buying and from who?”

     “Me? Nothing. I’m not on steroids. Are you on steroids?”

     A guilty looks flickers across Jackson’s face. “You know what? Forget it. You don’t have to tell me anything. I’ll find out anyway. And when I do, you are going down, McCall.”

     With that he strides away.

Stiles meets Scott in the parking lot. He has an odd look on his face, but happily agrees to drive back out to the Elsbridge Light Railway so they can look for the place where Scott found the body, and lost his inhaler.

     “So what was happening out there?” asks Stiles, as they walk along the tracks. Weeds and moss sprout between the railroad spikes.

     “I don’t know,” says Scott, sounding worried. “I think maybe I’ve started hallucinating.”

     “Hallucinating?”

     “Yeah. I’ve been, well, seeing things. Like these weird lines that show me where people are going to walk or run. That can’t be real, can it? Which I guess means the train was probably some kind of hallucination too. Except that I really got burned, so something must have happened.”

     “Maybe something did,” Stiles says ominously. “Maybe you were hit by a ghost train.”

     “A ghost train?” asks Scott, rolling his eyes.

     “Yeah, you know, like the St. Louis Light or the Silver Arrow. The kind you get in urban legends. Maybe there’s one in New Sodor and it hit you and now you’re…” Stiles pauses for dramatic effect, “…possessed.”

     Scott gives his friend a light shove, sending him lurching away. “Look Stiles, this isn’t a joke. I seriously feel like I’m losing my mind here.”

     “Because it’s being taken over by the spirit of the ghooost traaiinn!” Stiles cackles, wiggling his fingers like a cartoon shade.

     But Scott is no longer listening. He’s frowning a disturbed patch of weeds and gravel on one side of the embankment.

     “What is it?” asks Stiles.

     “I could have sworn this was where the body was. But it’s gone.”

     “Maybe the killer came back and moved it.”

     “Yeah well, I hope he didn’t move my inhaler,” says Scott, kneeling down and beginning his search. “Those things are like eighty bucks.”

     “Like you need it anymore. I saw you…” Stiles’ words trail suddenly away and he gives Scott’s shoulder an urgent shake. “Scott, look over there.”

     Scott stands and looks. There is a man walking towards them. He looks to be in his late twenties, with dark hair and sharp cheekbones. He’s built like an athlete and dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket. His face is grim.

     “What are you doing here?” the man asks. “This is private property.”

     Scott doubts this is true. Most of the old railways became parts of the state’s nature or historical preserves. Still, the man’s intensity makes him nervous.

     “Sorry, we were just, uh, looking for something. We didn’t know.”

     “You should go home,” the man advises.

     “We will,” Scott assures him.

     He and Stiles start to retreat, but the man says, “Here,” and tosses something to Scott. Scott catches it reflexively. It’s his inhaler. He looks back up, but the man already has his back to them and is striding away.

     “Holy shit,” Stiles whispers, as they head back to the car, “You know who that was? That was Derek Hale. No one’s seen him in ages. His whole family died in a fire, like ten years ago.”

     “I wonder why he’s come back,” says Scott, tucking away the inhaler.

That night, Scott goes in for his evening shift as an assistant mechanic at the New Sodor Automotive Repair Shop. Mr. Deaton, the man who owns and runs the place, sets him to fetching tools and polishing parts, while he breathes life back into a battered VW bus. Scott is more than slightly in awe of his boss. A black man with a natty beard, Alan Deaton spent years as a mechanical engineer for a leading Japanese car manufacturer, but he tells Scott that he prefers living in his hometown and getting the chance to work with his hands.

     At the end of the evening, Mr. Deaton heads home, entrusting Scott with the task of closing up. In private now, Scott decides to check on the burn on his chest. It’s been itching on and off all day, under the dressing he put on it. He ducks into the bathroom that attaches to the main workroom, not bothering to close the door, and pulls off his grease-stained t-shirt. Nervously, he lifts up the dressing and looks into the mirror.

     He sees himself, an athletic young man with olive skin and dark, messy hair. His face is earnest and open, and would probably be quite handsome, save that his chin is slightly off center. But these aren’t the details Scott notices now.

     The burn is gone.

     Well, technically, the burn is gone. The irregularly shaped patch of damaged tissue that reminded Scott vaguely of the numeral ‘one’ is nowhere to be seen. In its place, however, is what looks very much like a tattoo, done in red and yellow, of the numeral ‘one’.

     “Oh God,” Scott moans. This has to be another hallucination.

     Well, huh, says a voice in his head that is certainly not his own. That’s, like, not something you see every day.

     Scott looks wildly around, but there is no one, not in the little bathroom nor out in the wide workshop. The garage is empty, save for the newly restored VW bus, only a few yards away.

     Wait, says the voice. Hang on a second. Can you, like, hear me?

     The voice is definitely not reaching Scott’s brain via his ears, but nevertheless he gets the sense that it is coming from the direction of the old van. It has the sort of stumbling drawl to it that Scott associates with the frequently, if not currently, stoned.

     “And now I’m hearing things,” Scott mutters. He wonders if you should talk to his mother first, or see the school counselor. “Shit.”

     Hey, well, I mean, if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s cool, the van mumbles, I’ll just chill here and, like, take a nap or something and you can try and, like, figure out your own shit or whatever.

     Just then, there is a loud and frantic knocking from the front of the shop. Scott hastily puts his shirt back on and goes to answer it.

     Heavy rain has started outside and standing in the downpour, shivering like she wants to cry, is Allison Argent.

     “Allison? What’s going on?”

     “I’m sorry, it’s just, my car…I think something must be wrong with the brakes or something.”

     “Hey, it’s okay,” says Scott, motioning her inside out of the rain. “It’s going to be okay. Where’s the car?”

     “About a half mile that way,” says Allison, pointing back down the dark, rain-slick road. “I was going down this big hill and then suddenly I couldn’t stop and then there was smoke and I don’t know…” She trails off with a shiver, looking a little sheepish.

     “Wait, your brakes failed on Gordon’s Hill?” asks Scott, slightly incredulously. “That’s, like, the steepest hill in the county. I can’t believe you didn’t crash!”

     “I thought I was going to!” says Allison. “I was screaming my head off. I just barely managed to keep the car on the road. Then I was at the bottom and it was starting to slow down on its own, so I turned off at this little rest stop and it just rolled to a stop like a foot away from hitting a sign.”

     “Wow,” says Scott, “Way to keep a cool head. That’s sounds terrifying.”

     Allison nods emphatically. “I was just lucky there weren’t more cars.”

     “No kidding. So how did you end up here?”

     “I walked.”

     “In the rain? There’s no one you could call for a ride?”

     She shakes her head. “My parents were out. They work nights a lot. And anyway, they’d probably just get mad at me. You know, the scared kind of mad?”

     “But it wasn’t your fault,” Scott protests.

     “That wouldn’t stop them from grounding me. Not that I wanted to go to Jackson Whittmore’s stupid party. I just don’t want a lot of yelling. So I looked on my phone and I saw that there was an auto shop nearby, and well, here I am.”

     Scott nods. “Fair enough. But Mr. Deaton, uh, my boss here, he’s gone home for the night.”

     Allison looks crestfallen, which is almost enough to break Scott’s heart.

     “But,” he says quickly, “There’s a number in his office for a 24-hour tow truck. I’ll give him a call and he can have your car here in like ten minutes. That is, if you’d like…”

     “That’d be great,” says Allison brightening. “Thanks Scott. It is Scott, right?”

     “That’s me,” Scott agrees.

It’s actually closer to twenty minutes, but Allison’s blue Pontiac G3 arrives without a scratch on it. Scott doesn’t know much about American made cars. Mr. Deaton has been teaching him using German models to begin with, because, in his words, ‘you’ve got to learn to yell before you yodel’. What he ought to do is enter Allison’s car troubles into the big ledger of work to be done and have Mr. Deaton sort it out properly tomorrow. But there’s a beautiful girl hovering anxiously in the background, hoping that Scott will be able to make it all better, so suddenly what Scott ought to do seems less important.

     He fetches Mr. Deaton’s heavy toolbox, trying to move with a confidence he does not feel. He sets it down by the Pontiac and kneels down next to it. Then, with his back to Allison and feeling more than a little stupid, he whispers, “Hey, um, car. Can you hear me?”

     Oh, I see how it is, the VW bus mutters from its corner. You’ll talk to her, but I’m, like, not good enough for you, right? That’s, I don’t know, ageism or something. Maybe xenophobia. Or something.

     I can hear you, says a new voice, ignoring the bus. What do you want?

     “I need you to tell me what’s wrong with you,” whispers Scott.

     Oil in the brake linings, says the Pontiac. It’s leaked in and made everything too slippery. Now there’s not enough friction when I try to stop.

     “Okay, how do I fix it?”

     How should I know? I’m just a car.

     Scott sighs. “Can you at least tell me how to open up the casing around your brakes?”

     The car directs him to the relevant screws and he unscrews them. He pokes at the greasy lining with a gloved finger. The texture is truly unpleasant.

     “How does it look?” asks Allison. Scott manages not to jump in surprise. She is suddenly standing much closer behind him than he had thought.

     “I think I can fix this,” he says, smiling at her in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “Some oil’s just leaked into the brake lining.”

     “Okay then,” says Allison, not sounding entirely certain. She shivers again, her teeth chattering loudly.

     “Um, I have a dry shirt in my school bag, if you want,” Scott offers. “It might help you warm up.”

     “Oh,” says Allison. “Um, okay. Thanks.”

     She retrieves the shirt and steps into the bathroom to change. She doesn’t close the door all the way though, and Scott doesn’t blame her. He knows from experience how the cramped space can reek.

     He’s still watching as, with her back to him, Allison lifts her drenched t-shirt over her head. The smooth skin of her back and shoulders seems to glow in the yellow light of the workshop. She is not wearing a bra.

     He jerks his eyes away and back to the befouled brakes. The car snickers at him, derisively.

     “I wasn’t looking,” Scott tells it. That only makes the car laugh harder.

With the car’s help, Scott finds the leak in the oil reservoir and patches it as Mr. Deaton has shown him. He removes the contaminated linings and cleans the oil out of the entire break mechanism. Then he gets new linings out of the garage’s supply of consumable auto parts and fits them into place.

     When the repairs are complete, he insists on testing the car himself, circling the block a few times until he is confident that brakes are working smoothly once more.

     “What do I owe you?” asks Allison, as he hands the keys back to her.

     “Here.” He pulls the yellow charge sheet out of his back pocket and unfolds it. He hands that to her as well.

     She looks at it. “This only covers the new parts and the wrecker. What about you?”

     Scott shrugs. “Have this one on the house. Sort of a ‘Welcome to New Sodor’ present.”

     “You’re sure?”

     He nods. “It’s after business hours anyway.”

     “So this was, what, a personal project for you?”

     “Something like that,” Scott laughs.

     They are silent for a moment, as they stand there looking at one another. She is wearing his shirt and he thinks it looks better on her than it ever has on him, though it is far too large.

     “So Jackson Whittmore invited you to his party?” Scott asks suddenly.

     “His girlfriend did,” Allison explains.

     “Lydia?”

     She nods. “I told her I couldn’t go. Family night.”

     “Oh,” says Scott, trying to keep the disappointment off his face.

     “But,” says Allison quickly, “that was pretty much a lie.”

     Scott starts to smile and so does she.

     “So you might be able to go to the party after all.”

     “I might.”

     “Would you want to maybe go with me?”

     Allison’s smile grows even wider. “I maybe would.”

     “So that’s a yes?”

     “Definitely yes.”

For his part, Stiles spends the evening doing some research. Ever since he left Scott alone by the train tracks, things have just been getting weirder and weirder. So after dropping Scott off at the auto shop, he heads home and fires up his laptop. His queries soon take him into the deep web. There, in between the conspiracy theories and the poorly punctuated manifestos of misogyny, lurks something stranger still: the truth.

     Stiles prints out the most interesting of his findings and pins them to a note board. He also makes of list of obscure books to track down at the local library or second hand bookshops.

     Sometime later, his father arrives back from the station. He casually mentions that they’ve received a report from the county coroner about the body of the girl that was found in the woods.

     “Yeah?” says Stiles, trying to sound equally casual. “What do they think happened to her?”

     “Well, that’s the thing,” says Sherriff Stilinski, removing his boots, “They’re pretty sure she was hit by a train.”

Scott knows something is wrong as soon as he wakes up. The light isn’t right for his room and the air smells strange. Under his back, his bed is unnaturally hard and scratchy.

     He sits up. He is not in bed. He is sitting in a pile of dead leaves and moss in what appears to be a large and rather rundown shed.

     He stands up, slowly getting his bearings. He has no idea how he comes to be here. The last thing he remembers is leaning back against the pillow and marveling at his strange good fortune: playing first line, a date with Allison Argent, maybe even superpowers.

     Metal gleams in long lines running over the shed’s floor. More train tracks, Scott realizes. He’s in an old train shed. He stumbles outside and shivers in the early morning chill. He’s still only wearing his boxers.

     He thinks he recognizes where he is though, which is something. This shed is attached to the Ffarquhar Branch Line, one the smallest of New Sodor’s extinct railways, and the one closest to his house. He and Stiles played around down here when they were just kids.

     He starts to walk home, hoping he can slip back inside without any of the neighbors noticing his near nakedness. Thankfully his mom will still be fast asleep after another long night at the hospital. As he walks, his body warms until he no longer feels cold at all. It’s quite amazing really, like he’s got his own personal furnace inside him. His breath turns to steam in the air.

     Then something else arrests his attention.

     Scott turns. He’s abandoned the tracks and started walking uphill, back towards the edge of his neighborhood. He’s partway up the wooded slope now and from this vantage he can see quite a lot of the railroad, obscured here and there by trees.

     Something is moving along the train line, something huge and blue and gleaming. Its steel wheels spin and smoke drifts lazily from its chimney. It’s a train, a steam engine. It can’t be, and yet it is.

     As Scott watches, the engine slowly glides into the old train shed. Then it disappears. It’s not merely that the shed now hides the train. One moment, the rear half of the engine, complete with tender, is still outside the shed, clearly visible. The next, it’s just gone.

     Scott moans and presses his fingers into his temples. More hallucinations.

     “I’m going insane,” he whispers, to no one in particular.

     “Are you insane?” Stiles demands. “You can’t seriously be thinking of going to that party.”

     “Why not?” asks Scott. They’re in Stiles’ bedroom and the late afternoon light streaming through the window clearly illuminates the printouts of sketchy webpages and sheets of hand scrawled notes that litter the place.

     “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

     “Yeah, yeah. Ghost trains. Very funny.”

     “It’s not a joke, Scott, not anymore. I mean, think about the things we’ve seen.”

     “I’ve seen,” Scott corrects. “All you’ve been seeing is websites run by nut jobs.”

     “They aren’t nut jobs! Some of them have done serious research. Look, do you even know why this town is called New Sodor?”

     “I’m guessing it’s named after a town in Europe called Sodor.”

     “Not a town, a whole island, off the coast of England.”

     “Never heard of it.”

     “Well, you wouldn’t have. It’s not on any official maps. The Irish and English governments tried to have it scrubbed from the records entirely. All that’s left are a few references in some old church documents.”

     “Why’d they do that?” asks Scott, again finding that he is curious in spite of himself.

     “Because of the weird shit that kept happening there, mostly with the trains.”

     “What was wrong with their trains?”

     “They were coming alive,” Stiles whispers.

     Scott laughs nervously. “That’s impossible.” Just like talking to cars is impossible.

     “It’s true. There was this guy, this old reverend guy, in England. He’s the one who realized what all those old church documents he kept running across were on about. So he, like, went there. He went to Sodor and he was going to tell everyone about it, but the government grabbed him when he tried to come back into England and they brainwashed him.”

     “If they brainwashed him, how does anybody know what he found out?” Scott asks with as much skepticism as he can muster.

     “Because he made all these notes,” Stiles explains, snatching up a photocopy and brandishing it. It indeed shows a page torn from a notebook, evidently much damaged by water. “And he sent copies of them off to his friends. Of course, the government tried to cover that up too. They made up a whole cover story about them being notes for a kids’ book he was working on.”

     “A kids’ book? Seriously?”

     Stiles nods impatiently. “Yeah, yeah. About trains that could talk and stuff, trains with, you know, human qualities.”

     “Sounds kind of…dumb.”

     “Right. But that’s not what the actual notes are about, not mostly. The notes are about people who would take on the qualities of trains.”

     “Well, that sounds really dumb.”

     “Scott, I’m serious.”

     “So what are you saying? You think…God, I can’t believe this…you think I’m turning into a train?”

     Stiles winces. “I’m saying that we should consider it real a possibility.”

     Scott throws up his hands in disgust. “I really don’t have time for this right now, Stiles. I’m supposed to be taking Allison to the party in an hour.”

     “No, Scott, I mean it. You shouldn’t go to this party.”

     “Because I’m a train?”

     “Because it’ll send your boiler pressure through the roof!”

     “My what?”

     “Your boiler pressure. Look, a lot of the reverend’s notes were lost, okay? But one thing they all agree on is that the train people or the talking trains or whatever, they have this thing called boiler pressure. It’s like energy pent up inside them. And when something gets your heart rate up, your boiler pressure will go up too.”

     “And?”

     “And if it gets too high, you’re going to lose control. I mean, I was at that lacrosse practice. I saw you. At the end there, you were tossing people around like they were bowling pins. Someone could have gotten seriously hurt.”

     “Stiles, I’m not going to this party to do cardio.”

     “Maybe not,” Stiles counters, “but you’re going with a girl who gets your heart rate up like no one I’ve ever seen.”

     Scott has no answer to this.

     “And,” Stiles continues, “this party is being thrown by a jerk who has it in for you. If it’s not a make out session that pushes you over the edge, it’ll probably be a fist fight.”

     Scott tries to laugh this off, but in truth the idea sounds almost appealing: stomping that smug jerk Jackson into the ground while a breathless Allison watches from the sidelines. His heart speeds up a little just thinking about it.

     “I’m not going to get into a fist fight, Stiles.”

     Stiles looks unconvinced. Actually, he looks genuinely worried, which Scott finds more than a little annoying. Stiles doesn’t need to worry about him; he can look after himself.

     “Please Scott,” Stiles entreats him, “Don’t go.”

     “God, what is it with you? Things are finally going my way for once and all you can do is try to drag me back down with this insane… stuff!”

     Scott gestures wildly at the papers scattered across the room.

     “This is all such bullhsit!” He knows he’s shouting now, but he doesn’t know how to stop.

     “Scott,” says Stiles, “Calm down.”

     Scott lunges across the room, knocking aside a chair, and seizes Stiles by the front of the shirt. Before he can stop to think, he’s holding his friend a foot off the ground with just one hand.

     “Don’t you ever tell me what to do,” Scott rumbles.

     Then Stiles’ look of terror registers with him. Scott suddenly feels sick. He lowers Stiles gently back to the ground.

     “I’m sorry,” he manages.

     Stiles says nothing.

     “I’m really, really sorry. I… I've got to go. I should be getting ready.”

     Scott turns and all but flees his best friend’s bedroom.

     Numbly, Stiles stares at the chair Scott struck. There’s a dent, roughly fist shaped, in the imitation leather. But the deeper grooves inside it don’t look like the marks left by human knuckles. They look like the impressions of steel rivets. They are steaming gently.

Scott is on his way downstairs, his hair still damp from the shower when his mother, Melissa McCall, greets him. She’s got an hour or two before she has to leave for work and she’s curled up on the living room couch with a mug of tea and a paperback novel. Her hair is as dark as Scott’s own and even curlier, and the fine lines around her eyes are more from care than from the ravages of time: she had Scott when she was still quite young.

     “Well, aren’t you looking sharp?” she asks, as Scott starts hunting around for his shoes. “Is this a party or a date?”

     Scott straightens up, his face quirked into a sheepish smile. “Maybe both?”

     “Uh huh,” his mom says knowingly. “Well, you’ll probably be needing these.”

     She holds up the keys to the family car.

     Scott takes them in both hands, like a beggar accepting alms.

     “Thank you,” he says quietly.

     His mom laughs. “Just be careful out there. We don’t need to have a talk, do we?”

     “Mom, I’m okay. I don’t need the safe sex talk from you.”

     Melissa winces, half in jest. “Oh God. I meant a talk about keeping the tank filled up with gas. Maybe you’d better give me those keys back.”

     “Mom, I’ll be fine,” Scott assures her, heading quickly for the door.

He arrives at Allison’s house right on schedule. It’s a bigger place than he expected, practically a mansion. She hurries down the drive to meet him, looking stunning in a little blue blazer.

     The party is, as Scott anticipated, loud and poorly supervised. With a mischievous smile, Allison leads him out on to the packed dance floor set up on the patio. The music pounds at them and for a while Scott loses himself in it, doing his best to match his movements to Allison’s.

     Then, through the forest of waving arms and writhing legs, he spots someone standing alone at the very edge of the party. With a jolt, he realizes it’s the man he and Stiles met by the train tracks. It’s Derek Hale.

     He looks bored, in a studied kind of way, but his gaze is definitely directed towards Scott and Allison. Scott wonders if he should go over and confront the man.

     “Are you okay?” asks Allison.

     “What?” Scott asks, returning his attention to her.

     “You seem kind of distracted. Do you want to take a break?”

     She is still shimmying to the music, her longs legs and the dark curtain of her hair swaying hypnotically. Scott smiles and feels his heartbeat speed up another notch.

     “I’m good,” he tells her.

     When he next looks for Derek Hale, the man is gone.

     What he sees instead, is Lydia Martin. She’s tangled up with Jackson, the two of them leaning against a decorative pillar for support while they kiss and wriggle. Her eyes though, are not on Jackson. They are locked on Scott. She notices him looking and, still staring dead at him, increases the frenzied passion of her movements.

     Scott can hear the blood pumping in his ears now, louder than the music. The edges of his vision begin to blur and his skin feels hot and hard.

     “Scott, what’s wrong?” Allison demands.

     Scott realizes that he’s stopped dancing. He’s standing almost doubled over with his hands on his knees, trying to breath normally. It’s not an asthma attack; he knows what those feel like. This is something else. The air in throat feels unnaturally warm and wet, as if he’s trying to breathe steam.

     Boiler pressure, he reminds himself.

     Allison is saying something else, but he can’t make out her words over the sudden metallic ringing in his ears. He shakes his head at her.

     “I need some fresh air,” he mumbles.

     He pushes his way through the crowd, through Jackson’s house, and stumbles out onto the front lawn. His sense of balance seems to be going. The act of lifting his feet off the ground feels wrong somehow.

     People are spilling out of the house after him: Allison and Derek and he thinks maybe Stiles, though why Stiles would be at the party is beyond him. He waves them off and hops into his mom’s car.

     Having metal walls surrounding him and wheels under him feels better, more natural. His vision clears, though the metallic ringing noise continues. He needs to get home. He starts the car, which is murmuring quiet reassurances to him, and pulls away, leaving a bewildered Allison standing on the sidewalk.

     She’s just wondering how she’s going to get home, when Derek Hale walks up to her. He flashes her a winning smile.

     “Hey, it’s Allison, right? I’m a friend of Scott’s…”

At home, in the empty house, Scott sits in the bathtub, still wearing his jeans and lets cold water from the shower pour over him. It isn’t enough to chill the furnace he can feel raging inside of him. Pressure is exactly the right word for what he’s feeling, an outward force pushing on his every sense and organ.

     He tries vainly to fight it down, but it’s no use. He can see his body starting to change. The way his skin reflects the light is wrong. It’s like he’s made of metal and has been painted in flesh tones, rather than truly being flesh. Lines of rivets appear, running over his knuckles and down from his shoulders to his hips.

     He grits his teeth, trying to will them away. They fade sluggishly and begin to return as soon as he shifts his concentration. Smoke curls from his ears, filling the bathroom with the smell of burning coal.

     There’s a knock at the bathroom door.

     “Who is it?” Scott demands.

     Stiles comes in. His face pales at the sight of Scott. “Oh God, Scott. Are you okay?”

     Scott laughs weakly. “You were right. Holy shit, but you were right. I’m turning into a goddamn train.”

     “It’ll pass,” Stiles assures him. “You’re not going to stay like this. You’re going to be fine.”

     Scott ignores this. “But I’m not the only one, Stiles. There’s another train out there, the one who burned me, who ignited all of this…”

     He gestures helpless at his bare chest. The numeral ‘one’ stands out luridly.

     “And I know who it is, Stiles. It’s him. It’s Derek Hale.”

     “Um…” says Stiles, suddenly looking even more worried, if that were possible, “Scott, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Allison…she kind of left the party with Derek.”

     “What?!” Scott is on his feet without any memory of standing up. He strides out of the bathroom and all but hurls himself down the stairs.

     “Wait, where are you going?” calls Stiles, dashing after him.

     “I’ve got the find them. I’ve got to get her away from him, before he can kill her like he did that poor girl on the Elsbridge.”

     Then Scott takes off running, moving at a speed Stiles cannot hope to match, maybe not even in his car. He tears through his sleeping neighborhood, every footfall clanging like a bell struck by sledgehammer, trailing steam and smoke behind him.

     He reaches the end of the houses and tidy yards, reaches the hill he climbed only this morning, and he plunges down it. Brush and saplings are crushed to green kindling where they impede him. In another instant, he is standing, panting but not winded, on the rusty rails of the Ffarquhar Branch Line.

     Far above and far away, the moon gleams like a silver wheel. Scott stops fighting the boiler pressure then. He lets it pump through him, and it changes him.

     He falls to his hands and knees, but now he has neither hands nor knees, but iron wheels that grip the tracks beneath him. He grows huge. Some twelve stone of teenager become, in an instant, multiple tons of steel and coal and bright blue paintwork, trimmed in red. He still has a face, of sorts, but it is not a human face. It is wide and grey, with huge, doll-like eyes that stare fixedly ahead.

     Scott sounds his whistle, a high and wordless scream of possession and defiance that echoes through New Sodor. Then he chugs off down the tracks, gathering speed.

Stiles wastes no time in hopping in his old clunker of a jeep and driving to Allison Argent’s house. Like Scott, he is struck by the grand scale of the place, even as he bounds up the front drive to ring the doorbell.

     A striking woman of middle age, with short red hair and a severe expression, answers the door. Stiles correctly guesses that she is Allison’s mother.

     “Yes?” she queries.

     “Uh, hi,” he replies. “You don’t know me at all. I’m a friend of Allison’s, sort of, and this is going to sound a little weird, actually it’s probably going to sound very weird…”

     The woman doesn’t wait for him to finish but turns around to call, “Allison! It’s for you.”

     A moment later, Allison—quite alive and uncrushed by trains—appears at the top of a flight of stairs.

Scott is heading for the Elsbridge Light Railway. He doesn’t know why he expects to find Derek there again, but it’s as good a place as any to start looking. He feels sure that his quarry will want to stick close to train tracks of some sort, and he knows from his boyhood rambles that all the defunct lines around here join up sooner or later.

     He is thundering along the rusty rails, his furnace blazing away and his blue paint shining in the moonlight that filters down through his personal halo of smoke and steam. His wheels jolt unpleasantly sometimes, when they encounter fallen branches or places where the tracks are damaged, but he does not waver from his course. So intent is he on his pursuit, in fact, that he does not notice the ambush until it is too late.

     Without warning, another train comes barreling down a connecting branch of the railway. It is too late for Scott to stop or even slow. He rolls helplessly forward and the newcomer rams into his broadside at top speed.

     The clangor is deafening. This new train is also painted a bright blue, also trimmed in red and with a wide, grey face. But where Scott’s train body is short and stocky, his attacker is long and low, with a true tender behind him, instead of a built-in coalbin.

     His numeral is also different. Scott’s flanks are emblazoned with a red and yellow numeral ‘one’, identical to the mark that mysteriously appeared on his chest last night. The larger train, however, sports a numeral ‘two’.

     The second train’s greater mass and the sharp angle of impact have their effect. Scott is toppled from the rails and driven down the embankment with the other train half on top of him.

     Instinctively, Scott shifts forms again. The raw power of an engine is of little use when he’s stranded on his side. Now he has legs again, but his skin is still steely and streaked with blue. His breath still comes in puffs of smog. He still feels like Superman: more powerful than a locomotive.

     He twists free of the engine threatening to crush him and begins to pound on it with both ironhanded fists. A moment later, his blows are swishing through empty air. His opponent has shifted too.

     It is Derek Hale, still recognizable through the rivets and smears of blue paint that distort his handsome features. He rolls smoothly to his feet, ducking another clumsy punch from Scott, and clouts the teenager alongside the head.

     The noise that results isn’t “clang”. The experience is “clang”: a shuddering, world-filling buzz that smells of tin and tastes of pain.

     Scott staggers and Derek takes advantage of his disorientation to shove him up against an ancient, soot-blackened oak. His fingers are curled around Scott’s throat.

     “Where is she?” Scott chokes out.

     “Safe from you,” Derek rumbles.

     “What do mean, from me? You’re the one who killed that girl! You’re the one who burned me! This is all your fault!”

     The pressure of Derek’s grip increases slightly. “And even if that were remotely true,” he hisses, “would it really be so terrible? You’re a tank engine now, Scott. Do you know how many people would kill for that kind of a chance?”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “The fire inside you, it’s a gift. But you need my help if you’re going to learn to control it.”

     Derek looks like he’s about to continue, but breaks off suddenly, turning to look over his shoulder. A moment later, Scott can see why. Lines of blue light have appeared at the top of the embankment. They look just like the lines that Scott has begun to see around most people—the ones that show where they are about to walk—but these lines dance and flicker oddly.

     “Dammit,” Derek whispers. “It’s too late. Run!”

     He takes off into the scrubby woodland, but Scott—shaken and bewildered—is slower off the mark. This proves to be his undoing.

     A crossbow bolt zips out of the darkness behind him and passes cleanly through the meat of his upper arm. Against this weapon, his steely carapace might as well be rice paper. The pain hits him a half-heartbeat later. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt, hot and cold at the same time. Scott staggers and falls facedown in the leaves and gravel.

     He rolls over, panic flooding his body, and pushes himself up on his elbows. A group of men have appeared at the top of the embankment. They have more crossbows, and electric lanterns, and one carries something that looks suspiciously like an elephant gun. Most of them sport scars and stubbly beards, and under their mishmash of bikers’ leather and surplus army gear, they are wiry with muscle.

     The leader of the group begins to walk purposefully down the slope towards Scott. He’s middle-aged with a handsome, long-jawed face and intense blue eyes. Those eyes never leave Scott as the man unsheathes the foot-long knife belted as his waist. The blade of the knife has a brassy yellow sheen to it and for some reason, the sight fills Scott with a nameless dread.

     Then one of the other men screams aloud. The man with the knife turns. His companion is pointing down the length of the train tracks and something is bearing down on him, something huge and blue that rattles like thunder and blazes like a road flare.

     It is Derek, back in his engine form. He has been circling around while the men were distracted with Scott and now he sweeps towards them like the wrath of gods. Crossbows twang but the bolts whistle harmless over Derek’s head as he shifts smoothly back into a mostly human body. He maintains his forward momentum and as Scott watches he realizes what Stiles meant about him throwing the other lacrosse players around like bowling pins. He also realizes why the sight frightened his friend so badly.

     Men go flying in every direction. Some are diving out of the way, but those who do not dive swiftly enough are being flung bodily. Derek careens to a halt and then leaps from the top the embankment, his legs firing like literal pistons. He soars over the head of the man with the knife, to land beside Scott.

     “Up!” he bellows, tearing the crossbow bolt out of Scott’s arm and flinging it away. “Get up and run!”

     This time, Scott obeys without thinking.

     “Those men,” he pants, as he and Derek plunge on between the scraggly trees. “Who are they?”

     “Train spotters,” says Derek darkly. He doesn’t sound winded at all. “The kind that have been hunting us since the beginning.”

     “I don’t understand.”

     Derek shakes his head. “No time. We need to split up. I’ll lead them off.”

     “Why are you doing this?”

     He smiles. “You and me Scott, we’re brothers now.”

Derek peels off to the right and Scott turns left. Perhaps running in different directions does hamper their pursuers, or perhaps the men are too busy picking themselves up and checking for broken ribs to mount an effective hunt. Scott jigs and weaves anyway, and by the time he finally stumbles out of the trees onto a main road, he is quite lost.

     A car honks at him and he flinches, expecting to experience another vehicular collision in as many hours. Instead, the car is already slowing and as it comes to a stop in front of him, Scott recognizes it as Stiles’ rattletrap jeep.

     The driver’s side door flies open and Stiles leaps out.

     “Oh thank God,” Stiles gasps. “Oh thank God.”

     He helps Scott into the passenger’s seat and then begins to drive slowly back towards town. Scott can feel the terrible pressure that brought on the changes receding, as the motion of the car—which mercifully remains speechless—soothes him. The wound in his arm fades too. Soon, he feels very nearly human. Above them, the sky is just beginning to lighten. Morning is not far off.

     He tells Stiles everything that has happened, and Stiles tells him about following Scott to the party and about finding Allison safely home before rushing off to look for Scott as best he could.

     “You know what worries me the most about all this?” says Scott at length.

     “If you say Allison, I’m going to slap you,” Stiles warns.

     “But I just ditched her at the party. She’s going to hate me.”

     “No, she’s not,” says Stiles confidentially. “You should probably come up with a really awesome apology, but she’s not going to hate you.”

     Scott just groans and leans his head against the car window.

     “You could always just tell her the truth,” Stiles offers.

     “Oh yeah,” Scott mutters. “That’ll go well.”

     Stiles reaches over and squeezes his friend’s shoulder. “Hey man, this thing? It’s going to be okay. Whatever it throws at us, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

     Scott smiles weakly and sits up a little straighter. “Thanks, Stiles. I mean it.”

     Stiles nods. Then, slowly but inexorably, a grin spreads across his boyish face.

     “Now stop moping around and let’s revel in how freaking awesome this is!”

     Next day after English class, which due to the arcane system of class blocks is now their final class of the day, Scott hurries after Allison. He catches up with her as she’s crossing the quad.

     “So,” she says, without looking at him, “you pretty much ditched me last night.”

     “I know,” says Scott, “I’m so, so sorry.”

     “What happened? Were you getting sick?”

     “I definitely came down with an attack of something.”

     “Asthma? Your friend Stiles said you get those sometimes.”

     Scott hesitates. It would be an easy lie, plausible and justifiable. But he doesn’t want to lie, not to Allison. The very idea of it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

     “No, not asthma. You’re just going to have to trust that I had a really good reason and I am really, really sorry.”

     Allison looks at him, half amused and half exasperated. “You really won’t tell me what was going on?”

     Scott shakes his head. “Sorry.”

     He must look as miserable as he feels, because Allison takes his hand and gives a little squeeze. “Enough with the sorry already.”

     Scott looks up into her dark and sparkling eyes. “So do I get a second chance?”

     Allison smiles. “Definitely yes.”

     Scott finds that he is grinning like an idiot.

     “But,” she warns him, “I will figure out what you’re up to Scott McCall. Count on it.”

     She turns and continues her walk across the quad to the parking lot. She approaches a red SUV and a man steps out of it to give her a quick hug. She glances back at Scott as she climbs into the car and the man, her father, follows her gaze. His eyes, which are a startling blue, meet Scott’s--and Scott’s blood goes cold.

     This is the man who shot him, the leader of the train spotters, with his long jaw and his long knife. Scott doesn’t know if the man recognizes him in turn. He thinks not. After all, it was dark and Scott’s face was badly distorted by his transformation. The man nods at him and climbs back into his car.

     Scott stares after them as they pull away. Allison sees this and waves to him. Numbly, Scott waves back.

CLOSING THEME/SHOW CREDITS

Chapter Text

Scott McCall enters the locker room in a daze. Around him, his teammates are girding themselves in white and red, tightening laces and stamping dried mud from their cleats. Their voices and laughter echo loudly off concrete walls and metal fixtures, but the sound seems very distant, almost unreal. Scott can see the glowing lines that run under each boy’s feet, telling him where they are coming from and where they will walk next. As he watches, more and more of the lines point towards the door that leads out onto the field. Practice is about to begin.

     “There you are,” says a voice, sounding faintly relieved. “What kept you?”

     Scott turns and sees his best friend Stiles Stilinski, round-faced and lively, with brown hair buzzed close to the scalp, regarding him with concern.

     “Scott, what’s wrong? Did you have your talk with Allison?”

     “Yeah, I did.”

     “And is she giving you a second chance?”

     “Yeah, she is.”

     “Well, awesome. That’s great then. Everything’s fine.”

     “No Stiles, everything is not fine.”

     “What is it?”

     “It’s her father.”

     “What about him?”

     “He’s one of the those men who attacked me last night, one of the train spotters. I think he might even be their leader.”

     “Wait, what? Allison’s dad? Did he recognize you?”

     “No, I don’t think so. God, I hope not.”

     “Do you think Allison knows about him? About this,” Stiles gestures vaguely at Scott, “kind of stuff?”

     “I don’t know. Maybe not…” Scott bites his lip pensively.

     Stiles shakes his head. “We don’t have time to sort this all out right now. For now, focus on lacrosse, okay?”

     He picks Scott’s jersey up from the bench and tosses it at him. Scott catches it.

     “Okay,” he says faintly.

Out on the field, Scott takes his place in a line of the best players New Sodor High has to offer, all awaiting a chance to try and sneak a ball past their captain, Jackson Whittemore. Stiles, for his part, takes a place on the bench.

     Jackson is armed with the long stick, a weapon somewhere between a normal lacrosse stick and a Prussian pike. He is also—though Scott hates to admit it—quite a skilled player. Very few of the would-be strikers get past him.

     All too soon, it’s Scott’s turn. He advances cautiously, watching Jackson’s pair of telltale lines closely. Behind the teenager, the lines—invisible to anyone except a tank engine like Scott—are a dull red, indicating the path he has already taken. Ahead of him, they are a brilliant blue, clearly showing Scott where his captain will move next.

     With this extra information, it shouldn’t be hard for Scott to slip by Jackson. All he has to do is…

     “McCall! What do you think you’re doing?” Coach Finstock barks from the sidelines. “My grandmother can run faster than that, and she’s dead!”

     Distracted by the sudden barrage of nonsense, Scott doesn’t notice that Jackson’s blue lines now stop directly under his own feet until it’s too late. Running at full tilt, the older boy slams into Scott.

     Jackson is taller than Scott with heavier muscles and he’s moving a lot faster. Simple physics dictate that Scott should be bowled over. But simple physics don’t apply to someone sharing their body with the spirit of a magical train. Under his jersey, Scott feels the numeral ‘one’ branded onto his chest boil with sudden heat. Just for an instant, it’s as if Jackson is ramming into a couple of tons of steel and smoldering coal, rather than anything human.

     He grunts in pain and topples backwards onto the grass, leaving a shaken Scott standing over him. Coach Finstock is yelling something, but Scott can’t make it out over the metallic ringing that is suddenly filling his ears. Jackson’s shoulder is bunched up at an odd angle and the boy is groaning loudly. The coach is rushing over and kneeling down by him, the team following in his wake. Someone seizes Scott by the arm and begins to tow him away.

     It’s Stiles, of course, and he leads Scott hastily back into the locker rooms. Neither boy sees a dark-haired and hard-eyed man watching them from the edge of the field.

     “What happened?” Stiles demands, as soon as they are safely alone, sitting on the long bench in the locker-room.

     “I don’t know,” Scott mumbles. “All of a sudden, I could just feel the engine inside me, like, starting up.”

     Stiles grimaces. “It’s like I told you, man. Boiler pressure. Whenever you get too worked up, whenever your heart rate spikes, your boiler pressure will spike too.”

     “And the boiler pressure is what drives the engine,” Scott says aloud. He stands and begins to pace back and forth. “It’s what makes me change.”

     “Wait, you think you were about to change? Right there on the field?”

     “That’s what I said, Stiles,” Scott snaps. He kicks at the bench in frustration. The heavy, graffiti-scored timber splinters like old balsa wood under the force of the blow. The metal legs, which are bolted down, bend like pipe cleaners and Stiles is pitched roughly to the floor.

     “Oh Jesus, Stiles are you, okay?” Scott tries to offer his friend a hand up but Stiles shies away.

     “I won’t hurt you,” Scott promises.

     “You mean you won’t hurt me on purpose,” Stiles corrects, pushing himself to his feet. “You’ve got to get this thing under control, Scott.”

     “Yeah,” says Scott, eyeing the wreckage of the bench ruefully. “I guess I do.”

     Stiles nods. “And until you do, I don’t think you should be playing anymore lacrosse.”

     “What? Stiles, we’ve got our first game on Saturday.”

     “I know. And I’m not sure you’re ready for it.”

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

At home in his room, Scott is sprawled across his bed and making a half-hearted effort to read through his history textbook, when his mom knocks lightly on the frame of the open door. He looks up and sees that she is already in her hospital scrubs. The family resemblance is plain. Mother and son have the same olive skin and dark hair, though hers is a shade curlier, while Scott’s is merely messy. There are fine worry lines at the corners of Mellissa McCall’s dark eyes.

     “Hey kiddo,” she greets him. “I’ve got the late shift again.”

     Scott nods. His mom is a nurse at the New Sodor hospital. “Okay, Mom.”

     “But I’m taking tomorrow night off to come see your game.”

     “Aw, Mom, you shouldn’t have done that.”

     “Too late. It’s done. Besides, one night off won’t break us.” Her mouth twists a little. “Not quite.”

     “But I’m not even sure if I’m going to be playing.”

     “Didn’t you say you’d made first line or whatever it is?”

     “Yeah, but…”

     “But nothing, Scott. I know lacrosse is important to you and I want to be there to see you play. Okay?”

     “Okay,” says Scott reluctantly.

Once his history reading is done, Scott fires up his laptop and opens a video chat with Stiles. He explains the problem. Stiles is still uneasy about the idea of Scott playing in the game.

     if we knew how you could keep it under ctrl, i’d say go for it, he types. Both boys have the sound off. Scott’s computer tends to lag slightly, which leads to painful audio echoes. but we don’t.

     i know. ur probably rite, Scott writes back, but she’s gonna be really disappointed.

     On the screen, Stiles’ face creases into a sudden frown. He bends over the keyboard. that’s weird

     what? Scott demands, but his screen is now showing him a slowly revolving loading wheel.

     Then the image shudders violently and Stiles’ next message comes through at the same moment Scott feels a hand seize the back of his shirt.

     looks like there’s some1 behind u

     Scott is lifted bodily from his chair, whirled around, and pressed up hard against the opposite wall. He starts to yell, but the sound dies in his throat as he meets the furious eyes of Derek Hale.

     Derek is the only other engine Scott has met. In his human form, he is grey-eyed and dark-haired, with sharp cheekbones and plenty of beard stubble. He saved Scott’s life not twenty-four hours ago. He may also be a murderer.

     “I saw you on the field today,” says Derek without preamble. “Did you think that was clever?”

     “No!” Scott says quickly. “I didn’t even mean for that to happen.”

     Derek grinds his teeth. “That’s what I thought. You can’t control your engine. You almost changed out there, didn’t you?”

     “I was fine!”

     “No, you weren’t. You don’t know anything about how engines work. And if you expose yourself, you’ll be exposing all of us, exposing me. Then it won’t just be the train spotters coming for us, it’ll be everyone. Do you understand?”

     “Just leave me alone!” Scott bellows. He can feel the heat and pressure building up inside him once more, under the fear and confusion. Derek lets Scott drop back to the floor and the pressure recedes a little.

     “Don’t play in your game McCall.”

     “What?”

     “You have a lacrosse game on Saturday, don’t you? Don’t play in it. Do you think they’ll keep cheering your name if you change out there? Once they see the kind of freak you are, they’ll turn on you. You’ll bring ruin down on us all. And if that happens…”

     Derek leans in close, his voice low and dangerous. Scott can smell burning coal on his breath. “If that happens, I’ll kill you myself.”

     “What do you mean, you can’t play on Saturday?” Coach Finstock demands. He is a stocky, wild-haired man with slightly protuberant eyes. He barges into his cluttered office, Scott trailing warily after him.

     “I mean I can’t play on Saturday, Coach,” Scott repeats, trying to sound earnest.

     “You mean you can’t wait to play on Saturday,” says the coach.

     “No, I mean I really can’t play on Saturday.”

     “Well, why not?”

     “Sir?”

     “Is it a girl?”

     “What? No, sir.”

     “A boy then? Is that it? You know, our goalie Danny is gay.”

     “What?”

     “You know, Danny. Do you think he’s a good looking guy?”

     “What? I mean, yeah he’s good looking, but that’s not it and anyway Coach… I mean, I like girls, but that’s not the problem…”

     Scott knows he’s starting to babble but he isn’t sure how to stop. Coach Finstock cuts him off.

     “Then what is it? Is it drugs? You know, I had a cousin who did meth for a while. You should have seen what it did to his teeth. They were all cracked and brown.”

     The coach gnashes his own teeth together several times to demonstrate. Scott stares in horrified fascination.

     “So what happened to him?”

     “He got veneers,” Coach Finstock says with a shrug. “So it’s drugs then?”

     “No, no, it’s not drugs.”

     “Then for Christ’s sake, McCall, what is it?”

     “I’m having some issues with, um, aggression,” Scott explains. It’s not quite what he means. The internal pressure he feels isn’t exactly the same as anger, but it often seems to express itself that way. And whatever it is, it’s dangerous.

     Coach Finstock waves this away. “That’s the great thing about lacrosse, son. That’s what it’s for. Take all that aggression and let it out on the field. And we’re going to need it, if were going to win on Saturday, with Jackson’s shoulder being all messed up.”

     “Sir?”

     “Oh, didn’t you hear? Doctor’s say it’s a ligament or something. They didn’t let him out of the hospital until almost midnight.”

     Scott can’t keep a guilty look from passing over his face.

     “That’s right, McCall,” Coach Finstock says, “We’re counting on you now. Play the game!”

     “But Coach…”

     “Play the game!” Coach Finstock repeats, pushing Scott back out into the hall.

Scott is preoccupied enough that he almost bumps into Allison Argent on his way to class.

     “Oh hi, Scott!” She smiles widely at him, pale cheeks dimpling and dark eyes sparkling. Scott can feel an answering smile spreading across his face in spite of his worries.

     “Hi Allison,” he manages. “How are you doing?”

     “Pretty good. Listen, are you doing anything in particular after the game on Saturday?”

     “Not exactly.”

     “Well, I think you should come with me and Lydia. She’s bringing Jackson and some people and we’re all going out for ice cream.”

     “That sounds great.” Scott isn’t sure that it does, but ice cream with Allison is an offer he can’t refuse.

     “Good! I’ll see you there. And you can tell Stiles he’s invited too.”

     “By Lydia?” Scott asks. He knows his best friend has a long-standing and utterly unrequited crush on the redheaded girl.

     “By me,” Allison clarifies. “I know he’s your best friend and I really want you to come. Okay?”

     “Okay,” Scott agrees. The two of them stand there smiling at each other for a long moment, before a loud bleat of the school bell sends them scurrying for their respective classrooms.

Scott’s chalk squeaks loudly against the grey-green slate of the chalkboard as he works his way through a lengthy algebra problem. They girl work beside him finishes her last equation, sets down her chalk, and returns to her seat. She is replaced almost at once by Lydia Martin.

     Scott doesn’t know Lydia well, and doesn’t particularly want to, despite that fact that she’s one of the most beautiful girls at New Sodor High. She runs the school’s most exclusive clique and is—perhaps inevitably—dating Jackson Whittemore. People like that never seem to have time for nerds and benchwarmers like Scott and Stiles. But today, things are different.

     Lydia tosses back her mane of red-gold hair and begins writing. When she speaks, it is in a voice pitched low enough that only Scott can hear.

     “Why’s there a rumor going around that you aren’t playing on Saturday, McCall?” she asks.

     “Because I’m sort of not,” Scott tells her, matching her volume.

     “Why not?”

     “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” says Scott.

     “It’s my business if you go around slamming into my boyfriend and breaking him,” she retorts.

     “He slammed into me and broke himself,” Scott tells her.

     Lydia raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Lucky for you, he’s been cleared to play. But he won’t be at his peak.”

     “And?”

     “And, McCall, I’m dating the captain of the lacrosse team. If the team wins, then I’m dating a winner. If you lose, I’m dating a loser. And I don’t date losers.”

     “That sound like a you problem,” says Scott, borrowing one of Stiles’ favorite phrases.

     Lydia shrugs. “Fine. Don’t play the game then. And I won’t invite you along with us afterwards. I’ll still invite Allison, of course. And I’ll be sure to introduce her to all of the hottest players on the team. I’m sure they’ll be charmed to meet her properly.”

     Scott’s stick of chalk snaps loudly and half of it lands on the floor with a clatter.

     “Give it some thought,” Lydia suggests. She finishes her math problem with a flourish and returns to her seat. The teacher, seated at his desk at the back of the room, glances up.

     “Well done Miss Martin. Mr. McCall, I’m afraid you aren’t even close to solving your problem.”

     “Tell me about it,” Scott whispers.

     “I need to see Derek,” he tells Stiles. They are meeting by Stiles’ old clunker of a jeep in the high school parking lot.

     “What? That’s a terrible idea. Didn’t you tell me you thought he was the one who killed that girl?”

     Scott rubs at his slightly crooked chin thoughtfully. “Maybe. But I’m not sure that tracks. I think if he were willing to just kill his problems, I’d already be dead.”

     “You’re not doing a great job of reassuring me here.”

     “He didn’t have to save me from those train spotters but he did.”

     “Maybe he just likes you because you’re, you know, like him. A tank engine.”

     Scott remembers Derek’s words. You and me Scott, we’re brothers now.

     “You could be right,” he admits. “But so what? We’ve got questions and he’s the only one who can answer them.”

     The fire inside you, it’s a gift. But you need my help if you’re going to learn to control it.

     Stiles pulls a face, but Scott knows he’s got him now. If there’s one thing his friend can’t stand, it’s not knowing how a mystery ends. Still, he makes an effort.

     “Are you sure this a good idea? I mean this guy did threaten to kill you.”

     But Scott isn’t looking at Stiles anymore. He’s staring across the parking lot at where Lydia Martin has stopped a handsome young lacrosse player, taking him lightly by the arm, and is introducing him—with many a smile and toss of her red-gold hair—to Allison Argent.

     “Oh yeah,” he says, “I’m sure.”

Stiles drives the pair of them out to Derek Hale’s old house, or rather, what remains of it. Once, it must have been a rather grand place, but less than half of it still stands and edges of it are ragged and fire-blackened. Scott hops from the jeep and shuts the door with a bang.

     “Derek!” he yells, “Derek, where are you?”

     There is no answer. They boys stare up at the sooty windows of the house, which seem almost to stare back.

     “Do you think we should go inside?” Scott asks Stiles.

     I wouldn’t, says a voice that echoes in Scott’s head without ever entering his ears. Looks haunted to me.

     The voice is a woman’s, deep and smoky, and though Scott is sure he has never heard it before, it is nevertheless familiar. He turns around slowly to look at Stiles’ jeep.

     “Did you say that?” he asks.

     “Did who say…” Stiles’ voice trails away when he sees where Scott’s gaze falls. “Is…is my jeep talking to you?”

     Mutely, Scott nods.

     “What do you mean ‘haunted’?” Scott asks the jeep.

     I mean it looks like a bad place to be.

     “Can you sense something about it? Like with special car senses?”

     Special car senses? Special car senses? Boy, there ain’t no such thing as ‘special car senses’!

     “Then how do you know going in there would be a bad idea?”

     I don’t, not really. But I’m a damn sight older than you, boy. And when you get old enough, you learn to trust your instincts.

     Stiles has been watching this exchange raptly, but now he raises his head and looks around. His nose wrinkles.

     “Scott, do you smell that?”

     Scott sniffs at the air of the lonely clearing in the woods. There is an odd smell, now that he stops to think about it: metallic and earthy and faintly sour.

     “Rust?” Scott asks.

     Stiles doesn’t answer but starts to walk purposefully around to the rear of the house. Scott follows him, glancing nervously about.

     A moment later, the boys are standing at the edge of great pit. Once, a wire mesh fence would have prevented the unwary from tumbling into it, but time and rain have widened the wound in the ground until the fence itself fell in. Mostly though, the pit is full of scrap metal. Empty cans, dented tins, tangled chains, broken tools, corroded auto parts, lost screws, bent nails, crumpled sheeting, twisted beams, and innumerable bottles caps: all these and more are stewing in several feet of standing water. Rust grows over everything like a scabrous mold and the water is cloudy and nearly orange.

     Yet it is not this tapestry of metallic decay that draws the boys’ eyes, but the shape that lies athwart it. The bottom of the great pit is nearly filled by the front half of a steam locomotive. It looks much newer than the rest of the debris, still with a coat of gleaming green paint and a shine to the spokes of its iron wheels, but it must have been in some dreadful accident. The rear half, tender and cab and all, has been sheared roughly away and is nowhere to be seen.

     “It doesn’t have a face,” Stiles comments after a moment. “So it probably wasn’t, you know, like you.”

     He doesn’t sound as if he believes his own words. With an impatient shake of his head, Scott steps forward and drops into the pit.

     “Be careful!” Stiles calls after him, but he needn’t bother. For now, Scott’s skin is all but impervious to ordinary scrapes and bruises. With inhuman strength, he pushes his way through the tangles of rusting junk and clambers atop the stricken engine. He runs his hands over its metal flanks, cold and lifeless without the fire within, and his gaze alights on something odd.

     Someone has wound a wreath about the engine’s funnel. It has been tightly woven from a flowering vine, distinguished by bright pink flowers and stems that branch with mathematical regularity.

     “That’s weird…” Scott murmurs.

     He reaches out, slips his fingers under the circle of the wreath, and gives a sharp tug. The vines snap and a heartbeat later Scott is drawing the wreath away, not from the funnel of steam engine, but from a young woman’s slender neck.

     “Jesus Christ!” Stiles exclaims.

     “It’s her,” Scott marvels. “This is the girl I saw. I mean the body. This is body I saw by the tracks.”

     His belly roils and the hand holding the strange wreath has begun to itch powerfully. He wonders if he might be allergic to whatever the flowers are. The head and torso of a college-aged girl with matted brown hair, her spine and back cruelly severed, lie before him on a bed of crumbling wire netting. The remains of the train are gone.

     With a gulp, he stoops as if to gather the corpse into his arms, but Stiles calls for him to wait.

     “Don’t move her. Don’t even touch her.” He is fumbling for his cell phone.

     “Why?” asks Scott. “What’re you going to do?”

     “It’s time,” Stiles declares, “to call my dad.”

Sheriff Stilinski arrives mere minutes later with a handful of other officers in tow. They go to work at once. The scrap pit is cordoned off, evidence tagged, photos snapped. Two officers enter the charred house and emerge a few minutes later with Derek Hale between them.

     Scott, who was expecting the human engine to put up a fight, is hovering nervously near the entrance when Derek is brought out. He shoots Scott a baleful look, but to his surprise, the man does not resist as he is cuffed and pushed firmly into the back of a police car.

     Stiles too is surprised by this, and more than a little worried. What if they’re just playing into Derek’s hands? What if he knows something they don’t? Actually, that part’s pretty much a given.

     Stiles makes up his mind. With a hasty glance around to make sure no one’s watching, he ducks into the passenger’s seat of the squad car, which now stands empty, save for the prisoner in the back.

     Derek stares at him through the metal grill, his expression coldly blank.

     “What do you want?”

     “Look, Derek, we didn’t come here to get you in trouble.”

     “No?” The monosyllable drips with sarcasm.

     “No. Scott wanted, I mean, he wants your help. He really wants to play in our lacrosse game and he thinks you know some way for him not to lose control.”

     “I can’t help him from inside a holding cell.”

     “There was a dead body in your backyard, man. It’s out of my hands now.”

     “Guess you should’ve thought about that before you called in daddy.”

     “You know what?” Stiles says, his eyes narrowing as he leans a little closer to the handcuffed man. “I did think about it. I thought, what’s more likely? You helping Scott out, like he seems to think you would, or you murdering him like you did that girl? And then I thought, well, which one did he promise to do less than twenty-four hours ago? And so I made the call.”

     “I didn’t kill her,” says Derek flatly.

     “Then how’d she get here, Derek?” Stiles demands.

     The silence is deafening.

     “That’s what I thought,” Stiles growls and he reaches for the door.

     “You’re very loyal to your friend,” Derek suddenly says. “I respect that. But the thing he’s asking for, it can take years to learn. There’s no way he should be playing in that game on Saturday.”

     “I don’t think you’ve got much of a say in it anymore,” Stiles tells him.

     “We’ll see.”

     “What’s that supposed…” Stiles begins, but he’s interrupted as the car door is jerked open from the outside, causing him to half-topple from the vehicle. He finds himself face to face with his father whose badge is gleaming and whose eyes are stony.

     “What do you think you’re doing, Stiles?”

     “Um, I just…”

     His father pushes him firmly away from the squad car. “Go. We will have serious talk about this at home.”

     Stiles goes and finds Scott waiting for him by the jeep.

     “What’d he say?”

     “Nothing useful. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

     As the boys drive back towards town, Stiles asks, “So what are you going to do about the game then?”

     Scott squirms slightly in his seat. He looks uncomfortable. Actually, he looks a little ill.

     “Play, I guess. I mean, it’s not like Derek can make good on his threat from jail.”

     “Assuming a jail can hold him.”

     “If he was going to use his train powers, he’d have done it back there.”

     “I wonder why he didn’t.”

     Scott shakes his head. “So did I at first. But it makes sense. The whole reason he was mad at me was because he thought I might lose control in front of witnesses. If he turned into a train to get away from the cops, he’d be doing the exact same thing.”

     Stiles nods. “Okay, that tracks. But, Scott, what if he’s right? What if you do lose control?”

     But Scott is no longer listening. He’s scratching, first at his right hand, then all over. His face is flushed and shiny, as though he’s suddenly wracked by fever.

     “Scott? What’s happening?” Stiles demands, alarmed.

     “I don’t know,” Scott gasps. Little wisps of steam are starting to curl from his ears and Stiles can see the faint impressions of rivets forming under his skin. “I think I might be having a reaction to that stupid wreath.”

     “Oh shit.”

     Stiles hits the brakes and lunges for his backpack. He rips it open and snatches out the broken circle of flowering vines.

     “You brought it with us?” Scott bellows. Even his voice is starting to take on a harsh, metallic quality.

     Stiles parks the jeep in the middle of the road and leaps from it, taking the wreath with him. He hurls it away, off the road and into the trees beyond, where it disappears into the undergrowth.

     “See? All gone. You’re going to be fine, Scott.”

     He turns around. “Scott?”

     But Scott is nowhere to be seen.

Scott stumbles through the scraggly woodland in befuddlement. He can feel himself changing, but something about this transformation feels different. This isn’t pressure building up, something pushing itself out from inside him. This is something being drawn out of him against his will.

     The hand that touched the wreath of flowers no longer itches. Instead, it’s full of pins and needles, like a sedative wearing off. The feeling is spreading now, climbing up his arm. He looks down and sees smears of bright blue paint curling about his wrist.    

     The screen of shrubbery gives way before Scott and he stumbles out onto an embankment, overgrown with weeds. He hauls himself to the top of it, swaying slightly with the effort. Above him, the sky is fading towards plum colored dusk. Under his feet are metal tracks. He dimly recognizes them as part of the old Skarloey Railway, one of the many defunct railroads that crisscross the land around New Sodor.

     Scott sinks to his knees and presses his forehead against the ancient metal of the rail. The throbbing from his arm has reached his head now and the cool metal feels good. Too good, in fact.

     A shiver runs over Scott and suddenly he is no longer a teenage boy lying on the train tracks. He is a tank engine, many tons of living steel, gleaming with fresh paint and surging with steam. He grips the rails with wheels. They will take him wherever he wants to go. And, as it happens, there’s one place he wants to go more than any other.

Stiles spends a fruitless hour searching the back roads for his friend, but Scott is nowhere to be found. Stiles remembers how fast Scott could run when the engine was running hot inside him. He could be anywhere by now. But the flowers, whatever they were, weren’t just transforming him. They also seemed to be making him sick.

     It’s a long shot, Stiles knows, but he decides to check out the town hospital. At the front desk, he asks to speak with Mellissa McCall, Scott’s mother. He knows she works here as a nurse and figures that if Scott’s been by here, she’ll be the one most likely to know about it.

     “I’ll ring her floor and see if she can be spared,” the receptionist assures him. “Why don’t you just take a seat in the waiting room for now, okay?”

     “Okay,” Stiles assents, though the delay irks him. He heads over to the waiting room, and is eyeing the selection of month old magazines with disfavor, when he suddenly spots Lydia Martin.

     She’s leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the clock over the door, and still she takes his breath away. If Antonio Canova had set out to make an allegorical statue for Boredom, he might have sculpted something like this girl. Stiles screws up his courage and walks over to her.

     “Hey Lydia,” he says. “It’s me, Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. We have history class together. I sit right behind you and I’ve always thought we had this kind of connection—nonverbal, obviously, since I don’t think you’ve ever said two words to me—but, the long and the short of it is, well, there’s this dance the week after next and I was wonder if you’d like to maybe go with me?”

     Lydia’s gaze slides from the clock’s face to his and she frowns slightly. Then she reaches up and removes a little white headphone from her ear, which had been hidden by her long, red-gold hair.

     “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

     Stiles has been told to fuck off and die with more warmth and human feeling. He shakes his head. “Nothing important.”

     He settles himself in a seat on the other side of the room. A moment later, Jackson Whittemore walks in, carrying a white paper bag with a prescription label stapled to it. Lydia glides to her feet when she sees him, and favors the lacrosse captain with a quick kiss on the mouth.

     She nods towards the bag he carries. “Cortisone?”

     Jackson nods assent. “Yeah. I told the doc just what you said and he gave me some. But Lydia, he said it would still be better if I took some time off to heal.”

     “Listen Jackson,” Lydia whispers, low and fierce, “This game is going to set the tone for the whole season. The team needs to win and everyone needs to see you out there, leading them to victory. Now, you can’t do that from the bench and you definitely can’t do it from a sick bed. Right?”

     “Right,” Jackson mutters.

     “So you’re going to take your cortisone and go out there and play like a goddamn winner, got it?”

     “Lydia…” Jackson tries again, but she cuts him off with an imperious gesture.

     “In this world, Jackson, there are winners and there are losers. And I don’t date losers. So what is it you’re going to do?”

     “Play like a winner,” Jackson mumbles.

     Lydia kisses him again, rather harder than before.

     “Damn right,” she tells him. She takes the paper bag from him and leads him firmly from the hospital.

     Stiles who has been watching the whole scene unfold, drums his fingers thoughtfully against the arm of his waiting room chair. His unhappy musings are interrupted a moment later by the arrival of Mellissa McCall.

     “Hello Stiles. What’s going on?”

     “Hello Ms. McCall. I was just wondering if Scott had been by here at all.”

     Mellissa frowns. “No, he hasn’t. Wasn’t he at the house?”

     “Uh, no,” Stiles prevaricates, “At least, he wasn’t when I stopped by before. I should go back and check again. He probably just stayed late at the weight room or something. You know, with the big game coming up and all…”

     “Stiles, is there something I should know about? Something wrong, I mean?”

     “Wrong? No, not wrong. Not exactly,” Stiles babbles. He really wishes he’d put more thought into his cover story before embarking on this. Then inspiration strikes. “It’s just, well, do you know about Allison?”

     “The girl Scott went to the party with?”

     “That’s the one. He, um, I think he really likes her, only I overheard that one of her friends was trying to set her up with someone else on the lacrosse team and, uh, I just thought Scott should know, but he wasn’t answering his phone, so…”

     “I see,” says Mellissa. “Quite the soap opera. This is why I don’t miss high school at all.”

     Stiles laughs nervously. “Sounds about right. Well, thanks Ms. McCall. I’d better get going.”

     “I’ll tell Scott that he should call you, shall I?”

     “That’d be great. Thank you.”

     “Don’t worry about it. And while I’d normally advise against getting involved in other people’s romantic problems, I still think it’s good of you to be looking out for your friend.”

     Guilt squirms in Stiles’ belly as he leaves the hospital.    Yeah, I’m a great friend, all right. I’ve only accidentally poisoned Scott and lost him somewhere in the middle of the woods. Well, so far…

Scott navigates from abandoned train line to abandoned train line, until he thinks he must be passing within less than a mile of Allison’s house. With an effort of will, he transforms again, hitting the tracks running in his mostly human shape. His skin is still streaked with blue and pocked by rivets, and the numeral one on his chest gleams like a coal in the furnace, but he has two arms and two legs. These legs carry him off the tracks, down the embankment, and up again. He climbs a low rise, weaving through the trees, until he reaches the edge of the Argent property.

     He doesn’t honestly know what he’s doing here. His head is starting to clear, his transformation having taken the edge off of whatever poison that strange wreath put into his system. He knows, rationally, that sneaking around Allison’s yard in the dark won’t do a thing to stop her falling for Lydia’s manipulations, or worse, for Derek’s. And if her father the train spotter catches him, he’s in for a world of hurt.

     Still, he can’t quite bring himself to leave. There’s too much momentum behind him, too much steel and weight and speed. He walks through the darkened garden, steam rising from his skin in little wisps. He pauses in the middle of a gravel driveway, staring up at one of the windows. He can see into the room and he thinks that it must be Allison’s. The walls are painted a soft blue and there’s a poster of the US Women’s Gymnastics team from the last Olympics pinned to one of them. He can’t see Allison herself, but there’s a light on, a small one, perhaps a desk lamp. He thinks she must be at her desk, probably working on homework.

     The idea is so normal, so wonderfully untouched by magic or machination, that it brings Scott a sense of peace. He can feel his heart rate slowing, his skin softening from steel carapace to simple flesh. He shakes his head ruefully and turns to go.

     Blue lines of light flicker across Scott’s feet at the same instant a car voice he doesn’t recognize screams,

     Shit, there’s a kid there!

     Then something slams into Scott.

     It doesn’t hurt, or not very much, and it doesn’t send him flying. Like on the lacrosse field, physics seems to be treating Scott as if he were several tons of metal, rather than a high school boy. Still, the gravel skids and slithers under his feet and he overbalances, landing on his knees and elbows. He hears a car door fly open and a man’s voice calling,

     “My God. Are you okay?”

     “Yeah, I think so,” Scott calls back. He has the presence of mind to roll over into a sitting position, rather than standing up, and rubs cautiously at his hip where the hood of the man’s car struck him. “Ow,” he mumbles, hoping it sounds convincing.

     The man kneels down beside him. Scott sees now that it’s Allison’s father. His startlingly blue eyes are bright with concern. The expression makes him look older and significantly less intimidating than he did in the woods by the train tracks, with his long knife in hand.

     “Let me see.” He runs his hands over Scott, coolly professional, before letting out a sigh of relief. “Nothing broken. That’s a small miracle. Now son, why don’t you tell me who you are and what…”

     His words are cut off as the front door of the house flies open.

     “Dad? What happened?” It’s Allison, her dark hair streaming out behind her as she hurries down the steps. She makes an involuntary little noise when she sees Scott.

     “Scott? What are you doing here?”

     “I was coming to see you,” says Scott, more or less truthfully.

     Allison rounds on her father. “And you decided to run him over?”

     “I didn’t see him,” Mr. Argent objects, pushing himself to his feet. “And he’s going to be fine.”

     Allison makes a skeptical noise and takes her father’s place at Scott’s side. Scott can’t help but smile to see her looking so worried for him. She still has a pencil tucked behind one ear, so he thinks his homework theory must have been correct. She’s close enough for him to catch a faint whiff of her vanilla and lily of the valley scent on the night air.

     “Really, Allison,” he assures her, “I’m fine. It was just an accident.”

     “But why were you coming here? Why did you need to see me?”

     Scott’s smile turns sheepish. “Oh, you know, just to say hi.”

     Allison shakes her head at him, like that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, but the smile creeping across her face is the mirror to Scott’s own.

     Chris Argent, glancing away from the surprisingly deep dent in the fender of his SUV, takes note of this.

“So I have some good news and I have some bad news,” says Stiles as he joins Scott in the locker room. Outside, dusk is falling once more and what seems like half of New Sodor is assembling to watch the first lacrosse game of the season.

     “Let’s have the good news first,” says Scott. He and Stiles have already spoken at length on the phone, so Stiles knows all the details of what happened to Scott after he fled the confines of the jeep.

     “Well, good news item number one is that Derek Hale is still sitting quietly in county lockup.”

     Scott just nods, tightening the laces on his lacrosse stick.

     “Good news item number two is that I now know what that stupid flower was.”

     That makes Scott look up. “What was it?”

     “It’s called Ipomoea pes-caprae…”

     “Ipomo who now?”

     “…also known as railroad vine. It comes from Florida and it grows, like, crazy fast.”

     “Railroad vine,” Scott sighs. “Of course that’s a thing. So what’s your bad news?”

     “Well, I was hoping that there might some kind of antidote or antivenom to the railroad vine. You know, to shut down your engine instead of starting it up? Then we could just give you a shot of that before the game and problem solved.”

     “And?”

     “No dice,” says Stiles ruefully. “I dug through every crackpot New Age website I could find but there was nothing. Some references to using the stuff to ward off ghost trains, but that was it.”

     “Ward off ghost trains? Like the ghost trains you were telling me about, the St. Louis Light or the Silver Arrow?”

     Stiles pulls a face. “Sort of. Some people who live in houses that are built over where old rail lines used to run have reported weird poltergeist activity. Things shaking around and falling off walls. Noises like a train’s whistle or pistons or whatever. Doesn’t seem to track very well with what’s happening to you and it might be total bullshit.”

     “Okay…”

     “Well, a couple of the cryptoherbalism sites I found advised hanging bunches or wreaths of railroad vine around the house.”

     “So it’s a magic flower that’s bad for trains.”

     Stiles snorts. “Pretty much. Unfortunately, since magic doesn’t seem interested in following any of the rules of biochemistry, our odds of synthesizing a cure for your problem are basically zilch.”

     Scott lays a hand on a friend’s shoulder. “It’s okay Stiles. Thanks for doing all that research. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

     The discouragement in Stiles’ expression lessens perceptibly. “But what are you going to do about the game?”

     “I’m going to play. I’ll just try to keep my heart rate down.”

     Scott straightens up from checking his laces and walks off towards the field.

     “That’s not how hearts work, Scott!” Stiles calls after him.

In fact, Scott’s heart rate doesn’t turn out to be much of a problem for the first half of the game. Jackson hasn’t forgiven Scott for making him look like an idiot and he orders his players not to pass the ball “to that freak McCall.” Not wanting to cross someone as simultaneously popular and vindictive as their captain, the players obey. Stranded on the bench, Stiles can only watch. Beside him, Coach Finstock is gnawing his knuckles.

     In the stands above, Lydia and Allison are holding a handmade sign with a generically encouraging slogan. They stand up and brandish it at intervals Lydia deems appropriate. Accompanying Allison, but not sitting so close as to be embarrassing, is he father. He is watching Scott nearly as closely as his daughter, but unlike Allison, his face is a carefully neutral mask.

     His scrutiny is disrupted when a pretty woman with dark, curly hair settles into the seat beside him.

     “You don’t mind, do you?” she inquires. “I was sitting in the first row, but I couldn’t see a thing from down there.”

     “Not at all,” he says politely and extends a hand. “Chris Argent. I’m Allison’s father.” He indicates his offspring with a tilt of his head.

     The woman shakes his hand. Her grip his firm and surprisingly warm. “Melissa McCall. My son Scott is on the team.”

     Back on the field, things aren’t going well. The New Sodor Cyclones are down by three and time is running short. Now an attacker is advancing on their goal yet again. Scott can see the glowing lines, red and blue, that run under his cleated feet. He sees that the boy is about to feint left, then surge to his right, where the defenders are thinnest. Scott moves right while the rest of his team moves left. He collides with the attacking player, their sticks clacking together loudly. The ball skips free from the strands of netting that held it and, by some fluke, lands in the webbing of Scott’s own flailing stick.

     He is stunned, but only for a moment. He feels his heart leap in chest.

     Scott disengages from the opposing player, shaking him off like a horsefly, and surges off down the field. Mud churns under his feet. The other team’s defenders take one look at the juggernaut barreling towards them and scatter. Scott whips his stick through the air and sends the ball zipping like a bullet past the goalie’s left ear. The score buzzer sounds and the crowd goes wild. One voice rises above the tumult.

     “Pass to McCall!” Coach Finstock screams “Pass to McCall!”

     The other players heed him and soon the Cyclones have scored twice more in as many minutes. As they line up again, one of the opposition asks Jackson quietly, “Dude, your teammate, what the hell is he on?”

     The question seems fair to Jackson. Scott, a few yards away, is shuddering from head to foot, throbbing like a piston. Every player’s breath is turning into steam in the cold night air, but Scott’s cloud looks more like smoke.

     “I don’t know,” says Jackson darkly. “But I mean to find out.”

     The whistle goes and Scott is off once more. Not even Jackson dares defy the coach’s express orders. The opposing team throws everything they have at Scott—after all, there’s less than a minute left on the clock—but he’s a machine. He can see their moves before they make them, outrun anyone relying on mere lungs and muscles, and send boys flying like ninepins. Still the goalie makes one final, valiant effort.

     Scott lobs the ball towards the net and goalies’ stick snakes out to intercept it. The ball connects, not with mesh webbing, but with the stout shaft of the stick itself. It rebounds, back towards Scott, and hits him in the upper arm.

     By rights, the ball should drop to the grass of the playing field. It had a lot of force behind it when Scott launched it, else it would never have been able to bounce off the goalie’s stick. But even in an efficient collision with a hard surface, energy is lost. And a human body is not—as these things go—a hard surface. Meat and cloth should have absorbed the ball’s momentum and let it yield once more to gravity.

     But in that moment, Scott is far from human. His body is not meat, but metal. The ball strikes him with a clang and ricochets back, back past the goalie, back into the net.

     The buzzer sounds. The crowd roars.

     To Scott, it sounds like an explosion.

     He drops his stick and staggers off in the direction of the locker room. He knows he’s lost control, can feel the boiler pressure flaring high and hot within him. He can’t risk an encounter with anyone right now, not even his teammates.

     Luckily, the goalie is shouting his head off at the ref, to little effect. Scott has broken no rules of the game, just the laws of the physics. The tableau is getting people’s attention though. Even Stiles doesn’t see Scott slip away.

     But Allison does.

With as much tact as she can muster, Allison leaves Lydia to talk with the mutinously glaring Jackson and heads for the locker rooms. The building is dark, as she slips inside, and it smells strongly of unwashed boys. She knows she’s not supposed to be here, but that sense of forbidden territory only adds piquancy to the flutter of nervous excitement in her belly.

     “Scott?” she calls, as loudly as she dares. “Are you in here?”

     There’s no reply but she thinks she hears the sound of heaving breathing, coming from the direction of the showers. She follows it, her footsteps ringing out loudly on the concrete floor.

     “Scott?” she calls again. Still no reply, only unnerving echoes, and the flutter in her stomach begins to be tinged with dread. “Scott, are you okay?”

     There’s a metallic rasping noise that makes her jump. But, for better or worse, Allison Argent isn’t one to turn tail and run. She rounds the corner, muscles tensed.

     “Hey there.”

     It’s Scott. He’s just standing there, still in his jersey, smiling anxiously at her.

     “Hey,” she replies, returning the smile. “Congratulations! You were amazing out there.”

     “Honestly, it was mostly luck.”

     “Four goals in ten minutes was luck?”

     “Well, at least two of them were.”

     Allison steps a little closer. “Well aren’t we modest?” she teases.

     Scott doesn’t answer but glances down at the ground. Allison kicks herself inwardly. There’s no reason for a high school boy this good looking and with this much talent on the playing field to be shy, but Scott is. She keeps forgetting that.

     “Anyway,” she continues, trying to return things to a more normal footing. “I just wanted to check that you’re still coming out for ice cream with me and Lydia and Jackson.”

     “Of course,” says Scott quickly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

     “Good,” says Allison, mildly relieved. “You just looked, I don’t know, a little shaken up after the game.”

     Scott shakes his head. “Just nerves, I guess.”

     “Scott,” Allison says slowly, “do I make you nervous?”

     “I mean, yeah, I guess. I just don’t want to mess things up,” he tells her, “I don’t want to lose my second chance.”

     “Oh, you’ve got your second chance,” she assures him. “I’m just waiting for you to take it.”

     This time it’s Scott who takes a hesitant step forward. They lean towards each other. They are Pluto and Charon, two moons without a planet, caught up in gravity’s stately dance.

     “And then she kissed me!”

     “So you’ve said,” says Stiles, taking another long pull from his can of root beer. It is a bright Sunday morning and the boys are sitting on the edge of Scott’s wraparound porch staring off into the distance.

     “And I didn’t change. I kept it together!”

     “So I gathered from the way a steam engine didn’t smash its way out of the lockers.”

     “It was close for a while there though. Out on the field, man, I could feel it catching up to me. That’s why I had to bail out of there so fast.”

     “I figured,” says Stiles, sipping at his root beer once more.

     “So I went back to the locker room and I was trying to calm down, but it wasn’t working. Only then I realized something.”

     “Yeah?”

     “Yeah. I thought about how I’d managed to change back the night before, when the railroad vine was still wearing off. And I realized what it was that calmed me down.”

     “That being?”

     “Allison.”

     “Scott, not to rain on your parade here, but Allison does not calm you’ve down. I’ve seen you around her and she gets you worked up like nobody else. Do remember the first time you transformed? Dancing with her was what set that whole thing off.”

     Scott shakes his head. “You’re wrong. I mean, you’re completely right, but you’re not understanding me.”

     Stiles finishes the root beer and lobs the empty can into the recycling bin at the end of the driveway. “So explain.”

     “You’re right that my boiler pressure, or whatever, starts going crazy when I think about Allison. But that’s when I’m thinking about being with her.”

     “You mean like sex?”

     “I mean like anything. Whenever I picture us together, anywhere at all, doing anything, I freak out. And when I freak out, the engine freaks out, and I started changing.”

     “I’m with you so far.”

     “But when I think about Allison, just Allison by herself, doing normal stuff, that calms me down. That puts the engine back to sleep.”

     “Huh,” says Stiles. He reaches behind him without looking and snags another can of root beer from the open cooler. “Weird.”

     “Yeah. I know this is gonna sound really corny…”

     “I’m counting on it.”

     “…but it’s like she’s my happy place, or something. Like she makes my world better just because I know she exists.”

     “You were right. Grade A feed corn.”

     “Sorry.”

     Stiles shakes his head. “Don’t be. It worked and that’s what matters. Plus, it sounds like you really like this girl and she—incredibly—isn’t repulsed by you. So that’s good news and I’m very happy for you.”

     “I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming.”

     Stiles nods and pops the pull-tab on his new root beer. “Scott, you know how I said I wasn’t going to rain on your parade?”

     “Yeah?”

     “I lied. In fact, raining on your parade is my express purpose for coming here this morning.”

     “What is it?” Scott asks.

     “Derek’s out of jail.”

     “What? He escaped?”

     “Nope. They let him go.”

     “Why?”

     “They had to,” Stiles explains, “The coroners had a good look at the body we found and they’ve concluded that the girl was killed by heavy machinery, most likely a train.”

     “So?”

     “So where’s Derek supposed to have gotten a train from? With no murder weapon and no witnesses, they didn’t have enough evidence to keep him until a hearing.”

     Scott frowns and bites his lip. He can feel the elation draining out of him like yet more root beer. A man who threatened to kill him is on the loose again, after Scott helped put him behind bars. It’s kind of hard to put a positive spin on that one.

     “But that’s not the wild part,” Stiles continues.

     “What’s the wild part?” says Scott soberly.

     “They were also able to ID the body. And get this: it’s Derek’s sister. It’s Laura Hale.”

CLOSING THEME/SHOW CREDITS

Chapter Text

Scott takes Allison by the hand and leads her down the darkened hallway and out of the high school. Outside, the moon is shining brightly and by that silver lamp the two teenagers pick their way across the blacktop.

     “Where are we going?” Allison asks in a voice that is half laughter and half whisper.

     “Somewhere where we can be alone,” Scott tells her.

     “We are alone,” she points out.

     “More alone,” Scott clarifies, and he smiles in a way he hopes is roguish.

     They head out past the playing fields and stop under an oak tree, planted long ago at the crest of a long hill. Its dark leaves rustle in night breeze, a gentle—almost musical—susurrus. Scott steps into the deep pool of shadow cast by the tree’s canopy and Allison follows him.

     The ground here is pocked with acorns, sharp and knobby, but Scott shrugs out of his jacket and places it on the grass between the tree’s roots. He motions from Allison to the folded jacket, offering her a seat. Instead of taking it, she places her hands on Scott’s shoulders and pushes him lightly down until he is sitting with his back to the tree. Then she settles onto his lap.

     The warmth and weight of her are utterly delightful. He folds his arms about her and pulls her close, resting his slightly crooked chin on the top of her head. She laughs and curls around to kiss him.

     The kiss goes on longer than either of them expects and it leaves Scott hungry. He kisses her again, harder, and she twists so that now she is astride him. His hands move along the curve of her back, one sliding upward to tangle in the dark curtain of her hair. The other drifts lower, gently kneading and caressing. Allison rolls her hips almost involuntarily and makes a soft sound into their locked lips. She smells of vanilla and lily of the valley and need.

     Suddenly, the numeral one on Scott’s chest—still hidden beneath his shirt—blazes to life. It feels as though he is being branded with hot iron. He gasps and tries to scramble backwards, but the tree blocks his way. Allison is trying to ask him something, her eyes very wide, but he can’t hear her over the metallic ringing that fills his ears.

     He knows that sound, knows what it heralds. He can feel his skin hardening, feel heat and mass rushing into him.

     “Get away,” he chokes out, “Get away from me!”

     Allison surges to her feet, but hesitates a moment, staring down at Scott with fear and pity her eyes. She is still too close.

     “Run!” Scott screams. “You have to run!”

     At last, she does. Her long legs and the slope of the hill lend her speed so that when Scott changes, she is already several yards distant.

     The final change is sudden. One moment, there is only Scott struggling vainly to control the wild tattoo of his heartbeat. Another, and the space under the oak tree is filled by a gleaming blue steam engine. It isn’t very large, as engines go, but it is still several tons of machinery and harnessed fire, with a yellow and red numeral one painted on either flank. It has a face of sorts, but it is wide and grey and utterly inhuman.

     Scott feels his wheels bite, inches deep, into the acorn-studded earth. But even without tracks beneath them, his wheels want to turn. And he is poised precariously at the top of a very long hill…

     Scott tries to slam on his brakes, but they aren’t responding. In sickening slow motion, he feels himself tilt forward. Then gravity seizes him and he is off, hurtling downhill and out of control.

     Allison throws a glance back over her shoulder and sees the tank engine barreling towards her, gray face stricken, wheels churning madly. She puts on another burst of speed, trying to swerve left and out of its path.

     Then her foot catches on some unseen obstacle and she goes sprawling.

     Scott shuts his eyes just before his wheels connect with Allison’s head.

     “Oh my God, Stiles, it felt so real!”

     “It was a dream, Scott,” Stiles Stilinski assures his best friend, patting his shoulder. “You just had a dream. Perfectly normal.”

     “Normal?” Scott demands as Stiles returns his attention to the books he’s stowing in his locker. “What part of that was normal?”

     “Well, the first half sounds pretty familiar,” says Stiles. “Although mine usually involve Lydia Martin. And less clothing.”

     “Stiles, I’m being serious.”

     Stiles sighs. “I know. You’re worried about your date night or whatever.”

     “Exactly. Allison and I were going to go out somewhere but now I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. What if this was, you know, like a warning?”

     “Look, Scott,” says Stiles, closing his locker. “Just because you’re a magic train person now doesn’t mean that your dreams are suddenly prophetic visions. I think you’re stressed about this date and so your subconscious is coughing up these stressful dreams.”

     At that moment, the school’s loudspeaker honks to life.

     “Good morning New Sodor High. This is Principal Johnston. I’m just letting everyone know that, despite the tragic accident that seems to have taken place on school grounds last night, classes today will proceed as normal. Thank you.”

     The loudspeaker honks again and falls silent. Stile and Scott look at one another, wild-eyed.

     “Or,” Stiles says, coloring draining from his boyish face, “I could be totally wrong.”

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

     Scott and Stiles slip out of the building with only minutes left before the first class of the day begins. They race past the playing fields and stop beside the old oak tree. Except the tree isn’t there anymore. Well, it’s there, but it’s keeled over on its side, its torn-up roots reaching vainly for the sky. The hillside is scored by deep parallel ruts and, at the bottom of the slope, yellow police tape is being hastily erected, even as paramedics hurry away across the field with a laden stretcher.,

     “Oh God,” Scott whispers. “Oh God. It’s true. I did it. I killed her.”

     “We don’t know that,” says Stiles quickly. “We don’t know anything. This still could be a crazy coincidence.”

     “A coincidence?!” Scott’s voice cracks on the last syllable.

     “No, I mean, think about it. What would Allison be doing here late at night? It doesn’t make sense.”

     “That’s an ambulance Stiles! It’s right there! I’m not making it up. You can see it!”

     “I can see it,” Stiles agrees. “But I can’t see who they’re putting into it. Why don’t you call Allison and try to calm down a little before your boiler pressure gets out of whack, okay?”

     Scott scrabbles for his phone while Stiles steers him gently back towards the school building.

     “She’s not picking up!” Scott frets as they slip inside once more.

     “Maybe she’s here already,” Stiles says, “and she can’t pick up. Look, I’ll check the classroom. You sweep the halls. We’ve still got a minute or two.”

     Scott nods distractedly and wanders off down the corridor glancing at every dark-haired girl he passes. None of them are Allison. He can feel panic rising within him and he knows Stiles was right to worry. The tank engine isn’t far from the surface.

     He lashes out blindly and his fist connects with a locker door. The metal crumples and sags on its hinges. The noise attracts attention but Scott is already hurrying away. He rounds a corner, head down and moving quickly, and nearly collides with someone.

     She gasps takes a hasty step back, sending her armful of notebooks crashing to the floor.

     “Jesus, Scott! You scared me.”

     It’s Allison. She is here and whole and unharmed and Scott cannot hope to disguise the flood relief he feels at the sight of her.

     “Scott, what’s wrong?” asks Allison, seeing his expression.

     “Nothing,” he says quickly, stooping to gather up the notebooks. “Are you, um, all right?”

     “I will be,” she tells him, joining him on the floor, “once my heart starts beating again. Where were you going anyway?”

     “I was looking for you, actually,” he admits.

     “Yeah?”

     “Yeah. I just wanted to check if we were still on for tomorrow night.”

     “Definitely,” Allison assures him. She takes the notebooks from him and flashes him a smile that is a lot steadier than his own, but no less wide. “Now come on. That’s the bell.”

     As they walk off to first period English, they pass the locker Scott semi-accidentally vandalized. Jackson Whittemore, the arrogant senior who captains the lacrosse team, is vainly trying to get the metal door back on its hinges

     “What are you looking at, ass-wipe?” he growls when he sees Scott watching him.

     “Nothing,” Scott replies, trying to keep a smug smile off his face. This day might not turn out to be such a disaster after all.

     “So you didn’t kill Allison,” Stiles remarks, keeping his voice low.

     It’s lunchtime at New Sodor High and he and Scott have claimed their usual table in the cafeteria.

     “No,” Scott agrees. The initial glow of relief has faded and he’s feeling worried again. “But something weird is definitely going on. There’s no way this is all some crazy coincidence.”

     “Okay. What’s your theory?”

     “I think there’s stuff I’m not remembering. I think I was on that hill last night and I hurt someone. Maybe killed them.”

     Stiles shakes his head. “That’s a no on the killing, at least for now. I checked the online newsfeed after class. Says the guy they found is named Garrison Myers. He’s at the hospital right now in critical condition.”

     “Garrison Myers?”

     “Yeah, why?”

     “I think I know him. He used to be a groundskeeper here at the school.”

     “Wonder why he was here so late.”

     Scott rubs at his forehead with both hands. “If only I could remember what actually happened.”

     “Look, Scott,” says Stiles. His soothing tone is slightly undercut by the fact that his mouth is full of beef macaroni. “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.”

     “Figure what out?”

     Both boys look up to see Lydia Martin settling herself regally in the chair next to Scott’s. She sets down her lunch tray and gives them both a questioning glance.

     “Uh…” says Stiles, his mouth hanging slightly open.

     “Nothing,” Scott says quickly, “Just homework stuff.”

     “Ah,” says Lydia managing to convey in a single syllable her utter disdain for all things academic. She returns her attention to her meal.

     “Scott,” Stiles whispers, “Why is she sitting with us?”

     “I don’t know,” Scott tells him, but in truth he has an inkling. Lydia is less a social climber than a Machiavellian mountaineer. Before now, a couple of nerdy benchwarmers—one asthmatic and the other with ADHD—were utterly beneath her notice.

     Now that’s changed. Scott’s playing first line and well on his way to becoming the lacrosse team’s hero, or at least their not-so-secret weapon. He’s also dating Allison Argent who, while not a climber like Lydia, seems socially buoyant. Apparently these things make him worth associating with.

     And where Lydia Martin goes, her clique soon follows. Two of Jackson’s friends from lacrosse team, Danny and Brian, arrive first, along with a pretty black girl Scott doesn’t know. Stiles tries a winning smile on her but is met with a blank stare. Undeterred, he tries the smile on Danny. The goalie is equally unimpressed, so Stiles returns moodily to his chocolate milk.

     To Scott’s relief, Allison arrives a moment later, sliding into the empty seat on his other side. Everyone greets her warmly and for moment is seems like her presence will be enough to smooth over all the awkwardness.

     “Hey Brian. Get out my seat.”

     The voice is Jackson’s and his tone is obviously calculated to preclude backchat. Brian, however, is evidently tone deaf.

     “Aw, come on Jackson. How come you never make Danny move?”

     “Because I don’t go around staring at his girlfriend’s ass,” Danny tells him. Lydia preens as though she’s just been paid a compliment, but the line of her mouth is hard.

     “Go on,” says Jackson, laying a meaning hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Beat it.”

     Brian beats it.

     Jackson takes that vacant seat, which puts him at the head of the table and Lydia’s right hand. It’s a position of power, however you want to look at it.

     “So Allison,” says Lydia, “where are we going tomorrow?”

     “Tomorrow?” asks Scott, glancing swiftly at Allison. “Are we not, I mean, I thought…”

     Allison lays a hand gently on top of his. “Actually Lydia, Scott and I were going to hang out tomorrow.”

     Across the table Stiles winces.

     “Oh yeah,” says Lydia, brushing a red-gold lock from her eyes. “I think you mentioned. Where are you going again?”

     “Um…” Allison glances at Scott.

     He wishes suddenly and fervently that he had a plan ready, but honestly his plan had been to talk to Allison and work something out. He’s never had to be the one to take charge in a relationship and he’s not sure he likes the idea.

     “Tell you what,” says Lydia sweetly. “Jackson and I were talking about going bowling. Why don’t you two come along? Then we can all hang out together.”

     Stiles winces again. Jackson looks up from his lunch warily, but makes no comment. Scott looks to Allison once more.

     “Is that what you want?” he asks quietly. “To hang out with them?”

     “Sure,” says Allison, though she sounds anything but sure. “Why not? I like bowling. Can you bowl?”

     “Yeah, sort of,” Scott hedges.

     “Great,” says Lydia, in a voice so bright it practically sparkles. “All meet at the bowling alley around seven-thirty?”

     “Hang on,” says Jackson. “McCall didn’t answer the question.”

     “I think he did,” says Allison.

     Jackson brushes this away. “ 'Sort of' isn’t a real answer. Can you bowl, McCall, or can’t you?”

     “I can,” says Scott quickly. He can’t back down, not to Jackson, not with Allison listening. “In fact, I’m a great bowler.”

     “Dude!” Stiles exclaims as they make for the jeep, the final school bell of the day still echoing behind them. “What did you say that for? You’re a terrible bowler.”

     “I know,” says Scott, dejectedly. “I was just so off balance. That whole thing was seriously weird.”

     “Yeah, no kidding. All that ‘hanging out’ talk didn’t sound so good.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “You've got to listen closely to what girls say, Scott. Allison kept calling your date ‘hanging out’. Didn’t you notice?”

     “Sure, I noticed. What about it?”

     “Hanging out is what you do with friends. Going out is what you do with your girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever. Sounds like she’s trying to keep you at arms’ length.”

     “I think you’re reading too much into this,” Scott says, with more confidence than he feels.

     He usually does, Stiles’ jeep says reassuringly as Scott climbs into the passenger’s seat. I wouldn’t worry about it.

On his way home, Stiles drops Scott off at the New Sodor Automotive Repair Shop, where Scott has a part time job. His boss, Alan Deaton, is already hard at work on the garage floor.

     “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Deaton,” says Scott, as he pulls on his coveralls.

     Deaton, a black man with a solid build, natty beard, and advanced degree in mechanical engineering, glances at his watch.

     “Oh yes. I see you’re almost a minute and a half late this time, Scott. What kept you?”

     Scott flushes. “I just don’t want you to think of me as a slacker or something.”

     “I’ve met plenty slackers over the years. And you, Scott, are no slacker.”

     They get to work an old Mercedes-Benz TN, one of Mr. Deaton’s many refurbishment projects. Their work is interrupted by the arrival of a police car.

     “Why, that’s the sheriff,” says Deaton, setting down his wrench.

     Scott swallows nervously and feels his palms begin to sweat. What if the police have found something to connect him to the scene of the accident or attack or whatever it was? What if Mr. Myers had woken up and identified Scott? He shoots a swift glance towards the back door of the auto shop, his best line of retreat.

     “Afternoon, Alan,” Sheriff Stilinski calls, walking in through the open garage door.

     “Good afternoon, Sheriff,” Mr. Deaton returns, wiping one hand clean of grime and proffering it. “What can I do for you?”

     The men shake hands and the sheriff jerks a thumb to the police car outside. “One of the squad cars has been making some strange noises lately. Thought I’d better get it checked out before it turned into a problem.”

     “Sensible,” Deaton admits. “Which vehicle is it?”

     “Number six-four-three,” says the sheriff. “One of the older models.”

     Deaton nods. “Scott, could you go to my office and pull the file for six-four-three? It should be in the big blue binder on the second shelf.”

     “Yes, sir,” says Scott and, feeling more than a little relieved, hurries off to Mr. Deaton’s office. As he returns, he hears the men talking in low voices.

     “…heard about what happened up at the high school?” the sheriff is asking.

     “I heard a bit,” says Mr. Deaton cautiously. “Gary Myers, wasn’t it? Sounds like a nasty affair.”

     “That it was,” the sheriff agrees. “That it was. The thing is, we’re having some trouble figuring out exactly what happened. The docs are saying Myers’ injuries are consistent with a vehicular collision.”

     “I haven’t had anyone turn up with a car that looks like it’s run into someone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

     The sheriff shakes his head. “That’s not it exactly. See, we checked that whole scene for tire impressions but what we found doesn’t match anything we’ve got in the database for any model of vehicle, not even partials. I was wondering if you’d be willing to take a look.”

     “Of course,” says Deaton. He accepts the sheaf of glossy printouts the sheriff passes to him, flicking through them with a frown.

     “Well,” he says after a long silence, “I think I know what your problem is.”

     “Go on.”

     “These aren’t the kind of marks made by a car’s tires. They’re the kind of marks you get when a train derails.”

     The sheriff nods. “What kind of train?”

     Deaton stares at him. “You don’t seem surprised.”

     “Surprised? No. Puzzled as hell, but not surprised.”

     “And why’s that?”

     “The body we recovered from the woods the other night also had heavy machinery damage, consistent with being hit by a train.”

     Alan Deaton whistles softly. “Goddamn.”

     “Yep.”

     “But none of the railways around here has been functional in more than a decade. And the closest line to the school is still more than half a mile away.”

     “Yep.”

     Deaton peers again at the photographs. “Well, I can’t explain how they got there, but those are definitely from a train. See where the flanges cut into the dirt? Steel tired, judging by that groove. That and the size makes me think something older. Diesel or even steam driven, not a modern electric train.”

     The sheriff produces a notebook and jots this down. “Thanks Alan. Anything else you can tell me?”

     “Yes,” says Mr. Deaton. “These marks weren’t all made by the same vehicle. There were at least two of differing sizes, maybe more.”

     That makes the sheriff raise his eyebrows. “This just keeps getting weirder.”

     He glances up and spots Scott. The teenager hurries forward, doing his best not to look like someone who has been eavesdropping.

     “Here you are, sir,” he says, handing the file to Mr. Deaton. The mechanic accepts it and passes the sheriff back his stack of puzzling snapshots.

     “Thanks Scott. I’m guessing it’s just a cooling fan gone haywire, but we’d better take a look.”

     Good guess, the squad car grumbles in the background.

     Scott nods distractedly his mind still reeling.

     Two engines. There had been two engines there last night. And he has a sinking feeling he knows who the other one was.

After work, Scott picks up dinner from the local burger joint and swings by the hospital where his mom is working before heading home. He meets her at the reception desk on the third floor and produces the Styrofoam box containing her favorite chicken finger sandwich—still warm and crispy, with a slice of perfectly ripe tomato—with something of a flourish.

     “What’s this? My only son bringing me dinner at work?” Melissa McCall says, pressing a hand to her chest in mock astonishment. “It can’t be. What’s the occasion?”

     “No occasion, Mom. I just thought it’d be, you know, a nice thing to do.”

     She gives him a knowing look. She and Scott have the same olive skin and unruly hair, though hers is curly rather than simply messy. There are fine worry lines around the corners of her dark eyes, at odds with the suppressed laughter than sparkles out of them.

     “You are so full of it,” she tells Scott. “What do you really want?”

     “Well, now that you mention it, Allison and I were talking about going out somewhere tomorrow, and I was wondering…”

     His mother cuts him off with a gesture. “No. You may not have the car.”

     “Aw, but Mom…”

     “But nothing. I’m working and I need it. Beside, haven’t you heard about this curfew?”

     “Curfew? What curfew?”

     “The sheriff’s department is recommending a seven-thirty curfew for everyone under eighteen until they figure out what really happened at the high school.”

     “What? That’s crazy. I heard it was just a vehicle accident.”

     His mother shrugs. “I’m only telling you what they said on the news. And the answer on the car is still no.”

     Scott is about to protest further, but his mother is called away to help with a patient, leaving her desk and dinner unattended.

     Scott hastily picks up the patient directory and is pleased to see that Garrison Myers is on the third floor, only a few rooms away. He scans the hall. No one is watching him. Quickly and quietly, Scott ducks into Mr. Myers’ room.

     The curtain around the old groundskeeper’s bed is drawn and a machine beside it beeps steadily. The room is dim. Scott brushes the curtain aside and the rattle of the metal rings that support it sliding along their track wakes the man lying on the bed.

     His eyes widen when he sees Scott.

     “Mr. Myers?” Scott whispers. “Do you remember me?”

     Myers nods and then begins to tremble. A clear plastic mask attached to a long tube covers the lower half of his face. Now the plastic begins to fog as he takes, rapid shallow breaths. The beeping of the machine becomes louder and more insistent.

     “Mr. Myers, what happened last night? Who did you see?”

     The groundskeeper shakes his head violently and tries to push himself up on his elbows. A spasm of pain contorts his face. Scott takes a step towards him, wanting to help but unsure how.

     Mr. Myers’ agitation increases visibly and he tries to scramble backwards, away from Scott. His arms give way suddenly and he flops back down onto the bed. His eyes roll up into his head and he twitches arhythmically. The beeping from the machine is now more like an alarm call.

     “Scott! What are you doing?”

     Melissa McCall rushes into the room. Her expression is thunderous.

     “Nothing!” Scott protest. “I didn’t touch him.”

     Melissa shakes her head. Her hands are a blur, adjusting the machine, preparing a syringe, checking Myers’ vitals, stabbing at the panic button that will summon more nursing staff.

     “Go,” she tells Scott. “Get out of here. We’ll talk later. Go!”

     Scott goes, as quickly as he dares.

     “I didn’t touch him,” he repeats, but no one hears and even he is having trouble believing it.

The next day is the day of Scott and Allison’s ominous double date with Lydia and Jackson. They’ve agreed to meet later that evening, after everyone’s eaten dinner, so when the bell for the end of the school day finally tolls Scott’s free to head for the woods around the old Skarloey Railway. He has questions that need answering, preferably some time in the next five hours, and only one person in New Sodor can help him.

     Derek Hale is sitting on the porch of his burned and ruined family home drinking a can of beer. He seems utterly unsurprised to see Scott walking up the driveway. Scott can guess why.

     Ever since he, Scott, was blessed or branded or cursed with his new tank engine nature he’s begun to see pairs of glowing lines around the feet of everyone he meets. The dull red lines point backwards, showing where the person is coming from. The bright blue lines extend forward, revealing where the person will walk next. Derek is an engine too so he must be able to see the lines as well, maybe even earlier and more clearly than Scott can. Scott’s own blue lines must have given him away long before he came into view of the house.

     “McCall,” Derek greets him. His voice is cold.

     “Hey Derek,” says Scott, stopping in front of the porch steps. “Uh, sorry about you getting arrested and everything.”

     Derek takes another swig of his beer in silence.

     “So, um, this is going to sound weird, but were you and I at the high school the night before last?”

     “Yes.”

     “And Mr. Myers, was he there too?”

     “Yes.”

     “And was I, I mean, did I hurt him?”

     Derek sets the beer aside and stands up. He’s a tall man with dark hair, grey eyes, and a stubbly beard growing unchecked over his chiseled jawline. “What do you want from me, Scott?”

     “I just want to know if I hurt Mr. Myers.”

     Derek shakes his head and takes a step forward so the he looms over Scott, uncomfortably close.

     “Wrong. You want to know if you’re going to hurt that girl of yours. Allison. And if you keep going like you have been, the answer is probably yes. Your engine is strong, stronger than I thought, and you’ve no idea how to control it.”

     “So teach me!” Scott demands, anger and alarm warring within him. “I know you can control yours. I’ve seen you!”

     Derek laughs. “Teach you? What, here and now? This isn’t like learning how to tie your shoes, McCall. The kind self control we’re talking about, it can take a lifetime to master.”

     “Please, Derek. I just want to understand what’s happening to me. I can’t even remember what I’ve done.”

     Derek sighs and turns away, walking along the length of the creaking porch. Scott follows him warily.

     “You can’t remember what you’ve done because it wasn’t you doing it. Not exactly.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “You know what they used to call the steam engine? The iron horse. Think of it like that. The engine is the horse and you’re the rider. You’re stuck working together but you don’t always want the same things or even like each other.”

     Scott nods to show that he understands.

     “Actually, that metaphor’s almost total bullshit, but it’s the kind of bullshit that might be useful in getting you to learn something real. See, right now you’re really fucking terrible at riding horses. Your horse—the engine—can just carry you places and all you can do is hang on and pray. Have you been waking up in places where you didn’t go to sleep?”

     “Yeah once. I was in this old train shed.”

     Derek nods grimly. “Your engine brought you there. And you don’t remember the trip because, while it’s got the reins, your brain has real trouble making long-term memories.”

     “So what can I do about it?”

     Derek scratches at his bristly jawline. “Lots of people, people like us I mean, end up giving their engines names.”

     “What?”

     Derek shrugs. “Or they find out the names the engines already had. No one’s really sure. But once you’ve got a name for it, the right name, it turns the engine into something real. Something that isn’t just you. Something you can squeeze for information.”

     “Wait, you’re suggesting I beat the answers about that night out of…myself?”

     Derek grins without humor. “Yeah, more or less.”

     Scott sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great. Any advice on how I should I go about doing that?”

     “Yeah. Lead that horse to water and fucking waterboard it.”

     “You know,” says Stiles, almost an hour later, as he parks the jeep on the edge of school parking lot. “In actual waterboarding, they place a cloth over the guy’s face and pour water over that. What you’re describing is more like that thing in Battlestar Galactica where Starbuck kept holding that Cylon’s head down in that bucket.”

     “You realize this is why girls like Lydia never sat with us before today?” Scott tells his friend as they hop from the jeep and make their way towards the hill and the fallen oak tree.

     “Because we’re too edgy?”

     “No because we’re nerds.”

     Scott ducks under the yellow police tape and clicks on his flashlight. Though the evening is barely begun, it’s already full dark out thanks to the angry grey clouds gathering over New Sodor. The beam of light reveals the deep gouges in the earth that so puzzled the sheriff and Mr. Deaton. Scott wonders which ones his wheels made and which were made by Derek.

     “Feeling anything?” asks Stiles, appearing at Scott’s elbow.

     “Not yet,” Scott says, feeling a stab of irritation that has little to do with Stiles. “Look, could you just give me some space for a second?”

     “Sure, no problem. What do want me to do?”

     “I don’t know. Go keep lookout or something.”

     Stiles frowns. “Keep lookout,” he repeats.

     “Unless you’ve got another idea.”

     “No, no. That’s okay.”

     “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

     “Nothing. It’s just, well, it’s starting to feel like you’re Batman and I’m Robin.”

     “What?”

     “You know what I mean. You’ve got all these powers and things and I’m just like your sidekick.”

     Scott puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Listen, Stiles, no one is anyone’s sidekick here, okay? I’m not some kind of superhero. I’m just your weird friend Scott who’s having some weirder than normal problems. And you’re helping me out because that’s what good friends do, not because you’re my Robin or anything dumb like that.”

     Stiles nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. You’re right.”

     “Of course I am. Hell, of the two of us, you’ve been the only one with a clue what was actually going on since this thing started. You figured out the train thing way before I did. If anything, you’re Van Helsing and I’m that girl, Lucy Westenra.”

     “Oh jeez, I hope not. She dies and becomes a monster.”

     “We’ll see,” says Scott grimly. He gives Stiles’ shoulder a squeeze and then walks off towards the broken oak tree, trying to empty his mind.

     A name, Derek had said. Giving the engine a name would make it real, and making it real would make it accessible, if not controllable. It would reify it. That’s a word Scott has memorized solely for the purpose of passing the SATs but it captures exactly what needs to happen here. He needs to reify his engine.

     He pauses in front of the fallen tree. He can see the deep wound in its bark where something blunt and metal punched into it. He runs his fingers over the raw wood, rough and splintery. Without warning, a memory washes over him.

     He is flying backwards, flung by something immeasurably strong. The boiler pressure surges within him and he feels himself changing in midair, growing wheels and pistons and couplings. He collides with something he cannot see but he hears the unmistakable crack of breaking wood.

     And now he is standing still again, still in his own body but with his heart beating strangely fast, staring at the oak.

     “Well, that was weird,” he whispers. In truth, weird doesn’t quite capture it. The memory felt alien, his and yet not his own, like touching a limb that has fallen asleep. He turns and begins to walk slowly down the hill, following one of the sets of wheel marks. As he does, another fragment of memory blooms before his mind’s eye.

     He is careening down the hill, his wheels throwing up great fountains of earth. Ahead of him, at the bottom of the slope, he can see two figures exchanging blows. They look almost human but the way the feeble moonlight gleams over their skin and the ribbons of smoke and steam that trail from them show them to be something more.

     As he hurtles nearer, gaining momentum, he sees that there is a third figure, lying huddled on the ground. The blood looks black in the moonlight. One of the combatants stands over it protectively. The other rushes at this defender, throwing himself forward, and as he does, he changes. Now he is a blue steam engine, the largest Scott has ever seen, with a yellow numeral four emblazoned on its tender of rattling coals.

     The defender throws up both arms in an ‘X’ and plants his feet. The engine’s wide grey face, set in a furious snarl, slams nose first into his crossed arms. The clang is deafening and the defender is driven back several feet, his knees trembling and threatening to buckle. Scott feels anger surging within himself but doesn’t know who it is for. Still, it scarcely matters. The blue engine has its broadside turned towards him and he is about to collide with it, going full tilt.

     With another disorienting lurch, Scott returns to himself. He is standing at the bottom of the hill now. No one is near him and the moon won’t rise for hours yet. The beam of his flashlight falls on a scattering of little orange tags, stuck into the turf by some diligent police officer. The blood he saw in the memory has since dried to rusty brown, almost indistinguishable from the mud.

     “Scott! Scott! Listen to me!”

     Someone is shaking him roughly. Their grip on his shoulder is like steel. Steel on steel. Still, he can’t tear his gaze away from the man lying on the ground. He knows that face. It’s Mr. Myers, the groundskeeper for the school. He’s wearing a green flannel shirt, just as he always does, but his face is as white as a sheet. Blood bubbles from between his lips.

     “Scott, snap out of it! Scott, you have to go. He’s coming back. Scott!”

     The shaking and the shouting continue, his name repeated over and over. But it isn’t the right name. His name isn’t Scott, it’s…

     “…Thomas,” he whispers and the name clicks into place like a key in a lock, like two couplings coming together.

     “Scott!” That voice is Stiles, not a memory, present and urgent.

     He turns to see his friend scuttling towards him across the grass, half doubled over and whispering as loudly as he dares.

     “Scott, they’re coming this way!”

     “What? Who?”

     Stiles shakes his head. “Not sure. A couple of big SUVs full of big guys with headlamps.”

     Scott frowns, hastily switching off his own flashlight. “These guys, were they dressed like bikers who’d just raided an army surplus store?”

     “Uh, yeah. Pretty much.”

     Scott swears under his breath. “The train spotters. Did they see you?”

     “Um, I don’t think so. They were waiting for one of them to finish a cell phone call or something.”

     Up on the hilltop, the first glimmer of oncoming headlamps is visible. The blue lines of approaching footsteps appear in Scott’s vision. He exhales deeply. “Okay. We need to get out of here.”

     “How? They’re between us and the jeep!”

     Scott points at the bleachers on the edge of the lacrosse field. They’re also uphill from the boys’ current location but in the opposite direction of the parking lot. The curve of the hill is on their side. If they run, they might just make it to cover in time.

     Stiles nods and the two of them take off as fast as they can go. They throw themselves flat under the bleachers, in amongst the crushed soda cans and used condoms, trying to quiet the clamor of their hearts and lungs. Scott raises his head a fraction and peers back towards the slope and the broken tree.

     The train spotters have arrived there. He doesn’t see Allison’s father among them and without him the men seem less organized, less certain. None of them is looking towards the bleachers. They fan out slowly, moving downhill, out onto the swampy field where the students of New Sodor High sometimes play games of pickup soccer or set off illegal fireworks during the summer. There’s a stream, brown and sudsy, on the far side of the field and woodland beyond. The men make towards it.

     When the boys judge that the train spotters have gone far enough, they slip out from under the bleachers and back to the jeep. Stiles starts it up, the motor coughing loudly to life.

     “They’ll have heard that,” Scott frets. “Go! Go!”

     They tear out of the parking lot, not daring to look behind them, the parked SUVs muttering dire imprecations after their retreating backs.

     “That was too close,” Stiles breathes, once they are well down the road and away from the school. “Too damn close.”

     Scott nods in fervent agreement.

     “Did you find anything useful at least?”

     “What?”

     “Did you remember anything?” Stiles clarifies.

     Scott shakes his head to clear it. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. I didn’t hurt Mr. Myers. It wasn’t me, or my engine, or whatever.”

     “Well that’s great!” says Stiles, brightening up. “You know what this means, right?”

     “I can go on my date with Allison?”

     “I was going to go with ‘You probably won’t accidentally kill me’,” says Stiles, “but sure. That’s good news too.” After a moment, he grows serious again. “So if you didn’t hurt that guy, who did? Was it Derek?”

     Scott shakes his head. “I don’t think so. It was a blue engine but the number was wrong. I think it was somebody else. I think there’s three of us out there.”

     “Okay,” says Lydia. “Show me.”

     Allison opens up her closet with something of a flourish and draws out a dark green top with fern patterning and a hint of fringe.

     Lydia purses her lips in exaggerated distaste. “Mm, I’ll pass.”

     Allison suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. She likes Lydia. The girl has gone out of her way to be friendly to Allison ever since she arrived at her new school and under that silly queen bee persona, Allison knows Lydia’s got a mind like a straight razor. But sometimes she can be just a little trying.

     She selects another top, deep blue with ruffles like ocean waves. She presents it to Lydia with a questioning glance.

     “Pass,” Lydia repeats, shaking her head.

     Allison tries a third top, a light sweater of some silky wool blend, striped in sable and cream. This too is rejected with a disdainful “pass”.

     “Okay, why don’t you pick something out then?” Allison asks, replacing the sweater and dropping back down onto her bed.

     “I thought you’d never ask,” says Lydia. She vacates her own place on the bed and riffles through Allison’s clothes with a professional manner. Allison hears her muttering the word “pass” under her breath several times more.

     “Well, my opinion of your fashion sense has taken a nosedive,” Lydia reports a minute later, “but here’s something that might do.”

     She turns around holding a black top. The cut is simple enough, though the neckline is lower than Allison usually wears, and the dark cloth is accented with silvery stars.

     “Yeah, okay,” she agrees after a moment’s consideration. She grabs the top and ducks into her bathroom to change. As she returns, there comes heavy knocking at the bedroom door.

     “Who is it?” she asks distractedly, already trying to round up her hat, jacket, phone, and purse in preparation to leave.

     “It’s me.” The voice is her father’s and the man follows his words into the room without further preamble. He too looks distracted, his cell phone still held in one hand as though he’s just finished a call. He comes to a halt when he sees Lydia seated on his daughter’s bed.

     “Hello Mr. Argent,” Lydia coos, tilting her head so the light glints more strikingly off her red-gold hair. Though she’d never say as much to Allison, she thinks her friend’s father is something of a silver fox. He’s larger than life in a way that’s hard to describe, like the veteran gunslinger from the better class of Western movies.

     “Hello Lydia,” he says evenly. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

     “Actually Dad,” Allison cuts in, “we were just about to head out. Was there something you wanted?”

     “Head out?” asks Mr. Argent in mildly incredulity. “You’re not going out tonight. Didn’t you girls hear about the sheriff’s curfew?”

     “What? But Dad, I told you tonight was…”

     Allison’s father cuts her off. “No ‘but’s, young lady. Whatever you had planned can be rescheduled. You’re staying in tonight and that’s final.”

     Allison takes a breath to continue arguing, and then slowly lets it out.

     “Okay, Dad,” she agrees, though her eyes still glitter mutinously.

     “Good,” says her father. “Glad that’s settled. Do you need a ride home, Lydia?”

     “No, I drove myself,” says Lydia, looking back and forth between father and daughter curiously. “I’ll be fine.”

     Mr. Argent nods and heads back downstairs.

     “For a minute there I thought that was going to turn ugly,” says Lydia, once he’s safely out of earshot. “But you’re a bit of a daddy’s girl, aren’t you?”

     “Sometimes,” says Allison, glowering. “But not tonight.”

     She pulls on her jacket and a knit cap and tucks away her phone and wallet. Then she opens her bedroom window and clambers out of it. She hangs from the sill, swings herself onto a lower slope of projecting roof, and from there drops lightly to the ground.

     Standing at the open window, Lydia stares in open-mouthed wonderment.

     “Eight years of gymnastics,” Allison explains with a shrug. “Are you coming or what?”

     “I think I’ll take the stairs,” Lydia says faintly.

Derek Hale walks silently through the hospital. Avoiding the nursing staff is simple enough when you can see them coming before they’ve even turned the corner. After a little searching he finds the room belonging to Garrison Myers.

     He parts the curtain around the old groundskeeper’s bed and stands for a long while watching the unsteady rise and fall of the man’s chest. He doesn’t look well. Derek has seen dead bodies before now and he has the distinct feeling that all he would have to do to see one more is keep standing here until midnight.

     Just then Garrison’s eyes unexpectedly fall open. He stares about in confusion for a moment, clearly unsure where he is. Then his gaze falls on Derek. Fear flickers across his face, to be replaced by fleeting guilt, and then a deeper kind of regret.

     With a hand that trembles he beckons Derek closer. Wordlessly, Derek complies.

     “Hale,” Garrison croaks. His voice fails him.

     “Hale,” he tries again, “Hale, I wanted…I wanted to tell you…what I did, it was wrong. I’m sorry.”

     Derek takes the man’s trembling hand in his. Rage fills him but he controls it. He grips the hand gently, with only a tiny fraction of his iron strength.

     “Me too,” he tells the dying man. “Me too.”

The bowling alley is brightly lit, with music—loud and peppy—blasting over unseen speakers. Scott, his hair still slightly damp from a hasty shower, follows Allison over to the rack of bowling balls. She picks up a blue one and hefts it, testing the weight of it. She shakes her head and returns it in favor of a green one, which she subjects to the same scrutiny.

     “You look like you really know what you’re doing,” Scott comments, impressed.

     “Oh yeah,” Allison agrees. “My dad used to take me bowling all the time. When’s the last time you bowled?”

     “Uh, at a birthday party, I think,” Scott admits sheepishly. “It’s been a while.”

     “Well, it’ll come back to you,” says Allison confidently. “It’s like riding a bike.”

     “Yeah,” Scott agrees without conviction. He doesn’t explain that the birthday party in question had been his own when he turned eight.

     The two couples set themselves up as opposing teams, entering their details into the lane’s automatic scoring computer. Jackson is the first to try his skill, which turns out to be considerable. He bowls a perfect strike.

     Lydia crows and even Allison nods appreciatively. Then she picks up her green ball and proceeds to bowl an equally perfect strike herself. Scott applauds her enthusiastically and she beams.

     Lydia’s first throw ends in a gutter ball.

     “You’re letting it go too early,” Jackson tells her.

     “Show me?” she asks, batting her lashes, and Jackson happily obliges. He stands behind her, guiding her arms, his chin almost resting atop her head of artful curls. This second throw manages to knock down a few pins.

     That makes it Scott’s turn. He walks up to the lane like a man going to the gallows, his palms sweaty against the heavy ball. He pulls back and throws.

     The ball rolls off into the gutter with a clatter.

     “You need put a little more force behind it,” Allison advises. Scott is tempted to ask her to show him, to put her arms around him and her hands on his, but he knows he can’t. Jackson is watching him like a like jackal, looking for a weakness.

     He lobs his second ball a bit harder, still hesitant to call on his engine for strength. This isn’t like the lacrosse field. If he cuts loose here, even just a little, there’s liable to be serious property damage.

     The ball makes it seven eighths of the way down the lane, moving at a good clip, before veering off into the gutter once more.

     The scoring computer makes a disappointed buzzing noise and Scott sags. Jackson on the other hand laughs loudly.

     “That’s not nice,” Allison chides, regarding the lacrosse captain coldly.

     “I’m sorry,” says Jackson, though he sounds anything but, “The words ‘I’m a great bowler’ just keeping playing in my memory.”

     Scott doesn’t look at Jackson as he returns to his hard plastic seat beside Allison.

Derek goes for a drive after leaving the hospital. A car isn’t usually a lot of use to an engine like him. He can outrun anything but a racecar and carry more on his back than an eighteen-wheeler can haul. But owning one helps him keep up the illusion of normality. Besides, he’s found that driving helps him to unwind. There’s a Zen quality to it, fully relaxed yet constantly aware of his surroundings. After the scene at the hospital, he craves that peace of mind.

     The car seems to sense his mood and maintains a tactful silence, letting him brood, until it’s gas tank is almost depleted.

     Running a little low there, boss, it says at last, as the needle of the fuel gauge creeps down to the ‘E’.

     “Thanks,” Derek mutters and turns into the lot of the next gas station he encounters. It’s as he’s paying for the gas, in fact as he’s sliding his credit card back into his wallet, that trouble catches up with him.

     Two huge SUVs pull into the gas station, stopping lengthwise across either exit. It’s not much of a blockade, not to him, more a declaration of intent. The real threat is the men whom the SUVs disgorge.

     They are wiry with muscle and dressed in a mismatched assortment of bikers’ leathers, hunting gear, and good old army surplus. Most won’t be carrying firearms—favoring hatchets, long knives, and broad-headed arrows—and for now most of the weapons are staying sheathed. Somehow that makes Derek more nervous than having them all rush at him with naked blades. Train spotters are usually at their most dangerous when they’re lead by someone who takes the time to think things through.

     And speaking of their leader…

     Chris Argent walks slowly around Derek’s car, clicking his tongue in mild dismay. His rugged face is set into a well-crafted expression of genuine concern.

     “Black cars. It’s always so hard to keep them looking clean. And this windshield!”

     He gestures at a few, semi-imaginary smudges on the car’s windscreen. Derek says nothing. The red and yellow numeral two branded on his right shoulder, under the heavy sleeve of his leather jacket, is growing uncomfortably hot.

     Argent pulls a long-handled wiper out of its barrel of soapy water and begins methodically to clean the windshield of Derek’s car.

     “You should always take care of your vehicle,” he chides. “Why the right vehicle, it can be almost like another member of the family. And I always look after my family.”

     He looks up from his washing and stares straight into Derek’s eyes. Derek knows he is glaring, the kind of glare that usually makes people flinch away from him. It passes over Argent like a summer breeze.

     “But of course, you don’t have much of a family left, do you?” asks the train spotter.

     Derek’s hands clench into fists, steel rivets blooming across his knuckles, try though he does to repress them. Argent doesn’t even glance at them. He drops the wiper with a thud and turns on his heel, strolling back towards the larger of the SUVs.

     “You forgot to check the oil,” Derek calls after him. He doesn’t know why he says it. As putdowns go, it’s pretty thin. He just doesn’t have it in him to let Argent’s smug confidence go unchallenged.

     Argent stops, turns back, and smiles like a wolf. “Why so I did. Dean!”

     He points at one of the other train spotters, who flicks off a lazy two-fingered salute.

     “Yes, boss?”

     “Check the man’s oil.”

     Dean walks slowly over to the car, stares hard at it, then smashes in the driver’s side window with a backhanded blow of his hatchet. Glass patters down like hail.

     “You take care now,” says Argent as he and his train spotters climb back into their SUVs and drive off. The men maintain a professional silence, but the vehicles aren’t above a few derisive sniggers.

     It’s long minutes before Derek is calm enough to drive home.

Back at the bowling alley, it’s Scott’s turn to bowl again. He stands at the end of the alley, holding the ball in both hands and trying for the life of him to figure out Allison’s secret. He tries to remember where she put her feet, how long she held the ball, the position of her hands. From behind him he hears Jackson trying, none too hard, to suppress a chuckle and he realizes he must have been standing there for some time.

     Allison suddenly stands and crosses over to Scott. She’s biting her lip in a way that sends shivers down Scott’s spine.

     “You’re overthinking this,” she tells him, her voice pitched low enough so that the others cannot hear.

     “Yeah, I know,” says Scott, dejected.

     “You’ve just got to relax a bit.”

     “Relax?”

     “You know, clear your head. Think about something else.”

     “Like what?”

     Allison hesitates, then leans in closer, almost whispering. “Try thinking about me,” she tells Scott, “naked.”

     Scott almost chokes.

     By the time he has cleared his airways enough to form a reply, not that he has any idea what to say, Allison is already back in her seat. He can feel the numeral one on his chest growing hot under his clothes, can hear a distant metallic ringing. It’s just as Stiles warned him; the mere thought of Allison, naked or clothed, plays merry hell with his boiler pressure. His engine is starting up.

     Suddenly it doesn’t matter whether his bowling ball hits any pins or not. He just needs to get rid of the damn thing so he can sit down again and try to get a hold of himself. He hurls the heavy ball from him and it barrels blindly off down the lane. He doesn’t bother to watch it, knowing it will almost certainly end up in the gutter.

     Scott turns and heads back to his seat. He hasn’t gone more than a step when there’s a loud clatter behind him and the scoring computer plays a tinny fanfare over its every speaker: the signal for a strike.

     For a moment, the four teens stare in mute disbelief. Then Allison lets a victory whoop, Lydia raises an appreciative eyebrow, and Jackson glares balefully. Scott can only grin.

     As he goes to pick out another bowling ball, Lydia leans over to Allison.

     “What did you tell him?” she whispers.

     Allison shakes her head in wonder. “I just gave him a little something to focus on.”

When Melissa McCall next checks on Garrison Myers, he’s quite alone and quite dead.

Scott thinks he’s getting the hang of it. He’s still a terrible bowler, but Thomas isn’t. His engine has an instinctual feel for the game, for the way momentum and revolution and mercilessly straight lines of attack all come together to make a single, perfect shot. As long as he keeps Thomas awake, chugging steadily along just beneath the surface of his consciousness, he’s unstoppable. And there’s small chance of the engine falling dormant, not while the thought of Allison is tickling Scott’s limbic system.

     He and Allison pull ahead of Jackson and Lydia, much to the former’s displeasure. Lydia’s face is harder to read. As her next turn to bowl comes around, she turns to Scott.

     “Looks like you’re a natural bowler, Scott.”

     “Uh, thanks,” Scott replies uncertainly.

     She smiles at him. It is a warm smile, but it’s the warmth of a snake that has been basking in the desert sun. “Do you think you could come with me and maybe give me a few pointers?”

     “I can help you,” says Jackson quickly.

     “I’m asking Scott,” says Lydia, without turning. “Well, Scott?” she asks, with a flutter of eyelashes and the tiniest pout. “How about it?”

     Scott feels his boiler pressure jump another notch. This kind of thing just doesn’t happen, not to him. Still, he knows a trap when he sees one.

     “Don’t worry about it,” Scott tells Lydia, remaining firmly in his chair beside Allison. “I’m sure you’ll do fine on your own.”

     Lydia’s gaze loses its melting quality, growing positively flinty. She scoops up a bowling ball, stalks to the end of the lane, and—seemingly without effort—throws a textbook strike.

     Scott’s eyes widen and Allison sits up a little straighter. Jackson only slouches further into his chair, looking mutinous. As Lydia returns to her seat, she smiles sweetly at all of them.

     “I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

     The next time Jackson is up to bowl, Allison says quietly. “That was a beautiful shot, Lydia.”

     “Aw, thanks!”

     “I mean it. Your form was perfect. The kind of perfect that takes a lot of practice.”

     “So,” says Lydia, shrugging. “I’ve had some practice.”

     “So if you want to get ahead, you might want to stop sucking just for Jackson’s benefit,” says Allison.

     Lydia smiles a razor smile. “I do want to get ahead,” she tells Allison, “and trust me, I do a lot of sucking just for his benefit.”

     Scott privately resolves to pretend he heard none of this.

Up in his bedroom, Stiles hears the phone downstairs start to ring. There’s a twang of couch springs as his father stands up to answer.

     “Hello?” Noah Stilinski’s voice is somewhat muffled by the intervening floor. A pause, then he says, “Speaking. Go ahead.”

     Stiles recognizes the change in tone that means police business. He reaches over and picks up the other handset.

     “…just got a call from the county hospital, sir,” says a woman’s voice.

     “Pertaining to?”

     “Garrison Myers, sir. He’s dead.”

     Stiles listens for another minute then hangs up the receiver as quietly as he can. He tries to call Scott, but there’s no answer. Either he’s still on his date or he’s already gone to bed. Stiles knows that the sensible option would be to let this wait until morning, but he’s suddenly full of feverish energy. He grabs a jacket and creeps out onto the upstairs landing. He can just see down into the living room. His father is still talking on the phone, his back to Stiles.

     Even with this distraction, sneaking out won’t be easy. But Stiles is good at sneaking. You have to be, if you’re the son of the county sheriff.

Jackson is killing time on an old pinball machine while the girls make a quick trip to the bathroom, preparatory to heading home. The bowling match is done and Scott is feeling pretty good about his and Allison’s narrow win. He decides to have a stab at mending fences, or some crude approximation thereof.

     “Hey man,” he says, joining Jackson at the pinball machine. The older boy says nothing.

     “Look,” Scott tries, “I know you don’t like me, and that’s fine. I really don’t care. But our girlfriends are friends so I’m thinking we should, you know, try to get along. Like a ceasefire kind of thing.”

     Jackson gives the pinball paddle a vicious twist. “It’s not that I don’t like you, McCall.”

     “It’s not?”

     “No. I don’t trust you. There’s something weird going on with you. Now I don’t know if its drugs, or you’re just a freak, or what. Personally, I’m guessing freak. But whatever it is, I’m going to figure it out. And when I do, you are going down, McCall. You’re going down hard.”

     He stalks off, leaving Scott standing alone by the pinball machine. It makes a sad little electronic noise as the ball rolls out of sight.

     “You okay?”

     Scott turns and sees Allison at his elbow. She’s bundled up in her jacket and hat once more. Some of her dark hair spills out from under the loose knit cap in a way that Scott finds thoroughly and inexplicably charming. He smiles, Jackson all but forgotten.

     “Yeah. I’m great.”

     Allison offers to drive Scott home—she has her own car after all—but he declines. It’s already later than they’d anticipated and he doesn’t want to get her in trouble. He does ride with her as far as her house, though it isn’t precisely on the way.

     They walk together up the long gravel drive. The night has turned surprisingly cold, a reminder of the coming winter that lurks in autumn’s depths, and the stars shine down from a newly clear sky.

     “Tonight was fun,” says Allison, as they near her front porch. “But next time, let’s go somewhere just you and me. I’m not actually big on group dates.”

     “Me neither,” Scott admits. Then a beat later, “Wait, next time?”

     She nods. “Yeah. I was thinking Friday after school? Unless that’s too soon?”

     “No, no,” says Scott quickly. “Soon is good.”

     “And you’re really okay if it’s just the two of us, you know, hanging out?”

     “I could stand a bit more of that,” Scott says with a grin.

     Allison grins back at him. “Glad to hear it.”

     She leans towards him, her face aglow in the warm light escaping around the front door, and plants a soft kiss on his cheek. Then she turns to go.

     “Allison!” Scott calls after her.

     She pauses. “Yes?”

     He crosses to her and puts his arms, a little uncertainly, around her. Then he leans down and begins to kiss her like his life depends on it.

     After a long while, they both come up for air.

     “I could stand a bit more of that,” says Allison, a trifle breathlessly.

     “Soon,” Scott promises.

     “Soon is good,” she tells him.

     “Glad to hear it.”

Melissa McCall returns home to a dark and quiet house. The doors are locked and everything in its place, but still she is faintly uneasy. She heads upstairs to check on Scott.

     “Hey kiddo,” she calls softly, as she pushes open the door to his room, “You asleep?”

     Scott’s bed is empty. Alarm jolts through her but she has no time to dwell on it because just at the moment she becomes aware that something is moving outside Scott’s window. It’s a person, she realizes, crawling up the slope of the roof towards her. A hoodie masks the intruder’s face but she can tell instinctively that it isn’t Scott.

     Melissa glances around desperately and her eyes alight on a baseball bat that Scott can’t have used in years. She snatches it up and raises it high, just as the intruder tumbles through the window onto Scott’s bed.

     She yells in fear and defiance and is about to bring the bat whistling down, when the stranger’s hood falls back to reveal the terrified face of Stiles.

     “Oh God, don’t hit me!”

     “Stiles, what the hell?”

     “What is it with you people and baseball bats?”

     “Why are you climbing through Scott’s window?”

     “I mean, do either of you even play baseball?”

     “Don’t you know there’s a curfew?”

     “Mom,” says Scott from the doorway, “What’s going on?”

     Both of them turn to look at Scott. He’s still dressed in his jacket, keys held loosely in one hand, looking thoroughly bewildered.

     “You too?” asks Melissa incredulously.

     “Me too what?”

     “I was just coming over to see Scott,” Stiles says quickly. “But the door was locked so I…”

     He trails off as both McCalls glare at him.

     “Does the word ‘curfew’ mean nothing to teenagers these days?” Scott’s mom asks, shaking her head in exasperation.

     “Yes,” says Scott quickly, “I mean no, I mean…”

     “I’m going to bed,” Melissa announces, cutting him off with a gesture. “I’m done.”

     And so saying she sweeps from the room. Scott sets his keys down on the dresser and takes off his jacket before pointedly closing the door. Then he turns to Stiles.

     “Okay, man. What’s going on?”

     “My dad got a call from the people at the hospital,” says Stiles, sitting up a bit more neatly and starting to take his shoes off. “I thought you should know. Garrison Myers is dead.”

     “Mr. Myers?” The words seem to echo unnaturally loudly in Scott’s ears. It seems impossible. He knows the old groundskeeper was badly injured but he saw him only yesterday. How can someone be there one day and gone the next?

     “What happened to him?” he asks numbly.

     Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

     “I do,” Scott growls, suddenly angry. He picks up his jacket and keys once more. “They finished him off.”

     “Where are you going?” Stiles demands, following Scott as he strides from the room.

     “To see Derek.”

     “Wait, hang on. I thought you said Derek was protecting Myers. That he wasn’t the attacker.”

     “He wasn’t,” Scott confirms. “But he knows who the attacker, who the killer, is. And he’s going to tell me.”

     “Why’s he going to do that?”

     “Because I’m going to make him.”

Derek hears the front door of his charred and ruined home splinter inward.

     “Derek!” The bellow that rings through the house is harsh and metallic, the sound of an engine on the point of losing control. He sets down the book he was trying to read by the faint starlight and walks out onto the landing at the top of the stairs.

     Scott McCall is standing in his front hall. His skin gleams weirdly, like a fresh coat of paint, and wisps of steam rise from it.

     “Evening, McCall,” says Derek coldly.

     Scott ignores this. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a third engine?”

     “You needed to remember that for yourself.”

     “Bullshit. Who are they? Why are you protecting them?”

     “I’m not protecting him. I’m protecting you, you ungrateful little shit.”

     Scott snarls, the noise of gears grinding against gears, and punches the wall of the foyer. His fist sinks several inches into the plaster.

     “Hey!” Derek snaps. “Stop smashing up my damn house.”

     He starts to stalk down the stairs towards Scott. He knows that Scott isn’t going to back down, can see the rails of blue light that the teenager is following, but he suddenly doesn’t care. All the fury he felt at Myers’ useless death, at being bullied by a bunch of train spotters acting like common thugs is coming bubbling up to the surface now, making itself felt at last. His boiler pressure surges and the numeral on his arm burns. He can feel rivets pop into existence along the line of his jaw and in a seam running down his chest.

     “I don’t need your protection,” Scott tells him, stepping forward. “All of this is your fault.”

     “My fault?” Derek hisses. “My fault? I’m not the one out there taking stupid risks, running around with my engine out of control, screwing some train spotter’s slut of a daught…”

     Scott hits Derek squarely in the jaw. He’s been sitting on his boiler pressure all night too, keeping his dislike of Jackson and his rather warmer feelings for Allison in check. It feels good to let it all out.

     “Shut. Up. About. Allison!” he screams, punctuating each word with a blow that clangs like someone playing the steel drums with a frying pan.

     Derek blocks most of them, catching the punches before they really connect, but he’s still driven backwards by the sheer locomotive force behind each strike. He fetches up against a wall and Scott pauses, panting great plumes of sooty steam.

     “Garrison Myers is dead,” he tells Derek. “Tell me the name of the engine who killed him, or I swear to fucking God…”

     He’s not sure what he would have said next. He figures it would have been a toss up between threatening to go to the sheriff to expose Derek and threatening to stave his head in. But as it happens, he has no chance to make either threat, because Derek launches his counter attack.

     He foot snaps out and connects hard with Scott’s left knee, which crumples like tin foil. Scott yells, staggers, and falls forward. As he does, Derek seizes Scott’s skull in both hands. His own knee rises, as he drags Scott’s head down hard. Nose and knee collide in a shower of angry sparks.

     Dazed and lamed, Scott can only struggle feebly as Derek hauls him bodily down the length of the entry hall. The older engine hurls Scott out the door and down the steps. Scott bangs and clatters to a stop on the overgrown front lawn. He can see Derek approaching from the corner of his eye, not rushing, but walking with cool assurance. Scott waits until he is only feet away. Then he changes.

     It isn’t a transformation, so much as an explosion. Thomas is many times larger than Scott and the shift from one body to another is rapid and violent. A wall of blue and red and steel rushes outwards and slams into the oncoming Derek. He is hurled backward and smashes through the porch steps, raising a mighty cloud of dust and splinters.

     Derek stands up and brushes himself off.

     “Cute,” he mutters.

     Then he jumps. His legs fire like vast pistons, flinging him into the night sky. He seems to hang there for an instant, directly over Scott’s funnel. Then he too changes.

     Edward, for that is what Derek calls his engine in the privacy of his own head, is bigger even than Thomas, with a heavy tender of coals trailing behind him. He crashes down onto Scott like a meteorite.

     The shock of more than fifty tons of metal dropping on his head causes Scott to shift involuntarily. Churning wheels drive him face first into the earth. His mouth and nose are choked with dirt and he thrashes vainly—pinioned, blinded, and dying.

     Then his head is dragged up by the hair. There is no longer a steam engine crushing him, only Derek kneeling on his back. One of his hands is twisting Scott’s right arm back on itself, while the other grips his scalp like a vise. Scott coughs explosively, clearing his airways, but makes no attempt to break free.

     “Let’s get a few things straight,” says Derek. He barely sounds winded. “You can hate me if you want, Scott, but you will never get to push me around.”

     “Of course I hate you!” Scott chokes out. “You’re the one who got me into this mess!”

     “What?”

     “You burned me, or infected me, or whatever.”

     “I didn’t brand you, Scott. He did.”

     Derek releases Scott abruptly and takes a seat on the lip of the new crater in his front lawn. Scott struggles to his hands and knees and then, with a groan, manages to roll over into a sitting position. Loose soil trickles down the back of his neck, but he ignores it.

     “What do you mean?”

     “The engine who branded you was the same one who killed Garrison Myers. The same one who killed my sister Laura.” Derek looks suddenly much older, as if something more than the light of battle is draining out of him. “She came here tracking him, but he found her first. She didn’t stand a chance.”

     “Why not?”

     “He’s an express train, McCall, the most powerful of our kind. He’s also dangerously unstable. That’s why Laura was trying to find him, to see to it that people would be safe. Now I’m going to see to it that she’s avenged.”

     “How? I mean,” Scott clarifies, “if he's so strong, how are you going to beat him?”

     “I’m going to take him by surprise,” says Derek with a grin too wide and bleak for any merely human face. “And you, Scott, are going to lead me right to him.”

CLOSING THEME/CREDITS

Chapter Text

New Sodor hasn’t changed much in the years Kate Argent has been away. The woods and fields are just as patchy and unkempt. The ice cream parlor on Main Street still seems to be in business, though it’s currently closed, unsurprising given that it’s almost two in the morning. The late night radio offerings are still uniformly terrible. Kate swears she even recognizes some of the potholes on the road leading to her big brother’s new house.

     This next stretch of the road runs almost parallel to a section of the Peel Godred Branch Line, one of the dozens of defunct railways that crisscross New Sodor County, built back in the pioneer days when everyone still thought the age of steam would last forever. Kate is half listening to a sleep deprived talk show host talking about a string of inexplicable vehicular accidents as she drives, but the man’s driveling soon bores her. She switches to some well-worn rock-and-roll.

     As she returns her attention her surroundings, she becomes aware of something moving in her rearview mirror. It’s too small to be another car but it seems almost to be keeping pace with her. The little hairs on the back of her neck stand up and her fingers twitch on the steering wheel, longing to feel the stock of a crossbow. Still, there’s always a chance it’s something mundane, some local insomniac out on a motorbike maybe. She has to be sure. Her brother would give her hell if he learned she’d shot another civilian. She squints into the darkness reflected in her mirror, trying to get a better look at whatever is following her.

     Just then, a deer—a twelve-point buck if Kate is any judge—barrels out onto the road ahead of her. Kate slams on her brakes and narrowly avoids having the animal come crashing through her windscreen. It bounds off into the woods once more and Kate watches it go, her heart thudding her chest.

     “Nice driving, Kate,” she chides herself, the shadow in her mirror all but forgotten.

     Then something lands on her roof with an oddly metallic thud. A moment later, the car’s steel frame begins to groan under mounting strain, as if whatever is now sitting on Kate’s roof is growing heavier by the second.

     Kate wastes no time but snaps the car into park, grabs the loaded pistol bow from under her seat, and throws herself out the door. She hits the asphalt in a combat roll and comes up again with the bow trained on the car’s roof. She fires.

     The little bolt has plenty of power behind it, thanks to the devilish clockwork in the bow’s stock, and it connects with something. The something is large, and roughly man shaped, with steam and smoke trailing from it like a vaporous mane. It bellows in pain and springs away. The force of the spring warps the car’s roof even more and a couple of the windows shatter.

     The creature Kate wounded, if you can properly call a machine a creature, has taken off for the old railway. It leaps to the top of the embankment with a speed no one human can rival and, without breaking stride, it transforms.

     Where before there was a man, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, now there is a steam engine. It is an express train, huge, blue, and gleaming. Its tender brims with coals and is stamped with a yellow numeral four. Its eight mighty wheels churn madly, accelerating the engine until it is a blur of sparks and smoke and screaming steel.

     Kate swears and hurries around to her trunk. She pulls out a long black bag and draws from it a compound bow—a modern marvel of fiberglass and precision engineering—and a quiver of arrows. She selects one of these with care and sets it to the string. The broad-bladed arrowhead is liberally coated in something black and tarry, while the metal beneath gleams golden.

     She turns back to the stretch of rusting railway, partially obscured by the ragged shrubs and trees. The engine that attacked her is almost out of bowshot by now and moving fast. But there is another. This one is still in its mostly human form but Kate recognizes the way the moonlight glints off its hide, more like the shine of painted metal than true flesh. Besides, it is running far too quickly for any one without muscles of steel and lungs of iron.

     Kate lines up the sights of her bow and lets fly. The arrow slices the engine in the upper arm. He staggers and careens off to the right, stumbling down the far side of the embankment and out of sight. Kate isn’t foolish enough to chase after him. Even with the poison coursing through his system, the engine will be monstrously strong.

     Instead she takes out her cell phone and dials her brother.

Allison Argent is woken from a fitful sleep—she’s still not entirely comfortable in this new and larger house—by the sound of someone hurrying down the stairs. She sits up in bed, listening. She hears her father speaking, and then pausing in a way that suggests he’s on the phone. Though she can’t make out any of the words, he sounds worried.

     Concerned, Allison dons her slippers and pads out onto the upstairs landing. From here she has a good view of the front hall. Her father stands there in his weather-beaten coat, holding a long black bag in one hand and tucking his cellphone away with the other.

     “Dad,” she calls softly, “Is everything okay?”

     Chris Argent looks up. “Allison. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

     “Where are you going?”

     “Your aunt Kate’s had a little car trouble. I’m going to pick her up.”

     “But it’s almost two in the morning.”

     Her father shrugs. “You know Kate.”

     “Is it something serious? Was she in an accident?”

     “No, no. Just a flat tire. Really sweetie, you can go back to bed.”

     Allison does so, though her worries are not altogether allayed.

Scott McCall wakes in middle of the night, alarmed without knowing the reason. For a split second, he feels a phantom pain just below his ribs. He has the strong sense that there is somewhere he ought to be and he’s still too sleep-muddled to question the intuition.

     Hastily, the teenager pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Then he creeps from the house as noiselessly as he knows how. Once outside, he takes off at an easy jog. Of course, since he’s a tank engine, his easy jogging pace would still earn a car a stiff speeding ticket in most residential areas.

     After a few minutes, he realizes that he is headed towards Allison Argent’s house, though not by the route he usually takes. He’s following a set of train tracks. One summer, years ago, he and his friend Stiles Stilinski made it their mission to visit every one of disused rail lines around New Sodor. Mostly this was an excuse for the boys to tramp around in the woods, poking at rotting logs and collecting interesting feathers, but lately the knowledge has been coming in handy. For example, he can dimly recognize these rails as belonging to the Peel Godred Branch Line, which lets him know more or less where he is.

     Suddenly, Scott becomes aware of two sets of glowing blue lines running across the ground, approaching a point some yards ahead of him from the direction of the main road. They’re the kind of lines he’s been seeing ever since he began sharing his body and soul with the spirit of steam engine named Thomas. They seem to appear only under the feet of human beings. The dull red portions of the lines extend backward, showing him where the people are coming from, but these bright blue portions indicate where the person is headed.

     Scott scrambles off the rails and down the side of the embankment, trying not to raise too much noise. He tucks himself behind a thick tangle of mountain laurel and waits.

     Two people walk out into the train tracks. One of them Scott recognizes immediately as Chris Argent, his girlfriend Allison’s father. Mr. Argent is also the captain of the local train spotters, a vigilante organization dedicated to hunting down Scott and those like him.

     The woman with Mr. Argent, Scott finds harder to place. There’s a family resemblance between the two, though the woman is blond and willowy, while Chris is lean and grizzled. It’s something in the set of their mouths, in the long lines of jaw and cheekbone, something thrusting and predatory. Still, Scott isn’t sure that this alone is enough to explain his odd conviction that he has seen this woman somewhere before.

     She points at tracks and says, “Look. There.”

     Mr. Argent stoops and picks up something long and pointed.    “There’s blood on it,” he remarks without inflection.

     “I told you I hit the bastard,” says the woman.

     “Which one?”

     “The smaller one. Lean and fast.”

     “Derek Hale.”

     The woman shrugs. “Could be. Assuming there’s really only the two of them around.”

     “Kate, I told you we needed Derek to lead us to that express train.”

     “And?”

     “And you shot him with salsa-da-praia.”

     “They attacked me, Chris. I was just defending myself.”

     “No, when you shot the express train with your crossbow, you were defending yourself. You only brought out the salsa-da-praia because your blood was up and you wanted to kill something. How long would you say Derek has?”

     The woman shrugs, sulkily. “Maybe forty-eight hours. If that.”

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

First thing in the morning, Allison hurries along to the guest bedroom she helped get ready for her aunt Kate the night before. There are suitcases and duffel bags piled on the bedspread and Kate herself is rummaging through them. She looks a little the worse for her late night but at the sight of her Allison feels her heart soar. Kate has always been Allison’s favorite relation, more like a cool older sister than an aunt.

     “Kate! You made it!”

     She dashes to her aunt and grabs her by both hands pulling her into a gleeful little dance that ends with them both sprawled on the bed laughing uncontrollably.

     “Look at you!” Kate exclaims, sitting up. “I turn my back for five minutes and you’ve turned into a runway model!”

     “Oh stop it,” says Allison. She knows full well that her dark hair is full of tangles and her eyes are still puffy from sleep. “I look a mess.”

     “You look a million dollars,” her aunt corrects her. “I’m sickeningly jealous. I bet the boys are knocking each other’s teeth out just to get a chance to talk to you.”

     “Actually,” says Allison with a grin, “I’ve sort of got a boyfriend.”

     “Well, I think,” teases Kate, “that should sort of get several.”

     Allison can feel her cheeks reddening. “Can I help you unpack?” she offers, eager to change the subject.

     Without waiting for a reply she reaches for a black canvas bag and starts to unzip it.

     “Wait!” Kate barks, grabbing Allison’s wrist. “Not that one.”

     Allison stares at her aunt in bewilderment. The grip on her wrist is painfully tight. She waits for Kate to explain herself, but she does not.

     Kate laughs weakly and releases Allison’s wrist. “See? While you were getting drop-dead gorgeous, I was getting a killer death grip. “

     When Allison doesn’t so much as chuckle, she sighs and rubs at her face. “I’m sorry for acting crazy, sweetie. I’m just a little strung out right now. Long night.”

     “That’s okay,” says Allison quickly, shooting the unopened bag a nervous glance. “Was your car alright?”

     “Yeah, sure. Fine,” says Kate, getting up and stowing the black bag under her bed before returning to her unpacking. “It just needed a little jump.”

     “A jump? For a flat tire?”

     “A pump,” says Kate quickly. “A tire pump. Did I say jump? I meant pump.”

     Allison nods vaguely, her sense of unease growing.

Scott leaves early for school that morning in order to swing by the burned remains of the Hale family home, but when he arrives Derek’s car is missing and neither a quick search nor much shouting produces the human engine. Puzzled and worried, Scott heads to school. He doesn’t much like Derek but the surly man has saved Scott’s life more than once and he’s almost Scott’s only reliable source of information about tank engines and matters supernatural. He wonders if the train spotter woman really did manage to poison Derek and, if so, where he would have gone.

     Scott’s first class of the day is history. He is relieved to see that his friend Stiles has saved him a seat at the back of the classroom. Stiles has a round boyish face and a short fuzz of brown hair. In rapid whispers, before the bell rings and class officially begins, Scott tells him everything that has transpired.

     “I don’t like it,” Stiles decides. “I still don’t trust Derek. If he’s really hurt, he might get desperate and do something stupid.”

     “Why don’t you trust him? I mean, we know now that he wasn’t the one who branded me.”

     “So he claims. Have you ever actually seen this ‘express train’ he was going on about?”

     “Only in flashes,” Scott admits.

     “Could be hallucinations. The power of suggestion…”

     “But,” Scott continues, cutting Stiles off, “the train spotters were talking about the express too. Like they’d actually seen it. I think one of them said she’d shot at it.”

     “Okay,” says Stiles, conceding the point. “But there’s so much weird stuff here. Like, how did you know where to go last night? What called you there?”

     Scott shakes his head. “I don’t know. Derek might.”

     “How are you going to find him?”

     “I don’t know.”

     “Who do you think the woman with Argent was?”

     “I don’t know!” Scott snaps, a little louder than he intended.

     A brusque cough causes him to spin around in his seat and look up. His history teacher is standing there, having worked his way quietly and methodically down the row of desks, holding out a sheet of paper. Scott takes the paper automatically and the teacher passes on to Stiles.

     It’s Monday’s quiz on the Northern Renaissance with an alarming number of little red ‘x’s next to Scott’s answers. He stares at it in dismay. The grade at the top of the paper is a D minus, the worst grade he’s ever received on anything.

     “Jesus Christ, Scott,” says Stiles softly. “What happened on that quiz?”

     “I don’t know,” says Scott numbly.

     “Well, I guess you can forget about going to college,” says Stiles.

     When Scott looks stricken, he sighs. “I’m kidding. Look, it’s just one quiz. You were probably just distracted by all the weird shit that’s been happening. You’ll make it up. You’ll be fine.”

     “Yeah,” says Scott dimly. “Fine. I’ll be fine.”

     “Do want me to help you study?” Stiles offers.

     Scott shakes his head. “Thanks, but not today. I’ve got plans to study with Allison.”

     “Dude! Nice!” Stiles punches his friend lightly on the arm.

     “It’s not like that, Stiles,” says Scott, mildly exasperated. “It’ll probably just be, you know, actual studying.”

     “Oh no, it won’t!” Stiles insists, “Not when I have to live vicariously through you. Scott, if you dare squander this chance by actually trying to study, I’ll…”

     But at that instant—perhaps fortunately—the school bell rings and class begins in earnest.

“Any plans for tonight?” asks Lydia Martin, as she and Allison exit their final class of the day. Lydia is Allison’s best friend, more or less, having adopted the new girl into her clique of New Sodor High’s social elites. Most of the time Allison is grateful for this. Lydia has a wicked sense of humor and a lightning wit, though she does her best to keep the latter concealed behind a wall of affected flightiness and skimpy outfits.

     “Not exactly,” Allison hedges.

     “Meaning?”

     “Well, I told Scott he could come over and we could study.”

     “Oh!” says Lydia, her eyebrows shooting up and her mouth arching into a crimson grin. “Well, good for you. Just make sure he covers up.”

     “Excuse me?”

     “Make him wear a condom, silly.”

     “Oh,” says Allison, getting there. Then, more loudly, “Oh! Really Lydia? We’ve had like one date.”

     Lydia shrugs as though the number of dates is no concern of hers. “Well, don’t be a total prude at least. Give him a little taste.”

     Allison runs a nervous hand over her hair. “Well, how much is a little?”

     Lydia pauses, giving Allison a curious look. “Wow. You really like him, don’t you?”

     “I guess. I mean, before I got here, I had a plan: no boyfriends. It was just going to be too much to deal with, with my family moving all the time. But then I met Scott and he was just…different. I can’t explain it.”

     “I can,” says Lydia. “It’s your brain flooding with norepinephrine.”

     “With what now?”

     Lydia waves this off. “Never mind. Look, here’s what you have to do…”

Derek Hale walks unsteadily into New Sodor High School. The place is bigger than it was when he went here, but the smell—linoleum polish, cafeteria pizza, and insufficient deodorant—hasn’t changed. The school day has been over for only a few minutes but already the halls are nearly deserted. Derek spots one straggler still at his locker, a young man he vaguely recognizes as belonging to the lacrosse team. He’s finding it hard to think clearly. His arm feels icy cold and burning hot by turns, and he thinks he must be running a fever. Still, lacrosse means Scott. And right now he needs Scott. The sad fact of the matter is that Scott is all he has.

     He walks over to the boy at his locker. He gives Derek a look of arrogant appraisal. He’s not quite as tall as Derek, but he’s built like a teenage Greek god, with dark blond hair and a jaw like a cinder brick.

     “Can I help you?”

     “I need to find Scott McCall.”

     “Yeah? What are you? His dealer?”

     “What?”

     “How about this? I’ll help you find him, if you tell me what you’re selling him.”

     This makes so little sense that for a moment Derek considers the possibility that this boy is actually a fever-induced hallucination. “Selling him?”

     “A little HGH, maybe? Some Equipoise? Durabolin? Whatever it is, you should probably stop sampling the product. You look terrible.”

     “Steroids,” says Derek dully. “You think I’m selling McCall steroids.”

     “No, I think you’re selling him Girl Scout cookies,” the boy snaps.

     Derek can feel the cut on his arm oozing again, blood or something worse trickling down past his elbow. “To hell with this. I’ll find him myself.”

     He starts to walk away but the kid grabs his shoulder, none too gently. “Hey! We’re not done here.”

     Derek whirls around and seizes the brat by his neck, shoving him up against the locker with a clang. He can feel the engine rising within him, lending him strength but clouding his judgment. Distantly, he’s aware that the poison must be impairing his ability to control his boiler pressure. He ought to be keeping a low profile.

     “We are done,” he tells the lacrosse player. “Count yourself lucky.”

     He releases him and stalks away towards the main parking lot.

     Jackson Whittemore, for it is he, rubs at the back of his neck and tries to quell the panicked thudding of his heart. He stares after the strange man, weaving slightly as he makes his way down the hall. His hands are empty, but Jackson could swear he’d felt metal pressed to the nape of his neck, cold and hard as a steel vise.

Stiles hops into his battered old jeep and, once the machine has coughed fitfully to life, heads for the high school parking lot’s only exit. He’s almost there, with other students’ vehicles massing behind him, when a man steps in front of his car.

     He hits the breaks, eliciting some annoyed honking, and stares in alarm. It’s Derek Hale, or what’s left of him. His face is ashen and bright with sweat, though the autumn day is cool. His dark hair looks unkempt and greasy, his grey eyes glassy and unfocused. Even as Stiles watches, he sways and sinks to the asphalt.

     Stiles swears loudly, parks the jeep where it stands, and hops out of it. He walks cautiously over to Derek, wary of some deception.

     “Derek.”

     The man lifts his head to regard Stiles.

     “Scott.”

     “No Derek, I’m Stiles, remember? I’m Scott’s friend. What are you doing here?”

     “I know who you are. I need you to find Scott for me.”

     “Why? What do you want with him?”

     “I need his help. I’m…I think I’m dying.”

     This doesn’t sound too worrying to Stiles. Derek may have saved his best friend’s life once or twice, but he’s also threatened to kill Scott, something Stiles takes a dim view of.

     “So you’re dying. What’s Scott supposed to do about it?”

     “Argent.”

     “What about him?”

     “Stiles, what’s going on?” It’s Scott, his bike helmet dangling from one hand. He looks concerned. “Jesus Christ, is that Derek?”

     “Argent,” Derek repeats, his eyes snapping onto Scott’s face. “Scott, you’ve got to go to Argent’s house. One of his people shot me. Poison. I need you to find out what kind.”

     “But…” Scott starts to object, but a fresh chorus of angry honks cuts him off. Stiles can see people craning their necks out of their car windows to try and see what’s going on. He spots Allison and Jackson, the arrogant senior who captains the lacrosse team, among them.

     “Scott, we should get him out of here before he draws any more attention,” Stiles points out.

     Scott nods and lifts Derek bodily. He tries his best not to make it look trivially easy, but Stiles can see that moving the grown man isn’t even causing his friend to breathe hard. It’s hard to accept that this boy and the asthmatic weakling who despaired of ever making first line could be one and the same.      Scott sets Derek down in the back seat of Stiles’ jeep, which annoys Stiles even as he recognizes the necessity of it.

     “Look, Derek,” says Scott quietly, leaning in through the open door. “I already know what they shot you with. I heard the train spotters talking. Argent called it, uh, salsa de prior or something.”

     “Salsa-da-praia,” says Stiles, joining them.

     “What? You’ve heard of it?” asks Scott, clearly taken aback.

     Stiles nods. “I read about it online, when I was researching that wreath thing. It’s a special kind of railroad vine that comes from Brazil.”

     Derek gives a nod of confirmation and tries to sit up a little straighter. “I thought that might be it. The train spotters make a sort of poultice from it sometimes, to coat their weapons.”

     A violent shudder interrupts him and Stiles is alarmed to see rivets and streaks of blue paint suddenly bloom across Derek’s skin.

     “No Derek!” Scott hisses. “Not here. We’re too exposed! Besides, you’ll wreck Stiles’ jeep.”

     “I’m not doing it on purpose!” Derek snarls. “The poison, it’s breaking my control.”

     “Okay,” says Stiles, trying to get a grip. “Okay. The poison. What do we do about it? Is there an antidote?”

     Derek grunts. “I need more of the poultice. I know a charm I can use. But I’ll need salsa-da-praia.”

     “Would they have it at a garden store or something?” says Stiles, without much hope.

     Derek shakes his head, his teeth gritted in pain. “Banned. Invasive species. Got to go to Argent.”

     Scott nods. “Okay. I’m going there anyway. I can do it.”

     “Are you sure?” asks Stiles.

     “Do we have a choice?” Scott asks.

     “No,” Derek growls. “No choice. You need me, McCall. If the express train calls you out again and I’m not there…”

     “Shut up,” Stiles tells him. “Scott already said he’d do it.”

     He slams the door shut and then hops up behind the wheel. “I’ll look after him until you get back,” he tells Scott, without pleasure. “You be careful, okay? Don’t give Argent an excuse to shoot you too.”

     “I won’t,” Scott promises. “Just get him the hell out of here.”

     Stiles nods and pulls out of the parking lot at speed.

Scott is staring after them, chewing pensively at his lower lip, when he hears someone calling his name. He turns to find Allison Argent hurrying across the parking lot towards him. She is, without qualification, the most beautiful girl Scott has ever seen, dark-haired and dimple-cheeked and full of life. It is thus a source of constant amazement to him that she is also his girlfriend and, what is more, seems pleased about it. At the moment though, she looks quite worried.

     “Scott, is everything okay? Who was that guy?”

     “Yeah, things are okay,” says Scott quickly. “That was, um, Derek. I think you met him at Jackson’s party?”

     “Yeah, he gave me a ride after you had to rush home. Is he a friend of yours?”

     “No, um, not really. Not a close friend.”    

     “But you were helping him just now.”

     “Yeah, I mean, he was pretty sick.”

     “Sick?”

     “Yeah. Looked like a high fever to me. Stiles was going to give him a ride home and make sure he’s okay.”

     Allison frowns. “But what was he doing here? I mean, he’s not a student. He’s too old. Isn’t he?”

     “No, he’s not a student,” Scott agrees. “I’m not sure why he came here. I don’t think he was thinking too clearly. Anyway, we’re still on for studying, right?”

     “Yeah, of course,” says Allison, still sounding puzzled and concerned.

     “Cool. Well, I’ll meet you there,” says Scott and he hurries away to retrieve his bike before any more questions can be asked.

On the way over to Allison’s, Scott is sufficiently distracted by worrying about all the possible ways in which this afternoon could go horribly wrong that he doesn’t pay much attention to how fast he’s cycling. Left to their own devices, his legs work like pistons, calling on his engine for strength. Houses and street signs flash past in a blur until suddenly he’s coasting to a stop in Allison’s driveway.

     Allison parks her car and steps out.

     “How did you…” Her words trail off. “I mean, we left at almost the same time and I had a car.”

     “I, uh, took a shortcut,” says Scott. He hates lying to Allison, but he hasn’t left himself much room to maneuver. “A really short shortcut.”

     “You’ll have to show it to me some time,” says Allison smiling, a little nervously. “Sometimes it feels like I still barely know my way around this town.”

     “Yeah, of course,” says Scott, dismounting from his bike and unbuckling his helmet. His bike chain is smoking gently. He hopes Allison hasn’t noticed. “Should we, you know, go inside then?”

     Allison nods and leads the way. “Are you sure everything’s okay, Scott? You’re acting all kinds of weird today.”

     “I’m fine. I mean, mostly.” He takes refuge in another misleading truth. “I just got a bad grade back in history. It’s kind of thrown me for a loop.”

     “You’re usually a pretty good student, huh?” says Allison as she unlocks the front door.

     “I guess so.”

     “And modest about it. I should have guessed.”

     Scott smiles sheepishly and hesitates for a moment, hovering on the threshold of the enormous house.

     “It’s okay,” Allison assures him. “You can come in. Nobody will be home for hours.”

     They head up to Allison’s bedroom. It’s Scott’s first time seeing it from the inside and he’s surprised at the number of half-unpacked boxes that still line one wall.

     “Yeah, I haven’t really finished moving in,” Allison remarks, noticing his gaze. “Just put your bag over there.”

     Scott obliges, first extracting a binder and a ballpoint pen. “So if you don’t mind doing history first, I thought we could save the English paper until…”

     His sentence is cut abruptly short when Allison kisses him on the mouth.

     She pushes him gently down onto her bed. The binder slides to the floor, unregarded. She’s on top of him now, filling his every sense: the deep coffee color of her hair as it falls across his face, the rustle of her silky blouse under his fingers, the warm touch of her lips on his, the smell of vanilla and lily-of-the-valley, the taste of her mouth. He never thought that anyone, that anything, could be so soft and yet so urgent.

     Scott’s engine roars suddenly to life. He can feel his boiler pressure spiking, the numeral one on his chest beginning to burn afresh.

     Not now, Thomas! he thinks desperately, but it’s no use. If he keeps going like this, he will begin to change. He pulls quickly away from Allison, breathing hard.

     “What’s wrong?” she asks. Scott can tell she’s worried that it’s something she’s done, some mistake or inadequacy, and that little glimpse of insecurity stabs at him like a dagger.

     “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, as earnestly as he knows how. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do any of this, you know, if you don’t want to.”

     “I’m not doing anything I don’t want to,” she assures him. “Are you?”

     “Seriously?” he asks, unable to suppress a little laugh. “You’re asking me?”

     “Uh-huh.” She easing herself back on top of him, her face creeping nearer to his. Her pale skin is ever so slightly flushed.

     “This is like a dream,” he tells her honestly.

     “The good kind of dream?” she asks. Her lips are slightly parted in a smile that shows off her dimples.

     “I think you know exactly what kind of dream I mean,” he tells her, and the kisses begin once more.

     This time Scott thinks he almost has it under control. It’s sort of like the doublethink trick he used that night at the bowling alley, keeping his engine running without letting it careen out of control. Then Allison undoes the top button of his shirt and begins to nibble delicately at his collarbone.

     The careful balance is disrupted in an instant. In a second instant, he would have begun to transform but mercifully it is at this point that Scott’s cell phone rings. The phone is buried at the bottom on his backpack—stuffed there to protect it during the bike ride—but even several layers of canvas and notebook paper aren’t enough to smother the shrill warbling. Scott sighs, hoping he sounds disappointed rather than relieved.

     “Sorry,” he tells Allison. “I’d better just check that it’s nothing important. Then I’ll turn it off, I promise.”

     “It’s fine,” Allison assures him, and she rolls over enough to let him up.

     Scott makes something of a show of hunting for the phone, hoping to buy himself some time to think. He knows rationally that there should be a simple way of telling Allison ‘no’, but right now he can’t think of one that won’t seem suspicious or risk hurting her feelings.

     The phone call ends just before he picks it up, but there’s a series of text messages from Stiles. They read:

     Derek not looking good

     Won’t let me take him home. Says not safe. Paranoid, much?

     Suggestions for hideout?

     Scott frowns for a moment then types a hasty reply.

     Auto shop. Mr. Deaton out of town. Spare key under green flower pot.

     Then, true to his word, he powers the phone off.

     “Who was it?” Allison asks, as Scott returns to sit on the edge of the bed.

     “Just Stiles.”

     “What did he want?” she asks, sliding over to sit beside him. She snuggles against him, but does not seem hell-bent on renewing the make out session, for which Scott is—broadly speaking—grateful.

     Scott shrugs. “I think he was just kind of freaked out by Derek.”

     “Well, I don’t blame him.”

     “Me neither,” says Scott absently. His eye has fallen on a framed photograph poking out of the top of one of Allison’s packing boxes, the one nearest the bed. It shows Allison and her parents and one other person, a woman with long blonde hair. Scott pulls the photograph out of the box and stares at it. It is definitely the same woman he saw last night, the one who shot Derek.

     “Who’s this?” he asks, as casually as he can manage.

     “My aunt Kate,” says Allison, smiling, “She’s great. Most of the time she feels more like my sister than my dad’s. She’s actually staying with us right now. You’ll probably get to meet her.”

     “She looks familiar,” says Scott, half to himself.

     “Well, she did live in New Sodor for a few years, a long while ago. Maybe you saw her around town.”

     “Maybe,” Scott agrees. He sets the photo aside and takes out the next item in the box.

     It’s more photos, unframed and monochrome, held in a loose sheaf with a large binder clip. Scott fans a few of them out. They’re mostly of locations around a large city, which Scott assumes is San Francisco, the last place the Argents lived. Some are vistas framed by narrow alleys, while others are sweeping skylines, and yet others are puzzling close-ups of brickwork facades. The focus in most of the photos is a little strange, possibly deliberately.

     “You took these?” Scott asks.

     Allison nods. “Yup. That was the year I thought I was a photographer.”

     “They’re really good,” Scott says sincerely, though he doesn’t know the first thing about photography.

     “They’re dreadful,” Allison says with a laugh, taking the sheaf from his hands and dropping it on the other side of the bed.

     Scott shrugs and dips into the box again, this time coming up with a stack of watercolors.

     “Ah,” says Allison, “That was the time before that when I thought I was an artist.”

     Scott looks through the paintings, which are mostly still-lives done in soft pastels. These glimpses into Allison’s past are sweeter than kisses, or almost so, and far safer.

     “Are these dreadful too?” he enquires.

     “Definitely,” says Allison, depositing them beside the photographs.

     “How about this?” asks Scott, picking out a composition book with a homemade book jacket of blue construction paper. On the jacket, in silver gel pen, the word “POETRY” is written.

     “Oh no,” says Allison. “I’d forgotten about that. That was the worst time of all, when I thought I was a poetess.”

     “Poetess? Is that even a real word?”

     “Yup,” says Allison. “And it was my life’s ambition for about four months.”

     “So which poem should I read first?” asks Scott, cracking the cover.

     “No!” Allison yelps, snatching the book away. “You shouldn’t read any of them. They all suck.”

     “Okay, you can read one to me then.”

     “What?” says Allison, looking for a moment like a hind caught in the headlights.

     “Isn’t that the whole deal with poetry?” asks Scott innocently, “It’s all about the sounds of the words instead of the grammar or whatever?”

     “Well, sort of, but…”

     “Like how Ms. Marion is always going on about how no one should read Shakespeare, they should only watch it?”

     “Yes, but…”

     “So read me a poem. Maybe you only think they’re bad because they’ve never been performed out loud.”  

     “Really Scott, you don’t want this.”

     “I really do,” Scott assures her. “Come on. Just a taste?”

     Allison hesitates, biting her lip. “Fine. But just one, okay? And you have to promise not to laugh.”

     “I promise,” says Scott, fighting down a grin.

     “Okay.” Allison takes a deep, unsteady breath and opens the notebook, thumbing through it until she finds the right page. She gives her head a toss, like a horse getting ready to bolt. Then she begins to read.

     I’ve let life pass me by

     Like a white ship cutting

     Through still waters.

     I bob in its wake.

     It is peaceful here,

     In the green shadow of the rushes,

     With the larks singing down

     From a sky

     Of dragonfly blue

     And every water lily always just

     Upon the verge of blooming.

     Perhaps, if I tried,

     I could catch

     The white ship.

     Hand over hand.

     Stroke after stroke.

     Heart chiming like fire bells

     Beneath my breast.

     Perhaps I will.

     But not today.

     For today, I am content

     To drift among green rushes

     And sleeping lilies,

     And to listen to each skylark

     Singing of its future.

     Scott listens in silent wonder. Allison’s voice moves like the ripples of light reflected from a restless pool.

     “That was incredible,” he says softly, when the poem is over.

     Allison makes a sarcastic noise in the back of her throat. “Hardly. I only wrote it to make myself feel better about not getting invited to parties and stuff.”

     “Why wouldn’t someone want you at their party?” Scott asks incredulously.

     Allison shrugs. “Maybe they overheard some of my terrible poetry.”

     “It wasn’t terrible.”

     “It was pretty bad. And I could’ve picked some others that were way worse.”

     Scott shakes his head. “Fine then. If you don’t think you’re good at painting or poetry…”

     “Or photography.”

     “…Or photography, what are you good at? What’s your special thing?”

     Again, Allison hesitates for a moment. The fingers of her left hand, which still trail over Scott’s shoulder, tap restlessly as she considers the question, sending little shivers across his skin.

     “You really want to know?”

     Scott nods.

     “Okay. Follow me. I’ll show you.”

Stiles and Derek are not getting along well. Derek leans against the jeep, staring straight ahead with grey-faced surliness, while Stiles hunts around for a green flowerpot.

     “Hurry up,” Derek orders.

     Stiles has found the flowerpot but at this he straightens and turns around to glare at the dark-haired man.

     “Was that supposed to be helpful in some way?” he demands.

     “Yes,” says Derek. The hand of his injured arm is trembling badly and there is a strong smell of coal smoke emanating from him. “It was supposed to make you hurry up.”

     “I don’t have to be doing this, you know,” Stiles says, “I could just drive off and leave you here to die.”

     “Try it, and I’ll crush your jeep into a tin can.”

     “You don’t look healthy enough to do much crushing right now,” Stiles points out.

     Derek shivers violently. “Look, your friend Scott needs me, okay?”

     “Yeah,” says Stiles, “About that. What did you mean before, when you said the express train could call Scott out again?”

     Derek groans. “I don’t have time for this. We need to get under cover now. The train spotters will be looking for me.”

     “Yeah, so you’ve said. Tell me what happens if this bastard calls Scott out. Then we’ll go inside.”

     Derek pushes himself off the jeep and points to the back door of the auto shop with one shaking finger.

     “If you don’t open the door, Stilinski,” he bellows, “I will smash my way in through the damn wall!”

     “Because that won’t be a dead giveaway for any train spotters who may or may nor be tracking you,” Stiles snaps. The outburst alarms him more than he’d like to admit, and when alarmed, he resorts to sarcasm.

     Derek sways, and only by catching hold of the jeep’s roof is he able to avoid going sprawling in the second parking of the day.

     “Fine,” he hisses between gritted teeth. “You want to know?”

     Stiles can only nod.

     “Scott is connected to the train who created him by something we call a coupling.”

     “A what?”

     “A coupling. It’s not a physical thing, not really. It’s like a spiritual bond or link. They can form in lots of ways but an engine always starts out coupled to the one who branded them.”

     “And what does it do?”

     “It connects us. It makes us into real trains. That’s what the word ‘train’ means, what it’s always meant, long before humans started messing around with steam power. It means units—horses or cars or whatever—moving together as one.”

     “Okay,” says Stiles slowly, “but what does it actually do?”

     Derek pulls a face, as a wave of pain and nausea sweeps over him. “A lot of shit. The engines in a train can feel each other’s emotions sometimes. That’s the most common.”

     “Like telepathy?”

     “Nothing that precise. No words or pictures. Just feelings. Pain, fear, warmth. That kind of stuff.”

     “So that’s why Scott woke up when the express train was shot. He could feel it through this coupling thing.”

     Derek nods. He looks like he might throw up. “Right. But it’s more complicated than that. Engines who are strong enough can use their couplings on purpose. They can push the other members of their train to do things, or even draw energy from them.”

     Stiles nods to himself. That makes sense too. Scott knew where to go last night because the express train was calling him there. But the second part confuses him.

     “Energy?” he queries.

     “Think of it like momentum,” Derek advises. His voice is growing noticeably weaker now. “The more engines are part of a train, the harder the train is to stop.”

     “So that’s why the express wanted Scott there. To lend him momentum in case it came to a fight with the train spotters.”

     “Probably,” Derek agrees. “But he also wants to make Scott kill for him. That’s why he called your friend out when he attacked Garrison Myers. He thinks if he and Scott kill together, it’ll make the coupling stronger.”

     “Jesus Christ. Is that true?”

     Derek shrugs. “Who knows? He’s a crazy bastard. Always has been.”

     “Sounds like you know him.”

     “Not really.”

     Stiles considers forcing the issue, but decides against it. Derek is sufficiently strung out that another argument would probably mean death for one them. He tips over the green flowerpot with his foot and retrieves the key. Derek staggers along in his wake as he unlocks the door and leads the way into the auto shop.

Scott flinches as Allison levels a bow at him.

     “They need arrows to actually hurt you, you know,” she gently teases.

     “I was just surprised,” says Scott, lowering the arm he had half-raised to shield his face. They are alone in the Argents’ wide garage, save for a parked hatchback, which so far has made no comment. Now he studies the bow more carefully. It looks high tech, all fiberglass and nylon, more Hawkeye than Robin Hood.

     “So you do archery.”

     Allison nods. “Yup. I was nationally ranked and everything.”

     “Was?”

     “Well, I kind of had to quit when we moved here. It’s not like New Sodor High has a team.”

     “You couldn’t keep training on your own?”

     “I could, but it’s not much fun. But maybe now that Kate’s here I can get in some real practice.”

     “She’s an archer too?”

     “You bet. And she’s good at it. She used to be like my coach.”

     Scott nods absently. A train spotter would have to be a pretty good shot to hit Derek when he was running full tilt. Then his eye is caught by a huge glass case on the other side of the garage.

     “Whoa,” he almost whispers.

     The case is securely locked, and not without reason. Inside it are more blades than Scott has ever seen in one place. Most are knives, ranging from dainty clasp knives with pearl handles to sheath knives as long as Scott’s forearm, but there are other tools as well: hatchets and hacksaws, multi-tools and machetes. All have a stark elegance to their design and the same symbol—two overlapping triangles—stamped somewhere on blade or hilt.

     “Oh yeah,” says Allison, noticing Scott’s gaze. “All the knives. I should probably explain. Don’t worry. We’re not a crazy survivalist family of anything. It’s my dad’s company: Argent Armory.”

     She replaces the bow and leads Scott over to the case and points at the symbol Scott noticed before. “See, that’s their logo. It’s sort of a bad joke. It’s supposed to look kind of like two letter A’s but it’s also an old symbol for silver. Because Argent…”

     “…means silver,” says Scott nodding. “Clever.”

     Allison makes a face. “Sort of, I guess. Anyway, they actually make the knives out in the Rust Belt somewhere. My dad just consults on the designs and finds buyers. These are in case he ever has to show off to a big client.”

     “Like who?”

     She shrugs. “Whoever. Sporting goods chains. Park rangers. Army contractors. I think they even sell some directly to the military.”

     “Wow,” says Scott, and he means it.

     Allison smiles at his expression. “I should’ve known you’d like it. Boys and their toys, huh?”

     Scott steps closer to her, returning her smile. “So are you going to take over the family business someday?”

     “Maybe,” Allison teases. “What do you think? Would a girl who’s good at handling weapons turn you on?”

     “If that girl was you,” Scott declares.

     He puts his hands on either side of Allison’s waist and draws her to him. She leans up to kiss him and a warm tingle, like a little bolt of lightning, passes from mouth to mouth. They melt into each other, toppling sideways against the locked case. They’re so absorbed in fact that they entirely fail to hear a car pull up outside, or even the gentle creak of the garage’s side door opening.

     They do, however, hear Chris Argent’s stern cough.

     “Ahem.”

     Both freeze at once, before turning slowly to meet their doom. Allison’s father regards the teenagers with eyes like chips of ice.

     “You two mind helping bring in some groceries?” he inquires.

Mr. Argent leads the way to the SUV. The trunk is already open and a blonde woman Scott instantly recognizes as Allison’s aunt Kate is taking brown paper bags out of it.

     “Here,” says Scott, mindful of Mr. Argent’s eyes upon him, “Let me get those for you.”

     “Well okay, cutie,” says Kate with a smile. “You must be Scott, huh?”

     “That’s me, ma’am,” Scott confirms, accepting the bags of groceries.

     “Did you hear that?” Kate asks Allison. “He called me ‘ma’am’!”

     “He’s trying to be polite, Kate,” Allison explains, taking a few bags of her own.

     “Oh, I know that,” says Kate with laugh. “I think it’s sweet. But ‘ma’am’ makes me sound so old. Just call me Kate from now on, okay Scott?”

     “Okay,” Scott agrees, feeling more than a little uncomfortable.

     It’s almost a relief when, after the groceries are put away, Allison’s father turns to him and says, “I think you’d better be getting along home now, Scott, don’t you?”

     Scott wants to agree with him. With the chief train spotter back in residence the Argent house is definitely feeling like enemy territory once more. But he still needs to find some of the poultice that poisoned Derek.

     “Sir, I…”

     He has no idea how he would’ve finished that sentence, but luckily Kate intervenes.

     “Oh come off it, Chris. They were making out in the garage, not shooting amateur porn. Besides, we just bought ten tons of food.”

     Chris Argent does not look convinced but she continues without waiting to hear his opinion. “Scott, you’re staying to dinner. And that’s final.”

     “Okay,” says Scott hesitantly. “Thanks.”

     He shoots Allison’s father a nervous glance. The man sighs and favors Scott with a glassy, humorless smile. “I hope you like lamb.”

Scott, as he soon discovers, has mixed feelings about lamb. The chops, prepared by Mrs. Argent with help from Allison, are tender and well seasoned, but they leave a strangely wooly aftertaste in his mouth.

     Actually, Scott is having mixed feelings about the experience of dinner with the Argents as a whole. Obviously the invitation was good for his overall plan of campaign, and Allison’s warm leg brushing against his under the table is a very pleasant distraction, but the overall atmosphere is chilly with a side of threatening.

     “Can I offer you a drink, Scott?” asks Mr. Argent, as he pours red wine for himself and his sister. Mrs. Argent, a hard-faced woman with short red hair, abstains.

     “No, sir,” says Scott confused.

     “If wine’s not to your taste, I’m sure I’ve got a few beers in the fridge.”

     “No thank you, sir. I don’t drink.”

     “Why not?”

     “I’m not old enough to?” says Scott, now feeling quite out of his depth.

     “That doesn’t stop a lot of teenagers,” says Mrs. Argent without inflection.

     “No, but it should,” says Scott, with as much earnestness as he can muster.

     “Ooh, good answer,” says Kate appreciatively. “You’re not fooling me, but still…good answer.”

     “Thanks,” Scott mumbles, returning his gaze to his lamb chop hastily.

     “Do you smoke pot?” Allison’s father asks abruptly.

     “What?” Scott stammers.

     “Daddy, stop torturing him,” Allison orders.

     “Yeah, Chris, you big square,” Kate chimes in. She takes a gulp of her wine. “So Scott, Allison tells me you play lacrosse.”

     “I do,” Scott says, grateful for the new topic. “I’m on the varsity team.”

     “He’s really good too. Isn’t that right, Dad? We went to one of his games,” Allison explains to Kate.”

     Her father demurs, chewing a bite of lamb. “He did fine.”

     “He scored four goals including the winning one,” says Allison flatly.

     “After scoring no goals and making no passes for the first three quarters of the game,” he father reminds her.

     “Jeez, tough crowd,” Kate remarks. “So is this a violent game? I really don’t know anything about it.”

     “Well,” says Scott, “You know hockey?”

     “Sure.”

     “Well, it’s kind of like that. I mean, we have to wear the same kind of heavy padding and there’s a lot of shoving and stick checking. It’s just we’re on turf instead of ice.”

     “They have hockey games on turf, you know,” says Mr. Argent coolly. “They call it field hockey.”

     “Oh yeah,” says Scott. “I suppose they do.” He can feel his ears turning red.    

     “Then I guess you could just say it’s like field hockey but with nets on the sticks,” suggests Allison, glaring at her father.

     Scott nods hastily and—more slowly—Mr. Argent does likewise. For a few minutes, the meal continues in silence. Then Allison says, apropos of nothing,

     “Scott has a job as a mechanic.”

     “And where is that?” asks Mrs. Argent politely.

     “New Sodor Automotive Repair Shop, ma’am,” says Scott. “But I’m really only an assistant.”

     “You like cars?” asks Kate.

     “Sure. I like cars.”

     “I still remember the first car I ever had,” says Allison’s father, almost dreamily. “Fourth-hand Porsche, but I kept her like she was new. Spit and polish.”

     “What happened to her?” asks Scott, against his better judgment.

     “A couple of teenagers stole her,” says Mr. Argent. “The police figure they were just taking a little joyride. However it was, they tried to go around the barrier at a railway crossing but they got the timing wrong. Got a freight train straight to the passenger’s side door. Killed them instantly. And the car was totaled, of course.”

     After that, attempts at conversation are largely abandoned.

Following the conclusion of the meal, Scott finds a moment to check his phone. There are more text messages from Stiles, the last one sent only a few minutes ago.

     At autoshop

     How much longer?

     Derek is worse

     Think we’re running out of time

     Derek wants me 2 cut off his arm with blowtorch. Not sure if delirious or just doesn’t know how poison works X(

     Scott! Hurry!

     “Shit,” Scott mumbles. He looks around. Allison’s father has retreated to his study. Allison herself is helping her mother to clear the table. Kate is nowhere to be seen.

     As quietly as he can, Scott heads back upstairs. He turns in the opposite direction of Allison’s bedroom and finds himself in a long hall.

     If I were a secret magical poison, he ponders, where would I be?

     Almost at once his gaze falls on an unmarked door with a sturdy lock built into its frame. He tries the handle just in case, but it doesn’t move an inch.

     “Hey Scott, whatcha doing?”

     Scott whirls round, coming face to face with Kate Argent. The willowy train spotter is just emerging from what looks like a guest bedroom. Her mouth is still smiling widely but her eyes are narrowed.

     “Oh, I…” Scott stammers. “I was just looking for a bathroom.”

     “Does that look like a bathroom to you?”

     “Not really,” Scott admits, giving the locked door another glance.

     “Tell you what,” she says, “I’ve got a guest bathroom attached to my bedroom. You can just use that.”

     She gestures at the open door behind her.

     “Thanks,” says Scott weakly.

     He has to pass uncomfortably close to Kate as he enters her room and just for an instant he catches a whiff of her scent: jasmine and civet, with just hint of stainless steel polish. Its not unpleasant—quite the reverse—but it speaks of danger. Scott shivers. He is quite glad when Kate departs for the downstairs.

     Now that Scott is alone in Kate’s room, it occurs to him that since she was Derek’s poisoner, it may very well be that the poison is hidden somewhere nearby. He spots the corner of a long black case poking out from under the bed.

     Moving quietly, he draws the case out and unzips it. A bow, every bit as efficient looking as Allison’s championship winning weapon, is revealed, along with a quiver of broad-headed arrows. There are other tools of the train spotter’s trade here: thick leather gloves, a sheath knife, an oxyacetylene torch, a heavy watchman’s flashlight, and God knows what else. But Scott isn’t interested in these. His attention is given over entirely to a bandolier of little vials and capsules.

     He picks it up and examines each container closely. They are labeled clearly with squares of masking tape and a felt tipped pen. It doesn’t take him long to find the tube marked “salsa-da-praia”.

     He pockets it and drops the bandolier back into the open case. Then he shoves the case out of sight and heads back downstairs, moving as quickly as he dares. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest and, worse still, he knows that Thomas can feel it too. It’s time to be going.

Unfortunately, it proves a little difficult to politely extricate himself from the Argent household. Mrs. Argent seems intent on playing good cop to her husband’s bad, plying Scott with polite questions and anecdotes that don’t involve the violent deaths of dissolute teenagers. At last however, Scott manages to get across the idea that he should really be biking home and Allison walks him to the front door.

     “I’m sorry about all this,” she tells him as he retrieves his jacket from the coatrack.

     “It wasn’t so bad.”

     “Are you kidding? I just subjected you to the most awkward dinner anyone has ever eaten.”

     “Not quite.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Well, see, there was this one dinner when my parents told me they were getting a divorce…”

     “Oh.”

     “Yeah. Compared to that, this dinner…” Scott shrugs. “This was fine. Anyway, it was worth it.”

     “How so?”

     “I got to spend more time with you.”

     Allison beams. “You’re adorable.”

     She throws her arms about Scott’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. He returns it, matching heat with heat, but when they finally pause, his stomach gives a sudden, violent lurch.

     Over Allison’s shoulder he can just make out Mr. Argent standing in the shadow of a doorframe.

     “Uh, Allison,” Scott whispers, “I think your Dad is watching us.”

     “Good,” Allison whispers, defiance sparkling in her dark eyes, and she kisses Scott again.

     This time they are interrupted by the arrival of Allison’s aunt Kate. She looks grim.

     “Hey Kate,” asks Allison, disentangling herself from Scott with as much dignity as she can manage. “What’s up?”

     “Actually, I need to talk to Scott,” Kate says. There is none of the playful warmth left in her voice. “Now.”

     “Okay,” says Allison, puzzled but staunch, “Go ahead.”

     Kate sighs and turns to Scott. “I hate to do this, because I know Allison likes you and those big brown eyes really are very cute, but I’m going to need you to go ahead and return whatever it was you took from my bag.”

     “What?” says Scott, playing for time even as cold panic floods his system.

     “What?” Allison demands. “Scott didn’t take anything of yours.”

     “Yeah,” Kate says, almost sadly, “He did. Not sure why though. Are you just a klepto, Scott, or do you have some other nasty little habit you need to finance?”

     “What’s going on here?” rumbles Allison’s father, emerging from the darkened hallway.

     “I let Scott use the bathroom in my room,” Kate explains, “When I went back up there, someone had rummaged through my traveling case. I want to know what he took.”

     “Seriously, Kate?” snaps Allison, “You too? Look, Scott’s not some juvenile delinquent, okay? He didn’t take anything from your case.”

     “You can’t know that, honey,” Kate informs her. “And my stuff was definitely moved. The case was even unzipped.”

     Inwardly, Scott curses himself for a fool. Out loud, he says, “Listen, I really don’t know what’s going on here…”

     “Should I call the police?” Mr. Argent asks his sister, ignoring Scott.

     “Jesus Christ!” Allison yells, “Fine! It was me! Not Scott, okay? Me. I went through your bags, Kate. I’m sorry.”

     “What?” says Kate, startled. “But why?”

     Allison heaves a sigh and pulls something out of her pocket. Wordlessly, she proffers it to her aunt.

     “Oh,” says Kate.

     It’s a condom. The silvery foil of its wrapper gleams brightly under the hall light.

     Mr. Argent makes a little choking noise. Allison glares at him and then back at Kate.

     “Everyone happy now? Can Scott leave, or do you think we need to handcuff him to a radiator until the cops get here?”

     “Scott can leave,” says Mr. Argent firmly.

     Scott does so, breathing in grateful lungfuls of the cool night air.

Stiles is trying vainly to prize a welding torch out of a shirtless Derek Hale’s viselike grip, when he hears the whirring of Scott’s madly churning bicycle wheels. A moment later, Stiles’ friend bursts through the backdoor of the auto shop, brandishing a small vial of something black and sticky.

     “I’m here, I’m here!” he pants, “And I found the poison!”

     Derek lets out a shuddering sigh of relief that fills the room with sooty steam. He struggles to stand, knocking over Stiles and Mr. Deaton’s swivel chair in the process, and lurches towards Scott.

     “Give it to me!” he demands, but in fact he snatches the vial of salsa-da-praia from Scott's fingers without waiting.

     Then he faints.

     There’s a metallic clang as Derek’s head hits the concrete floor and the little vial goes rolling away. Scott darts after it, while Stiles hastens to kneel down beside the fallen engine.

     “Come on, you asshole,” he mutters, shaking Derek’s shoulder. “Wake the hell up. We still don’t know what we need to do with your magic salsa.”

     Derek doesn’t stir. Stiles grimaces, then slaps the unconscious man across the face. All that he manages to achieve is a second metallic clang and sharp pain in his hand.

     Moaning and cursing quietly, Stiles looks around in desperation. His eye falls on a cluttered workbench, strewn with spare parts and tools of the mechanic's trade.

     “What are you doing?” Scott demands, as he sees his friend connecting a set of jumper cables to a gutted car battery.

     “Desperate times,” Stiles mutters, “Desperate measures.”

     He presses the other end of the cable to Derek’s chest. There’s a noise like the biggest bug zapper in creation and a single brilliant blue spark that nearly blinds the teenagers. Then Derek screeches like rending brakes and sits bolt upright. He brushes Stiles and the cables aside and sticks out a hand towards Scott.

     “The poison,” he grinds out. There is little human about his face now. Rivets run down over the line of his jaw and the thick tendons in his neck. Streaks of blue paint can be seen under dark hair and stubbly beard. His very flesh is taking on a sickly greyish cast, and it gleams like greasepaint.

     Scott drops the vial into his open hand.

     “Now the torch,” he orders.

     “But you don’t need the torch,” Stiles protests. “We have the poultice-thing now, the one Scott went to get.”

     “Give me the torch!” Derek bellows.

     Stiles passes it to him with hands that tremble.

     Derek smashes the vial open against the concrete; its murky contents spill out in a wide line. Then he passes the blowtorch quickly over it, leaving behind a trail of fine white ash. He takes a pinch of the ash between thumb and forefinger and holds it up to eye level. Then in a deep and sonorous voice, he recites,

     Dhyt an aile ayns ta mo furnix

     Lostey magh nya dorraghys dou.

     Dhyt ta bee shanglaneagh.

     Dhyt ta bee slaneit.

The wound on his bare upper arm begins to glow with a fiery light. Derek grits his teeth and presses the ashes of the train spotters’ poultice to the wound. The glow flares up into white-hot brilliance for a moment. Then it dims. The wound closes, and living, human color gradually begins to return to Derek’s cheeks.

     “That,” Stiles says into the breathless silence, “was awesome!”

     “What was that you were saying?” asks Scott, helping Derek to his feet.

     “Sudric,” Derek grunts. He trudges over to the scarred desk where his shirt and jacket are piled in a crumpled heap. He pulls them on with brisk, efficient motions. Scott catches a glimpse of a strange tattoo between Derek’s shoulder blades, as well as the yellow numeral two branded on his upper arm, before both disappear from view.

     “What’s Sudric?” Scott demands.

     “The old language of Sodor,” says Stiles, disconnecting the jumper cables and tossing them back onto the workbench. “Related to Gaelic and Manx, at least according to the internet.”

     “Sodor. That’s the island where the train people came from, right?” says Scott, trying to keep up.

     Stiles nods. “That’s right.”

     “But what were you actually saying?” Scott presses, moving to step into Derek’s path as the bigger man makes for the door. “Was it a spell?”

     “Sure, Scott,” says Derek wearily, “It was a spell. A twinkly, magical spell. For my next trick, I think I’ll pull a rabbit out of my ass.”

     “What the hell, man? You don’t have to be like that. Stiles and I just saved your damn life.”

     Derek glowers. “Great. So now we’re even. You don’t owe me and I don’t owe you. So how about you get out of my way?”

     Scott glares. “You said you were going to teach me about being a tank engine.”

     “And I will. But not tonight. And not in front of him.” Derek gestures contemptuously at Stiles.

     “Why the hell not? You’d be dead without Stiles.”

     “He knows too much already and he’s been pushing me for more information, the kind I shouldn’t be giving to ordinary humans. Any further, and he’ll be a potential threat. Then I’ll have to kill him, for the good of all us.”

     “If you ever raise a hand to Stiles,” Scott growls, feeling the numeral one branded on his chest growing painfully hot, “it’ll be the last mistake you ever make.”

     Derek sneers. “We both know you can’t take me, Scott.”

     “No, but I bet Argent’s army of train spotters could.”

     “You’d sell me out to them? To the fucking Argents?”

     “Why not? They’re a hell of a lot nicer than you are!”

     Derek takes a step forward. His hands are shaking with suppressed fury and he seems to loom up taller than a moment before. His mouth though is quirked up into a smile of terrible amusement.

     “Nice?” he whispers. “You think the Argents are nice? I’ll tell you just how nice they are.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “This isn’t the first time the Argents have come to New Sodor,” says Derek darkly. “And the last time they were here, they destroyed my home and my family.”

     “The fire,” Stiles breathes, his brown eyes going very wide. “That fire that burned down half your house.”

     “That was no fire,” Derek snarls, “It was an explosion! They blew us up with dynamite and roofing nails. My sister and I stayed late at school that day. We were in detention. That’s the only reason we’re still alive.”

     “Did anyone…I mean…” Scott falters. “So no one in the house made it out alive?”

     Derek shakes his head. “Only my uncle, but he was half-shredded and brain dead. And he was the strongest of us! There were little children in that house, and ordinary humans too. But train spotters don’t care about little things like the loss of innocent lives. They only care about hurting engines.”

Allison steps outside. The night air is growing downright chilly but a few stars have appeared near the eastern horizon, glittering like silver-blue gems. She pulls out her cell phone and tries Scott’s number, pacing down the length of the drive with the phone pressed to her ear. To her disappointment, her call goes unanswered and she is prompted to leave a message.

     “Hi, Scott. Sorry again about the awkwardness of tonight. I was just hoping we could talk about…um…things. Call me back, or I guess I’ll see you at school. Either way. I…well, goodnight.”

     She taps the button to end the call.

     “Well,” Allison mutters to herself. “That was pathetically incoherent.”

     She’s about to turn around and go back inside when her gaze falls on her aunt Kate’s car. For some reason, it’s been covered with a blue plastic tarp, the edges weighted down with bricks. Allison glances swiftly towards the house, and then lifts up one corner of the tarp to peer beneath.

     There are deep dents in the car’s roof, deep enough to warp the steel frame that supports it. One of the rear windows has cracked under the strain of that deformation, so that the glass is covered in jagged spider webs. Strangest of all, two of the dents look almost like footprints.

     “Not a flat tire then,” Allison whispers, addressing no one but herself. “And not a dead battery either.”

     She shakes her ruefully and lowers the tarp. There’s probably a reasonable explanation for this. Probably her father and aunt just didn’t want her to worry. Probably.

     She wishes Scott would call her back.

In the Argent’s parlor room, a den of wood paneling and flickering firelight, Kate and her brother pore over a map of New Sodor County. All of the defunct rail lines are highlighted with bold colors and little crosses represent confirmed sightings of one or more engines.

     “If Derek dies…” Chris begins.

     “When he dies,” says Kate firmly. “I mixed that dose myself. It was lethal.”

     “If Derek dies,” Chris repeats. “It’s going to make finding the express train a lot more difficult.”

     “How sure are you that Derek’s the only engine coupled to this express?”

     “Not very,” Chris admits. “I actually saw Derek with a second, smaller engine on one of our first patrols.”

     “What? And you only thought to mention it now?”

     Chris shrugs. “We’re pretty sure the two of them were fighting. I figured it for a territorial dispute, Derek and the express muscling in on this little fellow’s route.”

     “What happened to it? The smaller engine, I mean?”

     “One of my boys clipped it with a crossbow, but then we had Derek at our throats. It got away before I could finish it off. We haven’t seen any sign of it since. Most likely its dead.”

     “How do you figure?”

     “It ran off with Derek Hale hard on its heels. He was bigger and stronger and it was injured. You do the math.”

     “And if he didn’t kill it?”

     “Meaning?”

     “What if he and the express train press-ganged it instead?”

     “They can’t just force a coupling on an unwilling engine, Kate. You know that.”

     It’s Kate turn to shrug. “Stockholm syndrome is a magical thing.”

     Chris Argent scratches at his stubbly beard. “It’s possible, I suppose. Might even explain a few things. But it doesn’t solve our problem.”

     “Why not? If we can figure out who this engine is, we can track it back to the express the same way you were planning to do with Derek.”

     “That’s a big if. And you’re forgetting a few things. We know Derek and this express train, whoever it is, are killers. But this new engine might not be. It might even be a kid. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

     “Your point?”

     “Don’t play dumb with me, Katie. You know the code. If this engine doesn’t pose a threat to humans, we can’t hunt him down just because it’s convenient.”

     Kate rolls her eyes. “You and the code.”

     “The code,” says Chris firmly, his lean face going very hard indeed, “is important.”

     Kate nods seriously. “Yeah, okay. Your town, your rules.”

     In the privacy of her own head she adds, …this time.

CLOSING THEME/CREDITS

Chapter Text

“Oh come on, Lydia!” Jackson Whittemore exclaims in exasperation. “We watched that one last time!”

     “And?”

     “And I don’t want to watch it again.”

     “Why not?”

     “I don’t know. I just thought maybe…”

     “That movie is very special to me, Jackson.”

     “I know, I just…”

     “You think I have bad taste in movies?”

     “What? No, I didn’t say that.”

     “But that’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

     Lydia Martin scoots away from her boyfriend. They’re sprawled on Lydia’s bedspread with her laptop before them, the list of movies available to rent from iTunes scrolling past on the glowing screen. The hour is late. The yellow light of a fat harvest moon spills through Lydia’s bedroom window and plays across the teenage girl’s face, making her hair shine like brushed copper.

     Jackson sighs and rubs at his face. At school, he’s used to playing the alpha male. He certainly looks the part, square-jawed and athletic. But nobody, whatever their testosterone level, wins an argument with Lydia.

     “Look, it’s fine,” he says with as much grace as he can muster. “We can watch ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.’ Again.”

     Lydia beams and snuggles closer to him, reaching for her laptop’s track pad.

     At this point, something hits Lydia’s house like a wrecking ball.

     Everything shudders violently. Lydia screams. A crack snakes across the plaster of her ceiling and the window shatters, letting in the cold night air. The left-hand wall of the bedroom simply falls away, crumbling and crashing into the wreckage of the floor below. Dust fountains up.

     Gradually, the air clears. Jackson’s ears are still ringing, but he can make out the shrill beeping of a single surviving fire alarm somewhere on the first floor and a deeper groaning of shifting timber. Very carefully, he makes his way towards the missing wall. Peering down through the gap, he is confronted with an impossible sight.

     One whole side of the house is destroyed. Walls have been pulverized and rooms collapsed. Stranger still are the two deep furrows that cut through the mess, leading from the backyard to the street out front. The gouges slice into the asphalt as if it were butter but the path they follow is unwavering, almost mechanically straight.

     In the distance, a train whistles.

Sheriff Stilinski arrives on the scene in the wake of the fire department, the paramedics, and the various hangers on.

     “Dear Lord,” he mutters, staring at the remains of the house and the damage done to the street and sidewalk. “What a mess.”

     “That’s Lydia’s house,” Stiles whispers in horror. The sheriff’s teenage son, Stiles is seated on the passenger’s side of the squad car. The remains of the drive-thru dinner that the emergency services call interrupted are scattered across the dashboard.

     The sheriff unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’ll go talk to the fire chief, see where we stand. You stay here. And don’t eat my curly fries.”

     “You’re on a diet,” says Stiles automatically. “You’re not supposed to be having fries, especially the curly ones.”

     His father ignores him as he strides from the vehicle. From his seat, Stiles anxiously scans the throng of faces, biting his knuckles. At last he finds the single face for which he is searching: round and comely, with full lips and faintly feline eyes, framed my long tresses of red-gold hair. Lydia Martin.

     Stiles feels something in his chest loosen that he hadn’t realized was tight. He’s known Lydia since they were in grade school and his feelings for her are powerful, complicated, and thoroughly unrequited.

     Standing with Lydia is her boyfriend, Jackson. He’s Stiles’ captain on the lacrosse team, but Stiles feels no loyalty to the arrogant upperclassman. Currently, Jackson seems to be yelling at the fire marshal tasked with asking him questions.

     Stiles doubts that the marshals—or even his father—will have much luck determining what really happened here, even though the evidence is staring them right in face. The world just isn’t ready to accept the existence of walking, talking trains.

     “Are you starting to see?” Derek Hale demands. He and Scott McCall are crouched in the shadow of a neighboring house, surveying the damage and the milling crowd of officials, reporters, and busybodies.

     “I see that he’s going in for property damage now,” Scott retorts. “But I don’t know why.”

     “He wants you,” Derek says simply. The yellow moonlight lends a feral cast to the human engine’s chiseled features. “He wants you to be part of his train. He knows you’re resisting him but I don’t think he understands why or how.”

     “What do you mean?” Scott asks, pulling his hoodie tighter about his shoulders. Though the night is a warm one, the teenager is beginning to wish he’d brought a heavier coat.

     Derek points to the distant figure of Jackson Whittemore, who’s now arguing loudly with the sheriff. “He was in that house. And he’s your captain.”

     “So? He’s also an asshole. I barely speak to him.”

     “But you follow his orders. As a far as the express train is concerned, that makes him a rival for your loyalty.”

     “You’re saying Jackson’s in danger because of me.”

     “A lot of people are in danger because of you, McCall. And they will be, until you learn to control your engine enough to help me take this bastard down.”

     Scott grits his teeth. “What do you want from me?”

     “You should be training with me every day, not once or twice a week.”

     “I can’t. I have classes. Practice. Homework!”

     “Do you want to do homework, or do you want to live?”

     “You said the express train didn’t want me dead.”

     “No, he wants you to be a killer. And if he succeeds, there isn’t a train spotter on earth who’ll hesitate to put you down like a rabid animal. And I won’t lift a finger to save you.”

     Scott looks back at the rubble that used to be a home. He feels a sudden weariness that has nothing to do with the late hour. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

     Derek shakes his head, staring at something Scott can’t see. “No one asks for this.”

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

Allison Argent is getting dressed for school when her aunt Kate knocks at her bedroom door.

     “Hey Kate,” says Allison absently, bushing the tangles from her long dark hair. “What is it?”

     Kate Argent—normally so self-assured—looks faintly uncomfortable, her hands folded behind her back. “Look honey, I just wanted to apologize again for the way I acted the other night when Scott was over.”

     Allison dismisses this with a careless wave of the hand. “It’s okay. I know you were just being protective.”

     “I was being a protective bitch,” says Kate frankly.

     Allison laughs. “Just a little. But it’s really okay. Not a big deal.”

     “Well, thanks. But I still feel bad. So I’m decided, what better way to say sorry than by giving you your birthday present a little early?”

     From behind her back, Kate produces a small, green velvet box with a bow taped hastily to the top. Allison takes it uncertainly and works the catch.

     Inside is a watch. It looks a bit like a pocket watch, but lighter and with a long chain like a necklace in place of a fob. The case is old silver, beautifully worked, with a relief image of a steam train crossing over a bridge. The tiny numerals must have been hand painted by some skillful calligrapher, and the hands themselves are gossamer-fine rays of gold.

     “Oh Kate,” says Allison. “It’s gorgeous!”

     “You like?”

     “I love it!”

     Kate smiles. “It’s a family heirloom. And, though you know I loathe and despite all forms of sentimentality, if you ever want to find out a bit more about where we come from, this little trinket…”

     Here Kate taps the watch gently with a forefinger. “…might be worth researching.”

     Allison raises an eyebrow. “A locket that comes with a mystery, huh? It really must be my birthday.”

     “Well don’t get too carried away, Nancy Drew,” Kate cautions. She helps Allison put the necklace-watch on and bestows a quick peck on the cheek. “Have fun at school.”

     Allison pulls a face and Kate laughs.

     “How about this? Survive school and I’ll make sure there’s plenty of cake and ice cream waiting when you get home.”

     “If I make it home,” says Allison darkly. “It’s parent-teacher conferences tonight.”

     “Oh yuck,” says Kate. “On your birthday? That’s just not right.”

     “Just be glad they don’t schedule teacher-aunt conferences,” says Allison, as she brushes past Kate into the hall, her backpack dangling off one shoulder.

     Kate stares after her for a long moment, even once Allison has vanished downstairs and out of sight. Her face is drawn and pensive.

In the long hallways of New Sodor High School, with their ever-present bouquet of linoleum sealant, pencil shavings, and sweat, Allison opens her locker. At once, brightly colored balloons bob out and try to escape towards the ceiling, trailing curly ribbons behind them.

     Allison swears under her breath and hastily stuffs the balloons back inside the locker. In doing so, she discovers an oversized birthday card, all pink and sparkly, with Lydia’s signature on it.

     “Wait, is today your birthday?”

     Allison whips round, dislodging one of the balloons. It drifts happily away down the long hall. Scott, who has come up behind Allison without her noticing, watches it in mild surprise.

     “Please don’t tell anyone,” says Allison quickly, dismay writ large upon her face. “I don’t even know how Lydia found out.”    

     “Okay,” says Scott slowly, “But why?”

     “I just…” Allison sighs and shuts the locker. “It’s nothing.”

     “Doesn’t seem like nothing,” says Scott gently. He steps closer and puts an arm around Allison’s shoulders. “Seriously, are you okay?”

     “I’m fine,” Allison assures him. “It’s just…well, I’m seventeen.”

     Scott, who like most of the kids in his grade won’t be seventeen for almost a year, blinks. “Oh. Oh, I see.”

     “See what?”

     “Nothing. You just had to repeat a year, right? Because your family moves around so much?”

     Allison stares at him. “I…yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly.”

     She puts her arms about Scott’s neck and kisses him warmly on the lips.

     “What was that for?” asks Scott, grinning bemusedly.

     “For being literally the first person ever to make the correct assumption.”

     “Why? What do people usually assume?”

     Allison grimaces and leans against Scott, resting her forehead in the warm hollow between shoulder and collarbone.      “They just always ask me the stupidest questions,” she explains. “‘Did you get held back a year? Did you get kicked out? Did you have a baby?’”

     She makes scornful noise at the back of her throat.

     “And did you?” asks Scott.

     “Did I what?”

     “Have the baby?”

     Allison punches Scott lightly on the arm and they both laugh. “You’re a jerk, Scott McCall.”

     “I’m just saying, you could make some real pretty ones.”

     “A jerk,” Allison repeats, but she’s smiling at her boyfriend’s antics. Truth to tell though, Scott never has to work very hard to make her smile. There’s something about face—messy hair, big brown eyes, and slightly crooked chin—that just tugs on her heartstrings and the corners of her mouth.

     The bell warning students to get to class chimes and Allison’s moment of good humor vanishes. The idea of a whole day of unwanted attention and idiotic questions is suddenly indescribably daunting.

     “Tell you what,” says Scott, seeing the change in her expression, “Let’s get out of here.”

     “What?”

     “You shouldn’t have to be miserable on your birthday. Let’s just leave.”

     “You mean cut class?”

     “I mean cut all the classes. Let’s just not do school today.”

     Allison glances nervously about. “I’ve never done anything like that before,” she confides. “What if we’re caught? My parents will flip out.”

     “Blame it all on me,” Scott offers. “Your dad’s already convinced I’m leading you down the road to perdition.”

     “Are you saying that you aren’t?” asks Allison, turning her back on the hall that would lead to her first class of the day. As she does so, she feels a dreadful weight lift from the pit of her stomach.

     “Only one way to find out,” says Scott, taking her hand in his.

Stiles is worried. Scott hasn’t shown up for their first period chemistry class and neither has Jackson. His restless fingers drum out a nervous tattoo on the black worktop.

     He leans over to Danny, sitting in the next row. The older boy is the lacrosse team’s goalie and, as one of the school’s only openly gay athletes, something of a local celebrity.

     “Hey Danny,” Stiles’ whispers, “Can I ask you a question?”

     “Nope,” says Danny, without turning his head.

     “Do you know if Jackson came to school today?”

     “I’m not talking to you, Stilinski,” says Danny.

     “Do you know what happened to him and Lydia last night?”

     Danny sighs in exasperation. “Isn’t your dad the sheriff? You probably know more about it than me.”

     “I just thought Jackson might have told you something. He’s, like, your best friend.”

     “He didn’t, okay?” snaps Danny.

     “Okay,” Stiles agrees. “Okay. Just one more question.”

     “What is it?”

     “Do you find me attractive?”

     Danny gives Stiles—small and snub-nosed, with a head like a bowling ball and hair like a brown shag carpet—a withering look. He might have followed this up with some cutting comment, but at this point the door of the chemistry classroom swings open to admit Jackson Whittemore.

     Very uncharacteristically, the lacrosse captain looks…bad: tired and strung-out and scared. He settles into his usual seat, other students shifting out of his way without meeting his eyes. The chemistry teacher hurries over to him with the day’s handouts and a solicitous air.

     Stiles settles back into his seat, biting his lip in thought. Did Jackson see the express train who was stalking Scott? Did Lydia? How long can his friend’s secret stay safe?

Scott hops into the passenger’s seat of Allison’s little blue car and shuts the door.

     Hey, it’s the mechanic! the car greets him, in a voice that reaches his brain without ever passing through his ears. Long time, no see. The new brake lining’s holding up great by the way, not that you asked.

     “Oh my God, we’re really doing this, aren’t we?” says Allison, as she turns the key in the ignition.

     “Yup,” Scott agrees grinning. Then over Allison’s shoulder he spots Bobby Finstock, his lacrosse coach and the school’s economics teacher, hurrying across the parking lot. As suaul, the man’s wild hair sticks up in all directions. The coach isn’t exactly the poster child for responsible behavior, but he is technically an authority figure and he knows Scott by sight.

     “Crap,” says Scott. “Get us out of here quick.”

     “Maybe this is a bad idea,” Allison demurs, biting her lip.

     What’s a bad idea? the car wants to know. What are we doing?

     “Please Allison,” says Scott, sinking lower into his seat in the hope that his coach won’t spot his face. “Just drive?”

     “Where are we going?”

     “I’ll give you directions. Start with a left out of the parking lot.”

     “Okay,” says Allison shakily and a moment later they’re off and away.

     It’ll end in trouble, the car warns. Scott does his best to ignore it.

Kate Argent kills the engine of the van and all but vaults from her seat. Her compound bow is slung across her back, her smaller pistol bow on her hip. Her machete rests opposite and the handles of throwing knives protrude from the tops of her off-brand army boots. She wears ceramic body army under her fatigues and leather, and a bandolier of rare poisons over the top of them. Her golden hair is the only detail that doesn’t fit, long and lustrous.

     Two more train spotters emerge from the van as Kate begins to stalk purposefully towards the distant hulk of a half-burned house. They’re also heavily armed and the same eager hunger animates their movements.

     “You sure this is the place?” asks the train spotter with the shaven head, as the three of them circle around the lip of a huge scrap pit, choked with rusting metal and reddish brown water.

     “I’m sure,” says Kate, licking her lips. “I remember it like it was yesterday.”

     “What do we do if we find him?” asks the smaller train spotter. “The captain said we weren’t to kill him, not until we had a bead on the express.”

     “Killing?” asks Kate, with unconvincing innocence. “Who said anything about killing? I’m just gonna extract some information.”

     Here she fingers the stock of her pistol bow. “The old fashioned way.”

     They fall silent as they approach the house itself. The bald train spotter takes the lead now, circling around to the front of the building, where the damage is less extensive. Some more recent struggle has destroyed the front steps, but the train spotters spring lightly over the wreckage and onto the porch. The bald train spotter tries the front door. It’s unlocked and swings open easily. Somewhere within in the house a boom box playing the rousing power chords of a workout mix can faintly be heard.

     The bald man steps into the front hall, crossbow raised. Iron hands reach out of the shadows and seize him by the front of his camouflage vest.

     He yells and pulls the trigger, but the bolt hisses through empty air and sticks in the far wall. Then he is hurled bodily out the front door, soaring over the heads of his comrades and across the front lawn, to land heavily in the undergrowth just beyond the tree line.

     Kate grins.

     In the doorway, arms still uplifted with the effort of that mighty throw, is Derek Hale. He’s dressed only in athletic pants and his rippling muscles gleam with more than sweat, like burnished metal. His face is set in a mask of rage, his eyes an empty and ashen grey. A red and yellow numeral two blazes like a hot brand upon his upper arm and wisps of steam curl from his nostrils. Streaks of blue paint are crawling over his chest and rivets cover him like the stiches on Frankenstein’s monster.

     Kate strikes a shooter’s stance and lets fly with her pistol bow. Derek leaps sideways, legs firing like pistons, and the bolt whistles harmlessly past. He lunges into a counterattack, swiping at Kate’s head with the force of an oncoming train, but she simply leans out of the way and draws her machete.

     The other train spotter, a small and wiry man, hacks at Derek with his hatchet. The blade of the weapon gleams a brassy yellow and it manages to open a shallow rent in the human engine’s steely carapace. Red blood courses over blue paintwork.

     Derek bellows, filling the porch with deafening noise and drifting steam and spins to face the new attacker. The train spotter swipes again at his quarry, but he’s half-blinded by the expanding cloud of hot vapor and the swing goes wide. Derek seizes the arm that holds the hatchet and slams it against the doorframe. The man cries out in pain and the weapon flies from his grip, skittering away over the old floorboards. Derek draws back his other arm, hand clenched into fist, ready to deliver a blow that will reduce the train spotter’s head to sticky paste.

     Then he feels something cold and sharp being pressed into the space behind his ear, between the end of his jawbone and his skull. He freezes.

     “Good boy,” says Kate. “Now let him go.”

     Derek releases his grip on the train spotter, who scrambles away. Kate remains planted, her machete still pressed against Derek’s skull. Her eyes rove hungrily over her quarry. With a tremendous effort of will, Derek shifts back into a fully human body. He doesn’t think he’s likely to talk his way out of this one, but his odds are probably at least marginally better if he doesn’t look like a nineteenth century cyborg.

     Kate whistles appreciatively.

     “Well, this one grew up in all the right places,” she remarks to her companion. “I don’t know whether to kill it or lick it.”

     “Kill me and you’ll never find out where the express train is,” Derek says in a tight voice.

     “You sure about that?” asks Kate. “Not to brag, but I’m pretty good at tracking down engines.”

     “And while your busy tracking, there’ll be more attacks. More homes destroyed. More people killed.”

     “People like your sister?”

     Derek grinds his teeth in frustration. It sounds like grating metal. “Leave Laura out of this.”

     Kate gives a half-shrug, the arm holding the machete remaining perfectly steady. “Hey, we didn’t kill her.”

     “Not for lack of trying.”

     “True,” Kate agrees. “By the way, how’d you survive the salsa-da-praia?”

     “Why should I tell you?”

     “You want me to trust you, don’t you?”

     “Not especially.”

     “Ah, but if I can’t trust you, then any information you might give me about the express train is basically worthless. And if you’re not worth anything to me…”

     Kate presses just a little harder on the machete, until a thin trickle of blood begins to crawl down the back of Derek’s neck.

     “Okay!” he gasps, “Okay. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

     Kate relaxes the pressure on her blade and in that instant—that very instant—Derek changes.

     He dives forward, even as he feels Edward’s thunderous presence sweep through him and over him. Muscle and sinew becomes iron and steel, tons upon tons of it. Kate springs nimbly back from the explosive growth of metal and machinery and hacks vainly at the engine’s tender.

     Derek’s wheels bite into the already pocked and cratered soil of his front lawn and throw up fresh fountains of earth as he speeds away into the woods. Trees fall before him like dominoes and crossbow bolts whistle after him, but his momentum is unstoppable. In less than a minute, he’s reached the long disused Skarloey Railway. He shifts back to a semi-human form just long enough to scramble up the embankment, before changing again, seizing the rails with churning wheels. Then he’s streaking away at speeds no human can hope to match.

     Still standing on the cracked and listing porch, Kate Argent swears loudly and profusely.

Allison slows as the car approaches a faded yellow barricade. A equally faded sign with the words “DO NOT ENTER” printed on it hangs from a few links of rusting chain. The car rolls to a stop and she gives Scott a quizzical look.

     “Are you sure about this?”

     He nods. “It’ll be fine. I’ve been here before. We can park by the old station. Just let me move the gate.”

     He hops from the car. Warm autumn sunlight and the cinnamon smell of fallen leaves greet him and Scott smiles. He’ll take this over pop quizzes and cafeteria food any day. He even takes a moment to switch off his phone. Just for a few hours, he wants no reminders of the outside world.

     The barricade is stiff and heavy, but with Thomas’ help Scott moves it easily. Then he hops back in the car and he and Allison continue down the mossy lane through the woods. Asphalt gives way to packed earth and in another moment they’ve come out into a wide clearing. It holds an empty flagpole, a number of benches shedding flakes of green paint, and a brick building with a short clock tower and boarded up windows and doors.

     What the heck? the car demands. What is this place?

     Allison parks in the space beside the flagpole and steps out into the dusty sunshine. Scott follows her, pleased to see that she already looks more cheerful than she did back at the high school.

     “Okay,” she says. “I give up. Where are we?”

     “Bluebell Valley station,” says Scott.

     “As in railway station?” Allison asks, her fingers straying to the watch on its chain about her neck.

     Scott nods. “There’s a lot of old railways around here, all over the county actually. My friend Stiles and I used to go exploring for them when we were kids. I know it’s kind of lame but…”

     “No, it isn’t,” says Allison quickly. She crosses to the steps of the brick building and stands staring up at the relief carving of drooping flowers that adorns the top of the doorframe like a coat of arms. “It’s awesome. You almost can feel the history coming off this place.”

     She holds out one hand, as if the building is a hearth giving off heat. Scott laughs and she joins in.

     “I mean it though. You ever get that feeling around old things? Old buildings and heirlooms, I mean. Like they’re radiating little wisps of time?”

     “Yeah,” says Scott. “I do. But I thought it was just me.”

     Allison takes his hand with a smile.

     They walk together, down into the little valley that gives the station its name. They pass under the shadow of a rusting water tower and skirt around a corroded gas tank, until they come to the rails themselves. The trees and lesser flora have crowded in since the trains stopped running, climbing up and over the low embankment. Cardinals and goldfinches flit through the overhanging branches, flashes brighter color in the already splendid tapestry of gold and russet leaves.

     Hand in hand they walk along the train tracks. Allison starts to hum quietly. Scott chuckles when he recognizes the tune.

     “I’ve been working on the railroad,” he chants softly. “All the livelong day…”

     “I’ve been working on the railroad,” Allison echoes, her voice light and silvery, “just to pass the time away.”

     Then she falls silent as something away among the trees catches her attention.

     “What is it?” Scott asks.

     Wordlessly, she points to a little glade between the stunted oaks and alders, every inch of which is covered in bluebells.

     Allison pulls away and slips quietly down the embankment, Scott trailing after her. She steps carefully between each cluster of blue and violet petals until she is in the very center of the glade. Her face is rapturous, color rising in her pale cheeks. The sight is so perfect—red leaves, blue flowers, and glowing girl—that it hurts Scott’s heart to see it.

     “It’s like fairyland,” Allison whispers, and Scott nods. He feels like he’s wandered into an ancient poem and he is every mortal man ever to be struck down by the beauty of elvenkind’s daughters.

     “Why are they blooming now?” she wonders aloud. “I thought bluebells were spring flowers.”

     “Indian summer,” says Scott, crossing to her side. “It’s been so warm these last few days. Sometimes it fools the flowers.”

     “So they’ll die when the frost comes.”

     “I suppose so.”

     Scott sinks to one knee and plucks a spray of sapphire blossoms. Then, standing, he reaches out and gently tucks the stem behind Allison’s left ear. When she laughs, the little bells dance and sway.

     “Come on,” she says. “Let’s keep going.”

     They rejoin the train tracks and continue their amble through the autumn woodland. Allison walks along one of the steel rails like a balance beam. Scott tries to copy her with little success.

     “Eight years of gymnastics,” she reminds him. She comes to walk beside him, placing a light hand on the small of his back whenever Scott wobbles.

     This game brings them eventually to a high stone bridge that spans a leaping river. The river is fed by the Whispering Waterfall, a steep cascade that tumbles down the wall of the valley, only a few yards distant. Fine mist rises from it in a silver susurrus.

     “Oh wow,” says Allison. “Are all the old railways like this?”

     “Like what?” asks Scott, settling himself on a sun-warmed boulder at the foot of the embankment.

     “Like something out of an old travel guide,” Allison explains. “Scenic or picturesque or whatever the word is.”

     “I tried to pick the prettiest one,” Scott admits.

     Allison joins him atop the boulder and leans against him. Scott wraps an arm about her.

     “Thank you,” she says softly.

     “For what?”

     “For the best birthday that I’ve had in years.”

Stiles’ worry deepens when it becomes clear that Scott isn’t coming to lacrosse practice either. He hates not knowing what’s going on, but Scott isn’t answering his phone. So, after the conclusion of practice and against his better judgment, he corners Jackson in the locker rooms.

     “Jackson.”

     The older boy flinches at the sound of his name, then wheels around to glare furiously at Stiles. He’s halfway through unlocking his locker and still clad only in a towel. Exercise and hot water have restored some of the vital color he was lacking when he first showed up in chemistry class, but the dark circles under his eyes remain.

     “What the hell do you want, Stilinski?”

     Stiles, who’s still wearing his jersey and a pair of track pants, raises his hands, palms up.

     “Easy there. I just wanted to ask how you were.”

     “I’m fine.”

     “Yeah? I saw that you were at Lydia’s house when that all went down. That’s some scary stuff.”

     “Not really.”

     “Half the house was gone, man. I mean, how does that even happen?”

     “How the hell would I know?”

     “Well, what did you see?”

     “Did your dad put you up to this? I already told him; I didn’t see anything.”

     “I’m not here because of my dad,” Stiles says quickly. “I’m just curious.”

     Jackson sneers. “Yeah, I guess it makes sense that a freak like you would be all excited by freak accidents and shit.”

     Stiles feels the muscles in his jaw jump as he clamps down on a sudden surge of temper. Quite calmly he says, “So there was something freaky about this accident?”

     “Shove off, Stilinski,” Jackson advises, returning his attention to his locker. “I’m done talking to you.”

     In that moment, Stiles wishes very much that he had a spectral locomotive living inside him, to lend him the strength to pick Jackson up by the scruff of his neck and shake him like rat. But he doesn’t. And since Jackson’s biceps are more or less as thick around as his neck, he decides not to push it. There are other ways of getting information.

     He arrives at Lydia’s dad’s apartment building not quite half an hour later. He parks the jeep, climbs up three flights of stairs, and rings the doorbell. A clean-cut, middle-aged man with Lydia’s rounded cheekbones and blue-green eyes answers it.

     “Hello?”

     “Hi,” says Stiles. “Is Lydia here? I’m Stiles. I’m a friend from school and I wanted to check that she was doing okay after last night.”

     The man waves him inside with a distracted air. “Yes, yes. Of course. She’s in the bedroom at the end of the hall. A bit woozy, I’m afraid.”

     He returns to the kitchen table where a pile of what look like legal briefs awaits him.

     “Woozy?” Stiles asks, concerned.

     “Hmmm? Oh, yes. Her mother gave her some anti-anxiety medication, I believe, before she went out with the real estate agent.”

     “Okay,” says Stiles slowly. “Is she…I mean, is it still okay for me to see her?”

     Lydia’s father frowns, half way through putting on his reading glasses. “What’s that? Oh, I see. I’ll go check.”

     He potters off down the hall. Stiles follows him. He suspects he’s beginning to see why Lydia’s parents separated. Mr. Martin practically radiates genial self-absorption.

     The man knocks at the open door of the bedroom.

     “Lydia?” he calls. “There’s a Stiles here to see you.”

     “What the hell’s a stiles?” Lydia mumbles.

     Mr. Martin shrugs. “She’s awake at least. Have at it, young man. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

     He ambles away and Stiles steps uncertainly into Lydia’s bedroom.

     There are photos on the walls, mostly from when Lydia was much younger, and suitcases piled in one corner. The bed is low and nearly square, with a deep purple bedspread. And sprawled upon this bedspread, is Lydia.

     She rolls over to look at him, her wide eyes vague and unfocused. Her movements are languorous, bordering on listless, and her coppery tresses are disheveled. Stiles doubts she’s aware of just how much leg her little blue dress is currently revealing and he guiltily tears his eyes away.

     “Hey Lydia,” he says quietly. “How are you doing?”

     “Me?” she asks, sounding genuinely surprised. “I’m great. Never better.”

     “Really? I mean, that’s good to hear, but I thought, with your mom’s house and all…”

     “Why are you still standing there?” she interrupts. “Sit down.”

     “Sit down? On the bed? With you?”

     “Yes, silly,” says Lydia, giggling slightly. She pats the bedspread next to her. “Right here.”

     Cautiously, Stiles settles himself in the spot indicated.

     “Listen Lydia,” he says urgently, “I know something seriously weird happened with that accident or explosion or whatever it was last night.”

     “It was scary,” says Lydia faintly.

     “Yeah. Yeah, I bet it was.”

     “Weren’t you scared?”

     “I was actually,” Stiles admits. “When I saw it was your house. I thought something really bad might have happened to you.”

     “I don’t know what happened.”

     “What do you remember?”

     “We were going to watch a movie. We were snuggling. And the whole house…something hit it. And the ceiling was all cracked, like in an earthquake. Did I scream? I think I screamed.”

     “It’s okay if you screamed,” Stiles assures her and she rolls over again to be close to him. The swell of her hip is suddenly pressed into the small of his back. Even through the layers of fabric, the contact is very warm.

     Stiles coughs and swallows hard. “Lydia,” he chokes out, “did you see what hit the house?”

     “No,” she tells him wistfully.

     “Did you see anything else? Or hear anything, maybe?”

     “A whistle,” she mumbles.

     “What?”

     “A whistle. Like a train going by.”

     “Did you see a train?”

     Lydia shakes her head.

     Stiles sighs, not sure whether he’s disappointed or relieved. On the one hand, the fewer civilians who know about the human engines, the safer Scott is likely to be. On the other, any information about the express train would have been invaluable. But both witnesses to the attack have proved to be dead ends.

     “Okay then,” he says reluctantly, still feeling Lydia’s warm weight at his back. “As long as you’re okay, I guess I’d better be going.”

     “No!” says Lydia at once, snaking an arm about his waist. “Stay.”

     Again, Stiles chokes and splutters.

     “Me?” he asks, when he can speak again. “You want me, to stay with you?”

     Lydia nods. “Uh-huh. I want you to stay with me, Jackson. To keep me company.”

     “Oh,” says Stiles, with a sudden sinking feeling. “I see.”

     For the briefest of instants, he considers it, but his heart rebels.

     “I’m sorry,” he says, standing. “I’ve really gotta get going.”

     Lydia makes no reply. Her eyes have closed and by the tempo of her breathing, Stiles judges her to be fast asleep.

Alan Deaton glances at his watch, then at the digital clock on his workbench just to make sure. Then he pulls out his phone and calls Scott McCall. He frowns when the call goes directly to voicemail.

     “Hi Scott,” says the mechanic, once the electronic tone is duly intoned. “It’s Mr. Deaton. I was just calling to find out what happened this afternoon. I was expecting to see you in the auto shop after school. I don’t know if you had a conflict and forgot to let me know, or if this shift just slipped you mind, or what. Don’t worry though. I know you’re normally very responsible and I’m not upset. I just wanted to reach out so we could reschedule. Give me call when you can. Thanks.”

     He hangs up and tucks the phone back into the pocket of his coveralls. Only then does he become aware of footsteps approaching the garage from the driveway. He turns to find Sheriff Stilinksi waiting on the threshold.

     “Hello Alan,” says the sheriff. “Got a minute?”

     “Of course, Sheriff. How can I help you?”

     The sheriff approaches, pulling out a stack of numbered photographs. “I want your take on the accident at Natalie Martin’s house. Do you remember what you told me after Garrison Myers was hit, down by the school?”

     Alan accepts the photographs reluctantly. They show a substantial suburban house, or the remains of one, and a great deal of rubble. A few of them show long grooves, gouged into the lawn and the street beyond.

     “I believe you had some strange tire tracks you wanted me to identify. I told you they looked like the marks left behind when a train derails.”

     The sheriff nods, his lined face unreadable. “So you did. And what do you make of these new tracks? The ones all around the damaged house?”

     “They’re the same,” Alan agrees. “Looks like only one set this time. But they still look like train wheels to me. Hard metal and flanged. It’s quite distinctive.”

     “That’s what I thought,” says the sheriff, taking the photos back. “The trouble is, that house is almost as far from any train line as the school is.”

     “I know,” Alan admits. “I can’t explain that. I’m just telling you what I see in those photos.”

     “And I appreciate that.” The sheriff glances around the garage and then lowers his voice. “Between you and me, Alan, it isn’t just these two incidents. We’ve getting strange reports from all over the county. Minor stuff. Fenceposts and mailboxes getting knocked over. People woken up at night by odd noises or lights.”

     Alan rubs thoughtfully at his neatly trimmed goatee. “So what’s your theory?”

     The sheriff shrugs. “The prevailing notion at HQ is that we’re looking for a sociopath with a custom built armored car.”

     “You sound skeptical.”

     “Until last night I thought it made as much sense as anything else. Maybe there was even a gang of these nutjobs. But now there’s this.”

     Sheriff Stilinski removes a final photograph from the breast pocket of his uniform and hands it to Alan. Unlike the other photos, which were crisp and precise, this black and white image is a blur. It shows a man vaulting over a fence. Most of his body is little more than a dark mass, but one out-flung arm catches the light oddly. It almost seems as though the limb must be encased in metal.

     “This was from the yard of the Martin’s neighbors across the street,” the sheriff explains. “They’re birdwatchers apparently, so they set up a little motion cam on their birdfeeder. The timestamp places it only seconds after the Martin’s house was hit.”

     “You think this man was fleeing the scene of the crime.”

     “I don’t know what to think,” says the sheriff with a sigh. “If he’s the perpetrator, why’s he fleeing on foot instead in his vehicle?”

     “It might have been damaged,” Alan suggests. “Colliding with a house would be rough, even on an armored car.”

     The sheriff shakes his head. “If he’d ditched his ride, we’d have found it. So maybe he’s not the perpetrator. Maybe he was the intended victim, or a bystander who got scared. But if he was the intended victim, why was he targeted? What connects him to Garrison Myers? And if he’s a bystander, what was he doing out so late in a yard that wasn’t his own? And what the hell is going with his arm?”

     “Prosthesis?” Alan suggests. “Or some kind of body armor?”

     “Prosthesis,” repeats the sheriff slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that. That would certainly narrow down our suspect list.”

     Alan shrugs. “It’d be somewhere to start looking anyway.”

     “That it would,” the sheriff agrees. He glances at his watch. “I should be going. Parent teacher conferences start soon. Thanks for your help, Alan.”

     “It was nothing,” the mechanic assures him.

     Once Sheriff Stilinski has driven away, Alan Deaton breathes a huge sigh of relief. He briefly considers calling the others. Things in New Sodor are getting out of hand. But the prosthesis lead should keep the sheriff busy for a few days. There’s still time for Alan to sort this mess out.

Scott looks nervously down at his watch and then back up at the road. He and Allison are running late for the evening’s parent-teacher conferences. Well, technically only Scott is running late. Allison is currently passing all her classes handily and is not, therefore, required to attend. She has, however, kindly offered to give him a lift.

     After their ramble in the woods, the teenagers headed back into town for lunch and spent most of the rest of the afternoon making out and listening to the radio in Allison’s car. These activities proved so engrossing that they quite lost track of time, hence their current lateness.

     In truth though, the time is only one of the things weighing on Scott’s mind. Just as they were leaving Bluebell Valley station, Scott thought he heard the distant sound of an engine. He knows that the station is connected to two different railways: a little branch line nicknamed “the Bluebell Railway” and the much larger Skarloey Railway. This latter is also the railway that passes closest to Derek Hale’s old house.

     Scott can’t imagine why Derek would risk moving around in his train form during broad daylight, and he certainly didn’t want to investigate with Allison in tow. But in the hours since that decision, doubts have been creeping in. What if Derek’s in trouble? What if he’s lost control of his engine? What if the express train decided to attack his house?

     “It’s going to be okay,” Allison says gently, and Scott realizes that some of his worry must have made its way onto his face.

     He tries to sit up a little straighter. “Yeah, I guess. I’m just not looking forward to what my mom will say when she finds out I skipped school today.”

     “Why would she find out?” asks Allison, startled.

     “Because I’m going with her to see all my teachers, including the ones whose classes I just cut. I can’t imagine one of them won’t mention it.”

     “Oh,” says Allison softly. “I see what you mean. God, I hope my teachers don’t bring it up.”

     “You’ll probably be fine,” Scott tries to reassure her. “It’s not like you’ll be in the room with them.”

     “That’s true,” says Allison. “But what about you? I didn’t think, I mean, when you offered to skip with me, I didn’t realize…”

     “Allison, it’s okay,” says Scott. “It was my decision and I don’t regret it.”

     “But I never meant to get you in so much trouble.”

     “You didn’t. I got me in trouble and I’ll just have to live with the consequences. Beside, you had fun, didn’t you?”

     “A lot.”

     “Then it was worth it.”

     Allison takes one hand off the steering wheel to give Scott’s hand a warm squeeze.

     “You’re sweet.”

     “Sweet but dumb?”

     “I didn’t say that.”

     “You didn’t have to.”

     They’re almost the last ones to reach the school parking lot, which by now is choked with cars and people. The fading light only adds to the confusion.

     “Why don’t you get out here?” Allison suggests. “It’ll be faster for you to walk.”

     “And your parents will be less likely to see us together.”

     “That thought had crossed my mind.”

     Scott takes her advice and has almost achieved the front doors when somebody seizes him by the arm. He turns, expecting to find an irate mother or an accusatory lacrosse coach. Instead, he finds Derek Hale. Tension is written in every line of the steam engine’s muscular body and his grey eyes are full of a strange light.

     “The express train is on the move,” he informs Scott. “You need to come with me.”

     Scott swears under his breath and glances around. In the general bustle, no one seems to be paying them any attention. He steps closer to Derek and lowers his voice all the same.

     “What do you mean he’s on the move? I haven’t felt a thing from, whatever you called it, the coupling. How can you know?”

     “I know,” says Derek, “because I’ve spent all day looking for the bastard. The train spotters have decided to kick their hunt up a notch, so I figured we’d better do the same. I finally spotted him travelling north along the Kirk Ronan Branch Line.”

     “And? Where was he going?”

     Derek gives him a pointed look. “You’re the one coupled to him. You tell me.”

     Scott rubs distractedly at his eyes. “The Kirk Ronan…shit. That’ll take him right past Jackson’s neighborhood.”

     “Jackson your lacrosse captain?” Derek demands. “The same kid the express took a shot at last night?”

     “Yes, him,” Scott agrees. “You think it’s going to try again?”

     “I’m certain of it. It makes too much sense. His parents will be here at the conference. And last night the express picked a time when Jackson and his girlfriend had the house to themselves.”

     “You think it’s a pattern?”

     Derek nods grimly. “Adults have authority. The express train might be insane, but he still doesn’t want to risk leaving behind witnesses who’ll get taken seriously. Not if he can help it.”

     “Okay,” says Scott nodding. “I’m with you. Jackson’s still the target. So why are you standing here? Why don’t you go help him?”

     “I need you to come with me,” says Derek flatly. “The express train is stronger than either of us would be on our own.”

     “I can’t,” says Scott, casting a desperate look towards the line of parents streaming into the high school. “I need to meet my mom here and…”

     Derek grabs Scott by both shoulders and shakes him once.

     “Forget about that,” he orders. “Forget about school and grades and getting grounded and all that pointless bullshit. We go and we go now, or another civilian dies in a war they nothing about.”

     Scott hangs his head. He knows that whatever trouble he’s in for cutting class will be increased tenfold if he misses the conference too. But he also knows that Derek is right. Jackson might be an ass, but he doesn’t deserve a messy death at the hands of a berserk steam engine.

     “Okay,” he grinds out, feeling fiery energy flood into the numeral ‘one’ branded on this chest. “Let’s go.”

Jackson Whittemore feels like hell. He barely slept last night. He kept expecting something to come crashing through the walls of his house. His parents tried to reassure him, but they just didn’t understand. How could they, when they hadn’t been there, hadn’t felt the floor shuddering and bucking like a maddened horse? The only person who might understand is Lydia and he can’t talk to her, not about this. She’s always made it perfectly clear what she thinks of guys who can’t man up and tough it out. He won’t risk losing her by showing weakness. He can’t afford that, not now, not with the mouth-breathing Scott McCall showing him up on lacrosse field.

     That’s the one good thing about today. McCall blew off practice without telling the coach. With luck, that’ll keep him on the bench for a while. But even without McCall there, practice was a shit show. No matter how he tried, the ball never seemed to go where he intended. Danny did his best to cover for him, so maybe not too many people noticed. He hopes so. He hopes this isn’t him losing his edge. Probably not, right? Everyone has off days from time to time, right? Especially after a sleepless night…

     Of course, there’s another reason today might have been an off day. Jackson’s learned to dread parent-teacher conferences. Not because he’s a bad student—he might not like most of his classes, but he knows how to apply himself, especially before big test—but because of stupid questions the teachers invariably ask.

     “Have you tried to getting in touch with your birth parents?” he mimics in a sullen mutter, while he lines empty beer bottles up along the fence at the back of his yard. “Have you ever wondered about them? Did kids ever tease you? Do you ever feel like you have something to prove? Are you going to shoot up our precious high school with an AK-47?”

     “Bunch of ass wipes,” he concludes, setting down the last bottle with a clunk. He walks back to the glass table at the edge of the tiled patio, where a fresh beer—smuggled from his dad’s fridge in the garage—and his lacrosse stick await him. He takes a swig and picks up the stick. He drops the heavy rubber ball into the webbing and takes aim at the leftmost bottle, some thirty feet away. He’ll get his edge back, one way or another.

     He draws back the stick and lets fly. The ball whistles away, straight as an arrow, and Jackson feels the beginnings of the first smile he’s found all day.

     Then everything goes wrong.

     A dark shape vaults over the back fence and lands in front of the row of bottles. Its arm moves in blur and snatches the speeding ball out of midair.

     “This yours?” the thing asks. The voice is a man’s, deep and rough and rattling.

     The man begins to stalk towards Jackson. He wants to run but fear nails his feet to the ground. The light spilling from the house behind him shows him the intruder clearly for the first time.

     The man is huge, better than six feet and broad as an ox, with dark, shaggy hair. His clothes are torn and sooty, like the rags of a homeless coal miner, but it is his face that terrifies. The right side of the man’s face is hideously scarred, ravaged by deep puncture wounds and terrible burns. His stubbly beard is a ragged patchwork and his smile is the smile of a demon.

     The man holds up the lacrosse ball so Jackson can see it clearly. Then he begins to squeeze it with one hand. Jackson knows that the ball is solid rubber, not like a tennis ball, but more like a hockey puck. It can’t be crushed, not without a sledgehammer at any rate. It can’t be. And yet it is.

     The man’s fingers close like a hydraulic press, and rubbery goo oozes from between them, dribbling down over his wrist.

     “You have something of mine,” the man tells Jackson.

     “You’re wrong!” Jackson chokes out, his voice unnaturally high and tinny. “I’ve never even seen you before.”

     “Nevertheless,” says the intruder, dropping the pathetic remains of the ball to the grass, “You have something of mine.”

     “What is it?”

     “Not what,” the man clarifies. “Who.”

     “I don’t understand.”

     “You don’t need to. All you need to do…” the man explains, as he reaches the edge of the patio “…is die.”

     “Oh and please tell Allison that I hope she feels better soon,” Mrs. Courier concludes, tucking the relevant paperwork back into a manila folder.

     “Excuse me?” asks Chris Argent, frozen in the act of pushing back his chair.

     “Allison,” the teacher repeats. “I hope she’s feeling better soon.”

     “That’s very kind of you,” Victoria Argent says politely, giving her husband a look. “We’re just a little surprised. As far as I know, Allison hasn’t been feeling particularly sick.”

     “Oh, I’m sorry,” says Mrs. Courier quickly. “She just wasn’t in class today and I assumed…”

     “Wasn’t in class?” Chris demands.

     Mrs. Courier shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. You didn’t know?”

     “We didn’t,” Victoria agrees, her lips pressed together into a thin line.

     “That’s so strange,” Mrs. Courier says, frowning. “I mean, it seems so out of character for her.”

     Chris smiles grimly. “It does. Do you mind if I ask a question?”

     “Go right ahead.”

     “Is Scott McCall in any of your classes?”

     “Scott? Well, yes, usually but…”

     “But he was absent today too?”

     “I’m really not supposed to discuss other students with…”

     Chris holds up a hand. “Right, of course. Sorry to push.”

     Victoria stands and takes Chris’ arm. “Thank you for everything, Mrs. Courier. I’ll make sure Allison is in class tomorrow, prepared and on time, and that she apologizes for worrying you.”

     “Thank you, but that’s really not necessary,” the teacher says as lightly as she can manage. “Have a good evening.”

     The Argents smile brittle smiles and file out into the hallway.

     “I should call Kate,” Chris says at once. “See if she…”

     His wife interrupts him simply by raising her eyebrows. She points without lifting her arm, a discrete gesture that clearly indicates the dark haired woman leaving the school’s chemistry classroom. Chris nods in agreement and the Argents move off down the hall, not hurrying but steadily overtaking their quarry nevertheless.

     “Ms. McCall,” Chris greets the woman. “I’m glad to see you here.”

     Melissa McCall stops and turns. Her resemblance to Scott is immediately apparent. Both have the same olive complexion and dark, unruly hair and both faces have a certain stubbornness around the eyes and in the tilt of the chin.

     “Mr. Argent,” she says, the furrow between her brows deepening. “And Mrs. Argent, I presume.”

     “Please, call me Victoria.”

     “Melissa.” The women shake hands, although not warmly.

     “Is there something I can help you two with?” Melissa inquires.

     “Actually, I was wondering if you’d heard from Scott at all today,” says Chris.

     “No,” says Melissa. “Should I have?”

     Chris’ chilly blue stare belies his casual tone. “I only hoped you might know where he’d taken our daughter.”

     “Taken… you mean you think Scott’s out with Allison? Of all the…” She shakes her head angrily. “He was supposed to be here, tonight.”

     “I’m guessing he was supposed to be in school all day too.”

     “You bet he was! Did he go off somewhere with Allison? Is that what’s going on?”

     “We don’t know what’s going on,” says Victoria. “But I very much doubt Allison could take your son anywhere he didn’t want to go.”

     “Whereas Scott could just snatch up your precious baby and carry her off to his cave,” says Melissa scornfully.

     “We aren’t accusing Scott of doing anything like that,” Victoria assures her.

     Chris Argent mutters something that sounds great deal like “Yet.” His wife shoots him a sharp look and continues.

     “But while Allison is generally very trustworthy and responsible, she’s already shown that, when it comes to Scott, she doesn’t exercise her best judgment.”

     “I see,” says Melissa, folding her arms across her chest. “Scott hasn’t kidnapped Allison, just corrupted her. God forbid that your daughter ever have to take responsibility for her own choices.”

     Chris takes a half step forward, before checking himself. “You seem very defensive, Ms. McCall,” he observes as he settles back, the muscles of his grizzled jaw working visibly.

     “No, I seem pissed,” she corrects. “Scott really can’t afford to be missing any school right now, and Allison shouldn’t be putting him in the position of having to choose between her and his classes.”

     “That’s quite a conclusion to jump to,” says Victoria, her cornflower eyes flashing dangerously.

     “Is it?” Melissa asks mildly. “You say Allison’s always been responsible. Well, until this year, so has Scott. And the big thing in his life that’s different right now is Allison.”

     “Allison is not the one dragging your son down,” says Chris fiercely. “I promise you.”

     “Maybe not,” says Melissa, unconvinced, “But right now, they’re both missing. And of the two of them, she’s the one with the car.”

     “Now listen here,” Chris Argent begins, the thread of his patience parting with an almost audible snap. “I don’t know who you think my daughter is, but…”

     “Evening all. What seems to be the trouble?”

     Chris’ diatribe is cut short as all eyes turn towards Noah Stilinski. The county sheriff is out of uniform but something in the way he stands still bespeaks a parade ground rest. His sandy blond hair is cropped close to his skull and his weathered face is scrupulously clean-shaven. His remark was addressed equally to all three irate parents, but now he stands shoulder to shoulder with Melissa, giving Chris a pointed stare.

     “Scott and Allison are missing,” Melissa explains.

     The sheriff nods. “Have you tried calling either of them?” Melissa nods but Victoria Argent shakes her head.

     “Why don’t you try doing that?” Noah suggests. “If you haven’t heard from them by the time you get home, give me a call at my work number and I’ll set people searching. All right?”

     “Of course,” says Chris with a smile that shows entirely too many teeth. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

     He and his wife retreat down the hall and after a moment, Melissa and Noah begin to drift in the opposite direction.

     “You about done here?” the sheriff enquires.

     “Yes,” Melissa sighs. “God, what a nightmare.”

     “Scott didn’t show at all?”

     She shakes her head.

     “I’ll give Stiles a call, see if he’s heard anything.”

     “Thanks Noah. And thanks for what you did back there.”

     “I just didn’t want to see anything get out of hand.”

     “Well then, you might not want to stick around once I find Scott. I am going to give that boy a piece of my mind.”

     The sheriff smiles. “Rough report card?”

     “That’s putting it mildly.”

     They pass outside into the cool evening air and make their way to the school parking lot.

     “It could be worse, you know,” Noah offers. “I just found out that Stiles wrote his midterm essay on the history and practice of circumcision.”

     Melissa coughs. “Um, well I suppose the religious significance is…”

     “This was for Introductory Economics.”

     This time Melissa can’t quite stifle a laugh. “They’re quite a pair, aren’t they?”

     Noah nods. “That they are. Sometimes I think…”

     A handheld radio in his jacket pocket squeals loudly, cutting him off.

     “Chief, this is Deputy Waters. We’ve got a panic alarm going off at 221 Beacon Avenue.”

     “Shit,” the sheriff mutters. “That’s the Whittemore boy’s house. Sorry Mel, I’ve got to take off.”

     He lopes off towards his car, already barking orders into the radio. Melissa watches him go, chewing anxiously at her lower lip.

Just as the scarred man draws back a clenched fist, two dark figures come flying out of the woods behind Jackson’s house. They bound over the back fence like Olympic hurdlers, not slowing for an instant. One of them wears a leather jacket and the other a dark hoodie, grey or brown. Both have their faces obscured by red neckerchiefs, the kind worn equally by train robbers and train engineers. They sprint towards the scarred man with blinding speed and each grabs a shoulder, hauling him backwards and away.

     Relief hits Jackson like a surge of electricity. But though he’s outnumbered, the scarred man is by no means overpowered. He throws off his attackers with a growl and lashes out at the taller one, who wears the leather jacket. 

     The other man sidesteps, narrowly avoiding a haymaker punch, and counterattacks. He and his smaller companion are relentless, hitting the scarred man first from one side, and then from the other. Their fists clang like metal, like brass knuckles striking steel mail. But no matter how they pummel their enemy, the scarred man seems able to absorb punishment beyond measure.

     At last he succeeds in laying hands on his attackers, grabbing each by the scurf of the neck in a sudden lunge. Then with a bellow, he slams their heads together.

     Jackson sees little of this, of course. He has long since bolted for the cover of his house, slammed and locked the door, and desperately pounded the panic button of the expensive security system, the one that will summon emergency services within minutes. Now the alarm whoops and screeches while an automated voice booms: “Step Away From The Building. The Police Have Been Contacted. Step Away From The Building. The Police Have Been Contacted.”

     The scarred man curses in Sudric, while his dazed attackers struggle to regain their feet. Then, seeming to reach a decision, he turns on his heel and sprints away towards the cover of the trees. This time he does not bother to vault fence. He plows through it. Empty beer bottles and broken timbers spin away in all directions.

Scott groans as he opens his eyes. Pain is a constant, jangling melody on the edge of his hearing.

     “Did we win?” he asks groggily.

     Somewhere in the darkness, Derek snorts. “We lived. The bratty kid lived too. That’ll do for tonight.”

     Scott nods and tries to sit up. The movement makes him feel ill though, so he lies back down. He can feel cool earth and dead leaves beneath him. He tugs off the red neckerchief that covers the lower half of his face and takes a gulp of the night air. Above him, through a web of branches, Scott can see faint starlight.

     “Where are we?”

     “Not far from the Kirk Ronan,” says Derek. “This was as far as I could drag you before I had to sit down.”

     “Man, he really cleaned our clocks, didn’t he?” says Scott, sitting up at last and giving Derek a shaky grin.

     The scowling man looks almost as battered as Scott feels. His red bandana hangs loosely about his neck. Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but Scott feels a sudden affinity for the older steam engine. It’s almost the same as the feeling he gets when he completes a particularly good pass or coordinated feint in lacrosse, a feeling of fellowship, of being comrades in arms.

     Derek turns suddenly to glare at Scott. He shoves him hard in the center of his chest, sending the boy sprawling to the earth once more. But more than the fall, Scott is aware of a sudden cold sensation where Derek’s fingers touched him, directly over the numeral ‘one’ branded on Scott’s chest.

     “Don’t do that,” Derek orders.

     “Do what?” Scott gasps, scrambling to prop himself up on his elbows.

     “You were creating a coupling, trying to link your engine to mine.”

     “No I wasn’t.”

     “You were. I felt it. Don’t do it.”

     “Why?”

     “Because it’s rude and it’s dangerous.”

     “How? I mean, how is it dangerous?”

     “You’re still coupled to the express train, remember? If you’re coupled to me too then he might be able to reach me through you, to push on my emotions and my engine.”

     “He didn’t, during that fight, I didn’t feel him pushing or anything.”

     Derek nods. “We may have gotten lucky there.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “We caught him off guard, made him lose his temper. So he tried scrambling your brains the old-fashioned way. That made mind control pretty much out of the question.”

     “Yeah,” Scott mutters, rubbing at his tender forehead. “I feel real lucky about that.”

     “You’ll heal,” says Derek with a shrug. “Come on. We shouldn’t stay here long. If the express doesn’t find us, the cops or the train spotters will.”

     Scott sighs and clambers to his feet, using a nearby tree to steady himself. He follows as Derek begins walking back towards the train tracks.

     “Do you think he’ll try again? To kill Jackson, I mean?”

     Derek shrugs again. “Hard to say. He’s cracked in the head, so things fall through sometimes. What he’s obsessed with one week, he’ll barely remember the next.”

     Scott frowns. “What cracked him?”

     “I don’t know,” says Derek.

     Scott has the distinct impression that he is lying.

CLOSING THEME/CREDITS

Chapter Text

Scott McCall, teenage tank engine, is calmly loading the weekly groceries into the trunk of his mom’s car when he notices the lines of brilliant blue light approaching him. He knows at once what they are; he’s been seeing lines of this kind running under people’s feet like rails ever since he was branded by a supernatural steam engine some weeks ago. The blue lines show Scott where people are going to walk next, while the red lines show him where they’ve been. They only last a few moments, or in this case, give him a few moments of warning.

     At once, Scott drops the bottle of milk he’s holding and sprints for the edge of the parking lot. There’s a high chicken wire fence here, separating the shoppers from an unkempt wilderness of weeds and brambles. Scott calls on his engine for speed and power and Thomas responds, flooding his limbs with heat and steely strength. Scott’s legs fire like pistons and he soars over the fence in a single bound.

     He plunges into the tangled brush and drops to the ground behind a screen of knotweed. He lies perfectly still, trying to breathe quietly. He knows that his hiding place is inadequate. His own red lines will give him away to other engines. But he has one last trick to try.

     Moving quietly, Scott pulls out the keys to his mom’s car, holding them securely in his left hand. He strains his ears, and sure enough he hears the thud of a heavy body landing on his side of the fence. Twigs snap and leaves rustle as Scott’s pursuer warily approaches his hiding spot, his blue lines flicking to and fro as he tries to decide where the boy is hiding.

     Scott presses the panic button on the car keys’ electronic fob. The horn screams, loud and insistent, and Scott hears a muffled voice exclaim…

     “What the hell?“

     Then Scott explodes from his hiding spot. He can see his pursuer now, a tall man with dark hair and a leather jacket. He is half turned away from Scott, looking back towards the parking lot and the source of the cacophonous horn calls. Scott takes advantage of this momentary distraction and drives his fist at the man’s head with the force of an oncoming train.

     The man doesn’t turn, but lifts an open hand to catch Scott’s fist. There’s a clang like steel cymbals and then Scott’s arm is being twisted cruelly up behind his back. He struggles, but to no avail. The man leans in close and whispers into the teenager’s ear. His breath is hot and smells faintly of coal smoke.

     “You’re dead, McCall,” says Derek Hale.

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

     Scott trails after Derek as the older stream engine ambles back towards Scott’s car and the abandoned groceries. The alarm has stopped and the night is peaceful once more.

     “What the hell, man?” Scott demands.

     Derek is unmoved. “I said I’d teach you. I never said when.”

     “Bullshit,” Scott mutters, trying to shake some life back into his arm, “You didn’t need to twist that hard.”

     “The express train won’t go easy on you,” Derek informs him. “We barely survived him last time. You’ll need to do a lot better than that when we face him again.”

     “Okay, but at least I was fast, right?”

     “You’ll never be fast enough to outrun an express, not over distance.”

     “But the thing with the car alarm, that was smart, right?”

     “Could’ve been,” Derek agrees. “But you let your rails give you away.”

     “What do you mean?”

     Derek makes a guttural noise of impatience. “I know you’ve seen them. The lines of light that show up in your tunnel vision.”

     “My what?”

     “Tunnel vision, McCall. Tunnel vision. One of the most basic abilities available to all steam engines.”

     “You mean the thing where you can see where someone’s going to walk?”

     Derek sighs. “Yes. That thing. We call it tunnel vision. It let me see when you were going jump out of those bushes.”

     “But what was I supposed to do? I can’t turn my rails or whatever off, right?”

     “Not entirely,” Derek admits, halting by Scott’s car and leaning casually against it. “But you can make them shorter if you don’t let yourself think too hard about what you’re going to do. It gives your opponent less warning, makes surprise attacks like that possible. Or you can keep changing your mind, so your rails jump around and confuse your opponent. That’s what most of the train spotters are trained to do.”

     Scott blinks in sudden comprehension. He’s noticed before now that some of the train spotters—the order of vigilantes dedicated to hunting down dangerous engines—have blue lines that move oddly. At the time he’d assumed it was just because they were moving in a big group, many lines overlapping. But Derek’s words make him reconsider.

     “Can you show me?” he asks. “I mean, I can’t really practice without someone else with tunnel vision, right?”

     Derek considers this, and then gives a curt nod. “Tomorrow. After you get out of school.”

     “Um…” Scott hesitates. “I’ve got a shift at the auto shop after school.”

     Derek grinds his teeth. The noise is like grating metal. “Fine then. After you get out of work.”

     “Um…” says Scott again. “After that I’m supposed to be studying with Allison.”

     “Argent’s daughter?” Derek growls. “You’re still seeing that…”

     He interrupts himself just in time, throwing up his hands in a disgusted gesture. “Fucking hell, McCall! You won’t train with me because you’re too busy swapping spit with the enemy? That’s fucking rich.”

     “Allison’s not the enemy,” says Scott angrily.

     “The hell she isn’t. They’re training her to kill engines, even if she doesn’t know it yet. And she’s a distraction. That’ll get you killed just as dead as a gold-titanium arrow.”

     “She’s not a distraction either,” says Scott, though with considerably less conviction.

     “Then prove it.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “New training exercise: stay away from Allison for one week.”

     “What? I can’t…I mean, we go to school together…”

     Derek shrugs. “So avoid her. Ignore her if you have to. I don’t really care. Just go one week without having a conversation with her or seeing her for more than a few minutes.”

     “And then?”

     “And then I’ll teach you how to control your rails and your tunnel vision.”

     “What? But I thought you said this was stuff I needed to know to survive.”

     Derek smiles without humor. “Guess you’d better get serious then.”

     Scott nods dully, still rattled. “Not see Allison. I can do that. I can do that…”

Allison pushes Scott down onto her bed and throws herself astride him. She leans in to kiss him, her dark hair falling in waves about his chest and shoulders. The kiss is passionate, hungry and breathless. Scott moves his hands along the graceful arch of Allison’s spine, feeling the lithe muscles shifting under the thin fabric of her tank top. His thumbs brush across the bumps of her bra straps and she whispers to him:

     “Take it off.”

     Scott’s heart lurches in his chest. “I… are you sure you’re okay with this?”

     “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Allison teases him.

     “Well, that ranks highly among the dumbest questions ever asked,” says Scott with a laugh.

     Allison laughs too and sits up a little, taking hold of the hem of Scott’s t-shirt.

     “You first,” she declares and pulls the shirt off over his head.

     Smooth olive skin and the kind of rippling muscle you’d expect of the lacrosse team’s rising star leave Allison momentarily at a loss for words. She runs first her eyes, then her hands, over Scott’s bare chest.

     “I never knew you had a tattoo,” she whispers.

     “What?” asks Scott, momentarily disoriented.

     “Here,” she says, stroking the bold red and yellow numeral one over Scott’s sternum.

     “Oh, that,” says Scott, the wheels of his brain suddenly churning. “Yeah, it’s, uh, sort of a personal thing, you know?”

     “Like it has personal meaning for you?” Allison asks, her brow wrinkling, though her gentle fingers never stop tracing the shape of the brand.

     “Uh, yeah,” says Scott, reluctant as always to tell Allison any outright lies, but not seeing an alternative. “Sort of a one for unity, or that kind of thing. I know it sounds really dumb…”

     Allison shakes her head. “I like it.”

     Then she leans down and plants a kiss on the brand.

     Scott gasps, furnace heat flooding his brain. Moving like a man in a trance, he reaches up and slides a hand under her tank top. Her skin is warm and soft as satin. His hand roves upwards over her stomach until it encounters the lacy fabric of her bra.

     A light caress seems to bring Allison back to herself. She makes a little purring noise in the back of her throat and sits up. Then she reaches around and unhooks her bra.

     There’s a loud knock at the bedroom door.

     Allison jumps as if she’s been stuck with a pin, dismay twisting across her flushed face.

     “Just a minute!” she calls, springing off the bed. She opens her closet door and gestures frantically at Scott. He snatches up his t-shirt and ducks inside. She shuts the door behind him and he holds very still, trying to quiet his thudding heart. It reminds him disturbingly of hiding from Derek in the tall weeds behind the parking lot.

     Thomas, the spirit of the steam engine that lives under Scott’s skin, can sense his fear but doesn’t understand it. He wants Scott to change right now, to arm himself with a metal hide and raw crushing power, but that’s the last thing Scott needs. Quite apart from the uproar that would ensue if he were caught in his girlfriend’s bedroom when they’re both still supposed to be grounded, there’s the fact that Allison’s family are train spotters. If they find out what Scott really is, he’s as good as dead.

     Allison hurries to her door, remembering just in time to refasten her bra. This done, she opens the door.

     Kate Argent, blond and wiry, stands framed in the doorway. She’s Allison’s aunt and Allison is mildly relieved to see her. Not that Kate’s a huge fan of Scott, but anything is better than another confrontation with her father.

     “Hey,” says Kate with a grin, “What’s going on?”

     “Uh, nothing,” Allison replies, “Just studying and, you know, checking my email.”

     “Emailing the boyfriend?” says Kate, her grin widening.

     “No,” says Allison hastily.

     “Liar,” says Kate, but without automatic condemnation. “Can I come in for a minute?”

     “Sure,” Allison agrees, leading the way inside. Her laptop is still glowing on her desk, adding some credibility to her story. Noticing the pile of books and papers beside it, Kate arches an eyebrow.

     “Lot of homework tonight?”

     “Not really,” Allison says, dropping into her desk chair. “I’m just trying to get a jump start on this big history project. Why?”

     Kate shrugs. “I thought we might watch a movie. Your parents are still out at their meeting. Sounds like it’s going to run really late.”

     “Good,” Allison huffs, tapping at her keyboard with more force than is strictly necessary.

     “Still mad at your dad for grounding you, huh?” Kate guesses.

     “Well, I don’t want to be one of those whiny teenagers who tells her parents she hates them and wishes they were dead…”

     “But?”

     “But I hate him and wish he were dead.”

     Kate laughs and takes a seat on the bed. “Yeah, Chris has that effect on people. So tell me more about this history project.”

     Allison pulls a face. “It’s really lame. We’re supposed to do a report on a historical event that connects to our family history.”

     Kate seems interested. “Family history, huh?”

     Allison nods. “Yeah. Got any good ideas?”

     “Look up ‘Sonderzüge’,” Kate suggests, “And the name Jean-Luc d’Argent.”

     Allison raises her eyebrows. “I think you’re gonna have to spell some of that for me.”

     Kate does so and Allison dutifully types the strange words into Google.

     “Holocaust trains?” she asks, frowning at the page of search results.

     “Keep digging,” Kate advises. “It’ll start making sense after a while.”

     “Okay,” says Allison dubiously.

     Kate stands up and ruffles her niece’s hair. “Let me know when you get bored. I’m going to go make us some popcorn.”

     Allison nods distractedly and Kate wanders off downstairs. Cautiously, Scott emerges from Allison’s closet. He stoops over Allison, still seated at her computer, and lightly kisses the top of her right ear.

     “I’d better go,” he whispers.

     Allison swivels about and wraps her legs around his, pulling him down irresistibly onto her lap. The chair creaks a little under their combined weight but she ignores it, kissing Scott fiercely and thoroughly.

     “I’m sorry,” she whispers, when they stop for air. “You’re probably right. I just…”

     Her words falter and she leans forward to rest her forehead on the warm skin of Scott’s chest, almost directly over his brand. She can feel every quiver of his breath and blood.

     “I just wish we didn’t have to keep holding back.”

     Scott nods, folding his arms about her. They stay like that for a long time.

     Eventually and reluctantly, Scott stands up, pulls on his t-shirt, and crosses to the bedroom window. Allison watches, like the balcony scene in reverse, as he drops lightly to the ground and walks away down the long drive. The weather has turned and his breath steams in the cold night air.

Scott parked a few blocks away from the Argents' house, the better to remain unobtrusive, and now he retraces them in the gathering dark. He’s aware of the plummeting temperature but only an abstract, detached kind of way. Thomas’ furnace keeps him warm.

     Suddenly, glowing blue lines appear on the sidewalk in front of him, lines that dance and flicker.

     Scott sighs. “Look Derek, I know I said I’d stay away from Allison, but I had to at least explain why I wouldn’t be studying with her tomorrow. I couldn’t just bail, right, or it would look weird. Suspicious even. But after this I promise…”

     Scott’s excuses are interrupted, not by Derek’s impatient baritone, but by a metallic screech. The noise is half screaming eagle, half rending rivets. It fills Scott with a sudden, primal fear.

     Scott bolts for his mom’s car, calling upon Thomas for speed. He throws the door open and leaps in, slamming it shut behind him. The locks engage with a click.

     “Start! Start!” he yells at the vehicle, fumbling with the keys.

     Look kiddo, the car complains, I’m not a magic car, okay? You still need to turn the ignition or neither of us is going any…

     The silent voice is cut off as something seizes the rear bumper of the car and lifts it several feet in the air. Scott is thrown forward into the steering column, causing the horn to emit a strangled bleat. He twists around, trying to see out the back window, but the glass is covered in a thick fog. The shape he can see through it is dim and indistinct. It looks huge though, more ogre than man and more engine than either.

     Oh my lord, what is that? the car demands.

     “The express train,” says Scott weakly.

     The express lifts one immense hand, taking the car’s whole weight in the other, and scrawls something in the fog on the glass of the rear window. A symbol. A numeral three.

     Then the express train drops the end of the car with thud and bounds away into the dark.

     After a long silence, the car says, I think it’s gone.

     Scott says nothing.

     We should probably go too, the car suggests. In case it comes back.

     Scott turns the key in the ignition, but he knows the truth. If the express train comes back, if it decides it wants Scott dead, he will be powerless to stop it.

Scott’s mom is—once again—working late at the hospital, so the house is empty when he comes home. He puts the groceries away and heads upstairs to his bedroom. He switches on the light and then, with a startled cry, jumps several feet in the air. Derek Hale is sitting at the foot of his bed.

     “Took you long enough,” says Derek.

     “Jesus fucking Christ,” Scott gasps, trying to rein in Thomas and his pounding heart. “What’s wrong with you?”

     Derek ignores this. “Stop anywhere interesting on your way home?”

     “Yeah, yeah,” says Scott impatiently. “I stopped to see Allison. But just to tell her that I couldn’t study with her this week, so you can calm down.”

     “That wasn’t part of our agreement,” says Derek coldly.

     “Screw the agreement!” Scott barks. “Derek, I saw the express. It bounced my freaking car around like a seesaw.”

     Derek’s face, never exactly a comedy mask, grows graver still. “The express train? What happened?”

     Scott recounts the attack, if attack it was, as best he can. Derek listens intently. When Scott gets to the part about the express drawing on the window the older engine suddenly gets to his feet. His teeth are clenched, the muscles of his jaw twitching.

     “What does it mean?” Scott asks. “Three of what?”

     Derek dismisses this with a curt gesture. “Not important. That message wasn’t for you. It was for me.”

     “Message? What message?”

     Derek ignores him. “I have to go. Now.”

     Scott doesn’t try to stop him as he strides from the room.

Scott arrives at school the next day determined to fulfill his promise to Derek. His run in with the express train has convinced him even more that he needs Derek’s help and training, whatever the cost. In the break between first and second period, he sees Allison approaching him from the end of the hall. He pretends not to notice her and ducks towards a nearby classroom.

     “Avoid Allison, avoid Allison…” he mutters under his breath.

     At that moment, the classroom door opens and out steps Jackson Whittemore. The brawny senior is Scott’s captain on the lacrosse team and he seems to regard Scott as a threat to his position. The look he shoots him now is positively venomous. Scott changes course again, making for the stairwell.

     “Avoid Jackson, avoid Jackson…” he mumbles, as he hurries down the steps.

     “Hi Scott!” a cheerful voice trills.

     Scott looks up to see Lydia Martin at the foot of the stairs. The shapely redhead is Allison’s best friend, Jackson’s girlfriend, and the long time unrequited crush of Scott’s best friend Stiles. All of this makes that fact the Lydia seems to enjoy flirting with Scott rather problematic. He nods distractedly and turns around, now taking the stairs up to the third floor.

     “Avoid Lydia, avoid Lydia…” Scott murmurs. “Good grief.”

     This is going to be trickier than he anticipated.

     Finally, Scott reaches the comparative safety of the algebra classroom. He looks for his usual seat and sees that Stiles is already sitting at the desk right in front of it. He waves but Stiles makes no gesture in reply.

     Scott’s heart sinks. He doesn’t want to start avoiding Stiles too—far from it—but he isn’t exactly looking forward to this exchange. Stiles has been acting cool and distant towards Scott, ever since Scott ditched school to hang out with Allison on her birthday. Scott assumes this is because he didn’t tell Stiles what was happening or answer any of his friend’s increasingly frantic phone calls. He feels bad about worrying Stiles but he’s also starting to get sick of the sulky silences.

     He drops into his seat with a thud and starts taking out his books. Without looking up, he remarks,

     “I ran into Derek again last night.”

     Stiles says nothing.

     “Twice, actually,” Scott continues.

     Still nothing.

     “The first time he nearly attacked me as part of some messed up training exercise.”

     Stiles continues to drum lightly on his desk with the end of a pencil.

     “The second time he was lurking in my bedroom. Still don’t know how he got in there.”

     “Scott,” Stiles sighs, “I’m not talking to you, okay? I thought I was making that pretty clear.”

     “Except for right now.”

     “What?”

     “Well, you’re talking to me right now.”

     “I…yes, except for right now,” says Stiles, his voice dripping with exasperation.

     “And how long does right now last?”

     “Not much longer,” Stiles growls, his pencil tapping faster and faster.

     “It’s just I kind of wanted your take on something weird that happened.”

     “Oh?” Stiles asks coldly.

     “Yeah. The express train showed up again.”

     Stiles drops the pencil and turns round in his seat. “What? What happened?”

     Scott tells him briefly about the strange encounter, while the rest of the algebra students trickle in and find their seats.

     “A three?” asks Stiles. “And Derek seemed freaked out by it?”

     Scott nods. “If freaked is the right word. He honestly seemed more mad than scared.”

     “Yeah well,” says Stiles, “What did you expect from Derek ‘Anger Issues’ Hale?”

     “I just wish I knew what it meant,” Scott says. “I’m worried it’s some kind of countdown. Like three days until he murders everyone I love in their beds.”

     Stiles shakes his head. “Derek said the message was for him, not you. Let me think…”

     He picks up the pencil again and starts twirling it like a baton between two fingers. Scott watches his friend and waits. He knows that round head of fuzzy brown hair hides a brain of keen and incisive intellect. Unfortunately, it’s an intellect that generally prefers to keenly incise things that have nothing to do with schoolwork, practical life skills, or normal human behavior.

     “Of course!” Stiles blurts out a moment later. “It’s so obvious.”

     “What’s obvious?” asks Scott.

     “The numbers!” says Stiles excitedly. “Your number is a one, right?”

     “Right…” agrees Scott, rubbing unconsciously at his chest.

     “And Derek’s is a two and this express train’s is a four. That’s what you said, right?”

     “That’s right.”

     “So who’s three?”

     Scott nods, getting there. “Another engine. That’s what drawing the number on the window was about. I wonder…”

     But at this point, the boys’ speculations are cut short by the teacher’s call to order. Stiles turns around in his seat and falls silent once more, leaving Scott feeling uncomfortably alone.

Allison is sitting with Lydia at lunch, happily poring over a history book entitled Sonderzüge in den Tod that she found in the school library’s foreign language section. The book’s all in German but she has the Google translate app open on her phone. As the phone’s camera sweeps across the page, the app provides her with a real-time onscreen translation. It’s kind of surreal and totally awesome.

     Lydia, however, is unimpressed.

     “Too much like virtual reality,” she opines. “It reeks of geek.”

     “It’s not virtual reality,” Allison corrects. “It’s enhanced reality.”

     “Still geeky,” Lydia informs her, picking unenthusiastically at her plate of Salisbury steak.

     “Yeah but listen to what I’m finding out,” says Allison, undeterred. “During the Holocaust, the Nazis used secret trains all over Europe to transport Jews and gypsies and everyone to their concentration camps. They called them Sonderzüge, which just means ‘special trains’, and they pretended that they were taking the people to labor farms in Ukraine. They even made the Jews pay train fares.”

     “Evil,” Lydia agrees, “yet somehow still geeky and boring. I thought you said this was going to relate to your family.”

     “I’m getting to that. So there was guy, a French resistance fighter, named Jean-Luc d’Argent.”

     “John-Luke Argent,” says Lydia, gesturing for her friend to get on with it.

     “Right, exactly. And he and his team went around hunting these trains. First in France, on the SNCF railway, but then they slipped across the border and started attacking trains in Germany and Belgium. D’Argent had this way of killing a train engine without derailing its cars, so they could get the prisoners off alive.”

     “Killing it?” asks Lydia, frowning as she pushes aside her plate of greyish meat and gravy and pulls out a little makeup kit.

     Allison shrugs. “That what the book says. Could be a translation error. But check out this picture…”

     She turns the book around so Lydia can study the grainy, sepia tone image that fills the upper half of the right-hand page. It shows a group of men posing stiffly against the backdrop of a dark German forest with a rail line snaking through it. The man in the center has Chris Argent’s long jaw and rangy build, but his daughter’s dark hair and shining eyes. He wears a beret and carries a composite crossbow.

     “Why does he have a bow?” asks Lydia, betraying faint curiosity for the first time.

     “I don’t know,” Allison admits. “Good for stealth missions, I guess? Because it’s quieter?”

     Lydia sniffs and returns her attention to the circular mirror in the palm of her hand. Allison shakes her head and goes back to reading.

On the other side of the cafeteria, Scott is doing his best to stay out of Allison’s line of sight, lurking behind Stiles and a propped up textbook.

     “Might help if the book were right side up,” Stiles suggests after a while.

     “Shit,” Scott hisses, fumbling with his makeshift screen.

     “Or,” Stiles continues, “you could just tell Derek to go fuck himself. All this ‘relationships are a distraction’, ‘women make you weak’ bullshit is… is…”

     “Bullshit?”

     “Exactly.”

     Scott sighs. “Yeah, I know. But I need his help if I’m going to survive this thing.”

     “Why?”

     “Because he’s the only one who can teach me how to control my rails and my tunnel vision.”

     Stiles shakes his head. “See, I don’t buy that.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “I’ll show you,” Stiles suggests. “After lunch. You’ve got a free period, right?”

Scott does have a free period and so, somewhat dubiously, he follows Stiles down to the empty field behind the lacrosse stadium.

     “We should be okay here,” Stiles remarks, dumping his backpack on the ground.

     “What do you mean?”

     Stiles shrugs. “This might look a little weird to anyone watching. That’s all.”

     “You’re not really reassuring me here, man.”

     “Look, it’s simple. You can’t see your own rails or whatever they’re called, right?”

     “Right. That why I need Derek to…”

     Stiles cuts him off with a gesture. “Forget about Derek for right now. Your tunnel vision, it lets you see other people’s lines.”

     “Right.”

     “Does it matter if that person is moving under their own power or not? Like do the lines show up if someone’s riding in a car?”

     Scott thinks about this. “Yeah. I guess they do. But usually they’re whipping by so fast it doesn’t matter.”

     Stiles nods. “Okay. Then it should also work if the person’s being carried.”

     “I suppose.”

     “Well okay then.”

     “Okay then what?”

     “You’re going to carry me. You know, like that Yoda montage in The Empire Strikes Back. That way you can watch my rails as a substitute for yours and try whatever Jedi mind tricks you’re supposed to be practicing.”

     Scott stares at his friend. “Seriously. That’s your plan?”

     Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, that’s my takeout order. Yes, that’s my plan! Now come on. You’ve got super strength, don’t you? Pick me up and stop wasting time.”

     So Scott finds himself giving his best friend a piggyback ride, something he hasn’t done since they were about eight. Neither of them notices that Jackson Whittemore has paused near the edge of the lacrosse stadium and is watching them curiously.

     “Now start running some laps,” Stiles orders. Scott sighs but begins to jog briskly up and down the field.

     “Can you see my rails moving?” Stiles asks.

     “I can,” Scott confirms. “I still have no idea how I’m supposed to make them shorter or wiggly or whatever.”

     “Try zoning out.”

     “What?”

     “Don’t think about where you’re going. Let your legs take care of that, just like when you’re walking somewhere you’ve been a million times, and let your mind wander.”

     “Great. Now you’re my yoga coach.”

     “Not your yoga coach, but your Yoda coach, I am,” Stiles admonishes him in a Muppety croak.

     Scott groans. He lets his thoughts stray away from the muddy field strewn with litter to the steaming jungles of Dagobah, and then soar up through the misty atmosphere and across the glittering leagues of hyperspace. He’s landing on Endor and Tatooine, circling Coruscant and Hoth, and from there it’s only a short leap to other stranger worlds. He is swept up in a storm on Darwin IV, far above the amoebic sea. He’s ordering strangely glowing cocktails at Milliways. He stares up from the surface of the Whorl at the glimmering line of the long sun.

     Lines. Glimmering lines.

     Scott slows a bit and idly glances down. Stiles’ rails, normally a few yards long, have shrunk to a couple of feet. He grins.

     “It’s working!” he cries.

     “Good,” Stiles mumbles. “Put me down so I can puke.”

     Stiles does not, in fact, puke, but as soon as Scott sets him down he staggers away and flops face down on the scraggly grass. He clings tightly to the ground, as if worried he might fall off.

     “Stiles?” Scott asks, bending over him. “Are you okay?”

     Stiles grunts.

     “Stiles, what happened?”

     “Do you,” Stiles inquires in a somewhat muffled voice, “have any idea how fast you were going back there?”

     “What?”

     “Your little jog. Any idea how fast it was?”

     “No, not really.”

     “I’d guess somewhere in excess of a hundred miles an hour,” Stiles whimpers.

     “What, really?”

     Stiles shrugs and rolls over onto his back. “Hell man, I don’t know. It was fast though. Too fast. Every time you turned on your heel I felt like my intestines were trying to crawl up into my throat.”

     Scott shudders. “Gross.”

     “You’re telling me,” says Stiles, sticking out a hand.

     Scott takes it and pulls his friend to his feet.

     “At least it worked,” Scott offers.

     Stiles nods. “Come on. Let’s get to class.”

     They pass right by Jackson’s hiding place under the bleachers. The lacrosse captain stares after them, his cinder brick jaw hanging slack in stunned amazement.

Allison is sitting on the floor in front of her locker, still leafing through Sonderzüge in den Tod and waiting for the bell to ring. Her previous class had a substitute teacher who let them all go early, so now she has some time to kill before Intro Economics starts.

     She hears heavy footsteps and catches a whiff of testosterone-charged body spray. Then someone sits down on the floor beside her. She looks up. It’s Jackson.

     Allison isn’t a big fan of Jackson Whittemore. He’s always been borderline rude to her and just plain rude to Scott. Still, he’s Lydia’s boyfriend, so she’s willing to put up with him in small doses.

     “Hi Jackson,” she says, flashing a perfunctory smile.

     He smiles back, wide and winning. “Hi Allison. What’re you reading?”

     “A German history book,” she tells him. “Geeky and boring. Did you want something?”

     “Not exactly,” says Jackson. “That is, I wanted to talk to you. To apologize.”

     “Apologize? For what?”

     “I’ve been thinking, and I realized that I’ve kind of been an asshole. To you and Scott. So I thought I should say sorry. I know Lydia really likes you, Allison, and I think I really like you too.”

     Allison arches an eyebrow.

     “You and Scott,” Jackson amends. “I like you both. Or at least, I think I could. I want to get to know you better.”

     Allison laughs.

     “What?” says Jackson, smiling again. “I’m being serious.”

     “Oh, I believe that,” Allison assures him. “I’m just not convinced you’re being sincere.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “You and I both know that you hate Scott's guts,” she tells him frankly.

     Jackson nods. “So we’re being sincere, huh?” 

     “I’d appreciate it,” Allison confirms.

     “Allison,” Jackson asks, “Have you ever been the star player on a team? Do you know what that feels like? To have everyone looking at you? Counting on you? Calling your name? The kind of golden, leaden weight that is?”

     “A bit, actually,” says Allison with a brittle smile. “I was captain of my archery team for three years and my gymnastics team for two.”

     Jackson nods, taking this in stride. “And did someone ever come along and rip that all away? Some new star who could outshine you? Some new name on those lips? Did you ever have to feel what that was like?”

     “Not really,” Allison admits. “I usually just had to quit the team because my family was moving.”

     Jackson ignores the bitter edge to those words. “Well Allison, let me tell you, it doesn’t feel good. It makes you start to feel a little crazy, actually. Like you’d do anything—absolutely anything—to get that spotlight back.”

     Allison stares at him. She’s never thought of Jackson as scary before. He’s big, but he’s not hard the way the men her father works with are. She might not like him, but she’s never been scared of him.

     Until now. Now there’s a look in his eyes, hungry and little feverish, that scares her down to her bones. She wants to scoot away from him but she feels frozen in place, like a rabbit confronted with an unexpected Rottweiler.

     Then all at once, Jackson smiles sheepishly and the feverish light dies from his face.

     “Anyway,” he continues, “All that’s just to say, I know I’ve been acting kind of crazy around you two and I want to make it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

     “Sure Jackson,” Allison squeaks, “That sounds great.”

     He smiles again and stands up. “Thanks, Allison. I knew I could count on you.”

Derek Hale is still furious. The express train’s taunting message hasn’t just left a sour taste in his mouth; he feels like he could spit lacework in a sheet of steel. Edward, the steam engine who shares his body, can feel Derek’s anger and responds to it. Despite his best efforts, rivets keep popping out from under Derek’s skin, over his bristling jaw or the knuckles of his clenched fists.

     He’s striding along almost blindly, following the line of the old Skarloey Railway that runs past the ruin of his family home. He’s headed back after a whole morning’s fruitless pacing. Above him, grey clouds have blown up out of the west, making the afternoon unnaturally dark. Even as he catches sight of the seared shingles of his roof through the leafless trees, a flurry of early snow begins to fall.

     Derek abandons the train tracks and heads for home. But when he reaches the front door, he finds something tucked into the crack between door and frame. It’s a few sheets of paper, stapled together and folded in half. He unfolds them, frowning in the fading light.

     They’re pages copied from police reports, all describing a series of strange crimes and occurrences in New Sodor County. At first Derek expects them to be just more taunting and the edges of the paper crumple as his fists clench involuntarily. But then he notices something else.

     Every page, every report, makes reference to the same man, a sort of expert witness that the police turn to again and again. Someone who seems to know a surprising amount about trains, but—as far as Derek is any judge—still knows more than he’s saying.

     He refolds the paper, tucks it into the pocket of his leather jacket, ands heads for his car. Derek needs to pay a visit to Alan Deaton.

Scott is sitting in the front row of the economics classroom as most of the rest of the class files in. He sees Stiles and Allison enter at almost the same time. Scott gulps. Stiles’ Yoda training notwithstanding, he still really wants Derek’s help dealing with the express train. That means no more contact with Allison than he can absolutely help. Surreptitiously, he motions for Stiles to take the empty seat directly behind him.

     Stiles nods, catching the import, and hurries over but Allison is faster. Just as Stiles is about to sit down, she drops her book bag onto the empty chair.

     “Sorry Stiles,” she says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “But I feel like I’ve been trying to chase Scott down all day. You don’t mind, do you?”

     Stiles shakes his head. “No, it’s cool.”

     He retreats to the row behind Allison and once her back is turned, shoots Scott a regretful grimace. He's tried his best and now it’s out of his hands.

     “So,” says Allison, leaning towards Scott. “I know you said you were super busy this week, but I talked to the chemistry teacher and he says it’d be okay for me to meet with the other lab section this week so I can tutor you during your free period.”

     “Tutor me?” asks Scott.

     Allison shrugs. “Well, it sounds better than hang out with my boyfriend. What do you think?”

     “I don’t know,” Scott hedges.

     Allison looks crestfallen. “I… I mean, I just thought you’d…”

     “No, no,” says Scott quickly. “It’s a great idea. I just don’t want to hurt your chemistry grade.”

     Allison waves this away. “I’ll be fine. You won’t hurt me.”

     Bobby Finstock, New Sodor High’s lacrosse coach and economics teacher, enters the room, trailing scraps of paper and a strong smell of coffee. His dark hair sticks up in all directions, as if he’s been sticking forks into electrical outlets, and his glittering eyes bulge slightly in their sockets.

     “Okay you chuckleheads,” he greets the class. “Settle down, settle down.”

     He drops his papers onto the desk with a thump. “Okay. Who wants to summarize last night’s reading? Not you Stephanie. Everyone already knows you did the reading. How about Scott?”

     “Me?” Scott asks, looking up in alarm.

     “You,” Mr. Finstock confirms. “Go on. Summarize the reading.”

     “Um…” Scott hesitates.

     He entirely forgot there was a reading for this class. His run-ins with Derek and the express train drove all memory of the assignment right out of his head. Behind him, he can hear Stiles groan.

     “I forgot to do the reading, sir,” Scott admits, not wanting to meet his coach’s eyes.

     Mr. Finstock shakes his head. “Well that’s fine. Fine. It’s not like you’re already averaging a C- in this course. It’s not like I’ll have to kick you off the lacrosse team if your grade drops to a D. It’s not like the whole team’s counting on you or anything.”

     Anger and shame kindle a fire in Scott’s chest and he can feel his boiler pressure—the unseen energy that powers his transformations into Thomas—start to spike. He keeps his eyes down, but the coach leans down and forward, filling his field of vision.

     “Maybe you’d like to summarize the reading from the night before? Or the night before that, maybe? Or how about anything you’ve ever read in your entire life?”

     His voice is getting louder, pitched to be heard over the roar of a crowded stadium, not the treacherous silence of a classroom full of teenagers.

     “How about the back of a cereal box, Scott? Ever read one of those? Or maybe you’d like to summarize the eighteen and over disclaimer from your favorite website? No? Nothing?”

     In another second, Scott knows, his boiler pressure will cascade out of his control and he’ll start to shift. Already he doesn’t dare open his mouth, for fear that sparks and steam will come billowing out.

     “Well congratulations, Scott. Congratulations on destroying what little hope I had for your generation. You did it. You crushed it. All of it. The whole thing.”

     Mr. Finstock makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and turns to chalkboard. Stiles, who has been watching the tension building in the set of Scott’s shoulders, grits his teeth, bracing himself for the explosion.

     It doesn’t come. Stiles looks down and sees that, under the desk, Scott and Allison are holding hands. His friend’s shoulders are relaxed, his breathing slow and regular.

     Stiles sighs in relief and wordlessly blesses Allison Argent.

     “This plan is nuts,” Stiles informs Scott as they walk to the parking lot at the end of the day. Scott is wheeling his bike along and flakes of early snow are settling in his dark, wavy hair.

     “Which plan?” he asks.

     “This not talking to Allison plan.”

     “Hey, it wasn’t my idea,” says Scott defensively. “But Derek…”

     “I told you,” says Stiles impatiently, “You need to forget about Derek.”

     “Why? Because you think I can train with you instead?” Scott sighs. “Even if that’s true, Stiles, I’ll still need Derek’s help when it comes time to fight the express train. By myself, I’ll never be strong enough.”

     Stiles tugs irritably at his backpack strap, tightening it. “Yeah, okay. You still need Derek. But you need Allison too. Right now, while you’re still learning to control your engine, I’d say you need her a lot more.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “She’s like your anchor, man. I saw what happened in class today. You were about to lose it but she brought you back.”

     Scott nods. “That’s true, actually. And it’s not the first time something like that’s happened.”

     “I remember,” says Stiles. “What did you tell me? That she’s like your happy place? That she makes you better just by existing?”

     “Something like that,” Scott agrees.

     “So cutting her out of your life is just stupid. I’ve been around you when you’ve started to lose control. There’s no point in sacrificing everything to fight the express train if that’s going to turn you into a monster who's just as bad.”

     They’ve reached Stiles’ jeep and he opens the door and hops up behind the wheel. Scott, however, hesitates.

     “Come on, man. Get in. You can put your bike in the back. I’ll give you a ride to work.”

     “I guess you’re not mad at me anymore then.” 

     Stiles shrugs. “Guess not.”

     Feeling happier than he has in days, Scott stows his bike away and settles himself in the passenger seat of the battered old jeep.

     Well, thank goodness that’s taken care of, the jeep sighs as they rumble off down the road.

Alan Deaton is waiting for his young assistant Scott McCall to arrive, so he’s not surprised to hear footsteps approaching from the rear of the auto shop.

     “Hey Scott,” he calls, not looking up from the dilapidated carburetor he is carefully restoring. “Get your coveralls on. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us today.”

     “Scott isn’t here.”

     Alan straightens and finds a dark-haired man in a leather jacket looming over him. He hands Alan a crumpled sheaf of papers.

     “Tell me about these,” the man demands.

     Alan flicks through the papers, his mind racing. He has a pretty good idea who this man is and what he might want. Alan truly can’t help him, but he doubts the new visitor will take no for an answer.

     “They look like police documents,” he ventures.

     “I know that,” the man snaps. “You’re Deaton, right? The engineer in those reports?”

     “I’m Deaton,” Alan confirms. “But I’m just a mechanic these days. Haven’t been an engineer in a long time.”

     The stranger waves this away. “You seem to know a lot about train accidents.”

     “Some,” Alan admits. “I used to work on railway redesign in Japan.”

     “You seem to know a lot about steam trains in particular,” the man growls. His grey eyes are narrowed in dislike.

     Alan tries to hand the papers back to the man, but he ignores them.

     “Look,” Alan says. “Everything useful that I know about these incidents is already there on the paper. If you want to know more, I suggest you talk to the sher...”

     “Oh, I very much doubt that,” says the man, cutting him off. “You’ve been playing twenty questions with the sheriff for weeks, but I think I’ve already guessed the answer. And it’s not an answer I like.”

     Alan gauges the distance between himself and the stranger, and then between himself and his tool bench. A solid steel pipe wrench gleams up at him invitingly from the scarred and oil-stained wood.

     “I don’t understand you,” Alan tells his visitor.

     “I don’t believe you,” the man counters. “Why are you protecting him?”

     “Excuse me?”

     “You’re not the express, much as I’d like that to be true. So why do you protect him? Are you coupled to him? Are you part of his train?”

     “I really don’t…” Alan starts to protest, edging closer to the workbench.

     The stranger’s hand flashes out with inhuman speed and seizes the mechanic by the wrist. His grip is cold and hard, the bite of a steel clamp. Alan stops moving.

     “Tell me where to find him,” the man snarls. Thin trails of smoke and steam are curling from his nostrils. “Tell me, or I’ll crush you like a tin can.”

     “I don’t know!” Alan bellows, his control breaking at last.

     The man tosses his head contemptuously. His face is stretching, becoming wide and grey and terrible. Little streaks of blue paint race up his neck like tongues of sulfurous flame. He draws back a clenched fist, ready to deal a blow that will spatter Alan’s brains across the workshop.

     The blow never lands.

     Scott catches Derek’s arm as it descends and, with a screech of grating metal, twists it up behind the older engine’s back. He can feel Thomas’ furnace roaring within him, burning fear and outrage like coal.

     “Let my boss go,” he growls into Derek’s ear. “Or you’re dead, Hale.”

     Behind them, still hovering in the doorway of the auto shop with the keys to the jeep in one hand, Stiles can only stare with his mouth open.

     “Your boss is one of them,” Derek tells Scott flatly. He does not release Alan’s wrist. Beneath his dark skin, Alan’s face is going pale and tight with pain.

     “What do you mean?” Scott demands, keeping up the pressure on Derek’s elbow. “One of who?”

     “He knows things! Things only an engine or a train spotter would know.”

     “He’s not a train spotter!” Scott protests. “They only just came back to New Sodor and Mr. Deaton’s been here for years.”

     “I know that!” Derek snaps. “He’s an engine. He’s been working with the express train, protecting him from the police.”

     “That’s insane!”

     “We can test it,” Stiles suggests quietly.

     “What?” Scott and Derek demand at the same time.

     “If he’s really an engine like you and Derek, we can prove it,” Stiles explains. “All we would need is some railroad vine. Tie a sprig of it to Mr. Deaton and see if he reacts. I know you’ve got some, Derek, because you used it when you buried your sister.”

     Derek bristles at this but he’s stopped steaming. He’s listening and thinking, which Stiles considers progress. Stiles puts his keys away and cautiously closes the door.

     “Okay,” says Derek, nodding abruptly. “Okay. We can test him. You’ll see.”

     He gestures to a hoist chain lying coiled in a corner of the room.

     “Bring that here.”

     “What for?” Scott demands.

     “To restrain him,” says Derek impatiently.

     “That’s really not necessary,” Alan protests.

     Derek glares at him. “Keep quiet if you want to live.”

     Shaking his head, Stiles goes to retrieve the chain. It proves a little heavy for him, so Scott reluctantly comes to his aid. With Scott’s sullen assistance, Derek winds the coils about Alan’s chest and limbs, finishing with a loose circle thrown about his neck like a noose.

     “Now walk,” Derek orders.

     Alan walks before him, the metal links jingling with every step, while Derek hold the ends of the chain tightly in his left hand. His right hand twitches occasionally, as if it longs to grip and throttle.

     Scott and Stiles file after the two men as they leave the auto shop and make for the dark outline of Derek’s car, dimly visible through the falling snow and gathering dusk. Scott sees a flicker of glowing blue cross Derek’s path, coming from the direction of the road.

     “Derek!” he bellows, trying to warn him, but his voice is lost in a sudden, blasting train whistle, a sound like a geyser screaming in agony.

     Scott staggers and claps his hands over his ears. Something huge and gleaming slides past him, a sudden wall of iron and paintwork, and slams into Derek. The chains are torn from Derek’s hand and he’s thrown sideways into a rusting pickup. The truck’s metal frame buckles with the force of the impact and Derek does not get up.

     Stiles seizes Scott by the shoulders and drags him back from the huge blue express train that now looms over them. Its wide, unblinking eyes rotate in its ashen face, tracking the motion. Its mouth is set in an utterly inhuman smile. Steam billows from its funnel and snowflakes sizzle on the hot steel.

     “It was a trap,” Stiles gasps. “It was a trap and we walked right in.”

CLOSING THEME/SHOW CREDITS

Chapter Text

     “It was a trap,” Stiles gasps. “It was a trap and we walked right in.”

     Scott doesn’t bother with words. He runs, dragging his best friend after him.

     Mr. Deaton’s auto shop is a few miles from the center of town, far enough that all the smashed up old cars aren’t too much of an eyesore. New Sodor being what it is, this means that the shop is basically surrounded by scrubby woodland on three sides. Scott plunges into the undergrowth, trampling any bush or sapling foolish enough to get in his way. He can feel Thomas as a physical pressure under his skin, metal and wheels straining to be free, throbbing in time with his panicked heartbeat.

     Behind him he hears the grating crunch and sudden inrush of air as the express shifts back to a mostly human form. He remembers Derek’s warning: You’ll never be fast enough to outrun an express, not over distance. But now Derek is dead, or nearly dead, and what choice does Scott have?

     “Scott,” Stiles wheezes. “I can’t…I can’t…”

     Scott glances back at his friend. Stiles’ legs are churning madly, because it’s run or have his arm ripped off by Scott, but his round face is brick red. He looks like he’s about to pass out.

     “Yoda style!” Scott yells, slowing his pace a notch. “Now!”

     Stiles nods and throws his arms about Scott’s neck, clinging to him like a backpack. Scott hoists him into a more secure position without breaking stride, and then accelerates. He can hear clashing and clanging from the direction of the auto shop, but can’t guess what’s causing it. Is the express train venting its rage on Mr. Deaton’s cars? As long as it slows him down, Scott doesn’t really care.

     He vaults over a fallen log and there ahead of him is what he’s been searching for. Gravel crunches under his sneakers as he races up the embankment and onto the rails.

     Scott can’t quite remember the name of the long disused branch line these train tracks belong to; he knows it must be part of the Northwestern Railway that used to connect New Sodor to its neighbors in the Steel Belt but now doesn’t seem like the time to stand around wracking his memory. He turns right at random and begins to run along the top of the embankment, taking advantage of the level ground to try and put some distance between him and his pursuer.

     Thomas though has other ideas. He can feel Scott’s fear, taste the bitter tang of it like sulfur in his coal, and the imperative to flee rapidly overwhelms all other concerns. And however fast two legs are, six wheels will be faster.

     The change sweeps over Scott before he is even fully aware of it. Stiles yelps in alarm, but there’s no halting the transformation. Muscle becomes metal, skin becomes steel. Scott expands even as mass pours into him. Another half-heartbeat and he is no longer a teenage boy, but a bright blue tank engine, barreling ahead at full steam.

     Stiles, for his part, finds himself unexpectedly in the cabin of a train engine. He’s sprawled on the floor and through it he can feel every rattle and jolt as Scott’s wheels grind along the rusting rails. The smell of coal smoke assails his nostrils and he can feel the glow of the furnace heating one whole side of his body. Dazedly, he clambers to his feet and peers out at the darkened landscape rushing past them.

     “Stiles!” a familiar voice calls from the front of the engine. “Stiles! Are you okay?”

     “I’m fine,” Stiles croaks, struggling to be heard over the din of whirring wheels, “I’m here. It’s okay.”

     From this angle he can’t see much of Thomas’ wide grey face, but when he hears the engine sigh with relief, the sound is so distinctly Scott’s that it almost makes Stiles laugh. It’s the same sound he’s heard his friend utter a hundred times, whenever they’ve narrowly avoided the wrath of teachers, parents, or movie theatre attendants.

     “Talking trains!” Stiles chortles, the cold night wind buzzing through his short brown hair and stinging his round, boyish cheeks. “He was right all along! The reverend was right!”

     “Stiles,” Scott calls urgently, cutting through his friend’s mirth. “The express train’s coming.”

     Stiles turns to stare back down the train tracks but they’ve passed around the curve of a rocky hill and he can see nothing.

     “Are you sure?”

     “I can feel him through the rails,” Scott insists. “And he’s gaining on us.”

     Stiles worries his lower lip with his teeth, trying to think. They can’t run, so they’ve got to hide. A safe place. A strong place. A fortress…

     And suddenly Stiles knows where they need to go.

     “Suddery Castle!” he yells.

     “What?” Scott demands.

     “Doesn’t this branch line go past Suddery Castle?”

     “I don’t remember!” Scott almost wails.

     “It’s okay,” Stiles assures him. “It’s okay. I remember. We just have to make it through Crosby Tunnel and then we’re practically in the castle’s backyard.”

     “Would the castle keep him out?” Scott wants to know.

     Stiles weighs this. It’s a fair question. Suddery Castle was never built to withstand anything like an actual assault. It’s a tourist attraction, or it was in the days when the trains were running and New Sodor still got tourists. Its faux gothic crenelations are held up by plaster and rebar, not hand-quarried limestone and it isn’t in the best repair. Still, Stiles reflects, there’s an old saying about beggars and choosers…

     “Do you have a better idea?” he asks Scott.

     “No,” Scott admits. He wishes they could just lose the express train in the woods, but he has a creeping suspicion that his psychic coupling will lead their enemy right to them. “But I don’t know if I can even make it that far without him catching us.”

     Stiles nods, his face grim. “How can I help?”

     “I don’t think…” Scott begins to say. Then he stops himself. “Is there a shovel back there?”

     Stiles glances to his left. There is indeed a broad shovel hanging from two hooks on the wall.

     “Uh-huh…”

     “And the coal-bin? It’s not locked or anything?”

     “No…”

     “Okay then. I want you to load more coal into my furnace, as much coal as you can without smothering the fire.”

     Stiles groans, but he plucks the shovel from the wall and begins to do as Scott asks.

     “I don’t even want to think what this is a metaphor for…” he mutters, as he pours dark lumps of fuel into his best friend’s burning heart.

     “It’s not a metaphor at all!” Scott snaps, exasperated, “It’s…”

     But his words are cut off by a shriek like a tortured geyser: the express train’s whistle. Stiles whirls. Now the train tracks are running straight and true once more and he can clearly see the blazing lights of the express and behind them, it’s wide, glassy eyes, drawing closer every second.

     “Go! Go!” he screams at Scott, as he redoubles his efforts, shoveling coal like a madman.

     Scott is accelerating, the fire within him burning high and hot. Ahead looms Crosby Tunnel, a gaping hole in a high sandstone cliff. They plunge into it and before their eyes can adjust to the sudden darkness, they are through. Now the cliff bends away hard to the right, rising as it does so, and on those heights stands Suddery Castle.

     “Hang on!” Scott yells, and he twists himself as no merely mechanical train could ever twist. Stiles screams and snatches at the walls for purchase as Thomas’ wheels part company with the rails and they plunge into the forest of briars and pokeweed that thrives between the embankment and the cliff face.

     Scott brakes hard and they come to a skidding halt with only inches to spare. Less than a foot further, and his face would’ve plowed right into the unforgiving sandstone. With no time to marvel at this, Scott shifts his form. Suddenly, he and Stiles are lying sprawled in the thorns and churned up earth.

     “Up! Up!” Scott barks, trying to inject some of Coach Finstock’s manic authority into his voice.

     Stiles lurches awkwardly to his feet and follows after Scott.

     “Where is it? Where is it?” Scott mutters as they scurry along the foot of the cliff. “Where the hell is it?”

     “There!” Stiles wheezes, pointing at a narrow cleft in the rock, partially hidden by trailing creepers.

     The boys push through the tangled growth and onto the rough stair cut into the rock by some long forgotten arm of the WPA. You’d never find it if you didn’t know it was there and he has some faint hope that it will slow down the express train, at least a little. Already he can hear the clangor of his enemy’s engine echoing through the tunnel behind them.

     Halfway up the stairs, Stiles collapses with a stitch in his side. Scott lifts him in a fireman’s carry and keeps running. They careen out into the cracked and overgrown parking lot behind the castle. Then it’s a mad dash along the gravelly path and over the rotting timbers of the drawbridge. The moat, less than six feet deep, is half full of brown rainwater, covered by a brittle layer of ice.

     “Where now?” Scott demands as they dart across the threshold. The spikes of the portcullis cast long, toothy shadows across their faces.

     “Gatehouse,” Stiles groans. He looks pale and, under the mud, faintly green.

     Scott nods, bounds up the steps to the ramparts, and wrenches the gatehouse door open with one hand. Inside, he sets Stiles gently on the floor and starts flipping every lever he can find into the ‘closed’ position. Anything electrical has long since corroded into uselessness, but the gear-driven mechanisms are still solid enough. Heavy counterweights drop, hauling the drawbridge upright and the portcullis clangs down in front of it like an iron facemask.

     “Safe,” Scott whispers, collapsing onto a rickety chair. From the floor beside him, Stiles can only let out a hollow laugh.

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

Allison Argent is not enjoying herself. She’s hanging out with Lydia and Jackson at New Sodor’s one and only shopping mall. Of the three of them, Lydia is by far the most enthusiastic shopper, and Allison often finds herself wishing to roll her eyes over her best friend’s antics. But with Scott elsewhere, the only person she has to share an eye roll with is Jackson. And Jackson is being weird.

     Allison has gotten used to Jackson regarding her with a sort of sullen resentment, a rival for Lydia’s attention and an interloper who has disrupted the delicate balance of New Sodor High’s social order. Now though, he seems to be going out of his way to be friendly to her. He holds doors, tries to draw her into conversation, and when they stop for milkshakes, he insists and paying for all three of them. Allison doesn’t know what to make of all this, and she isn’t yet sure if she likes it.

     She’s startled out of these reflections when her cell phone buzzes in her pocket.

     “Better check that,” Lydia advises.

     The girls are in the changing room of Forever 21, while Jackson waits outside. Allison has her back to Lydia, who is wriggling into a strappy bralette.

     Allison murmurs her assent as she unlocks the phone. It’s a text message from Scott’s number.

     Can you meet me at Suddery Castle? Very important.

     Allison frowns. “Well that’s weird.”

     “What’s weird?” Lydia asks. “You can turn around now, by the way.”

     Allison does so, but her attention is still on the phone. “It’s Scott.”

     “Changed his mind about wanting to see you tonight?” asks Lydia archly.

     “I guess so. Do you know what Suddery Castle is?”

     Lydia wrinkles her nose. “That old pile? Jackson and his friends take rookies there sometimes on dares.”

     “But what is it?”

     “It’s like a fake castle for tourists, but it’s been closed for years. Why? Is Scott there?”

     Allison nods. “He wants me to meet him. He says it’s really important.”

     Lydia’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you going to go?”

     Allison pulls a face. “I don’t want to just ditch you guys. Plus it sounds…”

     “A little sketchy?”

     “I guess,” she admits. “But I don’t know. I mean, he’s done some really sweet things for me, showing me around places he liked to go exploring as a kid.”

     Lydia looks unimpressed. “Cheap thrills.”

     “No really,” Allison protests. “It’s like, all these woods and old train tracks, he knows them like the back of his hand. I’ve never had anywhere like that. My family moves around too much. So that he wants to share these places with me, it means a lot.”

     Lydia sighs. “Okay, I admit, you almost make it sound cute. Do you need a ride?”

     “Probably. You said Jackson’s been there before?”

     Lydia nods. “I’ll have him drive us.”

     Something about her tone, as if Jackson were Lydia’s loyal chauffeur rather than her boyfriend, makes Allison chuckle uncomfortably.

     “What?” Lydia demands.

     “It’s nothing,” says Allison quickly. “It’s just…just thanks Lydia.”

     Lydia smiles her catlike smile. “No problem. Now tell me, how do I look?”

     She strikes a pose in the strappy bralette and her tight jeans, one hand resting on the curve of her hip, the other tucked under her chin.

     “Like something out of a magazine,” says Allison honestly.

     “I don’t think a nice girl like you should be reading that kind of magazine,” Lydia teases.

     “You know I didn’t mean it like that,” says Allison, turning her back so Lydia can change once more, and to hide her own discomfort. She can feel her cheeks reddening.

     Lydia only laughs.

After a minute Scott gets back to his feet and helps Stiles up.

     “Come on,” he says. “There’s other doors, right? Emergency exits and stuff.”

     Stiles nods. He’s still streaked with grime and soot and bleeding where the briars tore at his face and hands, but he no longer looks like he’s about to throw up.

     “We should block them up,” he suggests and Scott nods in agreement.

     “That’s what I was thinking.”

     The boys never spent as much time at the castle, during their long summers of rambling through the woods and hills around New Sodor, as they did at the old railway stations. It was too well known, with too much risk of stumbling across older kids who’d come there to neck and drink purloined liquor away from adult eyes. Such adolescents tended to take a dim view of curious ten year olds interrupting their activities, and weren’t always above expressing their displeasure by shoving those ten year olds in the moat. Still, the lure of a very nearly real castle in your own backyard was great and they’d at least gotten to know the general layout of the place.

     Now they hurry from exit to exit, piling rotten furniture and fallen lumps of rock and plaster in great heaps behind each door. Scott, with Thomas’ help, can move much heavier objects or even rip fresh chunks of debris from the walls around them, but he takes little comfort in this. Anything he can shift, the express train will be able to shift too. At best, this is a delaying tactic.

     “Why isn’t he here yet?” Stiles wonders aloud, as Scott wedges a crushed rainwater tank in front of the final door.

     “Maybe he couldn’t find the stair,” says Scott, with more optimism than he feels.

     Stiles shakes his head. “But he must know where we’ve gone. He’d see our whatever you call them. Our rails. The lines of light you’ve been going on about.”

     Scott nods. “That’s true. But if he was still in the tunnel when we were getting onto the stairs…”

     His speculations are cut off by a sudden crack. It’s as loud as a gunshot, but less resonant. It’s like the sound when a piece of chalk snaps against the blackboard, but magnified a thousand fold. It rings out again, and then again. It’s coming from the direction of the train tracks.

     Wordlessly, the boys race to the top of the wall. The need to see for themselves overwhelms their dread.

     “Stay low,” Stiles warns.

     Cautiously, they peer over the crenelated battlement. The curve of the cliff face affords them a clear view of what is happening: the express train is climbing. Rain and wind have smoothed the brown sandstone, leaving few handholds. But when you have steel knuckles and super strength, you can damn well make your own handholds. Even as the boys watch, the express yanks its right hand free of the rock and punches a point on the cliff face a few feet above its head. The blow lands like a jackhammer, the monster’s fist disappearing almost up to the elbow. It hoists itself higher and repeats the process with its left arm, then again with its right.

     “Jesus Christ,” Stiles whispers.

     Scott nods dully. There’s no way to keep something like that out of any building: castle or fortress or bomb shelter. In another instant, the express has achieved the top of the cliff.

     “We’re too exposed,” Scott whispers. “We’ve got to get inside. Back to the gatehouse.”

     Stiles shakes his head. “That’s first place he’d look for us. We should get down to the dungeons.”

     “Okay,” Scott agrees. “Start moving. But don’t stick your head above the rampart and try not to think too much about what you’re doing.”

     “What?”

     “Zone out, like we practiced. Keep your rails small. Tunnel vision doesn’t pass through solid objects, but just in case.”

     “That practice was for you, not for me!” Stiles complains but he starts crawling anyway.

     “I don’t like this,” says Jackson, for about the dozenth time, as he parks his sports car by the entrance to Suddery Castle. Stray flakes of early snow shine whitely in the glare of his headlights and the dilapidated welcome sign casts a long shadow over the uneven ground.

     “Oh stop fussing, Jackson,” Lydia orders. “You’re like one of those little dogs that has to bark at every mail carrier. Allison will be fine.”

     Allison is less than sure of this but she puts on a brave face.   

     “Thanks guys,” she tells them with a smile, and slides out into the cold night air. To her surprise, Jackson follows her. He’s still bristling from Lydia’s barbed comment and his breath comes out as little puffs of fog.

     “I’ll walk you to the gate,” he offers.

     “That’s okay,” Allison assures him. “I’m sure Scott will…”

     Jackson holds up a hand, cutting her off. “Please. Just humor me.”

     Allison raises an eyebrow. “Feeling protective all of a sudden? I’m touched.”

     Jackson smiles sheepishly. “I guess I am. Fancy that.”

     Allison chuckles in spite of herself and allows Jackson to walk beside her down the gravelly drive. Lydia watches them intently through the windscreen, a sick feeling forming in the pit of her stomach.

     Jackson frowns as they draw near the crumbling bulk of Suddery Castle.

     “That’s weird.”

     “What’s weird?” Allison asks.

     “The drawbridge is up.”

     Allison starts to frown too. “Is there another way in?”

     “There should be,” Jackson admits.

     He leads the way around the side of the building where something like a fire escape spans the moat. It’s rather rusty and creaks under Allison’s boots, but she makes it to the landing without mishap. Jackson remains at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her.

     “Hey Allison?”

     She turns. “Yeah?”

     “Never mind.”

     “Jackson Whittemore, were you about to tell me to be careful?”

     “Pretty much,” says Jackson. This time his smile is much less sheepish. His teeth are very straight and very white in the darkness.

     Allison shakes her head and turns back to the door that opens onto the landing. To her mild surprise, it’s already open. In fact, it seems to have fallen off its hinges. Rubble crunches underfoot as Allison slips inside.

     “Really,” she tells herself. “It’s a miracle this place hasn’t fallen down already.”

     “He’s here,” Scott whispers. “He’s down here with us.”

     “Are you sure?” Stiles whispers back.

     Scott nods. “Listen.”

     Stiles strains his ears. Sure enough, he hears it. Faint as the whisper of a night breeze, but bone-chillingly unmistakable, it’s the shuffling rasp of metal on stone.

     The boys are sheltering in Suddery Castle’s imitation crypt, crouched at the bottom of an empty plaster coffin. It’s a hiding place that is beginning to feel horribly prophetic.

     Then suddenly a voice rings out.

     “See here! This squat’s taken, all right? Shove off and find your own.”

     It’s not a friendly voice, but it’s certainly human, roughened by nothing more than hooch and bummed cigarettes. But the voice that replies to it is something else again.

     “It’s a cold night.”

     Scott winces. He can feel the new voice as a pain in his teeth. It sounds like stripping gears.

     “I…I suppose it is…” the merely human voice quavers. “Who…”

     But then there is a horrible squelching crunch. A dull thud follows. Neither voice speaks again. Then the shuffling rasp starts up again. Beside him, Scott sees that Stiles is shaking and suddenly he has to fight down a whimper of his own. But to his everlasting relief, the rasping noise is growing fainter, not louder, moving away up the stairs.

     Silence falls.

     After a long while, Scott dares to lift the lid of the false coffin and clamber out. The room is very dark, but a dropped flashlight illuminates one concrete wall. The wall is flecked with drops of blood and sticky lumps of something more viscous and far worse.

     On the floor is a man, dressed layers of ragged flannel and stained sweat clothes. His limbs are stick thin and knobby. Black dirt has worked itself into the wrinkles of his leathery skin. His beard is long and matted. He was quite old. He will not get older.

     “Oh God,” Stiles whispers, emerging beside Scott. “Oh God, his head… I mean, his head…”

     Scott lays a hand on his friend’s arm.

     “Nothing we can do,” he murmurs.

     “But we brought him here. The express train. He was looking for us.”   

     Scott doesn’t know what to say to this, and the way his stomach is roiling, he thinks opening his mouth at all might be a terrible mistake. He turns away from the man on the floor, staring into the dark.

     “Why didn’t he stop us?” Stiles wonders aloud. “I mean, when we came down here, why didn’t he try to throw us out like he did the express?”

     “He was probably asleep,” says Scott dully. “Look.”

     He points towards a side chamber neither of them noticed when they first entered the crypt. Once it was probably the break room used by the starving actors hired to play historically inaccurate comic gravediggers. Now it contains a grubby mattress piled with threadbare blankets and several shopping carts full of canned food and secondhand junk.

     “Oh God…” says Stiles again.

     Scott nods. “But that’s probably why the express train went back up. He was thinking like you did. He thinks we can’t be down here because the homeless man would’ve spotted us.”

     “But when he doesn’t find us anywhere else,” Stiles points out, “he’ll check back here, won’t he? He won’t just give up.”

     Scott bites his lip in thought, concentrating on the impressions he’s received of the express train through their psychic coupling.

     “I think you’re right,” he says slowly, his voice seeming to come from far away. “He’s…obsessed, I think. I don’t think he can give up, not once my wheels…I mean, once his plans are in motion.”

     “Right. Okay.” Stiles is pacing now, no longer numb with horror, but back in his default state of nearly frenetic thought. “But we could get out of here, out of the castle, without going back upstairs. There have got to be drains and things down here, right? We could sneak out that way and head back towards town while he was still searching for us here.”

     Scott’s heart leaps up with sudden hope, then sinks again. He shakes his head.

     “It wouldn’t work. He’d feel it through the coupling.”

     Stiles frowns. “How precise is the coupling?”

     Scott shrugs. “I don’t really know. Not very, I think, not if you’re talking about using it like a GPS. But it’s good at transmitting emotions.”

     “So what? Fear’s fear, right?”

     “I don’t think so,” Scott explains. “I mean, think about it. When you’re hiding and afraid that feels very different than when you’re running and afraid, right? The second one’s almost exciting. It gives you energy. But the other kind is more like dread. It makes you feel sick.”

     Stiles pulls a face. “You’re telling me.”

     “You see what I mean, though?”

     “Yeah, I do,” Stiles admits. “He’d sense it if you were going to escape.”

     “And then he’d just track us down in the woods with his tunnel vision and splat.”

     “Splat,” Stiles affirms, doing his best not to glance back at the homeless man. “So what do we do? Can you fight this guy? Could we set up an ambush maybe?”

     Scott sighs. He wants to sink to the floor, but he’s afraid to find it sticky with blood, just like the wall.

     “Last time, Derek and I working together couldn’t take him. I think I’ve gotten a little faster since then but…”

     Stiles nods. “I hear you. We’ll call that plan C.”

     “Plan B being?”

     “Running like hell.”

     “That’s not much better.”

     “I know. That’s why I’m hoping you have a really awesome plan A up your sleeve.”

     Scott rubs at his temples. “What if we called your dad?”

     “So he can get splatted too? You’ve seen what the express can do. I don’t think one country sheriff with a sidearm is going cut it.”

     “So tell him to bring…”

     Scott falls suddenly silent. Stiles can hear it too. Somewhere above them, near the top of the stairs, a cell phone is ringing.

     “I know that ring,” Scott whispers, his face an ashen mask. “I know that phone. It’s Allison.”

Jackson is walking back to his car and almost runs into Lydia.

     “What the hell, Jackson?” she snaps. “Look where you’re going.”   

     “What are you doing?” he demands, unapologetic.

     “Just checking on you,” says Lydia, dropping her eyes. There’s something very un-Lydia-like in her voice that makes Jackson instantly suspicious.

     “Checking on me in case of what? In case Scott McCall and his non-existent friends were lurking around to jump me? Or in case I was getting too friendly with Allison?”

     “And?” says Lydia, shifting back to the attack position. “Were you?”

     Jackson laughs mirthlessly and rolls his eyes heavenward. “You’re a real piece of work. You know that, right? Just because we fight all the time, you can’t imagine me even being civil to another girl without wanting to get in her pants.”

     “We do not fight all the time,” says Lydia hotly.

     “We’re fighting now, aren’t we?”

     “You know,” Lydia says after a moment, “I’m not sure I want to go home with you right now.”

     “Fine.”

     “I’m going to call Allison and see if I can ride home with her and Scott.”

     “Go ahead.”

     “I will.”

     Lydia pulls out her cellphone and jabs Allison’s name in her list of contacts. The phone rings three times, and then Allison picks up.

     “Lydia? What’s going on?”

     “Hi Allison. Have you found Scott?”

     “Uh, no. Not yet. Lydia, I think there’s something really weird happening here. This place looks like…wait, hang on. I’m sorry. I’m getting another call…I’ll call you back, okay?”

     The connection ends and Lydia is left staring at her phone.

     “She hang up on you?” asks Jackson. He sounds like he’s trying to suppress a smile.

     For once, Lydia doesn’t rise to the bait. “She sounded scared, Jackson. I think… I think maybe we should go get her. And then I think we should all get out of here.”

Allison terminates the call with Lydia and looks hard at the other name flashing on her screen. It’s one she only recently added to her contacts list, mostly out of politeness. Still, if anyone’s likely to know what Scott’s up to…

     She presses the green phone icon. “Stiles?”

     “Allison, this is Scott. I’m on Stiles’ phone. Where are you?”

     Allison is relieved to hear Scott’s voice, but also confused. Scott sounds agitated, maybe even frightened. “I’m at the castle, in the big courtyard. Where are you?”

     “Allison, you have to get out of there.”

     “Why? Scott, what’s going on here? Why did you text me?”

     “Text you?”

     “You texted me to come here and now you’re telling me to leave.”

     “Allison, I never texted you. I don’t even have my phone on me. It’s in my bag. It’s…oh shit. Holy shit. Allison, you have to get out of there right now!”

     “Why?” Allison hisses, but she’s already walking briskly back towards the door she came in by, hugging the wall at the edge of courtyard so that she stays hidden in shadow.

     “There’s someone else here,” Scott tells her. “Someone dangerous. You need…”

     Allison interrupts him. “Scott, are you and Stiles at the castle too?”

     “That’s not important right now. You…”

     “Scott, are you in danger?” Allison demands, coming to an abrupt halt. “Because that’s pretty fucking important to me.”

     The profanity startles Allison almost as much as it must startle Scott, but she doesn’t regret it. Her heart is in her throat and beating wildly.

     “Allison!”

     That voice isn’t coming over the phone and it startles Allison so much that she lets out a strangled cry and jumps like a scalded cat. Her cellphone slips from her hand and lands on the imitation cobblestones with a distressing crackle.

     She casts her eyes about and finds Lydia and Jackson creeping towards her through the shadows. It was Jackson’s voice that startled her.

     “What was that for?” she demands, as she retrieves the phone.

     “Come on,” he tells her. “We’re leaving.”

     “What?” Allison looks instinctively to Lydia for confirmation. Her best friend nods.

     “I don’t know what kind of prank your boyfriend’s playing,” Lydia whispers. “But it’s gone on long enough. We’re taking you home.”

     “I don’t think it was a prank…” Allison begins.

     But then something comes hurtling through the air from the other side of the courtyard.

     It’s a piece of masonry, a cluster of cornices and roosting gargoyles the size of a pickup truck, and it flies as though launched from a trebuchet. The teenagers duck and scream as it soars over their heads and smashes into the far wall, just above the side exit Allison had been making for. The wall shudders and the doorway collapses. Rebar and rock and rubble cascade down, enveloping the three of them in a cloud of plaster dust.

     Allison’s ears are ringing but she suddenly hears a familiar voice and feels a hand on her elbow.

     “This way,” Scott tells her. “Hurry! Hurry!”

     Stiles is there too, shoving at Jackson and Lydia, guiding them all towards the castle’s central watchtower, and something else pursues them. It’s a man, Allison thinks, a huge man, but she’s still blinking flecks of dust from her stinging eyes and she can’t make out any details.

     Then they’re climbing, sprinting up stairs that are more like great slabs of moldy wood, and the stairs are crashing down behind them in ruins. They burst out onto a wide landing and Allison would pitch forward onto her face if Scott wasn’t there to steady her.

     After a moment, echoes of the collapsing staircase and their own pounding feet die away. Only the sound of their labored breathing remains, adding depth and texture to the stunned silence.

     Jackson is the first to break it. “That was him, wasn’t it? The man with the scarred face. That was him.”

     Scott nods dully. “Yeah, it was.”

     “You know something about him,” Jackson accuses. “You know why he’s attacking us. Why he’s been attacking me.”

     “What?” Allison’s eyes flick from Scott to Jackson and back again, clearly bewildered. “Scott, what is he talking about?”

     “The man who was chasing us,” Scott explains. “He’s got like crazy scars and burns on one side of his face. He must have taken my phone out of Stiles’ car to lure you here. He’s… he’s really dangerous. I think he killed Derek Hale.”

     “Derek’s dead?” Allison demands. “What happened?”

     “I’ve got a pretty good guess,” Jackson growls. “You’re into something, McCall. Some serious bad news. I’m guessing it’s drugs, probably steroids. You and Hale were in it together, part of the same gang of pushers. But you’ve got some nasty competition. This scarred guy’s got his own gang maybe, and he’s been taking shots at both you and anyone around you, trying to kill you or scare you off. Now it looks like he’s succeeding. Does that sound about right?”

     Stiles bursts out laughing. “You think Scott’s a drug dealer? Scott? The boy who thought that cocaine was made from coconut oil?”

     “That was years ago!” Scott protests. “And all of this is so not the point right now.”

     Lydia nods. “He’s right, Jackson. At this point, it doesn’t matter whose fault any of this is. We just need to figure out how we’re going to survive it.”

     “This scarred man, he can’t get up here, can he?” Allison asks nervously, staring at the gaping hole of the empty stairwell.

     Scott and Stiles exchange a worried glance.

     “If he could, he would have done it already,” says Stiles, though he doesn’t sound very certain.

     “Call your dad,” says Jackson, rounding on Stiles.

     “What?”

     “He’s the sheriff. Dealing with murders and drug dealers is his job. Call him. Get him here.”

     “I’m not calling my dad out here just so some lunatic can murder him.”

     “Are you stupid?” Jackson demands. “You’d rather have us get murdered? Your dad has guns and lots of deputies to back him up and…”

     He breaks off, shaking his head. “You know what, don’t bother. I’ll just call 911.”

     He starts to pull out his phone, but Stiles smacks it out of his hands and into the gulf of empty air where the stairs used to be.

     “You little shit!” Jackson roars, picking up Stiles by his shirtfront.

     A spike of rage stabs through Scott’s skull. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s torn Jackson off of Stiles and shoved him up against the far wall of the tower. His forearm is pressed against the lacrosse captain’s throat and his whole body is trembling. He could snap Jackson’s neck like kindling. He could…

     “Scott!” Allison yells. “Let him go!”

     The rage drains out of Scott as though from a puncture. He releases Jackson and steps back.

     “You’ve got issues, McCall,” the older boy wheezes, massaging his neck. “Serious fucking issues.”

     “Sorry,” Scott mumbles. “I don’t know what... I’m sorry.”

     He turns back to Stiles. “I know you’re scared for your dad. I know, if it were my only parent, if it were my mom…but we need him. We need a whole bunch of cops. The ex…the scarred man, he’s always been wary of authority figures. Just the sirens will probably scare him off.”

     “And if they don’t?” asks Stiles, still looking shaken.

     Scott turns to Allison. “Call your dad too.”

     “What?” Allison is staring at him like he’s a stranger, no, like he’s a wild animal with foam around its mouth.

     Scott pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting down another surge of the anger that almost seems to be coming from outside of him. “Just call him, okay? He and those men he works with, they’re tough guys. Stiles' dad might need the back up.”

     “My dad’s co-workers sell survival gear,” says Allison slowly. “But they’re not commandos. I don’t think…”

     “Call him!” Scott shouts, his temper snapping like an overburdened girder. “Do it now! If you can’t reach him, call your aunt.”

     “Call Kate?” Allison asks, her dark eyes as wide as soup plates and her voice starting to quiver. “Not my mom?”

     “No, call Kate. Just Kate,” Scott instructs. The alien anger he feels is forcing his boiler pressure to rise. He can feel the metal rivets that want to burst through his skin.

     He goes into a corner, as much as is possible in this circular tower top room, and hunkers down with his knees drawn up to his chest while Allison and Stiles make their phone calls. He hasn’t felt this close to losing control of Thomas in a long time.

     The coupling, Scott realizes. This isn’t me. It’s the express. It’s feeding its anger into me.

     Somehow that knowledge doesn’t make the murderous rage coursing through him any easier to ignore. He glances up and notices that the phone calls are done and now everyone is staring at him.

     “What?” he demands. “What is it?”

     “I think we were all wondering what we should do now,” says Stiles, trying to use calming tones. “I mean, I doubt this guy is just going to sit around and wait for the cavalry to come rescue us. He’s probably working on a plan of his own right this minute.”

     Scott is forced to admit the justice of this. But what else can they do? They’re trapped.

     Except…

     Except that’s not quite true.

     “You guys can get out,” he says softly.

     Stiles frowns. “What do you mean?”

     “It’s me he’s after,” Scott explains, “not all of you. If we can get you out of this tower without him noticing, you can get away.”

     “That makes no sense,” Allison protests. “If we can get out, we should. All of us. You don’t have to stay behind.”

     “I do!” says Scott desperately. He casts a pleading look at Stiles.

     Stiles nods, understanding. Scott’s the only one of them coupled to the express train. He needs to remain here, trapped and in fear, or no matter how stealthily they move, the express train will know instantly that the game is up.

     “All of this is stupid,” Jackson points out. “There’s no way out of this tower.”

     “There could be,” says Lydia quietly.

     All eyes turn to her and she smiles thinly. “We’d just have to be a little creative.”

     She walks over to a scarred worktable a few feet to Scott’s left. Various rusty tools and yellowing papers are scattered across its surface. Lydia picks fastidiously through the detritus and produces a length of white cord.

     “For the flagpole, I expect,” she says, half to herself. “There’s a flag that flies from the top of this tower, or there used to be. Nylon with a wire center, so it should be strong enough.”

     “Could we lower someone all the way to the ground with that?” asks Stiles.

     Lydia shakes her head. “Too slippery. And if we knotted it, we’d cut off their circulation. We might be able to rig up a harness, I suppose, but even then we’d just be putting them down inside the castle walls with that man on the loose and all the exits blocked. No good at all.”

     She seems very distant as she speaks, very little like the Lydia any of the others has seen before, as though she’s gone to a room inside herself where company isn’t invited.

     “Let’s see,” she muses. “Ninety feet of cord. That’s not too bad. And there’s that big shade tree at the edge of the parking lot. That could work. But we’d need…”

     She fishes around again and comes up with a brass telescope. “Thank goodness for amateur stargazers. Does anyone here have a Swiss army knife?”

     Stiles produces one before Jackson can fully process the question. Lydia takes it without comment and begins to disassemble the telescope

     “There’s a little supply closet built into that brattice on the right,” she calls over her shoulder. “Could someone please check what’s in it?”

     “Brattice?” asks Scott, perplexed.

     “A structure projecting over the side of a tower or wall that enables the defenders to fire on attackers while remaining in relative safety,” Lydia rattles off. “But this one is certainly just for show.”

     Stiles finds the closet door she’s talking about and yanks it open.

     “It looks like a janitor’s closet,” he reports. “Old brooms and cleaning supplies.”

     “Any ammonia?”

     “Uh, yeah.”

     “Moth balls?”

     “Um, I don’t think…wait, actually yes.”

     “What kind?”

     “Camphor.”

     Lydia smiles. “Good. Bring them both here. And one of the brooms.”

     Scott stares at the thing in Lydia’s hands. She’s emptied the brass tube of the telescope and attached one end of the cord to it with the carabiner from Stiles’ pocketknife. Next she screws a long drill bit to the end of the tube that’s still sealed, so that it projects forward like the horn of a narwhal. She cuts three fin shaped wedges out of an old cardboard box and affixes them to tube’s outside, at the end opposite the drill bit, so that the whole thing looks a bit like a model rocket.

     “We’ll only get one shot,” she explains, as she mixes crushed mothballs and ammonia and pours the sludge into the hollow tube, before loosely resealing it, with a long fuse made out of broom straws still protruding. “And we’ll need a lighter. And pretty big distraction, or he’ll realize what we're doing. Is everyone here but me wearing a belt?”

     Everyone nods, and Jackson grudgingly passes Lydia his lighter.

     “Okay,” she says. Her hands are trembling. “Okay. Belts off then. And remember, shiny side down. We don’t anyone getting stuck halfway. Scott, were you serious about staying here?”

     Scott nods. “You need a distraction, right?”

     “But…” Allison begins.

     “We need one,” Lydia confirms. “Can you handle it?”

     Scott nods again. His throat feels like it’s going to close up, and still he can’t shake the unreasoning anger he feels. The sooner these pathetic worms are out of his sight the better. He doesn’t dare look at Allison.

     “Then hand me your belt,” Lydia orders. “And when I say go, be as distracting as hell.”

     Scott does as he’s bid. Then he walks slowly over to the edge of the landing and stares down into the dark, yawning drop. He can tell without turning his head when Allison comes to stand beside him. He can feel the warmth she lends to the night air and hear her rapid breathing. He can even smell her: vanilla and fear sweat and lily of the valley.

     “Scott,” she whispers. “What are you going to do?”

     Scott says nothing.

     “Please Scott,” she begs him. “Don’t shut me out.”

     Scott feels her words like railroad spikes, stabbing into his heart and behind his eyes. Still, he says nothing.

     Allison sobs, just once, before regaining control of herself. She plants a fierce kiss on Scott’s lips. A moment later, she pulls away and stalks back to Lydia and the others.

     Lydia ties the other end of the cord securely to a bracket on the wall, and then balances her homemade missile on the sill of an inauthentically large arrow loop. She lines the point of it up with the top of the tree on the edge parking lot. Then she lights the fuse and scrambles back out of the way.

     There’s a long moment of silence as the little flame licks its away along the straw.

     “Go,” Lydia calls.

     Scott bellows and drops from the landing. Allison screams. The rocket ignites with a dull whumpf. There is an almighty clang as Scott lands at the bottom of the tower.

For Scott, the fall is a relief. As the air rushes past him, he is finally free to let the anger flow through him. The others are safely beyond his reach. The only one he can hurt is himself. And the express train.

     That thought makes him smile.

     He lands with a splintering crash in the wreckage of the wooden staircase, but though he currently weighs no more than any ordinary teenage boy, his skin and bones are strong as tempered steel. Unbroken, unbruised, not even winded, Scott straightens and strides from the tower.

     Out in the courtyard, a sliver of moon shines palely down. The clouds that threatened snow have blown away eastward, but if anything the bitter cold has deepened. It touches Scott not at all. Thomas’ furnace burns hot.

     Scott’s limbs creak slightly with every step he takes, like a suit of plate mail. Rivets mark his brow, like strange tribal scars and he can feel the branded numeral one on his chest pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

     “Come and get me,” he calls.

     Out of the shadow of the curtain wall steps the express train. Unlike Scott, his engine is reigned in. He looks entirely human. But that’s not to say he isn’t frightening.

     The express train is better than six feet tall, broad shouldered and thick limbed. His dark hair is long and shaggy, his clothes are ripped and smeared with soot, and his beard is a ragged swathe of spiny stubble. Worse than all these is the scarring that twists one side of his face. The skin is red and waxy, like a burn, but puckered with deep puncture wounds. Yet even the scars aren’t as dreadful as the engine man’s expression. His grin is a skull’s grin and his eyes might be bullets of glass.

     “Is it done?” he rasps. “Are you finally ready?”

     “Ready for what?”

     “To leave humanity behind. To ride the rails to the end of the world.”

     Scott shakes his head. “Never.”

     And before the skull’s grin can begin to fade, Scott lowers his shoulder and charges.

Lydia watches as the rocket swishes through the night air, trailing fire and smoke and a shimmering white cord. It strikes the distant maple tree point first and sticks fast in its trunk. Lydia lets out a sigh a relief.

     She turns back to the others. Allison is still screaming, and Stiles and Jackson are having to physically restraining her from leaping down the tower after Scott.

     “He’ll be okay,” Stiles insists, having to shout to make himself heard. “He’ll be okay, Allison. I promise. I promise. There’s stuff you don’t know. The…that man, he’s been stalking Scott. It’s creepy, but he’s not going kill him, okay? Scott will be okay.”

     Allison quiets, but whether that’s because she believes Stiles or because she’s run out of air, Lydia can’t guess.

     “We should be leaving,” she points out.

     Then, deciding to lead by example, she picks up Scott’s belt and loops it around the nylon cord, shiny side down. Gripping the belt tightly, she sits down on the windowsill, and forces herself to dangle first one leg and then the other over the edge. Her breathing is rapid and shallow.

     “Hyperventilation,” she mutters to herself, “would be a very stupid way to die tonight.”

     So without further waiting, she pushes off from the windowsill.

     Almost at once her fingers begin to burn with the effort of holding onto the belt. The polished leather slides over the nylon, carrying her along like a zip line. She has to draw up her legs hastily to clear the top of the castle wall, and then she is flying over the frozen moat and empty parking lot.

     Even as she braces her legs to fend off the approaching tree trunk, a smell of scorched leather reaches her nose. Friction has begun to burn through Scott’s belt. Her descent slows and then comes to a halt only a few feet from the tree, as that same friction arrests her momentum. Then, abruptly, the belt snaps.

     Lydia yelps and lands with a thud on her rump on the cold earth at the foot of the tree.

     Above her, the nylon zip line starts to shake as Jackson begins his own descent. Lydia scrambles out of the way. None of the four lands particularly gracefully, but all survive. Stiles is the last to leave the tower and his belt gives out while he’s still some feet above the parking lot, but even he suffers no worse than some scrapes and a twisted ankle.

     Jackson leads the way back to his sports car, but to their dismay, the car’s hood is up and the ripped out battery is lying some feet away.

     “What the fuck?” Jackson yells, kicking at the battery in impotent rage.

     “Well, shit,” Stiles whispers. “So that’s what he’s been doing while we were so busy plotting our escape.”

     He sits down hard on the cracked and mossy asphalt and buries his face in his hands.

     “Game over, Stiles,” he mutters to himself. “Thanks for playing.”

     “Get up,” Lydia orders. “We can’t stay here.”

     “I can’t go anywhere else!” Stiles snaps. “My ankle’s swelling up and we’ve got no car.”

     “I don’t think we should be going anywhere,” says Allison, kneeling down beside Stiles. “Not without Scott.”

     Lydia’s expression is poisonous. “If we stay here, we’re going to die. Scott’s already…”

     “Lydia, shut up,” says Jackson, loud and abrupt.

     She whirls to face him, red hair flying and green eyes flashing. “I have had it with you, Jackson! If you think…”

     “I mean it, Lydia!” Jackson insists. “Shut up and listen. Can’t you hear it?”

     They all strain their ears. Faintly, they can hear the wail of approaching sirens.

Scott tries to ram the express train with his shoulder, but the bigger engine sidesteps, forewarned by his tunnel vision. He cuffs Scot hard on the back of the head, sending him sprawling on the cobbles.

     “Why do you fight the inevitable?” the express asks. “Why do you fight the rails laid out before your wheels?”

     Scott doesn’t bother to answer, but surges to his feet and attacks again. He swipes at the express train’s head and his enemy moves to catch Scott’s arm, but the blow is a feint. Scott drives his left fist into the engine’s belly.

     There’s a hollow clang, and the express train rocks back slightly on his heels. But he does not gasp, or cry out, or falter. Scott feels as though he just tried to punch a mountain, rather than a man.

     “You cannot hurt me,” the express train explains, advancing on Scott. “I made you, Scott. Your iron is my iron. Your fire is my fire. And they will not suffer you to harm me.”

     “You’re lying!” Scott snarls, and he lashes out with a kick, aiming for the express train’s kneecap.

     The express’ iron hands move with inhuman speed. He seizes Scott by the ankle and whirls him around by it. Once, twice, thrice, he whirls him. Then he lets fly.

     Scott soars through air and slams into the curtain wall, ribs first. He feels something crack inside him and dark spots bloom in his vision as he slithers to the ground with a shower of rubble.

     “It needn’t happen like this, Scott,” the express train says. There seems to be honest regret under that metallic rasping. “I can you help, if you’ll let me. There’s so much I could teach you about what we…”

     The express train falls suddenly silent, his shaggy head cocked as though listening. A moment later, Scott hears it too: police sirens.

     “Another time maybe…” Scott says sarcastically, grinning at the express train through the pain and plaster dust.

     Anger twists across that already twisted face. “You think I can’t crush your pathetic mortal law keepers like worms beneath my wheels?”

     “Maybe,” Scott admits, rolling over and propping himself up on his elbows. “Maybe not. But it isn’t the cops I’d be worrying about if I were you. It’s the train spotters.”

     “You brought them into this?” the express train demands. His voice is thick with some emotion Scott can’t readily identify. Not fear or anger; more like revulsion. “Argent’s pack of murders?”

     “You’re a fine one to talk,” Scott wheezes, as another wave of pain from his ribs makes itself known. “Why don’t you fuck off like a good little choo-choo train?”

     The express train snarls in frustration, shifting his weight from foot to foot as though he longs to stomp Scott’s skull into paste and scrap metal. Finally he masters himself.

     “This isn’t over, boy,” he declares.

     Then he bounds away, clawing a path up and over the wall and out of Suddery Castle.

Scott gets the bed next Stiles’ in the urgent care wing of New Sodor General Hospital. His best friend is looking remarkably cheerful given the circumstances, his foot propped on a stack of pillows and wrapped up in some kind of high-tech blue icepack.

     “You seriously called him a choo-choo train?”

     “I think so,” Scott admits, shifting around in an effort to get comfortable. Even with a dose of painkillers in him and a cloth brace securing his ribs, Scott is feeling pretty banged up. “I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

     Stiles laughs. “Dude, that’s awesome! One hundred percent badass.”

     “Yeah, whatever,” Scott mumbles. “It was still really stupid though.”

     “Oh yeah. For sure,” Stiles agrees. “But still awesome.”

     “How about you guys?” Scott asks. “It looked like Lydia’s rope trick worked.”

     “Like a charm,” Stiles enthuses. “Well, except for this ankle thing. But still, wasn’t she brilliant?”

     “You’ve always thought Lydia was brilliant,” Scott points out.

     “Yeah, but I didn’t know she was secretly MacGuyver!”

     This time Scott laughs and Stiles joins in. Then a sober silence descends.

     “I really didn’t want to get the others tangled up in this,” says Scott quietly. “I already feel shitty about putting you in so much danger.”

     “It’s okay,” says Stiles quickly. “I volunteered. And the others, getting them involved wasn’t your decision. That was the express train’s fault.”

     “I wonder why he did it though,” Scott says, frustration bleeding into his voice. “I’m mean, taking the time to steal my bag and my phone before chasing after us… It just makes the whole thing feel kind of premeditated, you know? Like maybe we didn’t escape to the castle. Maybe we were herded there.”

     Stiles opens his mouth to deny this. Then he shuts it again.

     “I suppose it’s possible. I mean, wasn’t that what Derek was saying all along? That the express train wasn’t trying to kill you, but to make you kill other people?”

     Scott nods. “Yeah. And when we were stuck in that tower, I just felt so…furious. I really could have killed you guys. Or at least that’s how it felt.”

     “You didn’t though,” says Stiles reassuringly. “You kept it together. No one died. Not even Derek, as it turns out.”

     “What?”

     “My dad was in here while they were patching you up. He sent a couple deputies down to the auto shop. No sign of Derek’s body or his car.”

     “He drove off?”

     Stiles nods. “Which I’d call a notably uncorpselike thing to do.”

     “What about Mr. Deaton?”

     “He’s here, in the hospital. Guess he got hurled pretty hard when Derek went down, but he says he doesn’t remember much of it.”

     Scott frowns. “That’s a little suspicious.”

     Stiles shrugs. “I agree. But it was dark and sudden and head wounds work in mysterious ways. I don’t think we can rule out the possibility that he’s telling the truth.”

     “Maybe about seeing the express train,” Scott concedes. “But he should at least remember Derek coming in and acting like a crazy person. And the two of us going along with it.”

     “That’s true,” Stiles admits, chewing his lip. “It’s like he’s covering for us.”

     “Exactly. Which makes me wonder if Derek might have been onto something.”

     “Oh come on,” Stiles objects. “If Deaton were another evil tank engine, he’d have been there at the castle too, wouldn’t he?”

     “I don’t know,” Scott says, shaking his head. “Maybe…”

     There’s a knock at the door.

     “Scott?” a muffled voice calls.

     “Allison…” Scott whispers, the color draining from his face.

     “Shit,” says Stiles. “Good luck, man.”

     Scott nods distractedly as he rises from the bed and steps quietly out into the hall.

     Allison is waiting for him. She’s still in her boots and her leather jacket, but she’s brushed the plaster dust from her long dark hair. Her fathomless brown eyes look very bright and very wet. Scott says nothing, not knowing how to begin, not daring to disrupt the hospital’s hush.

     “Scott, I…” Allison begins, then seems to change her mind. “How are you doing?”

     “I’m okay,” he assures her. “When did you get here?”

     “Just now. My dad drove me, and your mom was working at the desk. She said it would be okay to…”’

     “It is, it is...” says Scott hurriedly. “I’m glad to see you.”

     Allison doesn’t meet his eyes. “Scott, I don’t…what Jackson said about you…”

     “It’s not like that,” Scott says softly. “It’s…things are complicated.”

     “I wasn’t saying I believed him,” says Allison. “But there is something going on, isn’t there? Things you’re not telling me?”

     “Yes,” Scott says truthfully.

     Allison nods. “That’s what I thought. And Scott, I can’t…”

     Her words give out, but she tries again. “This thing, whatever it is, I can tell it’s dangerous. And that’s scary but it's not why…”

     She stops again. Scott can hear the tears in her voice but her pale face is perfectly composed.

     “Please Allison,” he begs. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

     “I thought you trusted me. I thought I could trust you. But I can’t. And without that…without it, I can’t do any of this.”

     Scott nods and though the words choke him he says, “I understand.”

     “Thank you,” Allison replies.

     And with that she walks away down the hall. Scott watches her go, passing under row after row of fluorescent lights, until she turns a corner and is lost to sight. Neither of them says goodbye.

     Then Scott goes back into the hospital room. He wants to fling himself down on the bed, but he doesn’t. Instead, because of his ribs, he lies down very carefully and very gently, and buries his face in the pillows.

     Stiles stares at the ceiling and lets his friend sob in peace.

CLOSING THEME/SHOW CREDITS

Chapter Text

     “Scott?”

     The muffled voice is that of Stiles Stilinski and it is accompanied by an insistent knocking at Scott McCall’s bedroom door. Scott, currently lying facedown on his bed, lets out a hollow groan.

     “Scott, I know you’re in there,” says Stiles, exasperated.

     Scott rolls over and slouches his way to the door. He fumbles with the lock for a moment, and then pulls it open. Stiles’ round, friendly face greets him. Currently, it wears a look of concern.

     “You look terrible,” Stiles informs him.

     “Thanks,” Scott mutters.

     He walks back to the bed and flops down again.

     “Okay,” says Stiles, sitting down beside him and prodding his friend between the shoulder blades, “This shit has gone on long enough.”

     “Fuck off,” says Scott, but he lacks the energy to put real malice into the words.

     “I’m serious,” Stiles insists. “It’s been a week. This moping stuff, is it making you feel any better?”

     “No,” Scott admits.

     “Right. Then it’s time to try something else.”

     “Like what?”

     “I have ordered pizza and downloaded all ten seasons of the X-Files.”

     Scott sits up. “Stiles, that’s…I have no idea how many hours of television that is. Lots. Too many. We can’t watch that all tonight. We couldn’t watch all of it if we skipped school for a week.”

     Stiles grins. “That sounds like quitter talk to me.”

     “Stiles, it’s not…look, do you even know how time works?”

     “Do I look like a theoretical physicist to you?”

     “You look like the forbidden lovechild of Mark Watney and Sméagol.”

     “And you smell like a dead baboon. Seriously, take a shower. I’ll go cue up the first episode.”

     Stiles gets up and heads back downstairs. Scott surreptitiously smells himself and decides he disagrees with Stiles’ assessment. At worst, he only smells like a living baboon.

     By the time Scott has showered, toweled himself dry, and changed into fresh sweatpants and a t-shirt, the pizza has arrived: two medium pies, one Hawaiian and one Buffalo chicken. Scott’s mom is—once again—working the nightshift, so the boys have the house to themselves. Outside, the night is dark and unsettled, with squalling winds and bursts of heavy rain. Inside, the air is warm and rich with the smell of melted cheese. They sit side by side on the couch and lose themselves for a time in UFOs and government cover-ups and questionable 90s fashion trends.

     Neither of them mentions the name Allison once.

Kate Argent is careful to make a certain amount of noise as she approaches the outdoor pavilion that stands atop the wooded rise. Meeting with known criminals is a bit like walking in bear country; sneaking up on them does nobody any favors.

     The wind has dropped for the moment and the graffiti scarred structure keeps off most of the spitting rain. The two men Kate has come to see have lit a fire in an ancient metal trashcan and are warming their hands at the orange glow, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth as they wait.

     “Evening gentlemen,” says Kate with a smile.

     Reddick, the larger of the pair, chuckles. “You hear that Unger? She’d called us gentlemen.”

     Unger, a shifty looking fellow, is unimpressed. “What do you want, miss? It’s shit weather, and I’d rather not be out here any longer than I can help.”

     Kate nods. “Straight to business then. I like it.”

     She settles herself on the bench of a flaking picnic table, tucking the hem of her long raincoat under herself to keep her jeans dry.

     “I’m looking for someone,” she explains. “A new player in town. He’s keeping a low profile mostly, maybe living out in the woods. But he’s getting food from somewhere. Clothes from somewhere. Information from somewhere. I want to know where.”

     “What’s this dude look like?” Reddick demands.

     “Big,” Kate tells them. “Better than six feet and built like a truck. Long hair, black or brown, but not sexy long. More like he just never cuts it. And lots of scarring on one side of his face. Maybe old burns.”

     “Hey now,” Unger cuts in. “I know that description. Is this the same guy the cops are looking for? The one who killed that old homeless guy and was harassing those kids?”

     Now Reddick’s frowning too. “What you playing at, Katie? Why are you looking for this dude?”

     “I have my reasons.”

     “If the cops can’t find him,” Unger asks, “what makes you think we can?”

     Kate smiles. “I know you boys have your ear to the ground, especially when it comes to any kind of goods moving around in secret.”

     “Goods sure,” says Unger shaking his head. “But groceries for one guy ain’t exactly goods. That could fly under the radar a long time, you know?”

     “Not too long, I hope,” says Kate, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not proposing to pay you boys by the hour.”

     At the mention of payment, the men’s shoulders relax a little and their eyes light up.

     “How much?” Reddick wants to know.

     “Five hundred upfront, five hundred more if you bring me good intel.”

     “You’ve got five hundred dollars on you?” Unger asks suspiciously.

     “Why? You gonna try to mug me for it?” asks Kate. Her amber eyes seem to glow in the light of the fire.

     “No,” says Unger quickly. “’Course not.”

     “Glad to hear it.”

     Kate takes out her wallet and counts out five hundred dollar bills before handing them to Reddick.

     “This has the same rules as last time,” she tells him seriously. “The intel goes to me and me only. If my brother gets word of this…”

     “He won’t,” Reddick assures her. “We know what we’re doing.”

     “Good,” says Kate, patting the big man’s cheek.

     “Hey miss,” Unger calls, as Kate turns to go, “You gonna be needing any more dynamite this time? 'Cause our usual gunrunner got pinched a few weeks back, but there’s a new dude with the Welshmen who thinks he could get us some. Could get expensive, but if you’re interested…”

     Kate flashes him a brittle smile. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

     When she’s gone and the fire is beginning to burn down and the whiskey to run low, Unger and Reddick heave themselves to their feet and start ambling back towards town, passing under the shadows of the dripping trees.

     “Five hundred’s not a lot for a police suspect,” says Unger at length. “You should have let me haggle.”

     Reddick shakes his head. “Katie’s the kind of person you want on your side. Even if it cost you.”

     “You mean you’d like to get into her pants.”

     “And you wouldn’t? That is one fine ass bitch. But that’s not what I’m talking about. She’s dangerous, you know? Like a forest fire. I was watching this documentary where there’s these birds, right, that follow after forest fires and eat up all the little lizards and shit that get cooked.”

     “So?” asks Unger, stumbling slightly on a hidden tree root.

     “So some people be like that. And when they around, you wanna be the bird and not the lizard.”

     “Be a bird,” Unger scoffs. “That’s some real hippie shit you got…”

     But at that moment, something rises up out of the tangled undergrowth before them and wipes speech from Unger’s lips. It isn’t human, whatever it is. It’s too big for one thing and its skin reflects the dim light oddly, more like flesh colored paint than flesh in truth. Besides, nothing human has eyes like that.

     “Oh God…” Reddick whispers. Unger can only moan.

     The thing’s massive hands flash out and seize the men by their faces. To Unger, it feels as though his jaw and temples are caught in vises of iron. In another heartbeat, the iron begins to glow with a red heat. Unger tries to scream but no sound escapes, so he can clearly hear, over the sizzle of his own skin and sinew, the thing’s rattling voice:

     “Burn.”

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

The alarm on Scott’s phone trills angrily, jerking him out of a dream of brain-swiping aliens with an uncanny resemblance to Allison Argent. He sits up with a groan, sending a blanket slithering to the living room floor and scrabbles in his pocket for the cellphone. As he stabs at the buttons that will silence it, he realizes that he is still on the couch. The blanket must’ve been his mom’s work. A second one covers Stiles, sprawled on a heap of cushions on the floor. The leftover pizza has vanished, but the TV is still on, paused halfway through an episode and filling the room with a background buzz of static. The fresh light of morning shows up every fleck of dust and greasy fingerprint on the screen.

     Scott gets up and switches it off, rubbing the grit from his eyes. His mouth tastes like the living dead.

     “Stiles,” he calls. “School.”

     “Sleep,” Stiles counters, not raising his head.

     “School,” Scott insists. “We’ve got a chem test today, remember?”

     “Chem is for nerds,” Stiles opines.

     “Hate to break it to you,” Scott tells him, wandering into the kitchen and starting to fix himself a bowl of cereal. “But you are a nerd. Besides, how are you going to impress a girl who can make rocket fuel with the contents of a janitor’s closet, if you can’t even pass high school chemistry?”

     “With my rugged good looks,” says Stiles, but he rolls over and kicks off the blanket.

     Scott snorts in amusement at the thought of Stiles ‘rugged good looks’.

     “Laugh all you want,” his friend tells him, joining Scott in the kitchen. “But you’re still back in camp bachelor with me so I don’t think you should be…”

     Scott gasps and drops his cereal bowl. It smashes on the floor, spraying milk and shards of china in all directions. Scott barely notices.

     For an instant he wonders if he’s having a heart attack—that’s how intense the feeling in his chest is—but a moment later he recognizes the burst of fiery energy for what it is. His boiler pressure is spiking, faster than ever before and for no discernable reason. The numeral one branded over Scott’s sternum blazes afresh. Wisps of smoke curl up from his t-shirt where the fabric meets the mark.

     “What the hell?” Stiles demands. “Scott, are you okay?”

     “I’m going to change,” Scott hisses, forcing the words out from between steel teeth. Little jets of steam accompany them.

     “What? Oh no you don’t. Not here.”

     Stiles grabs Scott by the shoulders and shoves him towards the back door, but it’s like trying to shove a tank. Fortunately, Scott seems to get the idea. He stumbles outside and down the porch steps, dropping to his hands and knees in the patchy and yellowing grass.

     Then, before Stiles’ eyes, he changes.

     It happens fast, just a swishing sound, huge and somehow metallic, as if some giant were fanning itself with a sheet of corrugated iron. And then what was a teenage boy is now a bright blue steam engine.

     Stiles has just enough time to wonder if the noise has woken Scott’s mom and what she’ll think when she opens up the curtains to find a tank engine sitting on her front lawn, before Scott changes again.

     This time the sound is more of a pop, as air rushes in to fill the empty space left behind by the inexplicable disappearance of several tons of steel and coal. The damage to the McCalls’ lawn, on the other hand, does not disappear. Scott has quite a lot of dirt to brush off his sweatpants as he climbs shakily to his feet.

     “Are you going to change again?” asks Stiles, keeping his distance.

     Scott shakes his head. “No. I don’t…I don’t think so. God, that was so weird.”

     “Then come on back inside before any of your neighbors get curious.”

     Scott nods and follows Stiles back into the kitchen.

     “Scott?” Melissa McCall is hurrying downstairs in a bathrobe. “Is everything all right?”

     “It’s fine, Mom,” he assures her, picking up a roll of paper towels. “I just dropped a bowl.”

     Melissa notes the state of the kitchen floor and sighs. “Are you hurt?”

     Scott shakes his head. “I’m fine. I’ll clean this up. You can go back to bed.”

     “I don’t know about that,” says Melissa shaking her head. “I’m all hopped up on adrenaline now.”

     “Seriously, Mom. You were working really late. You should try to get some rest.”

     “Says the boy who never made it to his bed last night,” Melissa retorts, but she heads back upstairs, still shaking her head.

     “So,” asks Stiles, once the coast is clear and Scott has dropped the last sliver of smashed pottery into the trash, “you mind telling me what that was all about?”

     “I wish I knew,” says Scott, pouring more cereal, into a plastic bowl this time. “My boiler pressure just shot up through the roof for no reason.”

     “This isn’t just your emotions being out of whack because of A-L-L-I… wait, is it a Y?”

     “You can say her name,” Scott grumbles. “She’s my ex, not Voldemort.”

     “Right,” says Stiles, getting a bowl for himself, “Allison. That’s not what’s causing this, is it?”

     Scott shakes his head. “I don’t think so. That stuff…it’s made me feel really bad. Like really, really bad.”

     “I’d noticed.”

     “But it hasn’t made me angry or panicky or anything that would raise my boiler pressure.”

     “So maybe it’s coming from outside you. Maybe it’s the express train messing with you through your coupling, like he did at Suddery Castle.”

     “So fast though? And from so far away? Unless you think he’s hiding in my basement…”

     “Don’t even joke about that shit,” Stiles begs.

     “I wasn’t,” says Scott grimly.

     They finish their miniwheats in sober silence.

Chris Argent brings the SUV to a halt in front of New Sodor High School but does not unlock the doors. He casts a speculative look back at his daughter in the rearview mirror. Allison rolls her eyes.

     “Dad, if you’re going to insist on driving me to school every day, you will at least have to let me out of the car.”

     Chris seems unconvinced. He turns to his sister Kate who is riding in the passenger’s seat.

     “What’s the word on homeschooling these days?” he asks his sister. “Good? Bad? Indifferent?”

     Kate shrugs. “I’ve always been a fan of learning by doing.”

     “Kate,” says Allison, “what’s the word on overbearing fathers who ruin their daughters’ lives?”

     Kate exchanges a look with her brother. He sighs. She smiles and reaches across him to unlock the doors.

     “Thanks!” Allison calls, wasting no time in wriggling out of her seatbelt and scampering away to join the throng of sleepy students.

     The older Argents watch her go.

     “Chris…” says Kate at length.

     “I know,” Chris snaps. “You told me so. You told me underestimating the express train was a mistake. You told me my caution was holding us back. You told me we needed to take the fight to him. Well, you were right okay? I’m just ashamed it took him coming after my own daughter to make me see it.”

     Kate keeps her face blank but inside her heart is singing.

     “Actually,” she says, “I was just going point out that we’re running low on gas.”

     Chris glances down. The little dial is pointing directly to the “E”.

     “Shit.”

Allison finds her best friend Lydia Martin waiting near her locker, holding a glossy white paper bag.

     “Here,” says Lydia, proffering the bag. “For you.”

     “What’s the occasion?” asks Allison, accepting it gingerly. Lydia’s scathing wit doesn’t generally extend to practical jokes, but Allison feels cautious nevertheless.

     “Just open it,” says Lydia impatiently.

     Allison does so and finds a belt of black leather, slim and chic, stamped with a pattern of curling vines.

     “Because I made you ruin yours,” Lydia explains. “And as part of my ongoing campaign to elevate your wardrobe.”

     “Lydia,” Allison protests, though she can’t keep a smile off her face. “You didn’t have to do that.”

     “I know,” says Lydia.

     Allison just shakes her head. Then, somewhere behind her, she hears a familiar voice: Scott McCall.

     He isn’t talking to her—she can’t even make out what he’s saying—but the moment of recognition is enough. The smile Lydia’s gift brought to her face drains away like water trickling out of a broken ewer.

     Lydia frowns. “What is…oh.”

     She too has noticed Scott, looking somewhat disheveled as he hastily crams books into his locker at the other end of the hall. As usual, Stiles Stilinski is trailing after him, like an unusually talkative shadow.

     “Listen, Allison,” says Lydia firmly. “You have got to stop doing this to yourself.”

     Allison looks wretched. “But what if…what if I made a mistake?”

     “A mistake?” Lydia demands. “After what happened that night? After the way he put us all in danger?”

     “I know, I know…”

     “After all the secrets he was keeping from you? After all the secrets he’s still keeping?”

     “That’s true.” Allison’s expression changes, growing harder. “Though its not like he’s the only one.”

     Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Someone else has been holding out on you?”

     Allison rolls her eyes. “Just my dad.”

     “The overprotective bit again?” asks Lydia, with as much sympathy as she can muster.

     “Pretty much constantly,” says Allison.

     Instead of elaborating, she shuts her locker and heads for the chemistry classroom.

     “I’m going to talk to her,” Scott declares.

     “Saying that this is a bad idea would be fully redundant,” Stiles points out, closing his locker.

     Scott shakes his head. “It’s like you said. It’s been a whole week. So what if we’re not going out? That doesn’t mean I have to pretend she doesn’t exist anymore.”

     “Technically true,” Stiles concedes, as they push their way upstream against the tide of shuffling students. “But today is so not the day for this experiment. Your boiler pressure’s already thrown a cog once.”

     “I told you, that had nothing to do with Allison.”

     “And I very nearly believe you, but…”

     But Scott is not listening. He enters the chemistry classroom and sees Allison sitting in her usual seat. He walks over to her and tries to smile, but can’t quite make the muscles of his face obey him.

     “Hi Allison,” he all but whispers.

     She looks up at him, her dark eyes full of wordless distress. “Hi Scott.”

     “Listen,” he says, “I just wanted to say…”

     “Mr. McCall,” the teacher, Mr. Harris, barks from his desk, “Please find a seat.”

     Scott groans, but in truth he has no idea what he was going to say next. He finds a seat at the back of the room and Stiles takes the seat directly in front of him.

     “Could have been worse,” he whispers, as Mr. Harris starts passing out the blank exam papers.

     Scott just sighs.

     He can feel the black gloom that was barely held at bay by X-Files and pizza threatening to come crashing down over him once more. Partly to distract himself, and partly because his grade depends on it, Scott opens the exam.

     Five minutes in, things are not going well. Scott can’t remember the difference between a cation and an anion, isn’t sure whether calcium is an alkali metal or an alkali earth metal, and has forgotten the chemical formula for butane. And just like that, he starts to panic.

     At first the sensation is almost a relief, a sharp blade that cuts through the foggy hopelessness, but it doesn’t let up. Scott’s palms start to sweat and his fingers to tremble. The fear is mounting inside him, ever stronger, like a high note climbing to a crescendo. His heart is pounding in his chest and the brand over his breastbone in suddenly searingly hot.

     “Oh no…” Scott whispers. “Not again. Not now.”

     He leaps to his feet, jarring the desk. Pencils clatter to the floor as Scott staggers, then sprints, for the classroom door.

     “Scott!” Mr. Harris orders. “Wait!”

     “I’ll go see what’s up with him,” says Stiles quickly.

     “No,” Mr. Harris says firmly. “You will stay here and finish your test.”

     Stiles, already halfway across the room, gestures impatiently. “I’m finished.”

     “I have trouble believing that, Mr. Stilinski.”

     “I’m finished,” Stiles repeats, though half his exam is still barren and blank.

     Then he yanks open the door and is gone.

Stiles finds Scott cowering in a corner of the boys’ locker room. He flinches at the sight of Stiles, trying to scramble backwards through the wall. His breathing is too fast, too shallow.

     “Here,” says Stiles. He holds up Scott’s book bag and, after a moment of rummaging around, produces his friend’s inhaler.

     Scott takes it with a trembling hand. After a few pulls, his breathing becomes more regular.

     “I was having an asthma attack?” he asks incredulously. He hasn’t had even a touch of asthma since he was branded.

     “Nope,” Stiles tells him. “You were having a panic attack. But the inhaler got you to calm down. Pure placebo effect.”

     “But…” Scott stares down at the inhaler and then back up at Stiles. “How did you know?”

     Stiles shrugs, not meeting Scott’s eyes. “I used to get panic attacks, after my mom died.”

     “I…I didn’t know that.”

     “It’s okay. I don’t…I didn’t like talking about it.”

     Scott nods slowly then climbs shakily to his feet. “Thanks Stiles. Sorry that you have to keep saving me.”

     Stiles grins. “Hey, what are friends for?”

Kate Argent is waiting in the war room, a small brick-walled parlor with a great many chairs but Spartan décor, along with a handful of other train spotters. The big map of New Sodor County is spread out on the table. Every disused railroad is clearly highlighted and red crosses mark the sightings of steam engines. Kate frowns as she studies the scattering of scarlet flecks. There seem to be a lot of sightings within a few miles of New Sodor High School. It’s not a tight cluster, or anything like it, but still…

     Her train of thought is interrupted as her brother Chris strides into the room. A tall man in a charcoal grey suit follows at his heels.

     “Everyone,” Chris says in a carrying voice, “I’d like you to meet Detective John Harper. He’s one of us, but his day job is a working for the State Justice Department.”

     Harper smiles and nods. “I’ve been sent here to assist Sheriff Stilinski in his investigations. Specifically, I intend to assist in keeping those investigations out of your way.”

     A pleased murmur runs around the room.

     “Good,” says Kate nodding. “This isn’t amateur hour here. The express train’s killed two people already, and it’s getting bolder.”

     Chris nods. “So we’re changing strategies. No more watching and waiting to see if Hale and his new playmate lead us to the express. I want them found. Scour the county and bring them in. They don’t have to be in one piece either, so long as they’re still breathing.”

     One of the other train spotters, a man called Dean, looks dubious. “Do we have the facilities here to hold an engine? Let alone two of them…”

     “We’ll manage,” says Chris grimly. “I don’t intend to hold them forever, just long enough to get some information.”

     “What if the express tries to rescue one of them?”

     “If that happens,” says a new voice, “so much the better. We’ll close on that monster like the jaws of a trap and hack him into bloody pieces.”

     All eyes turn to look at Victoria Argent, who has just entered the room bearing a tray laden with fresh macaroons. She smiles, as though savage murder were the last thing on her mind, and offers one to Detective Harper.

     “Cookie?”

Scott makes it to the end of the school day without any further attacks of psychic distress, but the constant worry has left him feeling thoroughly wrung out. He wanders wearily down the hall, his eyes on the linoleum.

     All he wants to do is go home and curl up into a ball but he can’t. He has lacrosse practice. And before that he should really stop by Mr. Harris’ office to explain about his panic attack, see if he can make up the chemistry test. And after practice he should probably see if Derek Hale has returned to the charred remains of his old house. If anybody knows what’s going on with Scott’s boiler pressure, it’ll be Derek. But before that he should really stop in briefly at the auto shop. He doesn’t have a shift, but he wants to see how Mr. Deaton is doing after his run-in with the express last week. And of course he has a big history paper due soon, so perhaps he should really plan to go to the town library, and not straight home, so he can find some more sources to cite. But even sooner than the paper there’s going to be another test, this time for algebra, which Scott is hopeless at. So really he should probably ask Stiles if he can come over to his house to study. Except that he kind of thinks Wednesdays are the nights when Stiles and his dad usually hang out and eat curly fries. That’s a nice ritual. He should really try to spend more time with his mom. Maybe he’ll stop by the hospital and see her, maybe bring her a sandwich from her favorite sandwich shop. Except, hang on, wasn’t there something his Mom actually asked him to pick up today, last night before she went to work? Dish soap, maybe? Or was it laundry soap? Some kind of soap anyway…

     “Hey Scott! Earth to Scott!”

     Scott blinks blearily and looks up from his shoelaces and his swirling thoughts to find Lydia Martin waving at him from the doorway of an empty classroom. She looks a little annoyed, like maybe she’s been trying to get his attention for a while, but she smiles widely as her blue-green eyes meet Scott’s deep brown ones.

     “You okay, Scott? You seemed pretty out of it.”

     Scott smiles sheepishly back at her. “I guess I was. A lot on my mind today. Did you want something?”

     Lydia shrugs. “Not exactly. I just thought I’d check on you. I know that thing with Allison was really hard on both of you.”

     “Yeah,” Scott agrees, trying to ignore the sudden stab of pain under his breastbone. “Yeah, it really was. It really is.”

     “I’m sorry,” says Lydia. Her voice is full of a melting sympathy that Scott can’t remember ever hearing from Lydia before. “Do you want to talk about it?”

     She retreats from the doorway and motions for Scott to join her in the classroom. He does so, a little warily. Lydia hasn’t been shy about flirting with Scott in the past, much to her boyfriend’s chagrin.

     She perches on the teacher’s wide desk, crossing her legs in front of her and brushing a strand of her long, red-gold hair from her eyes.

     “Go ahead and shut the door,” she advises. “I doubt you want the whole school hearing the gory details of your breakup.”

     Scott nods in agreement and does as he’s bid. Lydia pats the surface of the desk beside her. Scott drops his bag on the floor and, still moving hesitantly, comes to sit next to her.

     “Lydia,” he asks, after a moment, “can I ask you something?”

     Lydia smiles and scoots a little closer. “Of course, Scott.”

     “Do you think… do you think Allison might ever change her mind?”

     Lydia’s smile sours and fades.

     “No,” she says firmly. “She’s still furious about what happened at the castle.”

     “I never wanted any of that to happen.”

     “I know that,” says Lydia quickly. “I think she’s being totally unfair. But she just goes on about how you were always keeping secrets from her. She doesn’t understand it. But I do.”

     “You do?” says Scott, glancing at Lydia in sudden alarm.

     Lydia nods. “Sometimes you have to keep secrets to keep someone safe. I know that’s all you’ve ever wanted for her. I mean, my God, you threw yourself off that tower to save her. To save all of us. It was the single bravest thing I’ve ever seen and she’s just so… so ungrateful!”

     Lydia lets out an incredulous little laugh. It makes her eyes sparkle and breasts tremble. Scott, no more immune to flattery than most teenage boys, has slowly been growing aware of the scent of Lydia, at once sharper and richer than Allison’s, full of orange blossom and of musk.

     Now, for the third time that day, Scott feels something alien forcing its way through his coupling and into his psyche. But this is something quite different from the fear that struck him down during the test or even the raw boiler pressure he felt back in his kitchen. This is pure lust.

     “Are you grateful?” asks Scott. His voice seems deeper than he remembers, low and throbbing. He knows he should stand up and leave but he can’t. This girl and this moment, this temporary escape from all the “should”s and “ought to”s and “if only”s, are just too tempting.

     Lydia’s smile is a sickle of lipstick. “I think you’d be surprised just how grateful I can be.”

     She winds her arms about Scott and melts into him. Her mouth finds his, rose petal lips coaxing and demanding by turns. Scott returns the kiss, matching hunger with hunger, heat with heat.

     “Hey, what kept you?” Stiles demands, as Scott hastily dons the armor-like padding of his lacrosse uniform. The rest of the team is—by and large—already equipped, and chafing to get out onto the field and escape the fug of the dingy locker room.

     Guilt twists Scott’s guts. He knows full well that Stiles has had a crush on Lydia since round about the third grade. He swipes hastily at his neck and face with a gym towel, hoping to remove any lingering lipstick.

     Scott’s not sure what came over him. Scratch that. He knows exactly what came over him. He’s not sure why it didn’t threaten to change his physical form the way the other two attacks did, but he’s absolutely sure he doesn’t want to discuss it with Stiles, especially not where Jackson Whittemore—the lacrosse captain and Lydia’s asshole boyfriend—might overhear.

     “It was nothing,” Scott says firmly. “Where’s Coach Finstock?”

     Stiles is saved from having to answer by the sudden barking voice of their coach. The wild-haired man bursts into the locker-room like a highly caffeinated whirlwind, brandishing a short list of names on a clipboard.

     “All right, listen up everybody. I’ve got two announcements for you. First, thanks to an outbreak of pink eye—well done, O’Neil—our first line is down by four players. So I’m going to the bench.”

     Stiles’ eyes light up. He’s wanted to make first line for over a year, a desire only heightened by Scott’s meteoric ascension.

     “Okay,” says Coach Finstock, consulting the roster once more. “Here we go. If I say your name you’re in, at least for this next game. After that, we’ll see. Connelly, Evans, Marchland, and what the heck is this? I can’t read my own writing…is that an ‘S’?”

     Stiles grabs Scott’s wrist, his eyes wide and unblinking. His heart is in his throat.

     “No, that must be a ‘B’.”

     Stiles’ heart plummets. He hangs his head.

     “Bilinski!” the coach barks.

     Stiles’ head shoots up again. He punches the air!

     “Yes! Oh my god, yes!”

     “Settle down, Bilinski,” the coach orders.

     “Yeah seriously, Stiles,” Scott whispers. He doesn’t like the way Jackson has started watching his friend. The brawny senior’s eyes are like spear points. “Prescribe one chill pill.”   

     “It’s Biles now,” Stiles whispers furiously. “Not Stiles. Biles. If you blow this for me, I swear I’ll…”

     Scott makes a pacifying gesture and Stiles falls silent as the coach begins the second part of his announcement.

     “Right, so that’s taken care of. Next order of business, I’ve decided that this team should have two co-captains.”

     He picks up a white and red jersey, identical to the one worn by Jackson Whittemore, and tosses it to Scott.

     “Congratulations McCall.”

     Scott is stunned, unable even to stammer a reply. Jackson, though no less stunned, is considerably less wordless.

     “But sir…” he protests, starting to his feet.

     “Don’t sweat it, Whittemore,” Coach Finstock says calmly. “This isn’t taking anything away from you. I’m just thinking about what’s going to be best for the team. Now come on everybody. I want cleats on turf in T minus two. Move it!”

     Scott follows the coach out onto the field, Stiles cavorting along in his wake. Jackson remains in the locker-room, the muscles of his powerful jaw working silently, trying to master his temper.

     “Those little shits,” he mutters.

     “It’s okay, man,” says Brian, clapping Jackson on the shoulder. “We all know who the real captain is.”

     Brian is one of Jackson’s friends on the team and while Jackson sometimes finds him to be a pain in the ass, today he’s grateful for his support

     Brian looks around at a handful of the other seniors on the team. “We’ll fucking crush McCall out there, right guys?”

     “Is that what you want, Jackson?”

     Jackson looks round. The voice is Danny’s. Danny is the team’s goalie and he’s been Jackson’s best friend since the fourth grade. The expression on his long, olive-skinned face is deadly serious.

     “You’re not telling me I should be okay with this, are you?” Jackson demands of him. “First some benchwarmer worms his way onto first line and now I’m expected to call him a captain?”

     Danny shrugs. “Who cares? Seriously Jackson, being captain’s not like being king. It’s not a lifetime appointment. The team was going to need a new captain next year anyway. Better for everyone if McCall gets some practice now while you’re still around to keep the team on track.”

     Jackson shakes his head, flatly refusing to admit the justice of this. “McCall shouldn’t be captain. Not now, not next year, not ever. We’ll just have to show him that.”

     He turns on his heel and storms out of the locker room, Brian and the others trailing after him. Danny rolls his eyes and follows them.

     “This’ll do,” says Kate, dropping her pack on the mossy floor of the clearing. It isn’t a large space but the ground is fairly level and free from dead leaves and branches. More importantly, at least to Allison’s way of thinking, it’s deep enough into the woods behind the Argents’ house that they run little risk of being found by her father.

     “Are you sure I shouldn’t just go out and buy myself a stun gun?” Allison asks, pulling her dark hair into a tight tail and shrugging off her leather jacket.

     Kate shakes her head. “I’d rather you had some way to defend yourself that didn’t run on batteries. Here.”

     She passes Allison a knife, hilt first. Allison takes it, studying the weapon while Kate removes her own jacket and performs a few stretches. A single-edged sheath knife with a wide guard and a bare three inches of blade, it does not overawe her. Still, it looks very sharp and the metal gleams with a strange, brassy finish.

     “Shouldn’t we have blunter knives to start out with?” Allison wants to know, as Kate finishes her warm up and pulls her own knife, nearly twice the size of Allison’s, from her pack.

     “Nope,” Kate tells her. “Dull knives make people sloppy. They use more force than they need and they end up hurting themselves. And because the knives are dull, the cuts they get are ragged and messy. Sharp knives are just plain safer.”

     Allison nods, storing this information away. “What about the color? What are these knives even made out of?”

     “It’s a gold titanium alloy,” says Kate calmly.

     Allison raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that super expensive?”

     Kate shrugs. “Less so when your big brother manufactures them.”

     “I didn’t know dad’s company made knives like this. They haven’t got the two little triangles on them, the maker’s mark or whatever.”

     “These models aren’t available to the public right now,” Kate explains. “Now are you going to go on asking me questions all day, or are you going to learn how to fight?”

     Allison nods once and squares her shoulders. She doesn’t want to be caught out the way she was at Suddery Castle ever again. She doesn’t want to have to rely on people like Scott to keep her safe.

     Kate smiles at her grim expression. “Okay, lesson one. You’re holding that knife all wrong.”

     Allison looks down at her hand. She’s gripping the knife hilt tightly, the point of the blade angled so that, when she holds her arm straight out, the wicked tip is pointing directly towards the earth.

     She frowns and makes a few slow, exploratory passes with the weapon, carving up the empty air.

     “Are you sure? I feel like I’m getting more power this way.”

     “You probably are,” Kate concedes. “But power isn’t what you need. You’re not trying to hit your attacker as hard as you can, just hard enough to open a few cuts. Then pain and blood loss will do the rest.”

     She comes to stand next to Allison. “Here. Try it like this.”

     Allison reverses her grip on the knife and also tries her best to mimic her aunt’s stance, legs spread shoulder-width apart, all her weight on the balls of her feet.

     “Better,” says Kate. “But your grip is still too tight. You want your wrist to be able to move easily.”

     Allison adjusts her grip again and gives her wrist an experimental roll.

     Kate smiles. “That’s the idea. Now, let’s practice striking.”

By the time Lydia arrives at the lacrosse stadium, practice is already well under way. She slips quietly into the stands and takes up her usual position near the south end of the pitch. She wishes, suddenly and powerfully, that Allison were here with her. She knows this is ridiculous. There’s no reason Allison should want to come to lacrosse practice, now that she’s broken up with Scott. And logically, there is no reason Lydia should want her to come to lacrosse practice, since she’s begun angling for Allison’s ex. It’s just that hanging out with Allison had become part of Lydia’s afternoon routine, a little ritual that made the hours spent sitting on these cold aluminum benches more bearable.

     The thought crosses Lydia’s mind that she may be making a serious mistake, but she brushes it aside. This is all part of the plan. Lydia decided long ago that she wasn’t going to be one of those people who look back on their high school lives and shudder. She was going to rule the school.

     Dating Jackson has been useful in that regard. His reputation as a hunky lacrosse star has given her extra leverage to work with when she’s wanted to forge alliances or discredit rivals. But Jackson has a shelf life. Next year he’ll be leaving for college, and while dating a hot college boy has a certain social cache, it won’t be enough for Lydia to fill the power vacuum he’ll leave behind.

     Hence the need for Scott. Lydia can see that, once the old guard has graduated, Scott will be the leading light of the lacrosse team. That means notoriety at the very least and, provided the team keeps on winning, heaps of political capital. Those are both things Lydia can put to good use. As an added bonus, Lydia suspects Scott will prove more tractable than Jackson; spending two whole years as a geeky benchwarmer doesn’t do wonders for a boy’s self-confidence. She can play on those insecurities if she needs to.

     Lydia isn’t actually planning to dump Jackson for Scott just at the moment. Too crass, and far too risky. She’s just been laying in some groundwork. For now, she simply watches practice progress, varying the monotony by perusing her algebra notes. The curve of the stadium shields her from the autumn breeze, so she’s free to spread books and binders out around her.

     After another ten minutes or so, the coach calls for a water break. Most of the team clusters around the big orange cooler, talking in small groups. Only Stiles, still too new and too awkward to properly integrate, and Danny, who seems to be holding himself stiffly aloof, hike back to the bleachers to retrieve their water bottles.

     After taking a quick gulp, Danny mounts the steps and comes to sit by Lydia.

     “Hello Lydia,” he greets her, his eyes still fixed on the field.

     “Hi Danny. How’s it going out there?”

     Danny shakes his head. “Not good. Coach made McCall a co-captain. Jackson’s not taking it well.”

     Inwardly, Lydia smirks. Another piece of the plan falls into place.

     Out loud, she says, “Oh shit. What do you think he’s going to do about it?”

     Danny grimaces. “Not sure. Some of his…some of our friends have been trying to take McCall down a peg. Block his shots, trip him up, that kind of thing.”

     “And?”

     “And nothing. Everything just seems to bounce off of him. The kid’s a machine.”

     “So what’s the problem? No harm, no foul, right?”

     Danny shakes his head again. “That’s the thing. The better McCall handles it all, the crazier Jackson gets. I’m worried he’ll try something really stupid.”

     Lydia frowns. Her plan doesn’t involve Scott getting his brains bashed out with a lacrosse stick. “Maybe I should talk to him.”

     For the first time, Danny turns to face Lydia directly. He looks a little sick. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Lydia.”

     Lydia’s expression does not change, but her blood runs suddenly cold. “What do you mean?”

     Danny looks down at the field again.

     “McCall was late to practice today,” he says quietly.

     “So?”

     “So Coach sent me to look for him, so he could make his co-captain announcement.”

     Lydia says nothing. Her mouth feels very dry.

     “I went looking for him,” Danny continues. “And I found him. I saw him. With you.”

     Lydia finds her voice again. “Danny, I don’t know what you saw, but that wasn’t…”

     Danny holds up a forestalling hand. “I’m not going to tell Jackson. Right now I think that might just tip him over the edge. He’s got…sort of a complex about McCall already. And I don’t want to see my best friend kicked off the team for picking stupid fights.”

     “Thank you.”

     “I’m not doing it for you.”

     “I know that,” says Lydia. “But I don’t know why you’re telling me.”

     Danny shrugs and gets to his feet. “I guess I’m hoping this’ll make you consider your choices a bit more carefully.”

     He walks away down the long flight of aluminum steps, takes another quick swig of water and then heads back out onto the field.

     Stiles, who had retreated under the bleachers to check his phone in private and was therefore directly below Lydia for the entirety of her conversation with Danny, can’t decide whether he wants to scream or to throw up.

Scott is one of the last players to leave the field after practice ends. Coach Finstock kept thinking of more advice on successful co-captaining that he wanted to impart. Most of it seemed to boil down to, “Be tough because players respect toughness.” As philosophies of leadership go, Scott finds this one somewhat lacking.

     Now the light is fading fast, a dark reminder of the winter still to come. In the chilly twilight, Scott makes his way to the parking lot. As he approaches the bike rack, he notices that a small knot of boys in lacrosse uniforms is loitering nearby, under the yellow glow of a lamppost. He recognizes Jackson and his friend Brian.

     Scott, guided by a half formed suspicion, glances quickly down at his bike. The tires are slashed to ribbons. He looks back up at Jackson. The older boy is lounging indolently against the lamppost. As Scott watches, Jackson turns to face him. He produces a Swiss army knife from his jacket pocket and gives it a meaningful waggle. Then he winks.

     Scott doesn’t remember crossing the ground between them. All he remembers is the white-hot rage descending on him like the rubble of a thousand burning buildings. He snatches the pocketknife from Jackson’s hand and crushes it between his fingers. He can feel Thomas’ spirit surging within him, feel the heat and pressure welling up behind his eyes and his brand.

     “You asshole!” Scott bellows at Jackson. “What the hell did you do that for?”

     “Hey man,” snaps Jackson, standing up straighter. He’s still a few inches taller than Scott. “Calm the fuck down.”

     “Is this your idea of a joke?” Scott demands, dropping the twisted remains of the clasp knife at Jackson’s feet and taking a step closer. He can taste coal smoke in the back of his throat. He knows, distantly and abstractly, that this is a bad sign, that this anger isn’t truly his own. But wherever it comes from, the anger is strong.

     “Do you think slashed tires are funny?” Scott asks. His voice is too loud and has an oddly ringing quality to it, like a huge brass bell.

     Jackson tries edge around the lamppost and away. His friends are starting to look nervous. Scott seizes the lacrosse captain by the front of his jersey and drags him closer.

     “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Scott orders.

     “Get your hands off me!”

     Scott ignores him. “You think it’s funny to slash someone’s tires, huh? You think that’s funny. Well then, I guess breaking someone’s ankle must be fucking hilarious.”

     Scott lifts a cleated foot, ready to stamp down like a two-ton sledgehammer.

     “Get ready to laugh,” he tells Jackson.

     Then someone grabs Scott from behind.

     If he wasn’t balanced on one foot it would never have worked. No one merely human could drag something that weighed as much as a small steam engine by shear muscle and willpower. But as it is, Scott is off-balance. He staggers backwards, away from Jackson, and the jersey slips from his grasp.

     Scott wheels about, expecting his attacker to be one of Jackson’s friends. Instead, he finds himself face to face with Stiles.

     For an instant, the rage in Scott is still so overpowering that he wants to crush even Stiles. But Stiles, still gripping Scott by the shoulders, leans in close and whispers in Scott’s ear:

     “Allison would be ashamed of you.”

     The words might have been a magic spell. Scott feels the unnatural anger leave him, draining away like pus out of a sore. He sways and Stiles has to steady him.

     “How many times is that?” he mumbles.

     “What?”

     “You keep saving me,” he explains. “How many times?”

     “In the last twenty-four hours, three,” says Stiles. “Plus the pizza.”

     Scott nods. “Seems stupid to keep saying thank you.”

     “Yeah well, you’re not super welcome this time,” Stiles says bitterly.

     Scott wonders at this but Stiles has already turned his attention to Jackson and the others.

     “You can go, by the way,” he announces, making a little shooing motion with one hand. Brian starts to say something but Jackson cuts him off with a gesture. The senior boys beat a hasty retreat.

     “Come on,” says Stiles, once they’re out of sight. “I’ll drive you home.”

     Scott shakes his head. “Not home. It’s… I’m not safe.”

     Stiles frowns. “I’m not gonna say you’re wrong, but I don’t exactly have a better idea.”

     “The old train shed,” says Scott. “The one at the end of the Ffarquhar Branch Line. We should chain me up in there until we can figure out what’s causing this.”

     “Chain you up?” Stiles asks. He sounds dubious, but not especially alarmed by the prospect.

     Scott nods. “I remember there were big chains in there. Hoist chains, I think, for lifting the engines.”

     “That might work, I suppose,” Stiles concedes. “But people will notice if you just disappear. Your mom, for one. Teachers. Mr. Deaton. This isn’t a long term solution.”

     “Can we talk about it in the jeep?” Scott asks. He still doesn’t look very steady on his feet.

     Stiles starts to say something, but then seems to change his mind. “Sure. We can talk about it in the jeep.”

     “And I think that about covers it,” says Noah Stilinksi, straightening up.

     The sheriff’s visitor, Detective Harper, remains bent over the pile of press clippings, crime scene snapshots, and official reports that covers most of the tabletop.

     “Why did you abandon this prosthesis lead?” asks the detective curiously.

     The sheriff frowns. The hour is getting late and he’d much rather be headed home to his son Stiles and a heaping basket of curly fries than hanging around the police station answering this man’s mildly condescending questions. Still, anything to bring this grisly case closer to a solution.

     “It turned into a dead end,” he explains. “We’ve got our share of amputees in New Sodor, but none of them fit the description of this man with the burned face.”

     “How positive are you that this is the same man who was involved in all these vehicular attacks?”

     Noah sighs. “It seems the most parsimonious explanation.”

     “I’m not interested in parsimony, Sheriff,” Harper says sternly. “I’m interest in facts.”

     The sheriff considers telling Harper just where he is welcome to stick his facts, but he is preempted by a knock at the door.

     “Sir,” Deputy Clark says, poking her head around the doorframe, “We just got a call from the park rangers.”

     Noah quickly joins her in the hall. Uninvited, Detective Harper follows them.

     “What is it?” the sheriff asks. Clark’s face is pinched with worry.

     “They’ve found two bodies, sir,” says Clark in a tight voice. “They think…they think their faces were burned off.”

     “So,” says Stiles, as he turns onto the eastbound county road and switches on his high beams, “let’s start with what we know.”

     Scott, sitting passenger’s seat, nods assent.

     “I’ve had four…sorry, three attacks today.”

     “Four or three?” Stiles demands.

     “Three,” says Scott firmly. “And that’s if you count the one during breakfast.”

     “Why wouldn’t we count that?”

     Scott bites his lip. “It felt a little different. It happened faster, and there wasn’t really any emotion attached to it, just pure boiler pressure.”

     “It’s also the only one that made you actually transform.”

     “That's true,” Scott admits. “But some of the others were damn close. I think the first one just caught me by surprise.”

     Stiles nods. “Okay, possible. But you said you still thought there was something different about it.”

     “Yeah,” Scott agrees. “I think…I think maybe it was a warm-up.”

     “A warm-up?”

     Scott makes a face. “That’s not quite what I mean, really. More like testing a microphone. You know, just giving it a quick tap to see if it’s on.”

     “A microphone,” says Stiles, his eyes on the road. “And the express train is the one who’s…what? Broadcasting messages?”

     Scott nods. “I think he’s found some way to amplify that thing he can do with our coupling. Something that makes it so he can reach me wherever I am.”

     Stiles drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “But why? What does he stand to gain by twitching your strings like this?”

     Scott stares out of the darkened window. “He wants me to hurt people. We know that.”

     “Then why feed you emotions like fear? Why not just rage, rage, rage, all the time?”

     “I think he’s looking for a weak point. Something that’ll crack my control wide open so I can’t fight him. That’s why he’s only sending me these bursts when I’m already feeling strong emotions. He must be able to sense them through the coupling.”

     “So when that chem test started to freak you out, or Jackson pissed you off…”

     “Exactly. The express could feel it and he decided to throw oil on the fire.”

     “And he’ll just keep trying different emotions until he finds the right lever to make you go postal.”

     “Unless we can figure out a way to stop him.”

     Stiles grimaces. “I hate to say it, but we really need Derek.”

     Scott nods his agreement. “He’d be able to tell us if we’re thinking along the right lines at least. But I haven’t heard anything from him since that night at the castle.”

     “The police did another sweep of his old house,” Stiles confides. “I bet the train spotters did too. Hell, they probably have the place totally staked out. If I were him, I’d have found a new hole to lie low in.”

     “I just wish we knew where.”

     A tense and brooding silence supervenes. At length, Stiles turns off onto a little dirt track and parks the jeep. A few minutes of hiking in the gathering dark bring them through the woods to the train shed. Moss grows thickly over the slates of its roof and the rising moon peeps in through a broken windowpane as the boys slip quietly inside.

     “It’s creepier than I remember,” Stiles observes, his voice echoing strangely in the wide and shadowy space.

     “There are the chains,” says Scott, pointing.

     They hang from the ceiling like trailing vines of cold steel. Pulleys and clamps support them and huge, blunt hooks dangle from their ends.

     “We don’t have to spear you with a hook, do we?” asks Stiles.

     Scott shakes his head. “We’ll knot them.”

     They do so. It takes Thomas’ enormous strength to manipulate the weighty chains, but it’s Stiles’ esoteric knowledge of sailors’ knots that really pays off. Soon Scott is wound in iron, his arms pinned to his sides.

     “That should do it,” says Scott, trying to sound more certain than he feels.

     Stiles nods and crosses to one of the rusting levers that connects to the pulley system.

     “Just one more thing…” he mutters.

     “Stiles, what are you…”

     Stiles throws the lever. Scott yells as his feet are jerked off the floor. The chains rattle and clatter as he is yanked up to a height of about ten feet, hanging head downwards.

     “What the hell, Stiles!” Scott bellows. He can feel the blood rushing to his face. “What was that for?”

     Stiles looks up at his friend, a hard expression on his round, boyish face.

     “I think you’ll be more secure without a fixed surface to push off of. Less chance of you breaking free.”

     “And if I pass out or, I don’t know, blood vessels in my brain explode?”

     Stiles shrugs. “I don’t think your engine will let that happen.”

     “Dammit, Stiles. This isn’t what I asked you for.”

     “And I never asked you to go around sucking face with Lydia and then lying to me about it.”

     Scott is silent for a long moment. He can’t imagine how Stiles found out about the encounter with Lydia, but at this point it scarcely matters.

     “Stiles,” he says softly. “That wasn’t me. I mean, it wasn’t my idea. The express train…”

     Stiles shakes his head sharply. “You said he hasn’t been interfering unless you were feeling something already.”

     “Yes, okay,” Scott snaps. “Lydia made me feel something. She’s good at that. But…”

     “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     “That she uses her sex appeal to manipulate people, Stiles! Do you need a fucking diagram?”

     “Hey fuck you, man. I’ve done nothing but save your sorry ass all day.”

     “I know that. And I wouldn’t…I didn’t want…”

     Stiles shakes his head again, this time in slow defeat. “Whatever, Scott. I’m just…I’m just going to go find Derek.”

     He shuffles out of the train shed, leaving Scott head downwards in deep trouble.

Allison picks up the archery sight and holds it at arms length, lining the little crosshairs up with the plastic head of a mannequin modeling a mint green sports bra. She tries to imagine the weight of her bow in her hand, to feel the tension of the string against her fingers. It’s been too long since she shot competitively. Maybe she should…

     A new head appears between the crosshairs, one with a face Allison recognizes: square-jawed, with short blonde hair and blue-grey eyes. She hastily lowers the sight.

     “Hello Jackson.”

     “Hello Allison. What are you doing here?”

     Allison shrugs. “Killing time, mostly. Our house is full of guys from the Armory. I felt like I was in the way.”

     “The Armory?”

     “My dad’s company,” Allison clarifies. “Argent Armory. They make knives and things.”

     “Do they sell them here?” asks Jackson, taking in the sporting goods store with a gesture. “I need a new pocketknife, as it happens.”

     “Probably,” says Allison with another shrug. “We could check.”

     The two of them wander over to the long glass display case. Blades short and long gleam coldly up at them from the green felt bedding.

     “There,” says Allison pointing, “That’s one of ours.”

     Jackson nods appreciatively. “Looks good. Bit pricey though.”

     “Quality costs,” says Allison. “Or that’s what my dad says.”

     Jackson laughs and calls over the salesperson. Once the pocketknife is safely nestled in a plastic bag, along with the receipt, Jackson turns back to Allison. He smiles a little wistfully.

     “Well, I’d better be going. That was the only thing on my shopping list and I’ve already used up all my ogling time.”

     Allison raises an eyebrow. “Your what now?”

     “For checking out new lacrosse gear,” says Jackson hastily. “You know, looking at things you know you’re never going to buy.”

     Allison thinks of the archery sight. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

     She checks her watch and sighs. “Actually, I’d better be going too.”

     Jackson smiles again, more widely. “Walk you to your car?”

Scott’s phone—the replacement for the one lost to the express train—buzzes. He sighs and rolls his eyes at the distant floor of the train shed, but the buzzing continues. A call then, and not a text. These days Scott only gets actual calls when someone’s trying to sell him nonexistent cruise tickets or when the matter is very urgent. He wriggles in his chains.

     If the phone were in the pocket of his jeans, he’d never manage it. But luckily it’s in the right-hand pocket of his jacket and luckier still it hasn’t yet slipped free and tumbled to the floor. With a painful effort, Scott manages to bend his elbow just enough to get his right hand into the pocket and grab his phone. He unlocks the screen with a swipe of his thumb and twists his head around so that he can stare at the faintly glowing rectangle.

     The call has ended, but there’s a new text message from a number he doesn’t recognize. He opens it and an attached image blooms on the screen.

     It shows Allison’s little blue car, the one Scott repaired that very first night. The car is parked and Allison is sitting behind the wheel, her face glowing with the reflected light of the dashboard. And sitting beside her, leaning in closely, is Jackson Whittemore.

     They say envy is a green-eyed monster, but to Scott this new feeling is a deep and bloody red. He throws himself against the chains, no longer wriggling but straining, slamming his bonds with the whole of his strength. Thomas flares to life within him, the numeral ‘one’ on Scott’s chest bursting into yellow and crimson incandescence.

     The chains are strong but they were never forged to stand up to this kind of blasting, furnace heat. Slowly the links warm and warp, and finally snap.

     Scott drops like a thunderbolt, twisting as he falls. He lands on the rails with all six wheels.

Stiles is returning to the train shed after a fruitless visit to the Hales’ charred and ruined homestead. There was no sign of Derek, or the train spotters, or the police. Of course, Stiles reflects, that doesn’t mean any of those parties weren’t actually there.

     The moon is rising high over the hills of New Sodor, its silvery beams mingling with the yellow glow of the street lamps. Stiles brings the jeep to a careful halt at a stop sign, though he seems to be the only car on this particular stretch of road. Then someone knocks at his passenger’s side door.

     Stiles jumps like a cat on hot bricks and glares at the man peering in through the jeep’s window.

     “Fucking hell, Derek. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

     “Unlock the door,” says Derek Hale, unabashed.

     Stiles does so, with some misgivings, and Derek drops heavily into the passenger’s seat.

     “Keep driving,” the human engine instructs. “I don’t think they bothered to follow you, but we can’t be too careful.”

     Stiles accelerates gently and steals at glance at his passenger. Derek looks thinner than the last time Stiles saw him, his cheekbones sharper and his grey eyes sunken deeper into their sockets. His beard is longer too, dark and unkempt. He looks like a man on the run, which—Stiles supposes—is fair enough.

     “Why were you looking for me?” Derek asks without preamble.

     “There’s something wrong with Scott,” says Stiles and in a few terse sentences he explains the events of the day.

     Derek listens attentively and then he does last thing Stiles expects: he laughs.

     “What’s so funny?” asks Stiles, after the harsh barking noise has died away.

     “Brimstone,” says Derek. “That idiot’s started burning brimstone.”

     “What?” asks Stiles. “Which idiot? Scott?”

     Derek shakes his head. “The express train. He must be getting desperate.”

     Stiles nods slowly. “So should I just pretend that any of what you’re saying makes sense, or…”

     Derek stops grinning and sits up straighter, his broad arms folded across his chest. “You know too much already, Stilinski.”

     Stiles sighs. “You’d tell Scott, right? If he asked?”

     Derek grunts his grudging assent.

     “Well, anything you tell Scott, Scott will tell me. Only he’ll probably forget some important bits so that the next time shit inevitably hits the fan, I won’t be able to help him properly. Or instead, you could just tell me directly and we could skip playing high stakes telephone.”

     Derek is silent for a moment, then he nods.

     “Okay. Fine. I’ll tell you the basics. And basically, this is about alchemy.”

     “Alchemy?” asks Stiles, startled. This is not where he expected this conversation to go.

     “Alchemy,” Derek confirms. “The world is made up of elements, just like you learned in chemistry class. But elements don’t just have chemical properties, things that are about the physical rules of the world. They also have alchemical properties, things that are about the rules of magic and belief. Are you with me?”

     “Uh, maybe,” says Stiles.

     “Engines like me and Scott, we’re creatures of alchemy. Carbon brings our engines to life, makes them something more than dead metal. And iron makes the human side of us strong, strong enough to use the engines’ power. But iron and carbon aren’t the only elements we can access.”

     “Why can’t you just access all of them?” asks Stiles. “Why can’t everybody access all of them?”

     Derek shrugs. “I’m a steam engine, kid, not a frigging wizard.”

     Stiles ignores this. “Brimstone. That’s sulfur, right?”

     Derek nods. “It shows up a lot as an impurity in coal, so engines can use it, just not very well. For us, it’s almost like a drug. It might make you feel stronger for a while, but it’s addictive. Over time, it’ll destroy you.”

     “But what does it actually do? Alchemically, I mean?”

     “Sulfur is one of the big three,” says Derek. “It has a lot of meanings. Fire and destruction, but also emotion and passion.”

     “So it’s made his ability to mess with Scott’s emotions stronger,” Stiles expounds, as they turn off onto the dirt track leading to the train shed.

     Derek nods curtly, his impromptu lecture seemingly over. He hops from the jeep and pushes his way into the brush. He moves as if he already knows where he’s going so Stiles just follows in his wake.

     Stiles’ mind is working overtime. Alchemy gives him a whole new framework to try and understand the crazy things he’s been seeing ever since Scott got branded. He wonders suddenly about the golden weapons that the train spotters use. Is there something about the alchemy of gold that is fundamentally opposed to that of iron or carbon? How does this magic of pure substances relate to the herb magic of the railroad vine? If sulfur is ‘one of the big three’ what are the other two? He’s itching to get home so he can starting combing through the deep web once more, looking for clues and connections.

     Stiles looks up and sees that they’ve reached the train shed.

     “Scott?” he calls softly. “I found Derek.”

     There is no reply.

     “Oh shit,” Stiles whispers.

     He darts past Derek and into the crumbling building. He finds the chains empty, stretched and pulled apart like warm taffy.

     “Oh shit,” he repeats.

     Derek rests a firm hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Where would he go?”

     “I don’t know…I…I just don’t know.”

     “You said the two of you thought the express was testing him, looking for his weak point. Looks to me like he found it. But I need you tell me what it was.”

     “What Scott’s weak point was?” asks Stiles, bewildered.

     “Exactly,” Derek growls. “You know him better than anyone. If you needed to break his self-control, how would you do it?”

     Stiles thinks hard for about half a second. “I’d probably just say something nasty about Allison. He’s been really torn up about how that ended. It’d be like jabbing an open wound.”

     Derek’s face is beyond grim. “Allison. Argent’s daughter.”

     Stiles nods. “That’s the one. She…”

     But Derek is already on the move, running along the rails faster than a galloping horse.

     “Wait!” Stiles yells. “What are you going to do?”

     “I’m going to find him!” Derek bellows over his shoulder. “Before he finds her.”

Allison glances nervously about, as though there might be eavesdroppers lurking in the car itself and leans in closer to Jackson.

     “I know they’re keeping things from me. That’s what drives me crazy. It’s not that I don’t trust them; they’re still my family. But I know they don’t trust me.  And that hurts.”

     “What kind of things?” asks Jackson, frowning.

     Allison makes a face. “I don’t really know. But you know how when we were at the castle, Scott wanted me to call my dad?”

     Jackson nods. “He seemed pretty, uh, intense about it.”

     Allison glances away, a pain twisting in the pit of her stomach. “Right. Well, I almost get the feeling that he knows something. Something about my family that I don’t.”

     “McCall’s definitely wrapped up in some weird shit,” Jackson agrees. “I mean, I’ve seen him do…”

     He stops abruptly, staring out the window at the rising moon.

     “Seen him do what?” Allison demands, suddenly desperately curious.

     “You’ll think I’m losing it,” says Jackson, forcing a sickly smile.

     “Tell me,” Allison insists.

     Jackson heaves a sigh. “I’ve seen McCall do things I just can’t explain. Big ones—like how on earth he survived jumping down from that tower—but little things too. On the field, during practice, he…it’s like he starts to react to things before they happen. It’s freaky. And then there’s this.”

     Jackson takes something out of the pocket of his leather jacket. It glints in the dim light and for a moment Allison thinks it’s the knife he just bought. But no, this knife is different, older and a different brand. But also terribly damaged.

     “Here,” says Jackson and he lays the twisted thing in Allison’s palm.

     “These look like fingerprints,” says Allison wonderingly. “Like if someone grabbed a stick of butter and squeezed.”

     Jackson nods. “Yeah. But it's steel.”

     “Scott did this?”

     “I watched him do it.”

     “Jesus…” Allison whispers. Part of her wants to accuse Jackson of lying, but there’s no swagger in his voice. His words are flat and tinged with fear. He is telling the truth.

     “He’s so strong,” she marvels. “Can he really be that strong?”

     Jackson shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know how it’s possible. For a while I thought maybe he was taking steroids, but unless they’re the kind of steroids you take to become Captain America…”

     His voice trails off. “I can’t explain it.”

     Allison nods. “But it’s not just Scott.”

     “No!” Jackson exclaims, sitting up straighter. “If it was just one freaky kid, I’d be like okay, whatever. But there’s all this freaky shit! Mr. Myers getting killed. Lydia’s house getting knocked down. This man with the burned face following me everywhere. Jesus, it’s like something out of horror movie. And I think…”

     He stops again, chewing his lip. “I think whatever’s weird about McCall, this guy with the burned face has it too.”

     “What do you mean?”

     He points at the ruined knife in Allison’s hand. “They can both grip things way too hard and they…” He gives an unhealthy little laugh. “Sometimes they smell like smoke?”

     “Smoke?” ask Allison. “Scott doesn’t smoke.”

     “Not cigarette smoke,” Jackson clarifies. “More like a charcoal grill, or maybe car exhaust. I don’t know. It’s seriously weird.”

     “I’ve never noticed that,” says Allison frowning.

     “I think it only happens when…” Jackson begins.

     Then something heavy lands with a clang on the roof of the car.

Scott isn’t thinking clearly. He isn’t sure he’s thinking at all. He doesn’t know how he reached this particular parking lot. Is this the first parking lot he’s searched tonight? Did he somehow recognize it from the picture on his phone? Or did instinct draw him here? He doesn’t know and it no longer matters. He’s found them.

     He wants to kill Jackson. That’s one of the few ideas still shining out clearly through the red mist. He wants to kill Jackson but Jackson is in the car. Jackson is in the car with Allison. Allison. Scott doesn’t want Allison to see him like this. That’s thought number two. But Allison is in the car with Jackson. And Scott wants to kill Jackson. So logically he should…he should…

     And now he’s crouching on top of the car. When did that happen? And in the car, only a few inches of flimsy metal away, is Jackson. And Scott wants to kill Jackson. So he should…logically, he should… He should crush the car. The car he once fixed. Allison’s car. With Allison in it.

     Faintly, at the back of his mind, Scott can hear the car protesting.

     I don’t know what you think you’re doing up there, kid, but this is not how we win friends and influence people. Go on! Scram!

     He shakes his head, trying to clear it. The car. He should crush the car. But Allison…but Allison betrayed him. She doesn’t matter. Crush the car. He should crush the…

     Then something hits him hard in the back of the head.

     Scott’s teeth clack together, raising a shower of sparks. He wheels around. There at the edge of the parking lot, just beyond the reach of the huge fluorescent lamps, is Derek Hale. He has another brick, torn loose from a low wall, in his right hand and he’s drawing back his arm for another throw.

     Scott bellows in rage, the great storm of emotion within him narrowing down into a single cyclone with Derek at its eye. He vaults from the top of the car and charges his tormentor.

     Derek drops the brick and bolts out of the parking lot and onto the road. Scott tears after him, crossing three lanes of traffic in a blur. Derek plunges off the road again and through a high hedge of sumac and loosestrife. Scott follows him closely and finds himself slipping and slithering down the side of a steep gulley. He lands with a splash in the half-inch of filthy water trickling from a nearby storm drain.

     He tries to get up but Derek’s foot connects with the side of his head in a great sweeping kick and he topples over sideways. Dead leaves, wet and swollen, plaster his cheek like a stinking poultice. He struggles to stand once more, calling on a great surge of Thomas’ steam-driven strength, but Derek is faster. His fist catches Scott under the chin and for a minute Scott’s vision goes black.

     Then Derek is on top of him, pinning his arms down, his eyes blazing into Scott’s.

     “Look at me, Scott,” Derek orders. “Look at me. You aren’t in control right now. He is. You have to fight him, Scott. You can’t let him drive your engine.”

     Fight him? Fight who? Scott feels dizzy and sick but somehow neither of those things is dampening the urge to kill.

     Because it’s not your urge, idiot, Scott chides himself. It’s the express train.

     And suddenly Scott is horribly aware of the wrongness, the utter alienness, of the jealous rage he feels. Its like realizing that what you thought was just another rib in your ribcage is actually a spike of rebar protruding from your chest. Working the spike free is slow and painful but finally, after long minutes of twitching and sweating, Scott is alone in his own head once more.

     “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

     Derek says nothing but he releases his hold on Scott and steps back. Scott sits up. His clothes are soaked and slimy, but he feels the chill only distantly. The pain of his bruised jaw is more urgent but he ignores that too.

     “How…how did you find me?”

     “Stiles,” says Derek curtly. He turns on his heel and starts the climb back up the side of the gulley. Scott follows him, still unsteady on his feet.

     “That thing…what was I…what was he doing to me?”

     “He was feeding you emotions through your coupling.”

     “But it…they were so strong.”

     “He was spiking them with sulfur.”

     “Sulfur?”

     “Burning pure sulfur instead of coal. It makes certain of an engine’s powers stronger, but it takes a toll if you do it for too long.”

     “What kind of a toll?”

     “It starts to corrode your internal organs.”

     “Corrode? Like acid?”

     “Yep.”

     “That sounds really bad,” says Scott, his hand moving unconsciously to his belly.

     Derek turns and flashes Scott a wolfish grin over one shoulder. “It is.”

     “Will it kill him?”

     “Probably not,” Derek admits. “Unless he gets seriously addicted. But we can hope.”

     “And what do we do in the mean time? About me, I mean. I can’t just keep turning into a train five times a day. People will notice.”

     “He can’t keep pushing you this hard for days on end,” says Derek calmly. “If he does, he’ll overdose. I’m guessing he’ll back off for a while, let the brimstone work itself out his system. You should have a few quiet days at least.”

     “And after that?”

     “If we haven’t found him by them, we’ll just have to do what we did this time.”

     “You’ll beat me up?”

     “I’ll restrain you from hurting people,” Derek corrects. “I’ll try to keep a closer eye on things this time. Hopeful the police hunt will die down some and I can move more freely.”

     Scott frowns. There’s an optimistic note in Derek’s voice that he isn’t accustomed to. “You seem pretty chipper for a man on the run.”

     Again, Derek smiles his predatory smile. “He’s slipping up, Scott. He’s taking stupid risks. Even if he doesn’t poison himself, I can probably track down his supplier. That’ll lead us right to him. We’re going to get him, Scott. We’re going to kill the express.”

     “You heard that, right?” Jackson demands.

     He and Allison are standing around shivering in the almost deserted parking lot, staring into the velvety darkness beyond the reach of the sodium lights.

     “That clanging noise? Yeah, I heard it. It sounded like something landed on the roof…”

     “Not that. The noise it made.”

     “The noise what made?”

     “It made a noise, just before it jumped away.”

     “You think it was an animal?” asks Allison, trying to keep up. Jackson’s blue-grey eyes are wide and wild.

     “It didn’t sound like an animal. Didn’t you hear it?”

     “I thought I heard something. Someone yelling, maybe? Or a car engine squealing?”

     Jackson keeps shaking his head. “Not a person. Not a car. A train. It sounded like a train.”

     Stiles drives towards home, feeling worried and useless. His stupid trick with the pulleys apparently didn’t even slow Scott down. But Scott wouldn’t really hurt Allison, would he? Would he?

     But it isn’t a question of what Scott would do, is it? Stiles reminds himself. On his own, Scott would never do half of what he’s done today. He’d certainly never kiss Lydia.

     But Lydia would still kiss him.

     “Dammit,” Stiles mutters. He smacks the steering wheel in frustration. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

     His nascent tantrum is interrupted by a swirl of red and blue lights. An ambulance and several police cars are parked at the head of a hiking trail. Men in uniform are carrying a stretcher with a long black bag on it.

     Stiles parks the jeep on the shoulder of the road and dashes headlong towards the lights. His first thought is that Scott has finally killed someone. His second thought is that his father should have called him by now. His father, who has been scouring the county for the most vicious monster Stiles has ever seen. His father, whose job it is to run towards danger and not away from it.

     Stiles rounds a police car and sees his father standing tall, talking to a park ranger and a man in a charcoal grey suit. His heart, which has been clenched tight like a fist, suddenly loosens.

     “Dad!” he calls weakly.

     Sheriff Stilinski turns. He sees Stiles and his face changes, falling into an expression that Stiles finds hard to read. But then his father is pulling him into a tight, unexpected hug and for a moment everything is perfectly all right.

     “Stiles, what are you doing here?”

     “I was driving back from Scott’s and I saw the lights. What happened?”

     “Two men,” says the sheriff reluctantly. “They were badly burned. We don’t know how yet. They’re…they’re both dead.”

     Fire and destruction, Derek had said.

     “When did they…” Stiles starts to ask. “When did it happen?”

     “We won’t know for sure until we get the report from the coroner, but probably sometime last night.”

     “Last night.” Stiles tries to keep the relief off his face. Not Scott’s work then.

     “Are you okay?” his dad asks, giving Stiles an odd look.

     “Yeah,” Stiles assures him, though at this point he honestly has no idea. “I’m fine.”

     “Who’s that?” asks Kate Argent, peering down at the knot of police officers and emergency workers from their position high on the slope beyond the tree line. Chris grunts and passes her the binoculars.

     “The sheriff’s son,” he explains, continuing to watch the newcomer intently with the naked eye. The shadows do a good job of hiding the train spotters, but there’s plenty of moonlight to see by. “I think his name’s Stiles.”

     “He goes to Allison’s school, doesn’t he?”

     “That’s right.”

     “Friend of hers?”

     “Friend of that kid Scott’s.”

     “Right. So he was at Suddery Castle.”

     Chris nods.

     “And was he one of the ones who found Laura Hale’s body?”

     “That’s what we think. It didn’t make it into of the official reports. Protection of minors.”

     “What about that kid Vicky said came looking for Allison the first week you moved in? That night Derek Hale drove her home from that party.”

     Chris grinds his teeth at the memory. “Yeah. That was Stiles.”

     There’s a long a moment of silence under the shadow of the trees.

     “And now he’s here,” says Kate at last.

     “Yes.”

     “Chris,” she says quietly. “You told me that you saw Derek fighting another engine. A smaller one.”

     “That I did.”

     “Do think the engine was just smaller? Or could it have been younger too?”

And far away in a brick-lined cave, thick with soot and clouds of grey cobweb, the express train leans back in his moldering armchair. His red-rimmed eyes are focused on a single, guttering candle. The air is heavy with the smell of hellfire and rotten eggs. The candle flame burns blue.

CLOSING THEME/SHOW CREDITS

Chapter Text

Adrian Harris sighs and pushes back his chair from the desk. Outside, the early darkness of a waning autumn has fallen and New Sodor High School is all but deserted. The chemistry teacher tucks some papers into a manila folder and slips the folder into his messenger bag. He switches off his desk lamp and starts towards the classroom door.

     “Adrian.”

     The voice comes out of the shadows behind him. It is deep and male and it echoes with odd harmonics, more like an ancient carnyx or some great, dolorous bell than any sound made by a merely human throat.

     “Oh God…” Adrian whispers, frozen in his tracks.

     “I need more, Adrian. You have more, don’t you?”

     “I…” the chemistry teacher stammers, “Not here…the teaching samples…they aren’t…”

     “Where are they?” says the voice, an eager note creeping into it. “Where are you hiding them?”

     “They’re all gone. Used up. In an experiment.”

     “You can’t lie to me, Adrian. I know the ring of true steel when I hear it.”

     “What do you want pure sulfur for anyway?”

     “Are you sure you want to know that Adrian?”

     Adrian, still not daring to look round, shakes his head.

     The man in shadows laughs. “Clever man. Now, why don’t you…”

     And then something comes smashing through the back wall. Despite the fear, despite himself, Adrian cannot fight down the instinct to turn and stare. Chunks of rubble and broken blackboard are still thudding to the floor. And there, standing in the gaping hole in the school’s wall, is a man. He is dark haired and grey-eyed, sporting a ragged beard and a leather jacket now caked in plaster dust. Beneath it, his limbs are thick with wiry muscle. Adrian recognizes him immediately from the newspapers. This man is Derek Hale.

     Hale lunges at the man still lurking in the gloom, his face a mask of rage. His bared teeth gleam weirdly in the dim light, almost like metal.

     The other man shoves Derek away with one hand. Derek is no lightweight, but this man is built like truck, no, like a tank. Despite his size, he moves fast. He takes a swipe at Derek’s head with a massive fist. Derek ducks, but has no time to avoid the leg that flashes out and sweeps him off his feet. He hits the floor with a clang.

     The big man steps forward, looming over the fallen Derek and for a horrible moment Adrian is sure he is about to bear witness to a murder. Then they hear the sirens.

     The big man takes off running, wrenching the classroom door off its hinges in his haste, making for the back stairwell. Derek springs upright and hares after him, following hard upon his heels.

Sheriff Noah Stilinski sees the man, his legs churning frantically, sprinting down the road. Ahead of him, beyond the glow the squad car’s headlights, a second and larger figure is almost out of sight.   

     “All units, be advised. We have two suspects on foot headed north from the high school. We are in pursuit. Over.”

     “That’s Derek Hale, isn’t it Chief?” Noah’s deputy demands, as the sheriff leans on the accelerator. Their speedometer tells him they are already going a healthy fifty miles an hour, yet somehow they don’t seem to be gaining on the running man.

     “We’ll know soon enough.”

     Then new headlights flare to life by the side of the road some thirty yards ahead. A silver SUV, huge and gleaming, pulls out across both lanes, a solid wall that separates the two running men.

     “Who the hell is that?” the sheriff demands, stamping on the brakes.

     Derek, or the suspect who looks like Derek, skids to a halt, his arms wind-milling furiously. The window of the SUV rolls down and a hail of whistling bolts issues from its interior.

     “Are they…are they firing arrows?” asks the deputy, incredulously.

     One broad-headed quarrel opens a cut on Derek’s forearm but the rest snap and clatter harmlessly against the asphalt as he plunges off the road and into the trees. The SUV wastes no further time but swings around in wide arc and revs its engines, rocketing away down the road. Whether the drivers have decided to pursue the other runner or whether they’re fleeing the police presence, Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t know. The SUV has no license plate.

     “What now, Chief?” the deputy asks. “Do we follow them or try to pick up Hale?”

     “Hale,” Noah decides abruptly. “We’ve wanted him for questioning since that mess at the Castle. We’ll just add these nuts with the bows and arrows to that list of questions. Besides, he’s on foot and bleeding and we’ve got wheels. I like those odds better than a car chase.”

     “But we can’t take our wheels into the forest,” the deputy points out as the sheriff begins an illegal U-turn.

     “That’s okay. I know a shortcut.”

     “How’d you know about this shortcut?” Scott McCall asks, as he maneuvers Derek’s shiny black sports car down a narrow dirt lane through the woods. “I’m sure we never came here when we were mapping the old railways.”

     “My dad,” says Stiles, glancing nervously about. “This road goes right past the lake where he likes to go fishing. So do you think I should try Derek’s number again?”

     “He sounded pretty busy,” Scott demurs.

     “Yeah well, if we can’t find him, he’s going be whole lot busier when the train spotters catch up to him. ‘The woods east of route nine’ isn’t exactly a precise address for a rendezvous.”

     “Just keep your eyes open,” Scott advises. “If we don’t…”

     An arrow pings off the car’s front hubcap.

     Train spotters! the vehicle yells in Scott’s mind. Those absolute bastards! I’ll turn them into road kill!”

     “Shit!” Scott snarls as he accelerates away from the ambush.

     Behind them more engines roar to life. Stiles cranes around to see two ATVs come flying out of the brush, a train spotter clinging to each one.

     “Drive faster!” he orders.

     “If I go any faster we’ll end up wrapped around a tree!”

     “If you don’t go any faster we’ll end up as a couple of pin cushions!”

     “Shit!” Scott repeats.

Derek Hale comes loping out onto the shore of the lake. Moonlight ripples on the dark surface of the water. In a hunter’s stand hidden high in a spreading willow, Chris Argent whispers into his walkie-talkie.

     “I have eyes on Derek Hale. He’s alone and on foot. I can take him. Over.”

     “On foot?” comes his sister Kate’s reply. “What do you mean on foot? Dean and Travis just radioed to say they're chasing down Derek in his car. Over.”

     “Someone else must be driving that car. Take care of it. Over.”

     Chris sets down the walkie-talkie and picks up his compound bow. This is no elegant weapon designed for competitive target shooting. This is monstrous contraption of elliptical pulleys and steel cables designed to bring down big game animals with a minimum of fuss. He knocks an arrow and slowly draws back on the string.

     With a scream of protesting gears, a black sports car comes flying out of the undergrowth. It careens across the lakeshore, throwing up a great bow wave of sand and pebbles and skids to halt between Derek and the willow tree.

     A door is flung open and an arm reaches out to pull Derek inside. Chris fires.

     “Jesus Christ!” Stiles exclaims, staring open-mouthed at Derek, who is currently sprawled across the back seat of the car, groaning and swearing. A long arrow shaft protrudes from his left calf.

     “Drive, damn you!” he snarls as he struggles to sit up.

     Scott is already driving. This car wasn’t built for off-roading but their path back to the road is short and mostly downhill. The real problem is that the ATVs have caught up with them.

     Swerve left! the car orders, its words once more reaching Scott’s brain without bothering to notify his ears.

     He obeys without thinking and the sudden motion forces one of their pursuers, who was trying doggedly to overtake them, off the track and into a ditch.

     In the back seat, Derek reaches around and—his face set in an iron mask—pushes down hard on the arrow shaft in his leg.

     “What the hell are you doing?” Stiles demands.

     Derek ignores him, continuing with his grim work until the arrowhead, gleaming brassily beneath the scarlet blood, emerges from the opposite side of his leg. He quickly snaps it off and tosses it away before jerking the rest of the shaft back out of the entrance wound. Then he slumps back against the gory seat cushions, ashen and panting.

     “It’ll start to heal now,” he explains weakly. “Now that the gold is gone.”

     “We’ve still got another train spotter following us!” Scott announces as they whip past an overgrown signpost informing them that they’re less than a mile from the next highway.

     “Can we…” Stiles begins.

     Then they hear the sirens.

     Stiles and Derek crane around to see a blur of red and blue light streaking down the dirt road towards them, gaining rapidly on the remaining ATV.

     “New problem,” Stiles reports. “My dad’s here.”

     Derek grunts and scrabbles around on the floor until he comes up with the golden arrowhead, still attached to a bare half-inch of broken fiberglass. He opens the car door, leaning his weight on it to keep it from shutting in the wind of their speed. He takes careful aim at the oncoming ATV and then throws the arrowhead like a man playing darts in a beer hall.

     “No fucking way…” Stiles gasps.

     The arrowhead hits the right front tire of the ATV and lacerates it. There is an almighty bang and the vehicle goes into a tailspin, kicking up dirt in all directions. It comes to abrupt halt and the approaching squad car slows to avoid hitting it.

     Scott, on the other hand, continues to the drive like the blazes as Derek slams the door closed and returns to his exhausted slump. In another minute they are back on a proper highway and heading for home.

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

     “How could you let this happen?” Kate Argent demands. For a moment Chris worries that the accusation is directed at him, but no. His sister’s blazing eyes are focused on Detective John Harper in his neat grey suit. To his credit, the man doesn’t back away but neither is he fool enough to meet Kate’s gaze.

     “You were supposed to keep the cops out of our way,” Kate reminds him. “That was your whole job here. Instead, we have the sheriff himself come bumbling into our operation, all the train engines get clean away, and now two of our spotters are sitting in holding cells.”

     “I’ll handle that,” the detective assures her. “No charges will be brought.”

     “Really,” says Kate sarcastically. “You don’t think we might’ve piqued the sheriff’s curiosity by now?”

     Harper shrugs. “Two rednecks from out of state head into the woods to do a bit of bow hunting and off-roading. They’re having a bit too much fun one night and they get into a race with a big black car that happens to come barreling through. Nothing nefarious there.”

     Kate crosses her arms in front of her chest. The war room, as the train spotters have taken to calling the little brick-lined parlor at the back of the Argent’s mini-mansion, is lit dimly lit in deference to the lateness of the hour. The golden lamplight gleams in her long hair and the deep shadows highlight the sharp creases of her scowl.

     “You’re going to have to work hard to sell that one, Harper,” she asserts.

     Harper smiles thinly. “I’ll call in some favors.”

     Kate starts to voice another objection, but Chris steps forward.

     “What happened tonight, John?” he asks, his voice quiet but firm. “We should have at least gotten word that the sheriff was on the move.”

     “If I’d known anything about it,” says Harper bitterly, “I’d have sent word. He gave me the slip. I think he must trust me less than he’s been letting on.”

     “Smart man,” Kate snorts.

     Chris spares her a quelling glance. “Fine. You handle damage control, Detective. We’ll talk more about this later. In the mean time, where do stand with the hunt?”

     “I was so close,” Derek fumes as he limps ahead into the coaling station.

     “So it was Mr. Harris?” asks Scott, following close behind.

     “Yes,” Derek snaps. “Your idiot chemistry teacher was the one selling the express train sulfur. But now he knows that I know his source. We won’t be able to catch him that way twice.”

     “Would you say you caught him?” asks Stiles. “Or was it more a case of you stumbling across him in the act of shaking down Mr. Harris and then him handing you your ass?”

     Derek ignores this. “I shouldn’t have left you with the car, McCall. Together we could’ve taken him down.”

     “We needed the car for our getaway,” Scott points out. “We barely made it out as it was.”

     “If burning sulfur is as addictive as you’ve said,” Stiles offers as they pass under the shadow of a crumbling chimneystack, “then the express will be back. Maybe not Mr. Harris, but another source. Another dealer. He won’t be able to help it.”

     “I don’t have time to track down every chemist in the Rust Belt,” Derek growls. “We need a new lead.”

     He crosses to the old coal tipper, which still has a rusting freight car parked atop it, and begins to fiddle with the mechanism.

     “What about the phone?” asks Scott.

     “What phone?” says Derek, looking up sharply.

     Scott glances at Stiles. “You told me that the cops still haven’t turned up the phone that the express train stole from my bag. Doesn’t that mean he probably kept it?”

     “Possibly,” Derek concedes. “But can either of you trace a cell phone?”

     Scott shakes his head.

     “How about you, Stilinski?”

     “No,” Stiles admits. “But I think I know someone who can.”

     Derek grunts in grudging approval. “You chase down that lead then. I’m going to focus on recovering.”

     Behind him, the coal tipper hoists up the freight car and the slab of railway it’s still perched upon. Beneath are the mechanical guts of the machine: huge pistons, worn gears, and steel struts. And beneath them is the little room, barely more than a foxhole, where Derek Hale has been living. He drops down into it and the tipper slowly clanks closed over him, like the slamming of a trap door.

     “You want me to what now?” asks Danny Mahealani, staring at his best friend.

     Jackson Whittemore smiles reassuringly. The warmth of the smile does not reach his eyes.

     “Just help me find some stuff on the Internet. Stuff that won’t just pop up on the first page of a Google search.”

     “Are we talking porn?” Danny inquires, plugging in his laptop and kicking off his shoes. “Something kinky yet tasteful?”

     “No, no,” says Jackson quickly. “Nothing like that. Just some research.”

     “You’re going to need to be more specific.”

     Jackson chews his lower lip pensively, staring at the far wall of his bedroom without appearing to see it. “Legends, maybe. Rumors. Urban myths.”

     “Urban myths about what?” asks Danny curiously. He’s seated at Jackson’s hardwood desk, while Jackson perches on the edge of his queen-sized bed.

     “Trains,” says Jackson distantly. “People turning into trains.”

     “That’s…oddly specific.”

     “And fucking weird.”

     “Well yeah.”

     Jackson sighs. “Would you believe me if I told you I just wanted to follow up on a hunch?”

     “Sure, I’d believe you,” Danny allows. “But I’d still want to know what all this was about.”

     “Honestly?”

     “Well, yeah.”

     “Well then, in all honesty, this is about McCall.”

     “You think Scott is turning into a train?”

     “I think something is genuinely, seriously weird about him. And this is the best lead I have.”

     Danny rolls his eyes. “This obsession you have with McCall is getting unhealthy.”

     “Humor me,” says Jackson flatly. “At least show me how to get started.”

     Danny sighs. “If you insist.”

     He taps a few keys and a retro looking website, stark white text on a night black background, appears on the screen. “First of all, you were right that Google won’t be much help here, not if these urban myths are really obscure. We’ll want to jump straight into databases and forums. This is a pretty good one for this kind of thing. It’s indexed by…”

     Jackson lets the words wash over him like a hot shower, easing away some of the helpless fear he’s been saddled with over the past month and half. Soon, very soon he will have all the information he needs to destroy Scott McCall.

Scott and Stiles walk together through the halls of New Sodor High School, effecting not to notice the yellow caution tape warding students away from the classrooms mangled by Derek and the express.

     “So if Lydia tries to kiss you again, you will…” Stiles prompts.

     “Scream ‘Fire!’ in a loud clear voice,” Scott replies dutifully.

     “And you will only talk to Allison if…”

     “If she talks to me first.”

     “Because?”

     “Because she needs space before she can start to forgive me.”

     “Good man,” says Stiles, slapping Scott on the shoulder with slightly unseemly heartiness. “You’ll be fine. Now I need to go run down that cell phone lead.”

     “Good luck,” Scott grunts. He peels off towards the lockers while Stiles continues on to Honors Pre-calc. He has just finished stowing away his sweatshirt and a selection of textbooks, when he becomes suddenly aware of someone standing at his elbow.

     Scott turns quickly and finds himself face to face with Jackson Whittemore. The handsome lacrosse captain is smiling a wide and unsettling smile.

     “I know what you are, McCall,” says Jackson without preamble.

     “What?” says Scott, panic abruptly flooding his every vein.

     “I know exactly what you are,” Jackson repeats. “I knew there had to be something going on. There was no way you just suddenly got so much better at lacrosse.”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

     “Yes, you do. You’ve been, heh, you’ve been cheating this whole time. Would that be fair to say? But you’re not just a cheater, right? You’re also a bit of a monster. You’re dangerous.”

     Scott closes his locker with a hand that trembles. “What do you want?”

     “How did it happen, I wonder? The sources I found weren’t real clear on it spreads.”

     “Don’t push it, Jackson.”

     “Or what? You’ll run me over? Here? In front of everyone?”

     Scott says nothing.

     “That’s what I thought,” Jackson gloats. “You want to keep this a secret. Well, that’s fine by me. You’ll just have to buy me off.”

     “How?”

     “Isn’t it obvious? I want in. Sign me up. Make me a monster.”

     “You want me to brand you?”

     “Brand me? Is that what you call it?”

     There is an eager, hungry light in Jackson’s eyes now. “How does it work? Does it hurt? Can you do it now? Today?”

     Scott takes a step back. “I’m not going to brand you, Jackson. I don’t even know how.”

     Jackson face grows hard again. “Then I guess you’d better figure that out, McCall. Because if you don’t give me what I want, I’m going to tell everyone what you are. Starting with her.”

     He nods at someone at the other end of the long hallway. Scott turns. There, at her locker, is Allison Argent.

     “We have a big problem,” Scott whispers as Stiles joins him at their usual lunch table.

     “Why, what happened?” Stiles demands, setting down his tray of greasy pizza and canned vegetables. “You didn’t talk to Allison, did you?”

     “What? No. It’s not Allison. It’s Jackson.”

     “What about him?”

     “He knows Stiles! He knows I’m a tank engine.”

     Stiles’ face grows deadly serious. He glances hastily about, checking that no one else is within earshot. “You’re sure? Did he actually say those words? Did he say ‘tank engine’?”

     “No,” Scott admits. “Not the actual words. But he heavily implied it.”

     “Well then, let’s not panic until we know for sure…”

     “I’m sure, Stiles! You didn’t see his face. He knows.”

     “Okay,” says Stiles taking a deep breath. “So what’s the plan?”

     “I don’t know. He says that he’ll tell Allison, that he’ll tell everyone, if I don’t make him into an engine too.”

     Stiles takes pensive sip of chocolate milk. “Maybe this isn’t as bad as it seems. Say that Jackson does tell Allison. She’ll just think he’s gone crazy.”

     “Yeah but her dad won’t. He’ll know exactly what’s going on. And then I’ll get a gold-titanium machete shoved up my ass.”

     “Oh,” says Stiles softly. “Oh yeah. No, this is really bad.”

     “No kidding. I saved his damn life and now he’s trying to ruin mine.”

     “You might just have to brand him.”

     “No fucking way! I don’t want two psychotic train monsters hunting me for the price of one. Besides, I don’t know how.”

     “Derek would know.”

     “Forget it. I’m not giving Jackson superpowers.”

     “Well, short of murdering him I’m not sure I see another way to keep him from talking.”

     “We’ll call that plan B,” says Scott grimly.

Allison’s fingers brush the cool tiles of the swimming pool wall and she lets her legs cease their rhythmic kicking. She drifts easily into a standing position, gripping the edge of the pool for support, and pushes her swim goggles up onto her forehead. Pink rings frame her dark eyes like the mask of a raccoon.

     She turns and sees that over in the next lane, Jackson Whittemore, is already hauling himself out of the water. He settles himself on the wall, his feet still dangling lazily in the warm water. His soaked swimsuit clings to the muscles of his thighs and his bare chest glistens with beads of water. He smiles at her.

     “Good race. You really gave me a run for my money there.”

     “You still beat me,” she points out.

     “I have an unfair advantage,” Jackson confides.

     “Oh?” asks Allison, slipping from the water and starting to work the tangles from her long hair with her fingers. “Is that so?”

     Jackson nods. “Do you see these cheekbones? Maximally hydrodynamic.”

     Allison laughs and Jackson’s smile widens.

     “So listen,” he says earnestly, “you’re coming to the lacrosse game tonight aren’t you?”

     Allison pulls a face. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really planning on it.”

     “Why? It’s not because of McCall, is it?”

     “Well, kind of. I just think it might be weird.”

     “It doesn’t have to be,” says Jackson reassuringly. “I mean, I know he’s your ex, but Scott’s really not a bad guy.”

     Allison gives Jackson a shrewd look. “I thought you pretty much hated his guts.”

     “Nah, I was just jealous that he kept trying to show me up on the field. But I’m over that. And I know he wouldn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable about coming to the game.”

     “Well, thanks but I’m still not sure.”

     “Please, Allison. It’d mean a lot to me if you were there.”

     “And why’s that exactly?”

     Jackson rubs thoughtfully at his historic chin. “Not sure, really. Just a feeling.”

     “What kind of feeling?” Allison presses.

     “Sympathy, I think.”

     “Sympathy? For me?”

     “For, McCall actually. I mean, it’s obvious that he was too immature to really date a girl like you. But damn…”

     Here he gives Allison a look that makes her suddenly very aware, not entirely unpleasantly, of how much skin her bathing suit is showing.

     “I find it hard to blame the kid for trying.”

Stiles marches into his bedroom and drops his book bag on the floor. He doesn’t have a whole lot of time to get ready. Then he catches sight of something in the mirror on the back of his closet door. Stiles whirls around to find Derek Hale lurking in the corner of the room.

     “Holy shit!” Stiles exclaims.

     Derek only glares at him and holds a finger to his lips. Someone knocks on the bedroom door.

     Stiles opens it, just a crack, and pokes his head out.

     “You okay, Stiles?” asks Noah Stilinski.

     “Hi Dad!” says Stiles brightly. “Yup, I am totally okay. 100% percent fine. No cause for alarm whatsoever.”

     “Okay then…” says Stiles’ father slowly. “I just wanted to let you know that I have to head back into work but I will definitely be there for the game.”

     “The game?” asks Stiles, his train of though momentarily derailed.

     “The lacrosse game. Tonight. You told me you’d be playing this time?”

     “Oh yeah! Definitely. I’ll be playing all right. I’m first line now.”

     “You nervous?”

     “Nervous? Not really. Why do you ask?”

     “Maybe it’s the way your eye is twitching,” Noah suggests. “Try to relax, okay? I’ll see you there.”

     And with that, the sheriff ambles off downstairs. Stiles breaths a sigh of relief and shuts and locks the bedroom door. He turns around and almost walks into Derek.

     “Hey man, how about a little personal space?”

     “How’s the cell phone lead coming?” Derek demands, unmoving.

     “It’s coming, it’s coming,” Stiles assures him. “The guy will be here in like half an hour.”

     “Good,” Derek grunts. He takes a seat in Stiles’ desk chair and folds his arms across his chest. Stiles notes that Derek is still wearing the same clothes from last night. Old blood is spattered down one sleeve of his shirt and thickly crusted on the left leg of his tattered blue jeans.

     “Yeah, well,” says Stiles, clearing his throat. “There’s something else you should probably know.”

     Derek looks up sharply. “What is it?”

     “Someone’s found out about Scott.”

     Derek’s eyes flash like fire for a moment. Then he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Who?”

     “Jackson Whittemore?”

     “That bratty kid from the lacrosse team?”

     “That’s the one.”

     “Who else has he told?”

     “No one, as far as we know. He’s trying to blackmail Scott.”

     “For what?”

     “He wants to be an engine too.”

     “Idiot,” Derek grunts. “This is the worst the possible time to become an engine in New Sodor. We’re up to our ears in train spotters, there’s a murderous express on the loose, and the police are getting pretty damn suspicious.”

     “It might help if you stopped breaking into police officers’ houses,” Stiles suggests.

     Derek gives him a baleful look. “Shut up, Stilinski.”

Allison rolls as she hits the moss and comes up with her practice knife, a silhouette cut from a sheet of plastic foam, still grasped tightly in her hand.

     “Not terrible,” Kate concedes, circling her niece with her own practice knife raised. “You’re getting faster. But if you tried that with a real blade, I’d give you ten to one you’d end up slicing off one of your own fingers.”

     “What should I have done instead?”

     “Keep your weight off your knife hand. Use your legs to lift you up. And don’t get distracted!”

     On that final word, Kate lunges, striking for Allison’s throat in a long, sideways cut.

     Allison dances back out of the way and counterattacks, aiming for the exposed wrist of her aunt’s knife hand. Kate moves her arm like a twisting serpent, and counters the strike, edge to edge.

     Allison feels a jolt run up her arm as the sturdy foam cross-guards connect, and she flicks her wrist just the way Kate has shown her. The practice knife flies from Kate’s hand.

     “Nicely done!” Kate cries and Allison beams.

     Then Kate’s right leg sweeps smoothly out and knocks Allison off her feet.

     “But don’t get distracted,” Kate repeats, as she plants a knee in Allison’s back and twists the girl’s knife arm up and around.

     Allison slaps the earth to signal her submission and Kate lets her up.

     “You’re a fast learner,” she tells Allison, as the teenager brushes fragments of moss and dead leaves off her sweatpants. Allison makes an unconvinced noise in the back of her throat.

     “Seriously,” Kate assures her. “I’ve had tons of grown men and women in my self-defense classes who’d have loved to be doing half as well as you are at this point.”

     “You took me down unarmed in about six seconds,” Allison points out.

     “Yeah, well. I have a lot of practice.”

     “It’s not just that,” says Allison firmly. “It’s like…when I was doing gymnastics, sometimes the moves came easily to people on the team. Sometimes they didn’t. If they didn’t, you could work hard and you would get better. But even when people got better, it wouldn’t be quite the same. It’s not that the moves weren’t smooth. They just weren’t natural. Like the difference between a rock that’s been polished in tumbler and one that’s been polished in a river. You can always tell.”

     Kate looks thoughtful. “Instinct. That’s what you’re talking about?”

     “I don’t know. Maybe.”

     “When someone fights well by instinct, they’ll always look different than when someone fights well by training.”

     Allison nods and Kate sighs.

     “Sweetie, it’s okay not to have killer instincts. They don’t always help. And they certainly don’t make you a better person.”

     “I know, I just…I just don’t want to feel weak again. Like that night at the castle.”

     “I know. But that doesn’t mean you’re ready to think like a killer.”

     “But you’re not a killer.”

     Kate looks down, refusing to meet Allison’s eyes. “Not my point. Let’s head back home, okay? It’s getting late and you said you wanted to catch the lacrosse game, right?”

     Allison follows Kate along the narrow deer trail leading back to the Argents’ house, trying not to wonder what her aunt isn’t telling her.

     Danny sighs when he sees the websites Stiles has pulled up on his desktop computer.

     “Why do I get the sense that we aren’t going to be studying a whole lot of pre-calc this afternoon, Stilinski?”

     “We can totally study,” says Stiles reassuringly. “I just have a tiny favor to ask first.”

     “Well, the answer is no.”

     “You don’t even know what I’m asking for.”

     “Yes, I do. I can see it right there on your screen. You want me to track a cell phone.”

     “Well, yeah. Good deduction.”

     “How do you even know I can track cell phones? I thought nobody but Jackson knew how much…”

     His words trail off.

     “How much of a geek you are?” Stiles fills in. “And yeah, you’re basically right. But I’ve seen your rap sheet. Cybercrime doesn’t pay, Danny.”

     “You looked at my police file? Is that even legal?”

     “Not especially. But I figure if your secret is safe with me, mine is probably safe with you.”

     Danny makes a disgusted face and gets to his feet. “Fine. We’re even then. I’m still not doing you any favors.”

     The bedroom door opens and Derek walks in. Danny’s eyebrows shoot up.

     “Who’s this?”

     “Ah, this is my, uh, cousin,” Stiles improvises. “Miguel.”

     Derek glowers but does not contradict Stiles.

     Danny nods slowly, taking in the human engine’s piercing blue eyes and rippling biceps, like a man at an art museum.

     “And is that blood on his shirt?”

     “Oh, uh, yes,” Stiles admits. “He gets these terrible nosebleeds. It’s like a condition. Hey Miguel, why don’t you go ahead and borrow one of my shirts?”

     Behind Danny’s back, Stiles winks frantically at Derek. Fuming, Derek stalks over to the clothes chest and shucks out of his bloodstained shirt. Danny watches appreciatively as shoulder muscles scurry around to make way for other, larger shoulder muscles. A large numeral 'two' seems to be tattooed on Derek's upper arm.

     Derek pulls on a maroon v-neck, but the hem barely reaches to the waist of his jeans and the sleeves are up at the level of his armpits.

     “This doesn’t fit,” he tells Stiles. His voice is the flat grey of hoarfrost.

     “Oh dear,” says Stiles, nudging Danny in the ribs. “Better try another one, right Danny?”

     Danny coughs. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

     Derek exchanges the maroon v-neck for an orange and navy striped polo. This one fits tolerably well, but that’s the best that can be said for it.

     “What do you think, Danny?” asks Stiles.

     “It’s not really his color,” the goalie volunteers.

     As a baleful Derek tries yet another shirt, Stiles whispers to Danny. “You might swing for a different team, but you do still play ball.”

     Danny makes a noncommittal noise, not sparing Stiles a glance.

     Eventually, all of Stiles’ shirts are discarded as unsuitable. Derek puts on his own bloodstained shirt once more and takes a seat in the corner, nursing a towering sulk.

     “So,” says Stiles, turning back to his computer, “How about it, Danny? Can you help us with our little cell phone problem? Miguel and I would really appreciate it.”

     Danny rolls eyes. “I suppose. But if a word of this reaches your dad, Stilinski…”

     “It won’t,” Stiles assures him. “It won’t.”

     Danny looks dubious but he takes a seat at the computer.

     “Is this a joke?” Lydia Martin demands, staring at Jackson in disbelief. “Because it is not even remotely funny.”

     Jackson is standing on the front porch of Lydia’s mom’s new house, wearing his calfskin jacket and looking taller and more confident than Lydia can remember him appearing in a long time.

     “No joke,” he says calmly. “I want you to please return the house key I lent you, as we are no longer going out.”

     “You’re breaking up with me?”

     “Dumping you, actually. I’d say sorry, but I’m really not.”

     “Jackson, what’s…what happened?”

     “Happened? Nothing happened. Not yet. But I’m getting ready for some big changes in my life, so I decided it was time for me to drop some of the dead weight.”

     “Dead weight?”

     “You know. Toxic people. People who tear you down and make you less than you could be.”

     Lydia can feel her face growing hot. But it isn’t anguish that’s heating her blood to the boiling point. It’s rage.

     “Less than you could be? You complete idiot. Do you have the slightest inkling of what I’ve done for you? How many of your so-called friends only talk to you because they know I’ll make their lives hell if they don’t? How many of your stupid lacrosse games only had audiences because I made sure people would turn out? How many teachers changed deadlines for you because I asked them sweetly and told them with a total deadpan that you were just too unselfish to ask for yourself?”

     Jackson shrugs carelessly. “More fool you, I guess. The key, Lydia?”

     Lydia reaches behind her and grabs her purse from the hall table. She fumbles inside it for a moment, then brings out the little brass house key, which she slaps into Jackson’s hand.

     “You’re going to regret this far more than I ever will,” Lydia warns him.

     “Really? Oh well. Guess I’ll just have to learn to live with the pain.”

     Then he flashes her that dazzling grin and walks away down the drive.

     “Huh,” says Danny, resting his chin in his hand. “That’s really weird.”

     “What is it?” asks Stiles, peering over Danny’s shoulder at the number-rich gibberish filling his computer screen.

     “The cell phone’s been bouncing back and forth between extremes. It’ll have almost no signal for a long time, then suddenly the signal will spike up crazy high.”

     “From no bars to full bars?” Stiles asks.

     “More drastic than that. To get a signal that strong, you’d practically have to be standing under the cell tower.”

     Stiles and Derek exchange a glance.

     “Which tower?” Derek rumbles.

     “Number 734076, according to this,” Danny reports. “And if I enter that number here, it’ll give me map coordinates. And if I enter those coordinates here…”

     A Google Earth display whirls past, zooming in on the town of New Sodor. Hills and valleys flicker into focus as the camera sinks lower in an imaginary atmosphere.

     “That’s Gordon’s Hill,” says Derek. “It’s got a cell tower at the top.”

     “And an old train tunnel running underneath it,” says Stiles, remembering a long summer afternoon spent scrambling through the bracken with Scott. “Only it’s all bricked up so no one can get inside.”

     “A tunnel?” asks Danny, plainly puzzled. “Well, I guess that might explain why the signal keeps dropping off suddenly, but if it’s all bricked up, how could someone be getting in?”

     “By smashing bricks,” says Derek darkly.

     “Like with a sledgehammer?”

     “Something like that.”

     He stands abruptly and snatches up his leather jacket. There’s still a narrow rent in one sleeve where a broad-head arrow grazed him, but nevertheless the coat seems to transform him. He no longer looks like someone who could just be Stiles’ cousin from out of town. He looks like six feet of simmering rage and serious bad news.

     “Thanks for your help, kid. You should get to your lacrosse game. Stiles, you go too. Find Scott and tell him what’s going on.”

     “Why? What are you going to do?”

     “We have to move on this now. I’ll go check out the lay of the land. Bring Scott as soon as you can.”

     “Now?” asks Stiles. “But the game...”

     “Now. Before he can resupply.”

     Stiles can feel the disappointment like a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach. His first game as first line, and he has to miss it. Worse, he knows for a certainty that Coach Finstock won’t keep a player on first line if that player skips a game. Still, it can’t be helped. He knows that Derek is right. Fighting an express train will be hard enough. They don’t want to try fighting an express train hopped up so high on brimstone that it’s gained the ability to breath fire.

     “Come on Danny,” he grumbles. “I’ll give you ride.”

     Danny is looking thoroughly bewildered at this point but he follows Stiles to the jeep without protest.

Scott sits on a bench at the edge of the lacrosse field, his breath steaming in the cold night air. Darkness has already fallen and the stands are filling up with people. He can see the Argents—Chris, Kate, and Allison—up near the top. He wonders why they’ve come. For Jackson probably, he reflects bitterly.

     As if merely thinking his name were enough summon him, Jackson drifts away from the rest of the team and comes to sit beside Scott.

     “So McCall,” he asks, grinning like a fox in a henhouse, “you been doing your research? Figuring out how to get me some of those steam engine superpowers?”

     “Not yet,” Scott admits. “It’s more complicated than you think.”

     “That’s too bad, McCall. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks pretty damn simple. You do exactly what I tell you, or I ruin whatever scrap of a chance you still have with Allison, and generally make your life hell.”

     “I’m serious, Jackson. There’s stuff you don’t know. Like the train spotters.”

     “Train spotters?” asks Jackson, blankly.

     “Yeah. They’re like vigilantes who hunt down engines with machetes and crossbows and freaking dynamite. You really want to tangle with that?”

     “If you’ve survived them, they can’t be that bad,” Jackson opines. “Who are they anyway? Are they local or…wait. Holy shit. It’s Allison’s family, isn’t it? It’s the Argents.”

     “No…” Scott lies. “It’s not them. It’s…uh…someone else.”

     “Bullshit. That’s why you made Allison call her dad that night in Suddery Castle. You wanted these train spotters to show up and scare off that other engine.”

     Scott cannot deny the truth of this.

     Jackson chuckles. “Well, looks like the stakes just went up, McCall. You’d better hurry up and brand me or whatever, or I might just decide to sell you out to these train spotters.”

     “They’d kill me, Jackson.”

     “Really not my problem.”

     Scott stares at Jackson incredulously, words utterly failing him. He is still struggling for utterance when Coach Finstock comes bounding over. He claps the boys on their shoulders, leaning in close between them.

     “This is what I like to see!” he booms. “My two co-captains, side by side. Old rivals turned allies!”

     His breath carries with it a sharp smell of caffeine and spearmint. Neither boy has the heart to contradict him.

     “Keep it up!” the coach exhorts them before bounding away again.

     Jackson winks at Scott and pushes himself to his feet. Then he too wanders off, leaving Scott alone on the bench, his mind reeling.

     He is not alone for long however. A moment later, Stiles comes creeping up behind him.

     “Scott!” he hisses, low and urgent. “We need to talk.”

     “Stiles?” asks Scott, startled. “Why aren’t you in uniform? The game’s about to start.”

     Stiles makes an impatient noise. He’s half crouched behind Scott’s bench, his eyes flicking nervously about like a hunted animal.

     “Forget about the game, okay? Derek said to get you over to Gordon’s Hill as fast as possible.”

     “Why? What’s happened?”

     “We’ve found out where the express is hiding. Come on!”

     Scott casts a last longing look back at the green turf of the lacrosse field, but he knows what he must do. Still wearing his new co-captain’s jersey and toting his lacrosse stick, he follows Stiles out of the stadium.

     “Do you see that?” Kate whispers.

     High in the stands of the lacrosse pitch, Chris follows the direction of his sister’s glance.

     “It’s that kid, Stiles.”

     “And Allison’s ex. I wonder where they’re going in such a hurry.”

     Chris looks over at his daughter. She isn’t watching the two boys slinking furtively out of the stadium. Her attention is on the team captain. Another player, a tall olive-skinned boy in goalie’s gloves, has pulled him aside and is whispering urgently in his ear. Then both of them glance up. Chris realizes with a start that they too are watching Scott and Stiles’ hasty exit.

     He looks back to Allison. Now she’s noticed as well. Her pale brow is creased with a sharp frown. She can sense that something is up, Chris is sure of it. He can feel it too.

     “Stay here with Allison,” Kate suggests, seeing the change in her brother’s expression. “I’ll slip off quietly and tail them.”

     Chris nods. “Radio for backup if anything looks dicey.”

     “You know me,” Kate says with a grin. “Safety first.”

     Then she’s off, moving through the crowd like an eel sliding into mud.

     “Where’s Aunt Kate going?” asks Allison, scooting closer to her father on the cold aluminum bench.

     “I think she left something in the car,” Chris lies. “Who’s that new boy you were watching?

     “Jackson? He’s just a friend. He’s going out with Lydia.”

     “I see,” says Chris, sounding supremely unconvinced. He looks back down at the field, trying to locate the lacrosse captain once more, but the boy seems to have vanished, along with his goalie friend. Chris’ frown deepens.

     He becomes dimly aware that Allison has just asked him something, but he has no idea what it was.

     “Sorry, sweetie, what did you say?”

     “I said,” says Allison, suppressing an eye roll. “I think I’ll buy a hot chocolate before the match starts. Do you want one?”

     “Uh, no. Thank you.”

     Chris continues to scrutinize the pitch, looking for Scott or Stiles, Jackson or the goalie, but none of the boys reappear.

     “Where the hell,” asks Coach Finstock, turning to and fro in growing anger and bewilderment, “is my team?”

Allison has no intention of buying chocolate: hot, lukewarm, or otherwise. She knows Kate isn’t just going back to the car. She might not have been able to hear what her father and her aunt were whispering about, but whatever it was, it was obviously important enough to be kept a secret. And Allison is sick and tired of secrets.

     So now she follows Kate as best she can, moving through the crowd towards the parking lot. She’s well behind, but gaining slowly, when she practically barges into Lydia Martin.

     “Allison!” gasps Lydia, startled.

     “Lydia!” yips Allison, no less startled. “What are you doing here?”

     Lydia, never a sartorial lightweight, is dressed to kill. Her enormous eyes are framed in smoky makeup, her lips are painted a vineyard red—a hue that perfectly matches the leather of her cropped jacket—and golden ouroboroi grace her earlobes. Bone white jeans hug her legs and the neckline of her fuliginous blouse plunges like the Mariana Trench.

     “I thought you said you couldn’t make it,” says Allison, taking an uncertain step backwards.

     “I changed my plans,” says Lydia, not meeting her friend’s eyes. “Where were you dashing off to anyway?”

     “I was…” Allison hesitates, and then settles on the truth. “I was following my aunt.”

     “Following her where?”

     “I don’t know. That’s what I wanted to find out.”

     “This is about your family hiding things again, isn’t it?” asks Lydia.

     Allison nods. “And not just my family. I saw Scott sneak off again just before my aunt left.”

     “You think they’re going to the same place?”

     Allison bites her lip. “I don’t know. But Scott knows something about my family. I’m sure of it.”

     “Then what are we waiting for?” demands Lydia. A fae light has crept into her sea green eyes.

     “What?”

     “I’m coming with you,” Lydia declares. “We’re getting to the bottom of this thing.”

     “She’s probably already at the car,” Allison demurs.

     “I drove here,” says Lydia at once. “We can follow her in my car.”

     “Okay,” says Allison nervously. “Okay then. Let’s do this.”

     “You realize,” says Noah Stilinski, unaware of recent developments, “that I’m missing my son’s first big lacrosse game for this?”

     Adrian Harris, standing in the darkened front hall of New Sodor High School, looks at the sheriff’s stony face and then hastily glances back down at the scuffed linoleum.

     “I still don’t see why we couldn’t have had this interview at the station,” he mumbles.

     “Because if we do this at the station,” says the sheriff patiently, “everything has to be official. And I’m not sure you want that, Adrian.”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

     “Oh really? You’ve been selling chemicals to a known murderer, and you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

     “I didn’t know he was the murderer!” Adrian protests. “Not at first.”

     “A man with half his face burned off is pretty distinctive,” says the sheriff coolly.

     “I never got a good look at his face, not when I met him. I only heard his voice. He always stuck to the shadows.”

     “Where was this?”

     “Here, right outside the school. In the parking lot.”

     “And you said he wanted sulfur? Just sulfur?”

     Adrian nods. “He called it brimstone.”

     “Like ‘fire and brimstone’?”

     “I guess. It’s really just an old word for sulfur.”

     “What could he do with just sulfur?”

     “Not a lot. There’s some sulfur in gunpowder, and sulfuric acid is nasty stuff. But he really wasn’t buying that much of it.”

     “You never wondered what he wanted it for?”

     “Of course I wondered! But asking too many questions seemed like a good way to end up dead.”

     “I thought you claimed you didn’t know he was the murderer.”

     “I didn’t know he was the man you were looking for. But I could tell he was dangerous. If you’d heard his voice…”

     The chemistry teacher shudders.

     “If you were that scared, why didn’t you report this to the police?”

     “It wasn’t illegal,” says Adrian with a weak shrug. “And the money was good.”

     The sheriff shakes his head. “God help us. Is there anything actually useful you can tell me?”

     “He’s a local.”

     The sheriff crosses his arms and leans back slightly, his eyebrows raised.

     “Why do you say that?”

     “He knew his way around. Around the school, around the town. When we were setting places to meet discretely, he never had to ask me for directions.”

     “This town’s not that big. I’d think you’d recognize anybody local.”

     “Maybe he lived here a long time ago.”

     “How old was he?”

     “I’m not sure. He…it was hard to tell. But I caught him once, when he came to meet me at the school, I caught him looking at those.”

     Adrian points at a dusty glass case beside the door to the main office. Noah glances at its contents: old plaques and trophies, mostly for football or track, from the days before lacrosse became the only game in town.

     “High school sports memorabilia?”

     The chemistry shrugs again. “Maybe it’s not important. It just seemed kind of weird, you know? They’re not that interesting, even to a big sports fan.”

     “Unless you already knew some of the names on the plaques.”

     “Right.”

     The sheriff strides over to the case and peers inside. A large brassy cup, its twin handles now hung with fine cobwebs, catches his eye at once. There are names etched into the metal, below a stylized image of a football. The first name on the list is Peter Hale.

Derek slows as he approaches the mouth of the old train tunnel running under Gordon’s Hill. The mossy brickwork he remembers is gone, leaving only a gaping hole into the darkness. He knows he should wait for Scott. An express train, even one whose organs are beginning to corrode with brimstone poisoning, is too dangerous an enemy for one engine to handle. Still, his hunger for revenge is strong. He hovers for a moment, irresolute, one foot on the soft earth and the other on the hard rails.

     “What are you waiting for, Derek?” says a voice like a steel carnyx.

     Derek whirls around.

     The express train is standing just behind him, mist curling about his ankles and watery moonlight playing across his ruined face.

     “Do you need an invitation?” the man asks. “Silly boy. My home is your home. After all, isn’t that the meaning of family?”

CLOSING THEME/SHOW CREDITS

Chapter Text

Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinksi scramble through the dead and browning bracken that shrouds the hillside. They’re making for the narrow valley that runs between two outflung arms of Gordon’s Hill and the long abandoned rail line that follows it. Far above them, towering, iron-grey clouds have blown in from the north and a cold wind hisses through the brittle twigs of the tangled undergrowth. Thomas’ furnace warms Scott from within but nevertheless he shivers uneasily. He can smell a storm brewing.

     “Where the hell is Derek?” Stiles whispers. “Why didn’t he wait for us near the road?”

     “You said he wanted to scout things out,” says Scott, uncertainly.

     “Yeah, but what if the express train caught him? What if he’s dead?”

     “He’s not dead.”

     “You don’t know that.”

     “I do know that,” Scott whispers fiercely, grabbing Stiles’ shoulder, “because he’s standing right over there.”

     Both boys drop to a crouch near the foot of the slope, partially hidden behind a screen of bushes. Scott points to a spot some yards distant, where the flickering light from a distant cell phone tower gleams on metal rails. Standing on the train tracks is Derek Hale, the collar of his leather jacket turned up against the cold. But the sight of Derek isn’t what fills Scott’s heart with lurching, thudding fear.

     “Is that…” Stiles breaths. “Is that the express train?”

     Scott nods, not trusting his voice.

     The express train looms over Derek, a cliff-like mass of rags and hair and muscle. His scarred face is hidden in deep shadow, but Scott would recognize it anywhere: it is the face that haunts his nightmares.

     “They aren’t fighting,” Scott observes. “Why aren’t they fighting?”

     “Maybe Derek’s stalling, waiting for us to show up.”

     “I don’t think so.”

     “Why? What do you mean?”

     “Can’t you smell that?”

     Stiles sniffs at the air. The keen breeze has shifted towards them and now another scent is there, mingled with the subtler notes of an oncoming storm.

     “Sulfur?” asks Stiles, wrinkling up his nose.

     Scott nods. “And that’s not all. I can feel him.”

     “The express?”

     “No, Derek. I can feel him through my coupling.”

     “But I thought you said he wouldn’t let you form a coupling with his engine.”

     “He wouldn’t,” Scott agrees.

     “So how… Oh lord. He’s coupled to the express, isn’t he?”

     “That’s the only thing I can think of,” Scott says grimly.

     “Can he do that? Force a coupling between engines?”

     “Not so far as I know. But burning brimstone seems to let him break all the rules.”

     “Where the hell did he get more brimstone?”

     “No idea. But that doesn’t really matter right now. We should back off. If we can’t count on Derek’s help, we really don’t want to mess with the express.”

     “Agreed,” says Stiles fervently. He’s never totally trusted Derek, who has threatened to kill Scott almost as often as he’s saved his life. “If we try to leave, will they see our rails?”

     Scott chews his lower lip. Like all engines, Derek and the express have tunnel vision. They can see the parallel lines of energy running over the ground that reveal where a living creature will walk next. But there are ways to deal with tunnel vision.

     “Unfocus your mind,” Scott instructs. “Like we practiced.”

     Stiles pulls a face, but then his eyes go curiously blank and Scott can see his friend’s rails dwindle down to a few feet of faintly flickering light.

     “Nice,” Scott whispers, as he makes the same mental adjustment. “Good job. Now we should…”

     A few yards away, almost level with the two engines, the bracken crackles and collapses, and two more teenage boys burst out onto the valley floor.

     The express train turns to them, a smile spreading across his mutilated face. His teeth gleam like the teeth of a steel gear in the darkness.

     “Not who I was expecting,” he murmurs. His voice is at once ringing and rasping. “It’s Whittemore, isn’t it? The team captain? And you must be the goalie.”

     “It’s Jackson and Danny!” Stiles hisses. “What the hell are they doing here?”

     “They must’ve followed us. Jackson and his freaking vendetta against me…”

     “Well, that vendetta’s going to get him and Danny killed.”

     While Danny and Jackson have been staring in horror at the monstrous man with the scarred face, Derek has circled silently around behind them. Now he drops a heavy hand onto the back of each boy’s neck, gripping them with all the strength of a steel vise.

     “Whittemore,” Derek reports, his voice loud and carrying, “wants to be a steam engine.”

     The express train’s eyebrows shoot up at thus. “You? You want to be one of us, do you? You think you know what it is to be an engine?”

     He laughs, a clanking, rattling sound. Then he turns his attention to Danny. “And you, boy? Do you want muscles of iron and a soul of flame? Do you want to feel the rails singing beneath your wheels?”

     “You’re not a train,” says Danny. His voice is high and tight with fear, but utterly certain. “You’re a psycho.”

     “Technically,” says a woman’s voice. “He’s both.”

     All eyes turn to Kate Argent, who—flanked by two more train spotters—has just emerged from the patchy woodland on the far side of the train tracks. She carries her machete in one hand and a vicious little pistol bow in the other, the gold-titanium bolt trained on the express train’s head.

     “Shoot me and the boys die,” says the express train.

     “That’d be a shame,” says Kate, not lowering the bow.

     “We have to do something,” Scott whispers.

     And then the sky lets loose.

     Hailstones, big as bullets and thick as swarming locusts, come pouring down from the iron-grey clouds. The humans scream, as lumps of ice raise stinging, freezing welts on hands and skulls and shoulders. Even the engines are overwhelmed. The hailstones that crash and shatter around them might not be able to seriously dent a steel chassis, but sensory overload cuts through all defenses.

     Deafened by the clangor of ice on iron and blinded by flying splinters of bitter cold, the combatants scatter. Everyone is fleeing for shelter, all mortal strife subsumed by the power of the elements.

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

     “Jesus Christ!” Lydia Martin yells, as the hailstones start smashing down into the gravel of the parking lot, throwing up chips of rock and ice.

     “Get back in the car!” Allison Argent orders, grabbing her friend by the wrist and towing her out of the stinging downpour.

     Lydia slams the door behind them and for a breathless minute they simply sit there in the backseat of Lydia’s car, listening to the hail rattle off the roof.

     “So much for getting to the bottom of this mystery,” Allison says after a moment.

     Lydia, who has been gently probing the growing bruise just above her right ear, makes a face.

     “That is your aunt’s car though, isn’t it? The silver SUV?”

     Allison nods. “She definitely came here. And the one next to it looks familiar too. Maybe someone from the Armory?”

     “What I don’t understand,” says Lydia, bitterly, “is why anyone would want to come here. I mean, there’s nothing around. Just a big hill with a cell phone tower on top of it.”

     “I’m not sure, maybe… Quick, get down!”

     Allison slides off her seat and crouches on the floor of the car and Lydia hastens to copy her.

     “What is it?” Lydia whispers. “What did you see?”

     Allison nods towards the left-hand window. Cautiously, the teenage girls peer out of it.

     Sprinting out of the woods, with their arms held over their heads in a futile attempt to ward off hailstones, come Kate Argent and two wiry men wearing an eclectic mix of bikers’ leathers and surplus army gear. Kate is dressed to match, with a long machete thrust into a shoulder sheath, and a compact little crossbow holstered at her hip.

     “You didn’t tell me your aunt was a guerilla warrior,” says Lydia faintly.

     “She’s not,” Allison protests. “I mean, she likes to camp and shoot and hike, and she teaches self-defense classes sometimes, but she doesn’t… she’s not…”

     “Not what?”

     “Not some kind of solider,” says Allison weakly. Her aunt and the two men have reached their cars. They dive inside. Allison sees Kate pull out a walkie-talkie and start shouting into it, her face flushed and bleeding from a welt over one eyebrow.

     “How sure are you about that?” asks Lydia.

     “That was way too close,” Scott pants, as he and Stiles pick fragments of hail out of their hair and wait for the storm to pass. Their breath fogs the glass of the jeep’s windows. They aren’t parked in the little parking lot near the hiking trail, but are instead tucked away behind an abandoned carriage house Scott doubts anyone else remembers exists. The driving wind makes eerie noises as it rushes through the cracked and listing chimney.

     “Tell me about it,” Stiles mutters. “I can’t believe Derek’s thrown in with the express.”

     Scott nods. “There’s something going on there.”

     “You mean like mind control?” says Stiles bitterly.

     “Something more,” Scott insists. “Even running on sulfur, a coupling shouldn’t turn Derek into the express’ mind slave. I think it would just make him really, you know, suggestible. Open to manipulation.”

     Stiles stops, one hand still hovering over his scalp. “You mean the express would need to have something on him, some kind of real leverage, as well as the alchemy crap.”

     “Exactly,” Scott confirms. “He must have something Derek wants.”

     “Like what?”

     Yeah, the jeep chimes in, speaking for Scott’s mind alone, like what?

     Scott sighs. “No idea.”

     Stiles sighs too and stares out of the jeep’s window. Outside, the hailstorm is finally beginning to slacken off, as the wind drives the towering clouds away into the west.

     “He’s found more sulfur,” Kate insists as her brother secures a gauze pad to the cut on her forehead with sturdy white tape. They’re in the war room once more. A radio crackles fitfully in one corner of the brick-lined parlor. “That valley reeked of the stuff.”

     “From where?” Chris Argent asks calmly, pressing the last strip of tape into place. “I’ve had spotters watching that chemistry teacher for days.”

     “Not sure,” Kate admits. “But it’s not exactly a controlled substance.”

     “I don’t see what this changes,” Chris says calmly, stowing gauze and tape back in the first aid kit with brisk efficiency. “He’s just poisoning himself faster.”

     Kate clicks her tongue impatiently. “Which means we have even less time to try and find the bastard. Unless you want him to still be at large when the brimstone finally fries what’s left of his brain and sends him off on a berserk rampage.”

     “It’s never actually been proven that sulfur impairs an engine’s cognitive functions.”

     “I’ve seen the results first hand,” Kate says stubbornly. “And I’d say this express is right on the edge. He was about have Hale pop those kids’ skulls like pimples when we showed up.”

     Chris frowns, deep furrows forming between the brows of his cold blue eyes, and slips the med kit back into his go-bag; it nestles snugly beside a case full of rare poisons and micro-explosives. “You said these were more kids from the lacrosse team?”

     Kate nods. “Allison’s friend Jackson, and that goalie too.”

     “But not Stilinski and McCall?”

     Kate shrugs. “We saw that rattletrap jeep turn off the main road, but it wasn’t in the parking lot when we got there.”

     Chris sighs. “Okay. So they were probably somewhere nearby. I guess that makes some sense, if Stilinski really is the third engine. A muster of strength.”

     “I suppose so,” Kate agrees tepidly. “But the third engine could just as easily be this other kid, Jackson.”

     “What?”

     “He was at Suddery Castle with the rest of them. And other places where the express has struck. The Martin’s house. His own house, if it comes to that. He’s in this mess at least as deep as Stilinski.”

     Argent scratches at his stubbled jaw. “Why would he bring the goalie with him then, if he knew he would be meeting with the express train? From what Allison says, they’re good friends. Why would Jackson risk getting his friend killed?”

     “Why would Stilinksi risk getting Scott killed?” Kate counters. “Unless you think Scott’s an engine too.”

     Chris barks out a laugh, harsh and startled. “Scott? Now that’d be…”

     He breaks off, shaking his head. “No. Definitely not. The engines in this town know damn well who we are. How stupid would an engine have to be to try dating the chief train spotter’s daughter?”

     He chuckles again and hangs the go-bag back on the wall beside his quiver of triple broad-head arrows. “I’ll check out that kid Jackson tomorrow, but we’ll still keep an eye on Stilinski. Sooner or later, one of them will lead us to the express.”

     “What the hell was that?” Danny Mahealani demands.

     “You know what it was,” Jackson Whittmore growls, as he parks his slick little sports car in his parents’ garage and kills the engine with an impatient jerk. The car’s once gleaming silver paintwork is pocked and cratered from the battering of hailstones.

     “That man, with the burned face, he was the one who tried to kill you, right?”

     “He was,” Jackson confirms, throwing open the driver’s side door and clambering stiffly out.

     Danny follows his friend. “And that other guy, he was at Stiles’ house today. Stiles said he was his cousin.”

     That makes Jackson turn round. “His cousin? Danny, that guy was Derek Hale.”

     “Wait, isn’t he wanted for questioning by the police too?”

     “He is. They both are. They’re in this together. Them and McCall.”

     “Is this about that thing you had me look up online? The train engine thing?”

     Jackson nods, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his calfskin jacket, thrown on hastily over his captain’s jersey. “It is. It’s…it’s what they are. What they’ve become.”

     “And that guy, Derek, he said you wanted… that you want to become one too?”

     Jackson nods again, his eyes on the concrete.

     “Is that true?” Danny demands.

     Jackson doesn’t look up. “They’re so strong, Danny. And so fast! Nothing human is that fast. And that’s not the half of it. They start to react to things before they happen. They have magic—real magic, Danny—and powers we can’t hope to match. Does that…doesn’t that make you feel at all…”

     He trails off, staring at an old oil stain that gleams dully under the fluorescent light.

     “Feel what?” asks Danny, his voice low and apprehensive.

     Jackson looks up, his grey eyes distant.

     “Insignificant.”

     Danny is silent for a moment, his long olive face very grave.

     “No,” he says at last. “I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t know what to believe. And that makes me scared, Jackson, more scared than I think I’ve ever been. But it doesn’t make me feel insignificant.”

     “Give it time,” says Jackson bitterly.

In Allison’s dream, she is back in the little clearing by the train tracks and bluebells carpet the ground. It is springtime in the dreamscape. A warm breeze twines between the tree trunks and green-gold sunlight filters down through the new leaves. Allison feels her heart leap up for joy.

     She kneels, running her fingers through the showers of sapphire and violet blossom, breathing their airy perfume.

     “They came back,” she whispers. “I thought the winter would kill them all, but they came back.”

     “They always come back.”

     She looks up, and there is Scott. He comes walking towards her, his sneakers rustling through layers of last year’s fallen leaves. Without thinking, she goes to him. He catches her in his arms and pulls her close. She buries her face in the crook of his neck. She can feel his pulse in his throat, warm and steady, against her cheek. The scent of him—ivory soap and clean sweat and something else, something like the mineral oil that her father uses to clean knives, but richer and more alive—invades her world. She can feel it melting the tight places inside of her.

     “You should have stayed with me,” she whispers.

     “How could I?”

     “I don’t know. You should have found a way.”

     “I’ll do better this time.”

     “Show me.”

     His mouth finds hers and then the rest of her is melting too. Her legs will no longer hold her weight. Scott supports them both, bearing them gently down onto the forest floor.

     But in the way of dreams, they are no longer in a forest. The blanket of flowers becomes a blanket in truth, a soft blue bedspread that Allison recognizes at once as her own. Scott sits up, his legs still straddling hers, and lifts his shirt off over his head. It lands, disregarded, on Allison’s bedroom floor, and Allison’s own shirt joins it a moment later.

     Golden sunlight is still pouring through her bedroom window, gleaming on every muscle of Scott’s chest and arms and shoulders as he leans towards her. The numeral one tattooed over his breastbone gleams like fresh paint.

     Allison trembles. She can feel his hands roaming up and down her body, feel his mouth trailing feather-light kisses from her earlobe to her collarbone, feel the weight and heat of him pressing her down into the mattress. A little noise escapes her lips and her hips roll involuntarily…

The sudden shock of cold air wakes her. Allison yelps and sits up. She is indeed in her own bed, but the room is dark and she is quite alone. The faintly glowing numerals of the clock read ‘2:32’. The curtains are drawn, but even so, a chill breeze creeps in around the window frame. Allison’s blankets, dislodged by her tossing and turning, have all slithered to the floor.

     Her skin still tingling from imagined touches, Allison swings her legs over the side of the bed and reaches down for the fallen covers. As she does so, her other hand brushes something cold and hard on her bedside table. Her fingers close around the object before she’s quite aware of what it is: the little watch on a chain her aunt gave her for her seventeenth birthday. The light is far too dim for her to make out details, but she can feel the image embossed on the silver. It shows a steam train crossing a bridge over a steep gorge.

     A train. Alone in the dark, Allison has a very strange idea.

     The watch was a family heirloom, Kate had said. An heirloom that showed a train, which is a little odd considering that at least one of her ancestors—Jean-Luc d’Argent—had been famous for destroying trains. No, not destroying them. Killing them. That’s what the book Allison found had said. Hunting them down and killing them. As if they were something alive. So maybe the watch isn’t an heirloom exactly, but something more like a trophy. Like a rack of antlers to hang on a wall.

     Significant parts of Allison’s brain, the filters and internal critics, are still mostly asleep, so the new idea is able to grow unhindered, unfurling like a night blooming flower. She thinks of her aunt, dressed in camouflage and leather, sprinting through the woods with a crossbow on her hip. A crossbow like the one Jean-Luc was carrying in that grainy WWII photograph. She thinks of her father’s great compound bow hanging on its pegs. A bow like a big game hunter might carry. But there’s precious little game of that size to be had in the woods of New Sodor. There’s only squirrels and the occasional turkey. And the train tracks.

     Old train lines, rusting and defunct, crisscross the woods like corroded arteries and weirdness seems to travel along them. Suddery Castle was built with a view of the train tracks. The road where Kate’s car had its mysterious break down runs parallel to another stretch of track. And wasn’t that poor girl who’d been murdered, Laura Hale, found with her head practically on the rails?

     Allison bites her lip in thought as she slides the fine chain of the watch over her neck, staring straight ahead into the velvety shadows. Laura’s body was mangled by machinery. That’s what the news said. And that man, Garrison Myers, he was in some kind of unidentified vehicular accident.

     Last of all, Allison thinks of Jackson, so deadly certain that someone was still after him. She would dismiss it as nerves or egocentrism, if she hadn’t heard it too: that low wailing whistle.

     A train whistle, Jackson had insisted. Allison hadn’t really believed him. But now, with the cold metal of the watch resting against her breastbone, she is ready to believe.

Jackson is in a foul mood. His Saturday began with an angry voicemail from Coach Finstock. The hailstorm brought the game to an end before it even began, but the slightly manic lacrosse coach is still understandably peeved that both of his co-captains and his goalie disappeared without a word of warning.

     “Fucking McCall,” Jackson mumbles as he drops the phone back onto his bedside table. Deep down, he knows that this is unfair. Scott certainly never asked Jackson follow him. Nevertheless, Jackson willfully tosses a few more logs of blame onto the crackling bonfire of his resentment.

     He showers and dresses, his body moving on automatic. The sharp scent of Drakkar Noir helps wake him up a little, but does not improve his temper. Then he fixes himself a milkshake of bananas and whey protein and slips quietly out into the garage. A long drive at high speed, that’s what he needs. Clear his head. Settle his spirit. All that hippy bullshit.

     He is slightly surprised to find the door already unlocked but this milder emotion is immediately subsumed by a wave of irritation. He’d forgotten just how badly last night’s storm had mauled his silver Porsche. He runs a hand over the pocks and dents, muttering yet more curses upon Scott McCall.

     Still, the engine starts without a problem. In fact, it gets all the way up to seventy miles an hour, coasting merrily down an empty stretch of a highway, without a problem. Then, without warning, the car gives a lurch. White smoke begins to seep from under the hood. It isn’t an abrupt halt—Jackson has plenty of time to maneuver safely into the breakdown lane—more a steady, merciless drain on his forward momentum. Fuming almost as much as his stricken vehicle, Jackson engages the emergency brake and vaults from the car, his trendy sneakers crunching loudly in the scree of dead leaves and crushed beer cans.

     “Stupid piece of stupid shit,” he mutters, popping the hood. More white smoke billows out, making him cough. He retreats, eyes watering, and reaches into his pocket for his cell phone, before remembering that it is back on his bedside table.

     “Goddammit!” Jackson yells.

     He kicks a few beer cans, and then slumps against the side of the Porsche, breathing stertorously. A moment later, he hears the sound of an approaching motor. A big red SUV appears around the bend of the road.

     Jackson is just wrestling with his pride to see if it will allow him to ask for help from a stranger, when he realizes that the other vehicle is already slowing. It comes to smooth halt a few yards away and a man steps lightly out from behind the wheel.

     The newcomer is tall and lean, with a long jawline and a touch of silver in his short brown hair and stubbly beard. He tread is steady and his sharp blue eyes radiate quiet confidence. It takes Jackson only a moment to recognize the man as Allison’s father.

     “Mr. Argent! Hello!” Jackson calls, putting on as genial a smile as he can manage. “I don’t suppose I could borrow your cell phone?”

     The man smiles back, none too warmly. “It’s Jackson, isn’t? Jackson Whittemore?”

     “That’s right, sir.”

     “And what do you need a cell phone for, Mr. Whittemore?”

     Jackson tries not to roll his eyes. For the supposed captain of a crew of vigilantes, this man seems remarkably slow on the uptake.

     “I want to call a tow truck. Bit of car trouble.”

     “Car trouble, is it?” says Mr. Argent, sounding interested. “Well, let me see what I can do. I know quite a bit about cars, and I’m cheaper than a tow truck. Much cheaper than a mechanic.”

     He is already bending over Jackson’s Porsche. Jackson opens his mouth to object, then hesitates. A tow truck might take hours, after all. Where’s the harm in…

     Mr. Argent looks up sharply, those pale blue eyes pinning Jackson in place like a dead beetle on a piece of card.

     “What do you think’s wrong with your machine, Mr. Whittemore?”

     “What? How should I know?”

     “It hasn’t told you?”

     “Told me? What do you mean?”

     “It’s amazing what a machine can tell you, if you ask it nicely,” says Mr. Argent with a faint smile.

     “I wouldn’t know about that,” says Jackson, taking an unconscious step backwards.

     “You sure?” Argent demands. His smile is growing slightly waxen around the edges, but it does not waver.

     “I…are you talking about…”

     A rattling thud and squeal of brakes cuts Jackson off midsentence. Both of them turn to see a third vehicle pulling over into the breakdown lane. This one is a third hand jeep, painted blue-grey where it isn’t brown with rust. Behind the wheel sits a manically grinning Stiles and beside him a nervously fidgeting Scott. Both boys jump from the car almost as soon as it stops moving.

     “Jackson!” calls Stiles brightly. “Fancy meeting you here. We were just on our way to literally anywhere else. Do you need a lift?”

     “My car broke down,” Jackson growls.

     “Hey, I’ve got the number of a good tow truck guy,” says Scott, his wary gaze resting on Mr. Argent. “He’s the one we use at the auto shop. Not too pricey and I could probably get you a discount.”

     Jackson looks from Scott to Stiles, then back at Mr. Argent. The man’s face is as blank as a stone wall.

     “Actually, that sounds good. If…” Jackson starts to say, taking a step towards the other teenagers.

     Argent’s eyes flash and for a moment he seems poised to pounce, like a mountain lion on the hunt. Then the moment passes. His shoulders relax and he even cracks a smile.

     “No need for that, boys,” he says amiably. “I see your problem right here.”

     He bends over the Porsche’s exposed engine once more and makes a show of adjusting a few linkages. Then he steps back, tucking something into the pocket of his coat.

     “Try her now, son.”

     Reluctantly, Jackson tries to start his car. To his mild surprise, the engine purrs smoothly to life, good as new.

     “Told you I know a bit a about cars,” says Mr. Argent, still smiling. He climbs into his SUV, lifts a hand in farewell, and then continues on down the highway.

     As soon as the SUV is out of sight, Stiles slumps back against his jeep and sighs with relief.

     “Jesus Christ, that was too close.”

     “Close to what?” asks Jackson angrily. “What the hell are you two even doing here?”

     “Saving your ass,” Stiles snaps, straightening up once more. “You know who that was, right? You know he runs the goddamn train spotters, right?”

     “So? I’m not a train.”

     “I know that,” says Scott, stepping between Jackson and Stiles. His voice is low and serious. “Does Argent?”

     “What do you mean?” says Jackson, uncertainty flickering briefly across his handsome face.

     “Well, we know some of the train spotters saw you and Danny last night. And this morning we find their captain has you stranded on some stretch of lonely highway. See why we’re worried?”

     “Has me stranded? McCall, my car broke down. He was offering to help.”

     “Your car was sabotaged. I could hear it yelling and swearing about it from half a mile away.”

     “You could hear… you can talk to cars? Oh damn. So that’s what he meant.”

     “What who meant?”

     “Argent. He was being fucking weird, asking me if my car had told me what was wrong with it.”

     “Shit,” Stiles hisses. “Scott, they must think Jackson’s the tank engine.”

     Scott nods. “Which means you’re in danger, Jackson. You’d better come with us.”

     Jackson shakes his head. “Fuck that. I wouldn’t be in danger if you’d just given me what I asked for. If I was an engine too, I’d have the power to protect myself.”

     “Don’t be an idiot,” Scott warns. “The train spotters kill engines all the time. It’s their job. All the power in the world wouldn’t help you against them.”

     “Just because it hasn’t helped you?” Jackson sneers. “But we’re not the same, McCall. Before you got the brand, you were just some bench-warming dork. You were weak, a joke. Of course the power never helped you. You’ve spent your whole life getting pushed around and not even literal goddamn magic has helped you break the habit.”

     Jackson has taken a few angry steps forward, looming over the younger boy.

     “I’m different. I know how to stand up for myself, how to take what I want. When some pushes me, I don’t go home and cry about it. I push right back. Harder.”

     He leans in now and his grey eyes are shining with a cold light.

     “Give me the power, Scott. And I will break our enemies.”

     For a moment, Scott looks shaken. Then his eyes narrow and he shakes his head.

     “Even if I knew how to brand you, Jackson, you are the last person who should be given any kind of power.”

     He turns away, stalking back to the jeep with his head held high.

     “Come on, Stiles. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

     Soon, Jackson is left all alone by the side of the road.

     “You think what?” asks Lydia Martin, as she trails behind Allison through the scruffy woodland of Sodor County. Last night’s hailstorm has stripped the trees of any remaining leaves and fallen branches litter the rusting train tracks that the girls are following.

     “I think they’re using trains,” says Allison calmly. “You know Jackson’s theory about the man who attacked him and Derek Hale being in some kind of drug war?”

     “Yes, but I thought we agreed he was crazy. Didn’t he accuse Scott of being a part of it too? I mean, puh-lease. I’ve known Scott since grade school. If that nerd is a drug dealer, then I’m the queen of the underworld.”

     Allison nods slowly, her dark hair rippling. “You’re basically right. But Scott is…hmm…he has a thing about these old train lines. Comes out here a lot, I mean. What if he saw something?”

     “Like a trainload of drugs rolling by under cover of darkness? Come on, Allison. Get a grip.”

     “Well, if they’ve got drugs to smuggle…”

     “…a scenario for which we have no proof…” Lydia observes.

     “…then they’ve got to be moving them somehow. And there have been way too many weird vehicle accidents around here.”

     “Yeah, but trains?”

     “Why not? There’s tracks freaking everywhere around here.”

     Lydia is forced to admit that this true. “But I thought you said this had something to do with your family and their weirdness. Wouldn’t you know if your family were secretly locomotive drug runners?”

     Allison stops dead. “Oh shit.”

     “What is it?”

     “Nothing. I mean… well, I just hadn’t thought of it like that.”

     “Like what?”

     “That my family might be, like, their competition. I thought…”

     “Yes?”

     “Well, you know that history book I was showing you?”

     “About that great uncle or whatever who blew up Nazi trains in WWII or something?”

     “That’s the one. Well, I was thinking, what if it’s like a family tradition. You know, like some families always send their kids off to the navy or the Peace Corps or whatever.”

     “A tradition of service?”

     “Exactly. What if our family’s service is stopping bad guys with trains?”

     “A top secret government agency of train hunters,” says Lydia flatly. “You’re crazier than Jackson.”

     “You think it’s more likely that they’re the ones running the trains?” Allison asks anxiously.

     “No,” says Lydia firmly. “I don’t. Mostly because I am one-hundred percent sure that there are no trains. There haven’t been trains in New Sodor for generations.”

     “Then how do you explain all the weird stuff that’s been happening?”

     “I don’t,” says Lydia, glancing away. “I have enough of my own problems without borrowing anybody else’s.”

     Allison moves to rest a comforting hand on Lydia’s shoulder, but then hesitates.

     “Is it… is it Jackson?”

     “Why?” snaps Lydia. “What did you hear? Who…”

     Allison holds up both hands, palms outward in a gesture of peace.

     “He texted me, that’s all. Asking if I was going to the Winter Formal.”

     “He asked you to the dance?” Lydia’s blue-green eyes flash with sudden fire.

     “Just as a friend,” says Allison quickly. “But I wondered… I mean… if there was some reason he wasn’t asking you.”

     The cold wind gusts between the barren trees and tugs at Lydia’s red gold hair. She stares fixedly at the train tracks. Allison shivers and tucks her hands back into the sleeves of her leather jacket.

     “We broke up,” says Lydia at last.

     “Oh Lydia,” says Allison, her face falling. “I’m sorry.”

     “He was an ungrateful jerk anyway,” Lydia opines.

     Allison nods, but is wise enough not to voice an opinion herself.

     They begin walking again, before the silence can spin out too long. Leaves and twigs crunch under their stylish boots.

     “I’ll tell him no,” Allison offers abruptly.

     “Sorry?” asks Lydia, blinking in the manner of one whose thoughts were miles away.

     “I’ll tell Jackson I can’t go to the dance with him,” says Allison firmly. “You know, just in case.”

     “Thank you,” says Lydia quietly.

     She sighs and with a visible effort stands up a little straighter and quickens her pace.

     “So if we find these imaginary train robbers of yours, what exactly are you planning to do to them?” she asks.

     Allison accepts the change of subject. “Well, I’m not actually expecting to find them, not during the day. Most of the weirdness that’s been happening has been at night. But if I’m right about the trains, there’s only so many places where they could be hiding them.”

     “So the plan is?”

     “I went through a bunch of old railroad maps online and there’s an abandoned train shed I want to check out.”

     “Sounds like a blast,” says Lydia, her words oozing sarcasm. “Remind me how you persuaded me this was a better idea than the mall?”

     Allison only chuckles.

     The train shed in question is at one end of the Ffarquhar Branch Line. Lydia takes one look at the pile of moss-covered bricks and shakes her head.

     “Oh no. I’m not going in there.”

     “Scared?” Allison teases. “I thought you didn’t believe in my train robbers.”

     “I don’t,” Lydia reiterates, settling herself primly on a fallen log. “But I do believe in rats. And opossums. And raccoons. Possibly with rabies. Have fun though.”

     Allison shakes her head and walks forward with more confidence than she really feels.

     As she rounds the side of the building, she notices that the brambles and whippy saplings just here have been trampled down. Someone else came this way, not long ago. Allison feels her breathing quicken and she quietly draws the golden knife that her aunt gave her out of its shoulder sheath.

     “Should have gone for that stun gun,” she mutters before slipping in through a side door.

     The inside of the shed is dark and gloomsome, the air heavy with the scents of dust and coal and corroded metalwork. Daylight, gray and watery, filters in through a row of high, cracked windows. Something on the floor gleams brightly in the meager illumination.

     Stooping, Allison realizes that it is a broken link from some huge chain. The break looks quite fresh, the jagged edges entirely free from rust. She touches it gingerly. The metal is cold and sharp.

     All at once, Allison becomes aware of footsteps behind her. She wheels about and slashes with her short knife, a vicious cut at about neck height. It strikes something and there is a cry of pain as her mysterious assailant staggers backwards.

     “Allison? What the hell?”

     The voice is instantly familiar and the knife drops from Allison’s nerveless fingers.

     “Oh my God, Scott? Is that you?”

     “I think so,” says Scott McCall, dropping down onto a stack of ancient pallets. He seems a little shaken and is gripping his left forearm. He must have thrown it up just in time, for there is a long rent in the fabric of his hoodie, a classic defensive wound.

     “I thought you were… Oh lord. Are you okay?”

     “I’m fine,” he says quickly. “You mostly just cut the cloth, see?”

     He rolls up his left sleeve to demonstrate, and although there is a splash of blood on his forearm, the cut beneath seems almost invisible.

     “You should still probably get that looked at,” says Allison, kneeling down beside him. “Bandages and disinfectant, at least.”

     Scott pulls him arm away. “Really Allison. It’s nothing.”

     She ignores this, pulling off her long, midnight blue scarf and handing it to him.

     “Tie it up right now,” she orders. “And wash it thoroughly as soon as you get home.”

     Smiling sheepishly, Scott does as he is bidden.

     “What are you doing here anyway?” Allison demands, as he cinches the scarf tight.

     “Um… would you believe me if I said ‘geocaching’?”

     “No. I would not.”

     “Well, what about you? What are you doing here?”

     “Geocaching.”

     The two of them stare at each other for a long moment.

     “I miss you,” says Scott suddenly.

     “Scott…” Allison begins.

     He holds up a forestalling hand. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… it just slipped out. I know it isn’t go to work out between us.”

     “Are you sure?” says Allison in a very small voice.

     Scott’s expression flickers, like a guttering candle. Then he hangs his head.

     “Allison…”

     “I want to trust you, Scott. I really do. Can’t you just trust me?”

     Scott starts to speak, then stops again. Then he slowly lifts his gaze to Allison’s fathomless brown eyes.

     “You really want to know?” he says softly.

     “I do.”

     He nods once. “Okay. Okay. Let’s do this.”

     “You’re going to tell me everything?”

     Scott nods again and even laughs shakily. “Yeah. Yeah, why the hell not? I’ve been trying to keep you safe, Allison. I know it sounds patronizing, but I really have been. Not just you. Everyone. My mom. Mr. Deaton. Stiles and his dad. Lydia and Jackson. Everyone.”

     The laughter dies from his face and he rubs distractedly at his temples. “Only it’s not working. I might as well admit that, huh? It’s not working and it’s time to try something else.”

     He pushes himself to his feet.

     “Where are you going?” asks Allison.

     “We shouldn’t stay here,” Scott explains. “I was checking for…well, I thought someone dangerous might be using it as a place to lie low.”

     “And you came out here all by yourself?”

     “Yeah, I know. But I’ve been running low on options these past few days. I’ll explain as we walk.”

     Allison nods, retrieves her knife, and and falls into step beside Scott as they exit the train shed. Her heart is singing inside her chest and she has to remind herself not to grab Scott’s hand in hers. Maybe, just maybe, things are going to be okay.

     “Allison!”

     Lydia’s scream is high and urgent and terrified.

     “Lydia!” Allison gasps, breaking into a run.

     “Lydia’s here?” Scott demands, racing after her.

     Allison nods. “We were walking…well, I thought…I was looking for…”

     She can’t find the breath to pant out the rest of her story, her wild theory, but Scott seems to understand enough.

     “She’s in trouble,” he says grimly. It is not a question.

     Then Scott accelerates. Allison already knows that he’s fast. She’s watched him on the lacrosse field, after all. But this is a burst of speed that would put any merely human athlete to shame. Branches and brambles are crushed to splinters under his churning feet and steam pours from his bare skin.

     And seeing this, Allison knows that the theory she outlined to Lydia was wrong. Well, not wrong, perhaps. Just incomplete. For there are trains in New Sodor. Indeed there are.

Stiles parks his jeep in the driveway and trudges up the front steps of his house. He and Scott spent a fruitless morning searching for Derek and the express train. As they’d expected, the tunnels under Gordon’s Hill were abandoned. No sense in staying somewhere the train spotters knew to look for you. They’d also tried Derek’s hideout up at the coaling station and even the charred ruins of the old Hale homestead, without success.

     Of course, Stiles reflects, as he fumbles his keys from his pocket, it’s not as though they could have done much even they’d found the steam engines. At least they’d found Jackson in time, though that had been the purest luck.

     At his insistence, Stiles has dropped Scott off near a bend of the Ffarquhar Branch Line that should take him more of less straight home. He feels a little guilty about dodging this last bit of reconnoitering, but honestly, Stiles is exhausted. He doesn’t have a mechanical monster feeding him fiery energy, and the stress of the last few days has been nothing short of grueling.

     He shuts the door behind him, hangs up his coat, and kicks off his sneakers. A strong smell of buffalo chicken dip wafts down the hall from the living room.

     “Cholesterol, Dad,” Stiles scolds as he slouches into the room. “I know you’ve heard of it.”

     “Hush you,” Noah Stilinski admonishes. He has his feet up on the coffee table and is surrounded by file folders disgorging their cargo of grainy photocopies. Some of the heaps have drifted perilously close to the tinfoil vat of buffalo dip and its attendant bowl of tortilla chips. Stiles corrects this and helps himself a handful of chips before joining his father on the sofa. On the other side of the room, the muted television is playing a black and white monster movie but neither of them pays it much attention.

     “Where’ve you been?” Noah inquires.

     “Out with Scott,” Stiles replies, using the corner of a chip to fish out an extra large chunk of chicken breast. “Are these case files?”

     “Uh huh,” says his father, not looking up. “There was a call for you, you know.”

     “There was?” Stiles inquires, tilting his head to better read the report the sheriff is thumbing through. “Who from?”

     “Your lacrosse coach. Seems you were late to last night’s game.”  

     “Car trouble,” says Stiles at once. It is the story he and Scott have concocted, that Scott and Jackson—acting as responsible co-captains—went looking for the team’s missing goalie, who Stiles had been driving to the game in his notoriously unreliable jeep. With any luck they’ll get a chance to brief Jackson and Danny on this fabrication before either of them can talk to Coach Finstock.

     “Should I call Alan Deaton?” Stiles’ father inquires, referring to the mechanic who is Scott’s part-time employer.

     “No, it’s been fine today,” says Stiles truthfully, munching another chip. “So tell me about this case.”

     “That’s under wraps,” Noah informs him.

     “Come on, Dad,” Stiles wheedles. “It’s the Suddery Castle case again, isn’t it? I was there for that one. How can you tell me it’s under wraps?”

     “It’s a lot bigger than that one night at the castle,” says Noah darkly.

     “What do you mean?”

     “I think I’m finally starting to see the connections,” the sheriff murmurs, talking more to himself than to his inquisitive son. “But there’s still so much that doesn’t make sense.”

     Stiles, a longtime student of his father’s moods, deems it best to wait in silence. After a moment, his patience is rewarded.

     “The Hales,” his father says softly. “It’s all about the Hales. Derek Hale is right in the thick of it, of course. And his sister Laura. She was the first body we found. But it doesn’t stop there.”

     We found that body, Stiles thinks to himself, slightly nettled. Me and Scott, not the police. Well, we found half of it anyway. But it was the important half.

     “Garrison Myers, for example,” Noah continues, unaware of his silent critic. “Before he was a groundskeeper, he used to be an inspector for an insurance company. Had a degree in fire sciences. He was the one they called in to inspect the Hale house after…well, after whatever it was happened. I don’t think it was fire. I’ve pulled those old files and well, honestly, I think it must have been some kind of explosion. But on Myers say-so, they just swept it under the rug. Of course, then he lost his license a few years later…”

     The sheriff trails off, staring absently at the onscreen antics of a man in a rubbery fish monster costume.

     “The homeless man in the castle…” he says suddenly. “I think that was an incidental killing. Poor guy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the other two, the burned ones, those were deliberate. They both had rap sheets, mostly small time stuff. But they were persons of interest in an arms smuggling case almost a decade ago. Moving explosives across state lines.”

     “So they helped blow up the Hale house?” Stiles blurts out.

     His father seems to become aware of him once more.

     “That’s enough for now,” he asserts, closing the folder in his lap. “I really shouldn’t be rambling on about this in front of you.”

     “But you’ve got to have a theory, Dad,” Stiles insists.

     “Even if I did, I wouldn’t be allowed to share it with you.”

     “You want to hear my theory then?” asks Stiles, swallowing a mouthful of chips and dip.

     His father chuckles, not unkindly. “Sure kiddo. What’s your theory?”

     “They’re revenge killings,” asserts Stiles with false certainty. “It’s all Derek Hale trying to get back at the people who hurt his family.”

     “And the man with the scarred face?” asks Noah, his mouth quirked up into a wry smile. “How does he fit in?”

     “I don’t know,” says Stiles, his face falling theatrically. “No one even knows who he is, do they?”

     The wry smile deepens and the sheriff taps the side of his nose with a forefinger.

     “You know?” Stiles demands. “Or you think you know…”

     “I do,” his father confirms.

     “Who is he?”

     Noah shakes his head.

     “Please, Dad,” says Stiles, lowering his voice. “I just want to know who attacked me and my friends.”

     Silence reigns. After a long moment, Noah Stilinski sighs and wordlessly passes his son a sheaf of papers. A photograph is clipped to the topmost layer. It shows a man’s face, stern and rugged. The hair is shorter, the eyes less sunken, the puckered burn entirely absent. But there is no mistaking the countenance of the rogue express train.

     “That’s him,” Stiles whispers.

     He turns over the photograph, revealing the name scrawled in blue ballpoint:

     Peter Hale.

Scott bursts into the little clearing at full tilt. A fallen tree lies directly in front of him, a barricade of rotting timber. On its far side stands Lydia. Her whole body is rigid, her blue-green eyes impossibly wide. The lower half of her face is obscured by the massive hand clamped over her mouth. Another hand, equally massive, grips her wrist, twisting her right arm up cruelly behind her back. Both hands belong to the express train.

     He is standing behind her, towering over her like a dark cliff of rags and grime and muscle. His mad, glassy eyes find Scott’s own and hold them fast. The stench of brimstone pours off of him like smoke. His smile is wide and welcoming.

     “Hello again, Scott.”

     “Let her go,” Scott orders, trying to suppress a tremor in his voice.

     “And why should I do that? She’ll run and scream and flail about, which will make this next bit that much messier.”

     “What next bit?” Scott asks in spite of himself.

     “The bit where you kill her, of course.”

     Lydia whimpers between the express train’s fingers, a high, undignified little sound. The trainman’s smile only widens.

     “I won’t do it,” Scott declares.

     “No? Would you rather kill the other one, Argent’s daughter? Or that boy you saved from me? Or your friend Stiles? Perhaps Mr. Deaton, or your coach, or even your own mother?”

     “I’m not going to kill any of them.”

     “Oh, I think you are. Kill one of them, Scott, or I’ll kill them all.”

     “Why?” Scott demands. He can feel the boiler pressure mounting within him, Thomas responding instinctively to Scott’s terror and frustration. But even with all of Thomas’ strength, he doubts he can overpower the express. Certainly not before the bigger train has had a chance to snap Lydia’s spine. “Why are you doing this?”

     “I need you, Scott,” the express train says. “Argent has too many train spotters with him. I can’t kill them all, not on my own. I have Derek with me now, but it isn’t enough. I need your strength too.”

     “What the hell does that have to do with Lydia?”

     “You can’t live in both worlds, Scott,” the express rasps. His metallic voice is tinged with something like regret. “Your friends, your family… they’re holding you back. They’re keeping you from becoming the engine you could be, the engine I can show how to become. You need to be sundered from them, Scott. Now you can either break this coupling, or I will break it for you.”  

     But Scott is no longer listening to the express. He has spotted a pair of glowing blue lines snaking their way across the forest floor. They’re approaching the express train from behind, from the opposite side of the clearing from Scott, and he doesn’t think the bigger engine has noticed them.

     “You’re wrong,” Scott says, shaking his head as though to clear his thoughts of soot. He can feel the emotions being shoved at him through his coupling to this monster, but he still has Allison’s scarf cinched about his arm—like a lady’s favor given to some Arthurian knight—and the psychic assault seems to roll off of him like water off an oilskin. “They’re not holding me back. They’re holding me together.”

     And Allison breaks from the cover of the trees, darts at the express train in a blur of flying legs, and plants her gold-titanium knife between his shoulder blades.

     The express gasps, a wet sucking sound that speaks eloquently of a punctured lung, and releases his grip on Lydia’s wrist. He swipes at Allison with his freed hand, a wide backhanded blow, but the motion only causes the knife still sticking in his flesh to bite more deeply into the muscles of his back and shoulder. He bellows in pain and Allison manages to dance back out of his reach.

     Scott vaults over the fallen tree and rushes the express, seizing the arm still restraining Lydia and wrenching at it with all of Thomas’ strength. Lydia slips free, drops to the ground, and rolls. She springs upright again with a speed born of terror and sprints headlong for the edge of the clearing.

     Scott makes to follow her example, but groping iron fingers close on the back of his neck. For an instant, he is certain that he is about to have the life throttled out of him. Stab wound or no stab wound, the express is still horrifyingly strong. But then something else sweeps over the monster.

     Scott isn’t at the best angle to see, but it doesn’t need to. He can feel the change in the fiery energy that flows through his attacker, feel it stutter and spasm. Scott is released and staggers away, still reeling, as the express train doubles over, pressing both enormous hands to its abdomen. The sulfurous reek has taken on a new edge, sharp and acrid.

     “Run!” Allison orders, grabbing the dazed Scott by the arm, and he obeys.

     The three of them tear through the New Sodor woodland at a break neck pace, leaving the express train behind to gurgle and writhe alone.

Jackson parks in the high school parking lot. His aimless driving has brought him here and now he feels the need to stretch his legs. Somewhere behind the iron-grey curtain of rolling clouds, the sun in beginning to set, though—the year being on the wane—it is still relatively early. He wanders towards the lacrosse pitch, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his calfskin jacket. His anger has burned down to coals, dull orange and grey, but still searingly hot. He is beginning to suspect that no amount of pushing will make Scott yield up the train engine powers he is selfishly hoarding. He hasn’t even shared them with that freak Stiles and the two of them are supposed to be best friends.

     Still, Jackson reflects, as he climbs to the top of the empty bleachers, every footfall ringing out like the tolling of an aluminum bell, there are still some things he can take from Scott. He leans against the railing above the last row of metal benches and pulls out his phone. The first thing he did upon taking his leave of McCall and Mr. Argent was to swing home and retrieve it. Now he dials Allison’s number.

     He is disappointed when, after a few rings, he is directed to leave a voicemail.

     “Hi Allison,” he says, putting a smile into his voice that does not appear on his face. “I was thinking… after the Winter Formal, would you want to go somewhere? There’s a midnight showing of Titanic at the Crown. Or I know a late night place that does artisanal milk and cookies. It’s pretty cute. I’ll drive, of course. It should…”

     Jackson breaks off suddenly. He can hear footsteps approaching. Moving silently through the bleachers is almost impossible, but with the way the stadium echoes, he cannot quite pinpoint the source of the noise. He whirls to and fro, the phone still in his hand, it screen glowing palely in the gathering dusk.

     “Looking for me?” a voice rumbles.

     Jackson turns and finds himself staring into the grey eyes of Derek Hale.

     He takes an involuntary step backwards and hastily tucks the phone back into his pocket.

     “Not really.”

     Derek says nothing. His hair and his ragged beard are coal black and he smells of iron, though whether it is the scent of tempered steel or dried blood, Jackson cannot say.

     “What do you want with me?”

     “That’s not the question, is it?” asks Derek. “I don’t want anything from you, not yet. There’s nothing you could give me. But you want something, don’t you? Something that only I can give.”

     “A brand,” Jackson whispers. “You’d do that?”

     “I might.”

     “Why? I mean, what’s in it for you?”

     “Does it matter?”

     “Hell yeah, it does. Last night, you grabbed me. Are you working for that guy now? The guy with the burned face?”

     “Do you see him here?”

     “No, but…”

     Derek cuts him off with an impatient gesture. “This is a limited time offer, kid. Do you want the superpowers or don’t you?”

     Jackson thinks hard for all of two seconds. “I want them.”

     Derek flashes him a humorless smile. “Good. Then follow me.”

     “Shit,” Scott says quietly, listening to the message on Allison’s phone for a second time. He is sitting in the back seat of Allison’s little blue car. Allison herself is behind the wheel. Lydia is the passenger’s seat, cradling her right wrist, across which an enormous purple bruise is blooming.

     “That’s definitely Derek’s voice,” he tells Allison.

     “And that’s a problem?” she queries, glancing briefly into her rearview mirror.

     “A big problem. I… well, you know how I said I was going to tell you everything?”

     “Yes,” says Allison, her voice tight. “I do.”

     “Well, Jackson… he’s already figured a lot of that everything out. A big piece of it anyway, about me and Derek and what we are.”

     “So what will Derek do to him?” asks Allison.

     “Nothing good,” Scott says grimly. “Brainwash him, maybe, if we’re lucky. If we’re not…”

     “He’s dead,” says Lydia flatly. It is the first time she has spoken since they got into the car. Scott nods.

     “We have to find them,” says Allison.

     “No,” says Scott firmly. “I have to find them. You should get Lydia to the hospital. Ask for my mom. She’ll make sure you get taken care of and hopefully don’t get asked too many questions.”

     “I want to help,” says Allison stubbornly.

     “You’ve already helped,” Scott points out. “A whole lot. But Derek, he’s…”

     “He’s like the guy back in the woods, isn’t he? Stronger than he should be, I mean.”

     Scott nods again. “And really hard to hurt. He won’t get sick in the middle of the fight either. And you’ve lost your knife.”

     “You’re saying I’d just get in the way.”

     “I’m saying he can hurt you a lot and you can’t hurt him at all.”

     “I can still…” Allison begins, but Lydia interrupts her.

     “No, Allison. Let’s be smart about this. Scott still has the most information. If he says it’s a bad idea, it probably is. Besides, I really think this wrist might be broken.”

     Allison bites her lower lip. “Okay. Okay. We’ll go to the hospital. What are you going to do?”

     Scott sighs and reaches of the door handle. “Save Jackson Whittemoore’s life. Again.”

     Then, despite gasps of protest from the girls and from the car itself, he jerks the door open and hurls himself from the moving vehicle.

     He rolls, kicking up a shower of sparks as his steel skin scrapes along the asphalt, and comes upright. Within him, Thomas’ furnace roars up in a sudden blaze, strength and speed pouring into his limbs. Then Scott is running along the highway, overtaking Allison’s car, and plunging into the gathering dusk.

Jackson doesn’t much like the look of the house. Nearly half of it is missing, fallen in or fallen down, burned or blasted apart and then made to endure half a decade’s worth of rain and snow. Fresher damage marks the front porch. The steps are smashed to splinters. Derek ignores them, moving from ground to porch in one long-legged step. Jackson copies him.

     “Why does it have to be here?” Jackson asks. “Why couldn’t you brand me back at the stadium?”

     “It’s not that simple,” says Derek. He holds the door open for Jackson, and the teenager walks warily into the dim and dusty hall.

     Derek shuts the door behind them. Jackson hears a lock click.

     “What do you mean, ‘not that simple’?” he demands, his voice catching in his throat. “What’s complicated about it?”

     Derek turns to look at him then. His face is deadly grey, his eyes wide and glassy. Rivets line his skin like the stiches of a Frankenstein’s monster. And Jackson knows then that he has not been brought here to be branded, that this man—this thing—has no intention of making him into a steam engine.

     “Please…” Jackson whispers. “Don’t kill me.”

     “You know too much,” Derek says simply.

     “I won’t tell.”

     “You would. In time. You’d brag about it to the wrong person, or find some excuse to show off your powers. You’re that sort. And then we’d all be in danger. So this is how it has to be.”

     “I wouldn’t,” Jackson pleads. Tears are running down his handsome face and snot dribbling down the back of his throat. “I’m not like that.”

     “You are.” Derek’s voice is flat. “You’re exactly the kind of little shit who never learns that it’s not all about him. That he’s not the hero of the story. That no one cares about his perfect hair or his fancy car or his pretty jacket, and no one gives a flying fuck if he happens to be captain of the lacrosse team.”

     “Excuse me,” says a voice from the shadows. “I think you meant to say ‘co-captain’.”

Scott steps forward into the faint light from the hall windows. His skin gleams like fresh paintwork and little puffs of steam curl from his nostrils.

     Derek sneers. “We’ve seen this movie before, Scott. In this very room. We both know you can’t take me.”

     “So what? I’m supposed to sit back and watch you murder someone? I don’t think so.”

     “He’s a risk we can’t afford, Scott.”

     “We? Who’s ‘we’? You and the express train? He’s insane, Derek. He killed your sister. Why did you let him couple to you? Why are you helping him?”

     “You don’t understand.”

     “You’re damn right I don’t.”

     “I was wrong, Scott. Wrong about a lot of things. I thought he was spinning out of control, killing at random. But he never was. He was on a crusade, Scott. He’s doing what I should have done years ago. He’s avenging our family.”

     Scott halts in his tracks. “Our family?”

     “Mine and his. He’s my uncle, Peter Hale.”

     Scott is silent for a long moment. Then he grunts,

     “Explain.”

     “When the Argents blew this place up, they thought they’d killed all of us. All expect for me and Laura. But they were wrong. My uncle’s engine, Gordon, was too strong. He wouldn’t let him die.”

     Derek’s voice is low and urgent, the voice of a street preacher desperately trying to make you understand the threat that the lizard people pose to the western world.

     “He escaped, Scott. Crawled out of the wreckage and lay low in the coalmines. We all thought he was dead. The Argents, Laura, even me. For years he hid down there. Can you imagine what that was like? No sunlight, no food. Just the coal and the dark, while he tried to piece his body and mind back together.”

     Despite himself, Scott shudders. “And then?”

     “He came back. Not all at once. He lurked around the edges of things, watching and listening. He knew it still wasn’t safe, that it would never be safe until everyone responsible for this…”

     Derek gestures at the ruined house with his gauntlet of a hand.

     “…was dead.”

     “Mr. Myers…” Scott began.

     “An insurance investigator who helped cover up the explosion. And those two men the woods, they were the black market assholes who sold the Argents the dynamite. And there were more like that, before he even came back to New Sodor. A retired fire marshal. A former demolitions expert. A crooked cop. A spineless lawyer.”

     “A trail of bodies.”

     Derek laughs, a mirthless choking sound. “That’s what Laura said. That’s how she tracked him. We knew it was it an engine, you see. She said that made it our responsibility. But she hadn’t put it together. She couldn’t see the pattern.”

     Derek’s eye has begun to twitch and his hands to shake. A sulfurous smell is growing in the air.

     “She didn’t understand…wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t see. She attacked him… gave him no choice. He didn’t want to do it… he didn’t want to…”

     Derek sinks slowly to the floor of the hall, his legs buckling like scraps of foil. Scott hasn’t raised a hand, hasn’t even made a fist. Derek presses his knuckles into his temples as his whole body begins to shudder.

     “Jackson,” says Scott quietly to the young man who still stands transfixed, “It’s time for you to leave. Go now—don’t run—just walk quietly to the back of the house and go outside. Can you do that?”

     Jackson nods and begins to back away down the hall, slowly at first, but then breaking into a stumbling jog. Scott kneels down beside Derek but does not touch him.

     “He shouldn’t go…” Derek protests weakly. “…knows too much.”

     “That’s not important right now,” says Scott firmly. “Derek, the express train’s done something to you. Something with sulfur and a coupling. This isn’t right. He’s not who you think.”

     “He’s family!” Derek snarls.

     “He killed your sister,” says Scott flatly.

     “He didn’t want to!” Derek’s voice is a long, mournful whistle. “He only wanted to kill them, the ones who hurt us.”

     “And my friends?” Scott asks. “Lydia? Stiles? Did they hurt your family too?”

     “No room…” Derek pants, little puffs of smog escaping from his lungs and lips. “No room for divided loyalties. You need to stand with us… against the Argents.”

     “Another necessary evil?” says Scott. Now he is unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

     Derek nods jerkily, struggling to sit up. “Yes, yes.”

     “And the homeless man?”

     “What?”

     Scott reaches out and shoves the heel of his palm hard into Derek’s chest, slamming him back against the floor. He can feel the brand over his heart, burning high and hot and furious.

     “Even if I could accept that you and your uncle have some right to claim vengeance, even if I could accept that my friends are doomed to be caught up in the crossfire, even then…what possible, possible threat could exist in the life of one homeless man squatting in the basement of some half-baked castle?”

     “I… He… I…” Derek sputters and jerks, a piece of machinery with a monkey wrench in its gears.

     “Go on,” Scott snarls, leaning on the fallen man with every ounce of Thomas’ vast weight. “Explain it to me. Tell me how that murder was justified too. Explain how it was all part of some grand plan, some greater good. Tell me!”

     Derek opens his mouth as if to answer, but all that emerges is a profound, wracking cough and a spray of sparks that are the brilliant blue of burning brimstone.

     And then something changes. The reek of sulfur dies away and a nearly human color returns to Derek’s face. Scott rocks back on his heels, easing the pressure off of his captive’s sternum. Derek takes a deep and grateful breath.

     “Scott,” he says, after a moment’s silence. “You need to listen, even if you don’t trust me. I could feel him—Peter, the express. Scott, he’s…”

     A volley of arrows scythes the hall windows, broad-heads shattering panes of leaded glass and sticking in boards and beams and bannisters with a quivering hum.

     “The train spotters!” Derek bellows, surging to his feet. He brushes Scott aside and takes two steps towards the front door before a second salvo of arrows cuts him down.

     “Derek!” Scott screams.

     He starts to crawl towards the stricken engine on hands and knees. Then one more whistling shaft streaks out of the darkness and hits him just above the collarbone. The pain is bright and white and blinding. Then everything is black.

     “Now!” Kate Argent barks.

     The train spotters react instantly and efficiently, dropping their bows and drawing hatchets and machetes even as they surge forwards towards the dark bulk of the Hale house.

     Then something bursts from the trees on the right side of the clearing, level with the house. Kate draws her pistol bow in a flash and fires at it, but she has miscalculated. This juggernaut is not barreling towards them or even towards the front door. It collides full on with the side of the building and ploughs through it, plaster dust and splinters flying up in a great cloud.

     “It’s the express!” Kate snaps to her followers. “Don’t let it escape!”

     Some of the train spotters break into a run. Others scramble to regain their bows and quivers. None of them is fast enough. The express train bursts through the opposite wall of the house, still moving inhumanly fast, but now carrying something cradled in both massive arms. Kate fumbles to reload her pistol bow and fires once more. The hasty shot goes wide and the monstrous trainman vanishes into the trees and waving shadows.

     Half of the company pursues it, but to no avail. Kate—already resigned—conducts a desultory search of the house. She is surprised, though far from displeased, when she all but trips over the unconscious form of Derek Hale.

The rushing wind of great speed and the staccato flickering of moonlight through the branches overhead draw Scott out of unconsciousness. He is being carried, and though the rags beneath his cheek smell strongly of soot and sulfur and old blood, the steady warmth that radiates through them is not unpleasant, the heat holding the deadly cold of shock at bay.

     “It’s all right, Scott,” a familiar voice, bass and grating, rumbles above him. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you.”

CLOSING THEME/SHOW CREDITS

Chapter Text

Allison Argent sits alone in her darkened bedroom staring the pale screen of her cell phone, wishing that someone would answer her texts. The radio silence of her best friend—Lydia Martin—is at least understandable. Her plan upon arriving home from the hospital with a sprained wrist was to take a heavy dose of painkillers and go to bed, so in all probability Lydia is currently sedated beyond the point of answering even the most urgent of late night text messages.

     Scott McCall’s silence, on the other hand, is decidedly more ominous. Scott—Allison’s more or less ex-boyfriend—departed with the intention of saving a mutual acquaintance from the clutches of a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation. There are any number of reasons he might not be answering his phone, and very few of them are good.

     And of course, Allison reflects, it is Scott she really needs to talk to. Scott has answers, not just about the immediate pressing questions like “Are you still alive?” but also about the bigger, more nagging questions that have been plaguing Allison ever since she arrived in New Sodor. Questions like, “What the hell is going in this town?”, “What is my family hiding from me?”, and even “What in God’s name are you?” Because it is becoming increasingly clear to Allison that Scott isn’t entirely human.

     “He outran my car,” she whispers to the darkness. “He leapt out of it while I was driving at fifty, bounced a little, got back up, and outran it.”

     Nothing human could do that. Nothing human could leap from the top of a six-story tower without breaking a bone. Nothing human could squeeze steel hard enough to leave fingerprints in the metal.

     Yet still, the idea won’t quite fit into Allison’s head. Every time it tries, the image of Scott—his sweetly sheepish smile; his slightly crooked chin; his heartfelt, stumbling words—gets in its way.

     Someone raps lightly on Allison’s bedroom door. She jumps in surprise, causing her coverlet to flutter.

     “Allison,” a voice whispers. “Are you awake?”

     The voice is that of Kate Argent, Allison’s aunt. For a moment, Allison remembers the sight of her aunt’s face streaked with blood and barking orders into a radio, the hilt of a machete protruding over one shoulder, and she hesitates.

     “Allison,” Kate calls again. “I’ve got something to show you.”

     Curiosity overwhelms her and Allison slips out from under the covers and pads over to the door. She opens it cautiously, careful lest the hinges should squeak and wake her parents.

     “What is it?” she whispers.

     Kate is wearing her survival gear, a motely of army surplus and bikers’ leathers, and her hazel-green eyes are shining with a fierce joy.

     “Get dressed,” she instructs Allison. “This is important.”

     “Where are we going?” Allison asks, already pulling on her boots and a thick sweater.

     “It’s a just a short drive,” Kate assures her.

     Technically, this is true, but the path they take winds and weaves through New Sodor’s plentiful back lanes and dirt tracts so that it is the better part of an hour before Kate finally parks the car and unlocks Allison’s door. It takes Allison a moment to realize that the place where they’ve stopped isn’t just another grubby clearing in the New Sodor woodlands. Tangled weeds and fallen leaves, brown and shriveled with the cold, all but obscure the foundations of a small house. Kate approaches a low hummock and twitches aside a camo-patterned tarp to reveal a set of rusting storm doors. It takes another moment to undo the heavy padlock, and then she and Allison descend into the earth.

     Once this place must have been a cellar. The concrete walls and floor, and even the low celling, are marred with patches of scabrous mold. The lights that Kate switches on are the sort used by construction crews in unfinished houses, stark blubs in cages of lurid orange plastic. A scarred metal table and a single chair have been set up at the edge of room. And in the center of that barren, blighted space stands an x-shaped scaffold. Bound to it, like a martyr at the stake, is Derek Hale.

     Allison draws in a sharp breath. She recognizes the grim-faced man at once, but he is horribly transformed. His skin gleams oddly under the harsh light, not like flesh at all, more like painted metal. Rows of rivets follow the lines of bones and muscles. A numeral two, bold red and yellow like the number over Scott’s sternum, blazes on Derek’s upper arm. His face is ashen, his eyes wide and glassy. Little smears of blue show patchily beneath his dark hair and ragged beard.

     “What is he?” Allison breathes.

     “We call them engines,” says Kate taking a step towards her prisoner. The fiercely joyous light has not died from her face. “As in steam engine.”

     “As in trains?”

     “Very good,” Kate nods. “You have been doing your homework. Yes, trains. They can transform fully, wheels and smokestack and all that.”

     “That’s what happened to that girl, isn’t it? The one they said got mangled in machinery. And the groundskeeper at the school. They were hit by trains.”

     Kate nods. “They were.”

     Allison stares harder at Derek, trying to control her breathing. There is blood, dark and sticky, splashed across his lean chest, but Allison can see no obvious wounds. She notices that the ropes used to tie the engine in place seem to be interwoven with lengths of flowering vine, lashed together in complex knots.

     “Was it him?” she asks Kate, pointing at Derek. “Did he kill them?”

     Kate cocks her head for a moment, as if waiting for the engine to speak, but he says nothing. Then she shrugs.

     “Probably not. Not the girl, anyway. See, there’s more than one engine crawling around in New Sodor, and this fellow…”

     Here she pokes Derek lightly in the ribs.

     “…he isn’t nearly the worst of them.”

     “Who is?”

     “The express train,” says Kate grimly. “They’re bigger and stronger than normal engines, and this one’s crazy to boot. He was the one who attacked you and your friends at that castle place.”

     “So why…” Allison’s throat is very dry. She tries again. “So why do you have this one tied up here?”

     “He’s going to help me find the express.”

     “So you… you hunt engines?”

     Kate smiles warmly then and rests a hand on Allison’s shoulder. “Oh honey, we all do. Me, your dad, your mom, all of our friends from the Armory. It’s our calling. We’re all train spotters.”

     “Why has no one told me about this before?”

     Kate sighs. “It was your parents’ decision. They don’t think you can handle the reality of this kind of work. Not now, maybe not ever. I disagree.”

     Allison says nothing and Kate begins to pace restlessly around the room, like a mountain lion in a cage at the zoo.

     “I think you could be a great train spotter, Allison. You have the drive, the fire that separates the victors from the victims. That fire, it can’t be taught.”

     “What are you saying?”

     “You told me you wanted to be stronger, so you could stand up to people like the man who attacked you at Suddery Castle.”

     “Yes.”

     “Then this is how we do that,” says Kate, coming to a sudden halt. Behind her, Derek stirs feebly in his bonds and a trickle of sweat runs down his ashen face.

     “What do you want me to do?” asks Allison. Her throat feels very tight.

     “For now, keep this a secret. Even from your parents.”

     “And then?”

     “And then you’re going to help me catch an engine.”

     “The express?”

     Kate shakes her head, her dark blond hair throwing her face into shadow. “There’s a third one. A little tank engine, but still plenty strong enough to be a threat. We need to stamp out the whole fleet of them.”

     “How will I help?”

     Kate smiles, sharp as a sickle. “You’ll help because I’m pretty sure the tank engine goes to your school.”

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

Alan Deaton looks up from the toolbox he is carefully organizing. He can hear heavy footsteps crunching across the gravel of the parking lot. The hour is late, well beyond the point when any customers should be calling at the auto shop. Alan’s hand moves the steel pipe wrench on the scarred and oil-stained worktop.

     The door explodes inwards, smashed from its frame, and a huge man crosses the threshold in a shower of splinters. He is carrying something, no, someone cradled in both arms. With a lurch, Alan recognizes both of his unexpected visitors.

     “Move,” Peter Hale grunts as he approaches the worktop. Alan takes a measured step backward, not lowering the wrench.

     With a sweep of one mighty arm, the express train clears the table. Tools and auto parts and cans of lubricant clatter to the concrete floor. With the other arm, he gently sets down the unconscious form of Scott McCall. Then he steps back and turns to glare at Alan.

     “Fix him,” the man-monster rasps. His breath stinks of brimstone and his beard is matted.

     “What the hell is this?” Alan demands. “What have you done to Scott?”

     “I saved him from the train spotters. He’s been shot.”

     “He should be at the hospital.”

     The express train smacks the table. “Don’t fuck around, Deaton. I know what you are.”

     “Scott…” Alan asks, wanting to be certain. “He’s like you, isn’t he?”

     “He’s an engine,” Peter confirms impatiently. “Don’t tell me you didn’t suspect?”

     “I suspected something. But Scott…”

     “He should have healed by now,” the express interrupts. “I tore the golden barb from his flesh. But he only weakens.”

     “Poison?”

     “There is one among the train spotters who coats her darts in salsa-da-praia.”

     “Then he’s as good as dead. Unless you have some of the plant to burn in a cleansing spell?”

     “I do not. If I had, I would have cured him our way. But your ways are not our ways, Alan Deaton.”

     Alan makes a face. “You’re damn right they aren’t.”

     He turns to leave, but a heavy hand falls on his shoulder. The grip is like the bite of a steel vise.

     “Where do you think you’re going?”

     “You want me to fix him, right? Well, I can’t do that with a pipe wrench. My scrip box is in my office.”

     He points to the little room on the far side of the workshop. “It’s right over there. I’ll leave the door open the whole time.”

     The express train grunts and releases him. Trying not to show any fear, though his belly feels suddenly full of ice water, Alan walks to his office and kneels down beside his paper-strewn desk. He opens the bottom cupboard and unlocks the safe inside, entering the combination with fingers that tremble slightly.

     The safe holds two things: a flat box bound in battered red leather and a fat mason jar full of lumpy black sand. Alan takes them both, tucking the jar hastily away out of sight in the pocket of his overalls.

     Back at the worktop, he flips open the box. It contains sheets of rough bamboo paper, several bottles of dark oily ink, a selection of brushes, and what looks very much like a silver cigarette lighter.

     Alan glances over at Scott. The boy is breathing shallowly, his eyes flickering madly under closed lids. His skin looks too pale and as if it might be tacky to the touch, like a hasty paint job. A deep crimson stain has spread across his t-shirt and hoodie, starting up around the level of his collarbone.

     Alan removes the hoodie and folds it, placing it as a pillow beneath Scott’s head. Then he picks up a pair of snips from the scree of tools so recently scattered across his workshop floor and with brisk, practical motions, cuts open Scott’s shirt.

     The sight of the yellow and red numeral one emblazoned in the center of Scott’s chest erases any doubts about what his young employee truly is. More immediately troubling is the deep puncture wound just below the clavicle. It’s still bleeding sluggishly and dark, spidery veins of corruption are spreading out across Scott’s skin.

     Alan sucks in a sharp breath, then hastily returns his attention to the red leather box. He draws out two of the little paper squares, shakes a bottle of ink to mix it, and finally selects a brush. On the first scrip he draws a blocky black cross, the alchemical symbol for soot. His brushstrokes are flowing and elegant, like a calligrapher’s. Next he encloses the cross in a stylized triangle, the alchemists’ sign for fire. Last of all, he pierces the combined symbols with a long, spear-like rune, the sign for iron.

     He lays the finished scrip over Scott’s brand, then begins work on the second. This one is simpler, a single crescent moon. This scrip goes over the arrow wound. Then Alan picks up the silver lighter and sets both scrips aflame.

     The ink is clearly powerfully igniferous and the little scraps of paper burn cheerfully for an instant before falling into white ash. Scott gasps at the sudden heat and his eyes fly open. For a moment he struggles to sit up, then slumps back against scarred the worktop. The express steps forward, but Alan waves him back.

     “Give him space! Let him breathe!”

     Peter growls, a low rumbling threat, but he retreats to the edge of the room.

     “Scott?” asks Alan, bending low over his patient. “How are you feeling?”

     “Mr. Deaton? What’s going on?”

     “You were poisoned, Scott, shot with a poisoned arrow.”

     “The train spotters. I remember. They got Derek.”

     For a moment Alan wonders whether he should try to act surprised. Train spotters? What do you mean train spotters? Why, doesn’t everyone know that there are no trains in New Sodor anymore? But he can’t muster the energy. All the determination at Alan Deaton’s disposal is needed for the stunt he’s about to pull.

     He draws the heavy mason jar from his pocket and pops the lid, shielding his actions with his body so that Peter Hale can’t see what is about to happen. Then he tips the jar and pours the dark powder out on the concrete floor in a wide arc.

     “What the hell are you doing?” Peter demands, leaping forward, but he is too late.

     Leaning crazily over the worktop, almost sprawled on top of Scott, Alan continues to pour, sweeping the jar around until he and his employee are sealed inside a ragged ellipse of shiny black dust.

     The express train tries to lunge across the crude circle, reaching for Alan with murder written in his glassy eyes. Then he seems to collide with something invisible, a wall of unseen adamant or pure kinetic force. He reels backwards, stumbles over an upturned toolbox, and falls with a mighty clang to the floor of the workshop.

Scott McCall, still woozy and disoriented, shoves himself up into a sitting position, staring over Alan Deaton’s shoulder at the express train, his mouth hanging open in shock.

     Peter Hale bares his teeth. They gleam like metal in the lamplight.

     “Welsh coal. That’s an old one.”

     “The classics never go out of style,” says Alan, setting down the empty mason jar with a dull clink.

     “You think it will protect you?”

     “You can’t cross it. Burn all the sulfur you like. Welsh coal holds.”

     “I may not be able to cross it,” Peter rumbles, clambering ponderously to his feet. “But this will.”

     He snatches up a tire iron, heavy and rimed with rust, and hurls it straight at Alan’s head.

     Alan Deaton moves like a striking mantis, his brown hand a blur, and plucks the spinning iron from midair.

     “Anything else you’d like to throw?” he asks calmly.

     “I could bring the roof down on you!” Peter bellows, sulfurous steam rising from every inch of bare skin.

     “You could try. The whole place is bolstered with salt scrips, of course. But you could try.”

     Peter makes a noise of pure frustration, a horrible metallic rending.

     “Enough of this. Scott, come with me.”

     Scott feels the sudden, insistent pull of his coupling. The express train draws him towards itself like a lodestone. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s already swung his legs over the edge of the table and is preparing to stand.

     Alan lays a gentle hand on Scott’s knee.

     “Easy, Scott. You don’t have to go with him.”

     “I saved your life, Scott!” Peter barks. Burning motes fly from his lips like spittle.

     “So what?” Scott snaps back. Anger is restoring some of the color to his face. “So now you own me? Fuck that.”

     “You’ll regret this,” says Peter, drawing himself up to his full, towering height. “Both of you will spend the rest of your lives regretting this moment.”

     Then he turns on his heel and stalks from the auto shop. Alan’s shoulders sag with relief.

Allison drives herself to school that morning. She has to get up early to manage it, given her father’s not inconsiderable overprotective streak, bolting her breakfast alone in the darkened kitchen and leaving a note on the table. Combined with her late night visit to her aunt’s DIY prison cell, this means Allison’s running seriously low on sleep. Still she thinks, as she cruises down the quiet country road, a little blue bullet of purpose in this world of cold mist and grey, predawn light, it’s worth it. She needs time to think, time away from her family and out from under their roof, before she can face the school day.

     She loves her aunt Kate. She looks up to her. Kate has been a friend—almost a sister—encouraging her to chase her dreams and find her strength.

     But what Kate is doing is wrong. Allison doesn’t care what the man bound to that scaffolding is or what he has done. Even if he’s monster, irredeemable and unsalvageable, he at least deserves a clean death. Binding him to watch him squirm and suffer like a worm on a hook is wrong.

     But what can she do? If she tells her parents, the other train spotters, they might put a stop it. Or they might not. They might see Allison as weak because she pities the engine. They might think they were right to hide things from her all this time.

     And Kate. To betray Kate’s great trust in her, when Kate seems to be the only person in their family who trusts Allison…

     Allison realizes that she is crying, and though through her tears she cannot quite make out the numbers on her speedometer, her little blue car is hurtling along far faster than she intended.

     Swearing at herself, Allison begins to slow. Just then a brown shape, a rabbit Allison thinks, breaks from the long grass and dead bracken on the shoulder of the road and bolts out into her lane.

     Allison yells, loud and wordless, and slams on the brakes. They respond promptly—courtesy of Scott’s handiwork—but there simply is no time. The rabbit disappears from view beneath Allison’s bumper, even as the car comes to a skidding halt.

     Allison throws the parking brake, flicks on her hazards, and leaps from the car. Her heart is in her mouth. A little piece of her brain is telling her not to be ridiculous, it was only a rabbit, but right now, on top of everything else, the idea of even one insignificant life on her hands feels unbearable. She kneels down and peers under the car.

     There sits the rabbit, dazed but miraculously unharmed, crouched at a point equidistant between Allison’s front wheels. It stares at the girl with wide, liquid brown eyes. Its furry flanks heave with quick breaths.

     Allison lets out a long, shuddering sigh of relief and leans her forehead gratefully against the cold metal of the driver’s side door. Startled, the rabbit scurries out from under the car and lollops back towards the cover of the frozen bracken.

     Allison gets back in her car and resumes her drive to school at more measured pace. Tear tracks still glisten on her pale cheeks but somehow her heart feels lighter.

Stiles Stilinski arrives at the auto shop a little after six thirty in his battered old jeep. He strolls into the workshop, eyeing the scattered tools and chipped concrete flooring speculatively, and tosses Scott a plastic grocery bag full of clothes.

     “Go get changed,” he advises his friend. “We have to book it if we’re going to make first period.”

     Scott nods and ducks into the cramped little bathroom on the far side of the shop floor, shutting the door firmly behind him. Stiles turns to Alan Deaton, who is carefully sweeping up a pile of fine black dust.

     “So…” says Stiles hooking his thumbs in his belt and raising both eyebrows.

     Mr. Deaton does not look up. “So.”

     “I got Scott’s call.”

     “So I surmised.”

     “He said you had the express train here.”

     “We surely did.”

     “And that you chased him off with some kind of magic.”

     Mr. Deaton points at the pile of black dust. “Welsh coal.”

     Stiles peers at the dark powder, unimpressed. “How does it work?”

     “How much do you know about engines?” asks Mr. Deaton, scooping the powder back into a glass jar. “Ones like Scott, I mean.”

     “Not so much, I guess,” Stiles admits. “I’ve been trawling the deep web for months now, but there’s a lot of conflicting information.”

     Mr. Deaton nods, half to himself. His mouth is serious above his neat black beard. “You know about railroad vine?”

     Stiles nods. “Ipomoea pes-caprae. Forces an engine to reveal itself.”

     “Among its other uses. Poisons. Charms. What have you.”

     “So what’s your point?”

     “Certain plants have powerful effects on engines. Coal is the remains of ancient plants.”

     Stiles stares at the jar. “So that stuff is what? Fossilized railroad vine?”

     Mr. Deaton shakes his head. “We’re not sure what the actual plant was. Seems like it went extinct a long time ago. But its power lingers in the coal from certain regions. Most famously in Wales. Hence, Welsh coal.”

     “But what does it do?”

     “It makes barriers. No engine can cross a threshold marked with Welsh coal.”

     “Seems handy. So why don’t you just have the whole shop engine proofed?”

     “Because that’s not what I’m here for. This shop isn’t supposed to be a fortress against engines.”

     “Then what is it? Who are you really?” Stiles demands, not noticing as Scott emerges from the bathroom. “And how do know so much about engines?”

     Mr. Deaton straightens and sets the jar of coal dust back on the scarred surface of the workbench.

     “I think it’s time for you boys to be heading to school, yes? You can come find me later, when we’ve all got more time to spare.”

     “And then you’ll give us a proper answer?” Stiles wants to know.

     Alan runs a big hand over his smoothly shaven crown and sighs. “Yes. I will answer your questions.”

     Stiles looks doubtful and is on the point of voicing an objection, but Scott grabs his friend by the upper arm and tows him towards the jeep.

     “Come on, Stiles. We’re going to be late.”

     Stiles flings up his hands in frustration and follows Scott. Mr. Deaton watches them go, deep shadows gathering beneath his eyes.

To Scott’s immense relief two coffees, liberally diluted with cream and sugar, and box of munchkin donuts are waiting inside the jeep.

     “Can I?” he asks Stiles, his hand hovering over the open box, while his friend coaxes the jeep’s asthmatic engine into life.

     “Of course,” Stiles confirms. “You look like you need the fuel.”

     He’s right you know, the jeep adds, it’s telepathic voice dropping words directly into Scott’s brain with out reference to his ears. Lots of fuel. Maybe an oil change and a bit of a tune up.

     “I’ll be okay,” Scott assures them. “You told my mom I was staying at your place?”

     Stiles grunts in the affirmative as he peels out of the gravel parking lot. “She seemed kind of suspicious though.”

     “You don’t think she’s guessed…about the… the engine thing?”

     Stiles shakes his head. “If I had to guess, I think she was wondering whether I was covering for you, so you could sneak off and see Allison.”

     Scott gulps. “Oh, come on. She knows Allison and I are still broken up.”

     Stiles gives his friend an odd look. “Somehow you don’t sound as crushed as usual when you say that. Is there something I should know about?”

     Scott shrugs. “Probably not. Some hopeful signs maybe? But if I don’t come out and tell her the truth, about everything, then I don’t think it’ll go anywhere.”

     “Scott, you know that’s a bad idea.”

     “But why? You handled the truth. You’ve handled it better than me.”

     “And Jackson? The truth just made his obsession with you deeper and twice as dangerous.”

     “Yeah, but he was an asshole before he knew I was an engine. Allison’s not. She’s good people, Stiles.”

     Stiles pulls a face, but is forced to admit the justice of this.

     “So what’s the plan? Tell her about talking trains and then ask if she still wants to go out with you?”

     “Um, I guess so.”

     “Well, there’s an issue with that plan. Besides all of the obvious, life-threatening ones.”

     “What’s that?”

     “The Winter Formal.”

     “What do you mean, I’m not allowed at the dance?” Scott asks, his face stricken. Bobby Finstock, manic lacrosse coach and teacher of economics, crosses his arms and looks Scott dead in the eye. Around them, all of the other econ students are packing up books and pens, beginning their noisy migration to their second period classes.

     “I mean you are banned from the dance. Scott, you’re failing two classes right now, not counting mine where I’m giving you a gentleman’s C because I’d rather cut off my last remaining testicle than have you cut from the lacrosse team.”

     “I’ve been dealing with…” Scott starts to snap, incensed by in the injustice of expecting one teenager to simultaneously learn advanced algebra and battle monstrous living machines. Then he gets a hold of himself.

     “…a lot of stuff, sir,” he finishes, somewhat lamely.

     “Hey, hey, hey,” says the coach, making a rapid series of pacifying gestures. “I believe it. But as we say in the business, ‘Tough shit.’ The administrators have decided that no students with failing grades get to see the inside of the formal.”

     Scott groans. “Coach, if you’re the dance chaperone, couldn’t I just…”

     Mr. Finstock shakes his bushy head. “Oh no. I’ve already bent enough rules for you, McCall. If I so much as glimpse you at that dance, I will throw you out on your ear and give you Saturday detention. We clear?”

     “We’re clear,” Scott sighs.

     The coach nods and allows Scott to exit the classroom in dejected silence.

     “Was I right?” asks Stiles, as Scott catches up to him in the hallway.

     “You were right,” says Scott, glowering at the linoleum. Then he seems to pull himself together. “Still, it’s not the end of the world. I can ask Allison out somewhere else. Like a date. Just a normal date.”

     “Yeah…” says Stiles apprehensively. “About that…”

     “What about it?” says Scott, his stomach clenching in sudden dread. “Is Allison… nothing’s happened to her?”

     “No, no!” Stiles says quickly. “Not that I know of. I just heard Danny talking by the lockers.”

     “And?”

     “And apparently Jackson has asked Allison to the dance.”

     “What?!”

Jackson Whittemore jumps in surprise, as the door to the locker rooms slams shut. He looks up from tying his designer sneakers to see that the wide, grungy room is all but deserted. The rest of the team is already well on their way to the parking lot and freedom. The only ones who remain, in fact, are Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall.

     Scott strides over to Jackson, and though he’s still half an inch shorter than his co-captain, the younger boy suddenly seems to loom, filling up more space than he has any right to.

     “You are not taking Allison Argent to the Winter Formal,” Scott says, his voice low and menacing.

     Jackson draws himself up stiffly and tries to inject a note of disdain into his voice. “Wow, dog in the manger much, McCall? You know your loser ass isn’t even allowed at the Formal, right?”

     “Cut the crap, Jackson,” Scott snaps. “We both know you don’t give a flying fuck about Allison. You’re just doing this to score off me.”

     Jackson shrugs. “She’s a bit vanilla for my tastes, but I’d still tap that cute little…”

     He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Scott has shoved him up against the lockers, his forearm pressed against Jackson’s windpipe.

     “You don’t learn, do you?” Scott snarls. His breath reeks of coal smoke and his face is grey with barely suppressed fury. “I’ve saved your life, what, three times now? The last time being, oh yeah, last night? And still all you can do is throw your snotty fuckboy attitude in my face. Grow the fuck up, Jackson, and learn when to fold.”

     Scott steps back and lets Jackson slide bonelessly to the floor. The older boy coughs and rubs at his throat. Stiles, who has been looking on anxiously, wondering if the time had come to hit his friend behind the ear with a fire extinguisher, relaxes a little.

     “You are not taking Allison to that dance,” Scott repeats, standing over Jackson, his eyes still smoldering. “We clear?”

     “We’re clear,” Jackson wheezes.

     “So,” says Stiles as he and Scott approach the jeep, the last of the early December sunlight disappearing behind the brickwork bulk of New Sodor High, “I take it that you intend to sneak into the dance.”

     “Pretty much,” Scott admits.

     “Mind if I ask how?”

     “I’m working on it,” says Scott, dropping the grocery bag containing his formerly spare lacrosse uniform—now sweaty and grass stained—into the back seat.

     “So you don’t actually have a plan?”

     “Not as such.”

     “I see.”

     A moment of comparative silence elapses, disrupted only by the click of fastening seat belts and the coughing of the recalcitrant starter.

     “So I know this dance thing is really important to you…” Stiles begins.

     “I’m sensing a ‘but…’ coming.”

     “But we really need to talk about what happened at the Hale house last night.”

     Scott tells Stiles everything he can remember, including Derek’s revelation about the identity and motives of the express train. Stiles seems unsurprised.

     “That matches with what my dad’s been able to piece together. Normally I’d be suspicious of anything Derek told you, especially if he was under some kind of secondhand sulfur mojo, but I think for once he was on the level.”

     “I wonder why Peter didn’t try to save him,” Scott muses. “I mean, why save some teenage tank engine instead of his own nephew?”

     “Maybe he figured Derek could take care of himself.”

     Scott shakes his head. “He looked pretty much like a pin cushion the last time I saw him, Stiles. Derek wasn’t going anywhere.”

     “So what? You think he’s dead?”

     “Or captured. The train spotters might think he has useful information about the express.”

     “Or about you.”

     Scott swallows hard. That possibility hadn’t occurred to him. “Shit. We’ve got to rescue him, don’t we?”

     It’s Stiles’ turn to shake his head. “We can’t. We don’t know where he is. We don’t even know for sure that he’s alive. Besides, we’ve got more pressing problems.”

     “Peter Hale,” says Scott grimly. “God, but he was pissed at me and Mr. Deaton. Those dead eyes…”

     He shivers, though the jeep’s radiator is belching out warm air.

     “So he’s pissed,” says Stiles, more calmly than he feels. “That might actually help us. Angry people make mistakes after all.”

     “Angry people hurt people,” says Scott flatly.

     “Okay,” says Stiles, nodding. “So who do you think he’ll try to hurt?”

     Scott rubs thoughtfully at his slightly crooked chin, staring unseeing into the jeep’s wing mirror. “He’s shown a real tendency to go after the people close to me.”

     “Agreed.”

     “You’re here, Mr. Deaton seems able to look after himself, and frankly I could give a fuck about Jackson right now. That leaves Allison; uh, Lydia, I guess; and my mom.”

     “Lydia?”

     “Peter seems to think she’s a friend of mine because she was at Suddery Castle that night.”

     “Oh,” says Stiles, sounding slightly relieved. Then he seems to think of something. “What about other people from the lacrosse team? Danny, for instance. Or even the coach.”

     Scott frowns. “It’s possible, I suppose, but not very likely. If we’re going start worrying about everyone I know even slightly, we’re not going to get very far. New Sodor’s not a big town. Everyone knows everyone after a while.”

     Stiles nods, admitting the justice of this. “Is your mom at the hospital right now?”

     Scott nods. “All evening.”

     “Then she’s probably okay. They’ve got lots of orderlies and security guards, and my dad always stations a deputy or two there, to cover nutcases coming into the ER.”

     “None of those people could stop an express train,” Scott points out.

     “But all of them together? At least they’d slow him down. Plus he’s been kind of wary of getting seen by real authorities. I don’t think the hospital will make an appealing target.”

     Scott nods reluctantly. “So Allison and Lydia.”

     “Probably still at the mall.”

     Scott raises an eyebrow. Stiles looks away and shrugs, his round cheeks turning a little pink.

     “I was…uh… just waiting around, and I overheard Lydia talking to Allison about going there to look at dresses for the dance. And, well, you know Lydia and fashion stuff. If they make it home before seven, I’ll eat my lacrosse stick.”

     “Okay,” says Scott, sitting up straighter. “It’s getting dark out, so we should probably move.”

     Stiles nods and pulls smartly out of the parking space. “Mall-ward ho.”

     Allison is waiting for Lydia Martin to emerge from what might quite conceivably be the hundredth changing room, when her cellphone buzzes. She glances at it and sees Jackson Whittemore’s number flashing on the screen. She sighs faintly and walks safely out of Lydia’s hearing range before she picks up.

     “Hi Jackson.”

     “Hey Allison.” The lacrosse captain’s voice sounds a little strained, though perhaps it’s just her phone’s speakers. “Listen, about the Winter Formal…”

     “Yeah, I got your message from yesterday,” says Allison hastily. “It’s really sweet of you but, well, Lydia’s my best friend, and I really don’t want to upset her, so…”

     “Oh!” says Jackson brightly, sounding faintly relieved. “Oh right. Yeah, that makes total sense. Don’t worry about it. Really. Forget I even asked.”

     “Um,” says Allison, a little taken aback. “Okay then. Thanks. I mean, I’m still going to the dance. Maybe I’ll see you there?”

     “Uh, maybe. Yeah, probably. In passing, anyway.”

     “Okay then.”

     “Okay.”

     “Talk to you later?”

     “Right. Right. At school maybe. Goodbye Allison.”

     “Bye Jackson.”

     Allison hangs up, shaking her head and wondering why boys never make any sense. She glances absently about her, taking in the racks of elegant dresses she was only dimly aware of while talking on the phone. One in particular, a shimmering creation of champagne and platinum, calls to her. She steps forward, running her fingers lightly over the cool fabric.

     “I wouldn’t,” a deep male voice advises. “Not with your coloring.”

     Allison whirls around. The man standing behind her is familiar, but for a moment she cannot place him. He is clean-shaven and his dark hair is neatly groomed, combed straight back with just enough product to make it shine. He stands straight and proud, rather than slouched ogrishly forward, emphasizing his impressive height and the breathtaking width of his shoulders. He wears a knee length coat of glossy black leather over a charcoal grey suit. Both garments look brand new. His deep red tie is patterned with little black locomotives. Even the scars on his face are muted, smoothed and shaded away by a judicious application of makeup.

     But nothing can disguise Peter Hale’s eyes. The circles beneath them are as dark and threatening as thunderheads and the eyes themselves are the hungry, hateful blue of hypothermia.

     “You’re here,” Allison whispers. Her heart is jolting in her chest. “You’re him. And you’re here.”

     “Calm yourself, Miss Argent,” says the express train. “I’m just here to refresh my wardrobe.”

     He smooths an imaginary wrinkle from the breast of his suit.

     “What do you want?” Allison hisses. She’s taken the precaution of replacing her lost knife with another from her family’s abundant supply. She even made sure to find one plated with gold-titanium, since that seemed to be important. But currently the weapon is tucked securely into a sheath at the back of her waistband. She isn’t at all sure she can draw it before the trainman caves in her skull. She understands suddenly why her family are so fond of bows. These are monsters best dealt with from a distance.

     “Your father has something of mine,” the express train purrs. His voice is less metallic than Allison remembers, but still rough around the edges, like a lifetime smoker. “I think you know where it is.”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Allison protests.

     Derek, she thinks desperately. He’s talking about Derek. Only he thinks Dad has him locked up, not Aunt Kate.

     “Oh, I think you do,” the express insists. “You’re part of the family business, after all. The boy didn’t want to believe it of you, but I know better. There’s no reason to arm a teenage girl with gold, unless she’s going train-spotting.”

     “That knife in the woods? That was a present from my aunt! I had no idea what it was for.”

     The express laughs lightly. “Nice try. But you and I both know that…”

     “Allison?”

     The voice is Lydia’s. Both of them look up to see the redheaded girl approaching at a brisk walk, a huge silver shopping bag slung over her good arm. As soon as she catches sight of the express train’s face, she freezes.

     “Holy shit…”

     “Miss Martin…” the express begins, but Lydia is already backing away, shaking her head violently. Her face has gone bone white, but her expression is grimly determined.

     “Get out of here,” she orders. “Get out of here, or I will scream for security and mace you in the face, you sick fuck. And my screams get heard, let me tell you.”

     The express train takes a step towards Lydia, still a few yards out of reach. Her hand plunges into the purse at her hip and comes out holding a canister of bear strength pepper spray. Allison takes advantage of this momentary distraction to dance backwards out of the trainman’s reach and draw her knife. The express glances back forth from one girl to the other, his face an iron mask of indecision.

     Then Stiles and Scott burst suddenly upon the scene, half sprinting down a long aisle of socks and stockings. They skid to a halt, Scott in the lead with his fists clenched, Stiles bringing up the rear with a lacrosse stick gripped in white-knuckled hands.

     A slow smile spreads across the express train’s face.   

     “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” he chuckles. “But I’m afraid I find this venue a little too public for our final showdown. You’ll all just have to wait patiently, like good boys and girls.”

     So saying, he strides towards the exit, forcing Scott and Stiles to dodge out of his way. When he finally disappears from view, all four teenagers sag with relief.

     Allison sheathes her knife and pulls a startled Scott into a tight hug.

     “Nice timing,” she whispers into his ear.

     Lydia and Stiles’ eyes meet for a moment. Then they both look down and away, inexplicably uncomfortable. Two spots of color appear on Lydia’s cheeks and Stiles coughs and shuffles his feet.

     Allison steps away from Scott and looks around their little circle.

     “That was way too close.”

     Everyone nods in fervent agreement.

     “Scott,” Allison says firmly. “I think it’s time you told us everything.”

     “Uh…” Scott glances nervously at Stiles, who shrugs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. We can do that now.”

     “Not here though,” Lydia suggests. “The food court. Extra public and only a few steps from the security booth.”

     “Plus, you know, food,” adds Stiles, which earns him a withering look.

     Allison nods. “Fine. But first…”

     She turns back to the champagne and platinum gown, still gleaming serenely at her from its rack.

     “…I’m going to buy that damn dress.”

Kate Argent returns to the cellar almost as soon as the sun goes down. Derek still hangs stiffly in his bonds. The charmed knots of railroad vine won’t allow him to escape, but neither will they allow him to rest. But that’s far from worst torture Kate has planned for her captive.

     She sets a leather Gladstone bag on the scarred metal table and begins to take things out of it: knives and scalpels and hooks and wire brushes, all made of razor sharp gold-titanium alloy. Derek watches her with dull, glassy eyes.

     “I don’t have the information you want,” he informs her. His voice is still deep and metallic, though tinged now with grey defeat. “I have no idea where the express train’s hiding.”

     Kate shrugs. “Too bad. Still, I’m sure we can find other things to talk about.”

     She selects a hooked metal pick and strolls over to the bound man.

     “The express train. You know who he is.”

     Derek says nothing. Kate reaches up and runs the sharp point of the hook lightly over Derek’s chest. Beads of dark blood well up from the shallow scratch.

     “He’s a local,” she continues, speaking half to herself as she continues to score Derek’s flesh. “That fact that he’s stayed hidden this long proves that. And the two of you have been hitting very specific targets, haven’t you?”

     Derek still says nothing. His jaw is clenched in terrible pain. His face is ashen and sweaty. His whole body shakes.

     “Now, I suppose he could just be doing you a favor, but that doesn’t exactly sound like any of the express trains I’ve met. So that makes him family.”

     She lowers the hook and stares directly into Derek's blue-grey eyes. “It’s Peter, isn’t it?”

     Derek’s expression flickers. It’s only for a moment, but it is enough to confirm Kate’s guess. She smiles like a Cheshire cat.

     Kate turns and walks back to the table, setting down the hook and selecting another instrument, something a little like an awl. With her back to him, she continues to address Derek.

     “But other one. The tank engine. He’s not family, is he? He’s too young. He’s got to be, what? Sixteen? Even younger than you were when we went through this dance the first time.”

     Kate turns round and stalks towards her captive, her hips rolling sinuously with every step.

     “Of course, in those days, I had more entertaining ways of making you talk,” she purrs.

     Then she reaches up and plants the short spike hard into the muscle of Derek’s upper arm, just below his brand. He yells in pain and thrashes against his bonds, but the spike remains, stuck fast like a tack in wall.

     Kate laughs and leans up to plant a swift, hard kiss on the side of Derek’s neck. He snaps at her, teeth clashing together with a spray of sparks, but she darts away, still chuckling.

     “Naughty,” she chides.

     She kneels down, placing herself well out of biting range, and grips Derek by the hips. She leans in and begins to trail her mouth over the chiseled muscles of her prisoner’s abdomen, tasting and teasing. She stops and looks up at him, her chin resting lightly against his belt buckle.

     “You never told any of the others about us, did you? Not even Laura. She must have wondered, don’t you think? How a bunch of cutthroat train spotters got access to the Hale headquarters?”

     A drop of blood falls from Derek’s chest and splashes Kate’s cheek. Her hands roam down his abdominal lines and across the insides of his thighs. He stares down at her with eyes brimming with undiluted hatred.

     “Still,” says Kate, her own eyes shining like dark stars, “look on the bright side. She’s dead now, so you’ll never have to explain how it was all your fault.”

     “Rot in hell.”

     “Aww now… don’t feel bad. You’re not the first person to get tricked by a pretty face. It’s actually kind of poetic when you stop and think about it. Handsome young engine mistakenly falls in love with a super-hot girl who comes from a family that kills engines.”

     Kate freezes. She steps back and straightens up, her face suddenly thoughtful.

     “That’s the answer, isn’t it? My God. They talk about history repeating itself, but this… my God. We’ve been so blind. It’s not Whittemore or Stilinski, is it? It’s Scott. It’s always been Scott. Because he’s in love with Allison.”

     “You’re insane,” Derek snaps.

     Kate shakes her head in reproach. “No, I’m right. I know I’m right, because you’ve started calling me names. You wouldn’t do that unless I was on to something.”

     “Like hell I wouldn’t,” Derek protests, but Kate only smiles indulgently and continues to shake her head.

     “You just can’t help giving up your fellows, can you, Derek? At least when I’m around.”

     With a swift jerk she removes the spike from his arm.

     “Thanks for the help,” she whispers. Then she flicks the blood from her cheek and strides from cellar, leaving Derek alone with his anguish.

In the food court, the teenagers hold a council of war. The place is crowded but all the voices and ringing cellphones and footsteps slapping on the faux marble floor form a dense screen of white noise, so that they can speak—softly—without fear of being overheard.

     Scott begins at the beginning, with Stiles arriving at his house late one night at the end of summer, full of a wild story about search parties looking for one half of a murdered girl. He leaves little out and the others listen with rapt attention. By the time he’s done speaking, his throat is very dry and he gratefully accepts the can of root beer Stiles passes him. Across the little table, Allison looks shaken but not shocked. Beside her, Lydia looks skeptical.

     “Well, that’s a very entertaining story. I still say we should call the police and tell them we were harassed by a man matching the description of their most wanted murder suspect.”

     Stiles rolls his eyes. “Haven’t you been listening? The police aren’t prepared to handle Peter Hale.”

     “And we are? We don’t even know what he’s planning.”

     “He was here buying clothes,” says Allison distantly. “He must have visited a salon or something too. That makeup to hide his scars.”

     “So what’s he getting all dolled up for?” Scott asks aloud, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.

     “He must be planning something public,” Stiles hazards. “Somewhere with a lot of people, I mean. He’ll blend in more in a suit and tie than he would have in his zombie apocalypse rags.”

     “I don’t know,” Scott counters. “Those weren’t exactly low profile clothes. Unless he’s planning to sneak into an gala or something…”

     Lydia groans and lets her forehead drop onto her folded arms. “The dance.”

     “What?” Stiles and Allison demand almost at the same time. Scott can only stare.

     “The Winter Formal,” Lydia explains, raising her head once more. “He wants to get to Scott, right? In some big dramatic way to punish him for not obeying or whatever. Well, where’s the only big event requiring formal attire that Scott’s likely to be?”

     “The dance,” Scott confirms. “Shit.”

     “So what’s the play?” Stiles asks, his fingers drumming restlessly against the plastic tabletop. “Ditch the Formal?”

     Allison shakes her head suddenly. “No, this is good. We know where he’s going to be, but he doesn’t know we know. We can use this.”

     “You’re not seriously suggesting we fight this guy?” Lydia demands.

     “What’s the alternative? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for him.”

     “Why don’t we just tip off your family? If they’re train spotters, isn’t this kind of their job?”

     “They’d want to know how I’d found out,” Allison says, glancing down. “And if they knew about Scott…”

     “They’d turn him into a tank engine kebab,” Stiles finishes.

     “Still,” Scott says slowly, “if that’s what’ll keep the rest of you safe…”

     “No,” says Allison flatly. Her hand twitches, as if she wants to reach across the table and take Scott’s hand in hers, but she composes herself. “That’s not an option.”

     “Okay then,” says Stiles. “That knife you have? Is it gold?”

     “It’s a gold-titanium alloy,” says Allison automatically. “I got it from a packing crate in our garage. It was tucked away under some tarps. I don’t think I was supposed to find it.”

     “Were there more in there? More weapons?”

     Allison nods. “Lots.”

     “We can’t bring weapons to the dance,” Lydia points out.

     “Not openly…” Stiles begins, but she cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head.

     “Not at all. They check people at the door.”

     “For weapons?”

     “For alcohol. Last year a couple of girls smuggled in vodka by taping the bottles to their legs, under their dresses.”

     “Well shit.”

     Stiles is silent for a moment. Then he looks up at Scott. “If you have to sneak in anyway…”

     “Finstock will be on the lookout for me,” Scott says with a grimace. “And I seriously don’t want to be caught sneaking into a dance loaded down with crossbows and machetes. I’ll look like a homicidal maniac.”

     “Well, not all of us can punch through brick walls, okay? Us humans need some weapons if we’re going to mix it up with this asshole.”

     “Scott’s still a human,” Allison snaps.

     “Of course,” says Stiles, shamefaced. “I didn’t mean…Scott, you know I didn’t…”

     “The dance isn’t until tomorrow,” Lydia interrupts. “Why don’t we just sneak in tonight and plant the damn weapons somewhere they won’t be noticed.”

     “Like where?” asks Scott, giving Stiles’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

     “The closet by the art classroom, where they keep all the props for the drama club,” Lydia suggests smoothly.

     “That’s a long hike from the gymnasium,” Stiles points out.

     “Got a better idea?”

     “Not really,” he admits. “I say we try it.”

     “If this trap is going to work,” Allison says softly, “he can’t suspect that we’re on to him. Everything has to look normal. No turning up in combat fatigues, okay?”

     “Formal attire,” Scott confirms. “No problem.”

     “Mom!” Scott calls urgently. “There’s a problem!”

     Melissa McCall looks up from her murder mystery and tries to suppress a smile. Scott is hurrying down the stairs wearing a black suit jacket over a crisp white button-down… and a pair of hastily donned track pants. In one hand he carries a pair of black suit trousers. He proffers them wordlessly.

     Melissa takes the trousers and quickly identifies the problem: a narrow tear in the seat of the pants.

     “Oh dear,” she says calmly. “Well, this will never do.”

     “But there’s no time!” Scott says frantically. His dark, unruly hair is all but standing on end. “The dance is in less than an hour.”

     “Stop panicking,” his mother advises, “and go get me my sewing kit. We can have this fixed up in time.”

     Scott sits beside her on the couch, fidgeting and fretting, while his slacks are suitably sutured.

     “You’re nervous, huh?” say Melissa sagely, not looking up from her needle.

     “Yeah. I mean, I guess so.”

     “Are you going with Allison?”

     Scott pulls a face. “Not really. I mean, there’s a group of us meeting there, and she’s in it. But she’s not going with me specifically.”

     “I see,” says Melissa. “Do you want some advice?”

     “Um, sure.”

     “Talk to her.”

     “Mom, I have been talking to her.”

     “I don’t just mean making conversation, although that’s important. I mean talk to her about how you feel.”

     “She knows how I feel.”

     “You sure about that?”

     “Pretty sure…” Scott says, not very convincingly.

     Melissa shrugs. “Even if you’re right, say it anyway. Then say it again. Go on saying it. Find new and creative ways to say it every day. Women like words, Scott. That’s the big secret that most guys never figure out.”

     Scott scratches his nose dubiously. “Women like words.”

     His mother nods. “As long as they’re true. As long as they come from the heart.”

     Scott nods slowly, then gives himself a little shake. “True words. Got it.”

     He glances at the clock. “I’m going to be late!”  

     “No,” his mom says firmly, handing him the restored suit pants. “You’re not. Take the car. Drive safe. You’ll be fine.”

     Scott nods and hurries off to change. Melissa returns to her mystery novel with a rueful smile and a shake of the head.

Scott enters the school by climbing a sheer wall and forcing a third floor window at the back of the building, calling liberally on Thomas’ strength for both. Then he slinks through the dark and deserted hallways and slips quietly into the gymnasium.

     The room is already packed with teenagers, bending and swaying to the loud pop music blasting from an array of speakers. Round tables have been draped with white tablecloths, giving the perennial wallflowers somewhere to lurk in between their sallies against the buffet table, and sparkling silver streamers hang from the ceiling. The lights are dim, which is just as well. Scott can clearly see Coach Finstock pacing the edges of the room.

     “Ah ha! I see you there, McCall!”

     Well, shit. Clearly the lights weren’t dim enough. Scott dives into the press of dancing students like a frog plunging into murky waters to evade a heron. Finstock gives chase, shoving dancers out of his way, and continues to bark at the top of his lungs.

     “What did I tell you, McCall? This kind of thing, it’s not allowed. I won’t stand for it!”

     Suddenly, pushed hither and thither by the heaving crowd, Scott finds himself in front of Danny Mahealani. The senior boy is the lacrosse team’s goalie and Jackson’s best friend, though without most of the latter’s arrogance and belligerence. An idea suddenly pops into Scott’s mind.

     “Quick, Danny, dance with me!”

     “What? Scott, no way.”

     Please, Danny,” Scott begs. “I’ll owe you a favor. A million favors.”

     “Scott, what are you doing? I don’t like you like that, okay?”

     “I know, I know. It’s okay. Just trust me, okay? Please?”

     Danny rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Fine. One dance.”

     He puts a hand on Scott’s shoulder and the other on his waist and steers them both towards a clearer stretch of dance floor. Scott folds his hands behind Danny’s neck. He can feel beads of nervous sweat forming under his collar.

     This had better work, he thinks desperately.

     He and Danny begin to sway to the beat of the music, such as it is, and a moment later Coach Finstock bursts through the hedge of arms and legs that surround them, his hair bristling and his eyes bulging even further than usual from their parent sockets.

     “I won’t stand for it, I tell you!” he booms. “You’re going to leave this dance if I have to drag you by your… by your…”

     He breaks off, seeming to realize for the first time who Scott is dancing with. His shouting has finally attracted people’s attention and now the two boys and their coach find themselves at the center of a stormy sea of curious faces.

     “Aw come on, Coach,” someone calls. “Don’t be like that.”

     “Yeah,” another voice chimes in. “Love is love, right?”

     There is a general rumbling of agreement. Danny, in addition to being one of the most widely liked students at New Sodor High, is—it should be mentioned—decidedly and openly gay.

     “I didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t…” Coach Finstock gabbles, backpedalling like a lost Tour de France competitor faced with an unexpected precipice. “You all don’t think, that I would…”

     The sea of faces does not ebb. The coach groans and throws up his hands in defeat. “Enjoy the dance, both of you.”

     There’s a ragged cheer from the onlookers and Finstock stalks away in quest of the punchbowl. Scott grins sheepishly at Danny.

     “Thanks, Danny.”

     The goalie takes a measured step back. “You used me, McCall. That’s not super cool.”

     Scott drops his arms to his sides and hangs his head. “I know. I’m sorry. If I could have thought of another way…”

     Danny nods. “Next time, do think of another way. Okay?”

     He doesn’t sound angry—which fills Scott with relief—just firm. Scott nods fervently. “Okay.”

     Danny allows himself a small smile and punches Scott lightly on the arm. Then, without further discourse, he goes to join a young man waiting at a table near the edge of the dance floor with two glasses of something fizzy.

     Scott navigates off in the other direction, trying to regain control of his faculties. Adrenaline is still lapping up against the backs of his eyeballs. He looks around automatically for Stiles, but the milling crowd defeats him.

     “Scott? Are you okay?”

     He turns to find Allison Argent smiling shyly at him. The white-gold dress clings to her and makes her fair skin seem to glow with an inner light. Her dark hair is gathered up into an elegant knot at the back of her head and a strand of pearls graces her throat. It takes Scott a moment to remember how to breathe. Other people, the noise, the room itself: they all feel suddenly distant. It’s as though the whole world has fallen away, leaving only Allison, standing tall in a spotlight of her own making.

     “You’re beautiful,” he says at last.

     She beams and colors slightly. “Why, thank you. Are you sure you’re all right though? What was Mr. Finstock yelling about?”

     “Uh, he… listen, do you think we have time for a dance before, uh, you know…”

     Allison chews at her lower lip, the flush not fading from her cheeks. “I suppose so. I mean, we’ve been keeping a look out and we haven’t seen any sign of him.”

     “So, uh, would you like to? Dance with me, I mean?”

     “I think so, yes. I mean, we’re supposed to be acting like everything’s normal, right?”

     “Exactly right,” Scott agrees, resting strong hands gently on Allison’s waist, “Except that dancing with you won’t be normal.”

     “No?” asks Allison, her hands settling around Scott’s broad shoulders.

     “No,” Scott confirms. “Dancing with you will be extraordinary.”

Stiles surveys the dance floor from his seat at the edge of the room. He spots Scott dancing with Allison. His friend stands cheek to with the train spotters’ daughter, whispering something into her ear. Stiles rolls his eyes.

     At least he’s here. And well, good for him. Good for both of them, I guess. Glad they’re working things out.

     He sighs and glances over to where Lydia sits alone at another table. Her red-gold hair gleams like torchlight and her dress is as delicate and vividly pink as a tumbling cherry blossom. Her eyes are scanning the crowd—looking for Jackson, Stiles supposes—and her lovely face is pinched with sorrow.

     “Ah, fuck it,” Stiles says abruptly.

     He shoves back his chair and stands, taking a moment to straighten the tie beneath his herringbone blazer before he strides over to stand in front of Lydia. She stares up at him coolly, her blue-green eyes unreadable.

     “Lydia,” says Stiles, “get up off your cute little ass and dance with me.”

     Lydia raises her eyebrows. “Interesting tactic. I’m going to go with ‘no’.”

     “Look, Lydia, I don’t care that we came to this dance to kill a monster instead of to unwind. I don’t care that you’re still hung up on Jackson. I don’t even care that you decided to make out with Scott as part of some kind of messed up power-trip.”

     Lydia starts as though Stiles has jabbed her with a burnt stick, but he ploughs ahead regardless.

     “I have been in love with you since the third grade. And I still love you. Because I know that under all the lip-gloss and the gossip and the scheming, you do have a soul.”

     Lydia’s eyes flash dangerously. “You think you know something about me?”

     Stiles laughs. “Lydia, I could write a book about you. Hell, I’m probably the only guy in the whole world who knows how goddamn smart you are. And I’m sure that one day, after you’ve kicked the dust of this little town off your high-heeled shoes, you’ll go on and win the Nobel Prize for inventing a new mathematical theorem and your face will be on every magazine and talk show in creation.”

     Stiles’ voice drops in pitch. His boyish face is full of a stern joy and his dark eyes are shining.

     ”And then everyone will know. And all of them will be clamoring to write books about you and your genius. But until then, Lydia, there’s only me. So, please, will you dance with me?”

     Lydia stares at Stiles for a long moment, as if seeing him for the very first time. Then she stands in a rustle of pink silk and takes his hand in hers.

     “It’s Fields Medal, actually,” she says quietly, that full mouth quirking up into an odd sort of smile.

     “What?” asks Stiles, confused.

     “They don’t give Nobel Prizes in mathematics,” she explains. “So it’s the Fields Medal I’ll be winning for my new theorem.”

     And, so saying, she guides an incredulous Stiles out onto the dance floor.

Jackson Whittemore is not enjoying the dance in the slightest. His thoughts are somewhat blurry, courtesy of the bourbon he downed in the parking lot before venturing inside, but all of them are dark and deleterious. The music pumping from the giant speakers switches to a song Jackson doesn’t know, something melancholy on a steel string guitar, performed with an Americana drawl.

     “Romero got married on the 5^th of July/In Our Lady of the Immaculate Dawn/He could have got married in the Revival Man’s tent/But there ain’t no reviving what’s gone.”

     Jackson leans against the padded gymnasium wall, hoping to quiet his buzzing skull, and stares out at the dancers. He can see Danny and his date, their smiles wide and open. Jackson can’t remember the last time he saw his friend smiling like that.

     “Slipped like a shadow from the family he made/In a little white house by the woods/He dropped the kids at the mission with a rose for the Virgin/She knew he was gone for good.”

     He turns his attention to Lydia. Her fiery hair makes her easy to find, even in this sea of people. With a jolt, Jackson realizes she is dancing with someone, her head resting against his chest. With a second jolt, he realizes that someone is Stiles Stilinski.

     “It’s a long way to heaven. It’s closer to Harrisburg/And that’s still a long way from the place that we are/And if evil exists, it’s a pair of train tracks/And the Devil is a railroad car.”

     Jackson’s teeth grind together. Lydia wasn’t supposed to bounce back like this after he dumped her. She was supposed to be crushed, even devastated. Still, if she’s settling for a benchwarmer like Stilinski, even on the rebound… maybe this is what crushed looks like.

     “Could have stayed somewhere, but the train tracks kept going/And it seemed like they always left soon/And the wolves that he ran with, they moaned low and painful/Sang sad misereres to the Moon.”

     That thought comforts Jackson for a scant moment. But Lydia doesn’t look like someone on the rebound. There is uncertainty in the set of shoulders, but not unhappiness, and every swaying step is graceful and deliberate.

     “It’s a long way to heaven. It’s closer to Harrisburg/And that’s still a long way from the place that we are…”

     Jackson turns away from the sight of Lydia and Stiles and his gaze falls almost at once on Allison Argent. She is, he considers, easily the most beautiful girl at the dance tonight. And, impossibly, she is dancing with Scott McCall.

     “And if evil exists, it’s a pair of train tracks/And the Devil is a railroad car.”

     Jackson’s fists clench of their own accord. McCall. Always goddamn McCall, trying to take the things that should be Jackson’s. The lacrosse captaincy. Allison. The strength and power of a steam engine. This last one infuriates Jackson most of all. With that strength, he could put McCall back in his place. When the little punk tried to order him around or show him up on the playing field, Jackson could smack him back down. And if the kid was too stupid to learn the lesson… well, from the sound of things, engines had some very permanent ways of dealing with their rivals. Who would blame him? Who would even know?

     “Rose at the altar withered and wilted/Romero sank into a dream/He didn't make Heaven, he didn't make Harrisburg/He died in a hole in between.”

     Out on the dance floor, Scott whispers something to Allison. She laughs and kisses him. It starts as a light brush of mouth against mouth, but something inside them seems to catch, like a spark in dry brush. Jackson grimaces, his mouth suddenly full of acid.

     “I need a drink,” he mutters to no one at all.

     “Some say that man is the root of all evil/Others say God's a drunkard for pain.”

     He pushes himself off the wall and weaves his way towards the doors. No one challenges him. The noise of the dance follows him down the empty halls of the school.

     “Me, I believe that the Garden of Eden/Was burned to make way for a train.”

Out in the parking lot, Jackson fumbles his keys from the pocket of his crisp grey suit and tugs open the driver’s side door of his gleamingly restored silver Porsche. He grabs his flask from the glove compartment leans against the side of the car to take a deep drink. The bourbon, made sharp and spicy by a hint of rye, seems somehow suited to the resentment bubbling away in his chest. The night air is bitterly cold and razor sliver of a moon beams down from a sky as black as tar.

     But the moon is not the only source of light. Something is shining in the woods behind the lacrosse pitch. Jackson stares towards it, trying to peer through the crazily overlapping maze of dark, bare branches. A single round light, brighter than a streetlamp and growing steadily larger as it approaches the edge of the field.

     Jackson is seized with a sudden and utter certainty: this is the light of an oncoming train. He drops the half empty flask with a clang. Bourbon splashes onto the asphalt and the shining leather of his loafers, but Jackson barely notices. He is off at a staggering run, not fleeing the engine, but rushing towards it. He stumbles as he crosses the lacrosse field, tearing the knees of his slacks, but he is up again in a trice. He reaches the edge of the ragged woodland and grabs onto the trunk of stunted elm for support.

     “Please,” he gasps, as the light draws closer. “Please, I need to be like you.”

     He knows this is beyond risky, but the part of his brain that weighs risks is gone, drowned in whiskey and self-pity, and all that remains is the consuming need.

     “Make me like you. Make me stronger. Make fast and tireless and invulnerable. Make me of steel! Give me the fire! Please!”

     He is shaking now, with desperation and the cold; hot tears are streaming down his cheeks. The light draws yet closer, flooding the world with blinding brilliance, and then resolves itself.

     It is a flashlight, a huge and powerful flashlight, the handheld equivalent of the searchlights used by antiaircraft gunners to target enemy bombers by night. It is carried in the hand of a wiry man dressed in a motley assortment of bikers’ leathers and military surplus gear. Half a dozen other men, similarly clad, accompany him. All are armed. Hatchets and long knives hang at their belts. On their backs are strapped bows and arbalests, and one single Korean War era antitank rifle. Their faces are grim.

     One man—not the tallest of the party but the one who stands with the most self-assurance—steps forward. As he draws near, Jackson recognizes those chilly blue eyes and the long, grizzled jaw. It’s Chris Argent, Allison’s father. He smiles at Jackson, a ritual baring of the teeth without warmth or humor in it, and draws a foot-long sheath knife, serrated along one edge. He presses the tip of the blade against Jackson’s throat, just under the jawbone.

     “Somehow,” he muses, “I don’t think we were who you were expecting to find, Mr. Whittemore.”

     Jackson says nothing, doesn’t even dare the smallest shake of his head. The gold-titanium blade is cold against his skin.

     “You really ought to reconsider,” Mr. Argent continues. “Carry on, like this, and you’ll be putting yourself and everyone you care about in danger. Understand me?”

     “Yes sir,” Jackson whispers. His mouth is terribly dry.

     Chris nods and sheaths the knife, though he doesn’t remove his hand from its hilt.

     “Good. Now, I think you might have some information that would be valuable to me.”

     “Sir?”

     “The tank engine, Jackson. The one who goes to your school. Who is he?”

     Jackson doesn’t hesitate, not even for a moment. The answer comes bubbling up out of him, born aloft on a column of petty, vengeful fury.

     “Scott McCall.”

     Lydia lifts her eyes to Stiles’. Something strange glimmers up at him from those blue-green depths. Regret, perhaps.

     “You okay?” he asks softly, as the other dancing couples drift around them.

     She starts to nod, then stops herself. “This is…it’s been… well, just, thanks Stiles. But it’s time. We should be getting ready.”

     Stiles sighs and releases her. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s go grab the others.”

     They glide through the crowd, Lydia expertly picking a path through the forest of waving arms and tapping feet, until they reach Scott and Allison. The other two teenagers look up, apprehension and resignation warring on their faces.

     “Time?” asks Scott.

     Lydia nods firmly. “I don’t want to be caught off my guard this time.”

     “She’s got a point,” Stiles puts in.

     Scott nods. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

     It is hard for the four of them to move unobtrusively, but fortunately Coach Finstock seems to be watching an international soccer match on his phone and has ceased paying much attention to the activities of his charges. They reach the doors of the gymnasium unchallenged and slip out into the darkened hallways. It seems to take years to reach the art supply closet. Stiles’ heart is thudding in his chest. Every shadow might contain the lurking bulk of the express train. Every corner they round might bring them face to face with ugly death. But despite these lively anxieties, they win through without disaster.

     Lydia unlocks the closet with a key lent to her by the head of the drama club and the ducks inside. The others follow, switching on the bare bulb that dangles overhead and tugging aside a rack of sequined costumes to reveal the huge black duffel bag they stashed there almost twenty-four hours ago. Allison kneels and unzips it. Cold metal gleams brassily up at them.

     “Gear up,” Allison instructs.

     In the dark, cheeks burning and with absolutely no one looking directly at anyone else, the teenagers strip out of their formal wear and put on the spare clothes stashed in the bag. For the most part it is simple athletic gear, all in dark colors and fitted for easy movement, overlain by heavy jackets of leather or denim. The boys add some of the armor-like padding they use for lacrosse games, and Stiles has surreptitiously borrowed his father’s little-used stab vest. Allison dons her archery gloves and wrist guards, while Lydia’s only extra armor is the brace for her sprained wrist.

     For armaments, Allison has packed herself her tournament bow and a quiver of triple-broad head arrows, along with a double-edged dagger with a stout cross guard. Lydia accepts a wicked-looking machete. She holds it awkwardly, but eighteen inches of razor sharp metal is plenty intimidating even in the hands of an amateur.

     “Hit them with sharp edge,” Allison advises, reaching back into the bag for its bulkiest prize.

     She produces a hunting spear, the kind used for wild boar, with a broad-bladed head and a short crosspiece, and passes it to Stiles. He gulps but grips the thing as he would a lacrosse stick and nods.

     Scott takes no weapon. He has a feeling he might need to transform into his full engine shape in a hurry tonight, and he has no desire to find out what happens to the engine who tries to incorporate gold-titanium alloy into their new body. He’s willing to bet it isn’t pretty.

     “Okay,” he says, straightening up. “Now, hopefully, the express train is still going to come looking for us in the gym. What we need to do is set up somewhere with a good view of the gym, so that we can get the drop on him.”

     “And somewhere the Coach won’t spot us in our commando gear,” Stiles adds. “I’d hate trying to explain this all to my dad.”

     “The bus lot,” Lydia suggests. “It’s closer to the gym than the main parking lot, and not as brightly lit.”

     “It’ll be freezing out there,” Stiles grumbles.

     “Yeah, but if it does come to a fight,” Scott points out, “outside’s probably better. Less collateral damage.”

     Allison nods firmly. “Let’s get in position then.”

     Overruled, Stiles follows his friends outside.

Scott takes the lead, reasoning that he is the most likely to survive any kind of surprise attack. His breath becomes steam in the cold night air. As they round the side of the school building, they come upon the sleeping row of school buses. They seem to glow faintly, the color of a harvest moon, beneath the coal black sky.

     “This way,” Scott whispers, slipping into the narrow aisle between two of the buses. The shadows are deepest here, best able to hide the teenagers from unfriendly eyes. The others follow him, creeping forward on cautious feet. Suddenly, an urgent voice breaks directly into Scott’s consciousness, ignoring his ears altogether.

     Hey kid! Kid! Look out!

     Scott is sure the warning comes from one of the buses.

     “For what?” he hisses back. “The express train? Where is he?”

     Not the train, you ninnyhammer. Them! Ah crap. Too late.

     Dark figures appear at the other end of the long aisle, silhouetted against the light of the crescent moon. Scott counts about seven of them, rangy men with wiry builds and hard eyes. The rails of blue light at their feet are indistinct, wavering fitfully. Their clothes are a ragged patchwork of black leather and army fatigues and all are armed for the bloody work of train-spotting. The man in the lead is Chris Argent.

     He points a crossbow, its steel strings singing with tension, at Scott’s chest and smiles.

     “I wouldn’t come any closer, if I were you, Scott.”

     “Dad?” Allison is at the rear of their little party and she cranes her necks to see around backs and shoulders. Shock and reproach are nicely blended in her voice. “Dad, what the heck are you doing here?”

     “Allison?” Chris face goes suddenly white and tense. “Allison, you have to get out of here!”

     “What are you planning to do to Scott?” Allison demands.

     “Allison, you don’t understand what’s happening here. I promise I will explain it all later. But for now, I need…”

     Holy shit! another one of the buses yells, causing Scott to jump in surprise. Holy shit! Guys, we’ve got a problem!

     Scott looks around desperately for the new source of danger. He can hardly see anything beyond the walls of this little canyon of steel and yellow paintwork, but he doesn’t need to.

     Two lines of brilliant blue light, too broad and widely spaced to represent mere human footsteps, are running over the cracked asphalt of the bus lot, pointing directly at the spot where Scott is standing. Something big is coming this way. Fast.

     Scott spins on his heel.

     “Get out!” he screams at his companions. “Get out from between the buses! Move!”

     “Stay where you are!” Chris Argent bellows.

     “Go!” Scott roars, waving his arms frantically.

     He feels a crossbow bolt thud into his back. The lacrosse padding slows it down marginally, so the tip lodges somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder blade instead of emerging from his chest.

     The other teenagers are running and Scott tries to stagger after them. One of the train spotters makes to follow them, but Argent waves him back, yelling something that gets lost in the sudden blast of a train whistle. Lydia and Allison grab Stiles by the elbows and haul him out from between the school buses. The stench of burning brimstone hits Scott’s nostrils.

     There are six school buses in a row. Starting on the left, facing towards the school, Scott is currently between the fourth and fifth. Barreling out of the darkness, the express train—a gleaming monstrosity of blue paintwork and tempered steel and blasting heat—collides with the first bus. It crumples and collides with the second, which buckles and slams into the third. And then into the fourth. And then the fifth. And the sixth.

     Scott would scream, but the air is been smashed from his body. Metal folds and warps around him, crushing and entombing him. His head is forced through a bus window in a shower of glass, and then the window frame is bent and twisted around his neck like a collapsible guillotine. Bus number four accordions abruptly, slamming the far wall against Scott’s forehead. Bursts of purple-green darkness bloom behind Scott’s eyes. Steel is wrapped around his face like a sheet of foil, filling his nose and mouth with the smell and taste of burning metal. Then everything goes black.

Allison stares incredulously at the wall of ruined school buses, crushed and hammered together into a single smoking mass that has swallowed Scott whole. From the other side of it, she hears the sounds of battle: yells and clangs and horrible, meaty impacts. She wonders, distantly, if she and her friends should try to help.

     “She’s in shock,” Lydia says, gently taking Allison’s arm. Her voices echoes oddly, as if arriving from the other end of a long, long tunnel. On Allison’s other side, Stiles is sobbing wretchedly, his round face screwed up in pain. Behind them, inside the school building, voices are raised in alarm.

     “We shouldn’t stay here,” Lydia says. She tugs insistently at the sleeve of Allison’s leather jacket.

     “No,” Allison croaks, her eyes still locked on the smoking wreck. “No, he might still… he might…”

     Stiles sobs louder, leaning on his spear for support. Lydia sighs, her breath made ragged with her own bewilderment and grief.

     “We need to go. It doesn’t matter who wins. If they find us here…”

     Stiles nods forcing himself to stand up straight and take Allison’s other arm. Then he pauses, his head tilted to one side. Allison hears it too.

     The noise of battle has died away.

     Out from behind the wreck, steps Peter Hale. He still wears his long leather coat and severe grey suit, though both are now spattered with gore. He has one massive hand placed on either side of Chris Argent’s head and he is driving the train spotter captain on before him, the tall man stumbling and swearing as he is thrust forward.

     “Allison…” Chris chokes.

     Peter increases the pressure of his palms very slightly and Chris’ words dissolve into a gurgling scream as his skull strains to retain its proper shape. The express train’s smile is wide and terrible.

     “Allison,” says Peter calmly. “Tell me where to find my nephew, or I will pop your father’s head like a pimple.”

     “And the Devil,” Allison whispers to herself, her eyes still wide and glassy, “is a railroad car.”

CLOSING THEME/SHOW CREDITS

Chapter Text

Silver streamers high above cast their ribbons of flickering light over the face of Allison Argent. Scott McCall watches the play of light and shadow, enraptured, as he and Allison sway to the strains of a sentimental pop ballad. His arm is around her slender waist and he can feel the gentle warmth of her through the silken fabric of her gown. His other hand is gripping hers, fingers twined in fingers like climbing ivy on the oak. Her dark eyes are shining up at him, deep pools under a waxing moon, and she is smiling hard enough to dimple her pale cheeks.

     Scott leans down slowly, tentatively, his lips seeking hers. Allison does not pull away. The kiss is light and sweet, like a sip of dandelion wine.

     “Why?” Allison whispers, as Scott draws back at last.

     “Why what?”

     “Why did you do that?”

     Scott senses it is not the question she meant to ask, but he answers anyway.

     “Because I love you.”

The memory dissolves into a sudden flood of pain, as Scott returns to consciousness.

     There is no part of his body that does not hurt, yet somehow his limbs feel strangely distant and unresponsive. He is encased in bent metal and broken glass, being squeezed from every side. He struggles to breathe. A steel plate is wrapped most of the way around his head, smothering his mouth and nose, but the plate has buckled and yielded up a narrow crack. It isn’t much, only a thin trickle of air that grows increasingly stale with Scott’s every desperate gasp.

     Some part of him clamors that he should stop struggling, that he’ll only use up the air the faster, only cause himself more pain. Scott ignores it. His friends are out there, beyond the walls of this hellish cocoon of metal and pressure, and they are in danger.

     “Thomas…” Scott croaks, calling his engine’s name aloud in desperation or delirium. But madness though it is, the tank engine answers.

     The numeral ‘one’ on Scott’s chest flares up, bright and hot, his boiler pressure spiking mightily in answer to his fear and his desperate need. Power, strong as steel and furious as blasting steam, courses through his muscles. He bares his teeth in effort, feeling hidden gears whirring behind his jawbone. Then Scott changes.

     The world shudders and a few stone of terrified teenager become, in flash, many tons of tank engine. The twisted remains of half a dozen school buses go flying in all directions, wedged apart by the violence of the sudden transformation. Thomas’ wheels crash to the asphalt.

     Scott looks around, his eyes spinning in the rigid grey face of his engine form. His blue paintwork, barely scuffed by his narrow escape, gleams in the light of a crescent moon and steam curls from his smokestack into the cold December air. But though the night is yet young, New Sodor High School seems deserted.

     The school building is dark and silent. No one—friend or enemy, engine or train spotter—lingers in the parking lot. Yellow crime scene tape flaps forlornly in the wind, marking off a wide area around the scene of carnage, but it looks as though a more thorough investigation was put on hold. Scott supposes that the sheriff’s men will be combing the county for Peter Hale. He doubts they’ll have much luck.

     With a groan, Scott shifts back into a mostly human shape. He sinks to his knees, face buried in his hands. Too late. He has regained consciousness too late and now his friends are gone.

     “Where?” he wonders aloud.

     The hospital? The morgue? He straightens up quickly, before that thought can drag him down into despair, and his eye falls on something lying on the tarmac.

     It’s a longbow, a sleek affair of fiberglass and high-tension cables, the kind used for archery tournaments. Beside it sit a quiver of arrows, a sheathed dagger, and a cellphone. A little ways off lie a broad-headed spear and a machete, each also accompanied by a cellphone. Both weapons are made from a familiar gold-titanium alloy but both blades are innocent of blood.

     Scott frowns. There are other weapons scattered around, all off to his left where the cracked asphalt and splattered gore tells the tale of a vicious fight between train spotters and a powerful engine, but where the weapons his friends carried have fallen the ground is pristine, unmarred.

     “They wouldn’t have gone down without a fight,” he murmurs. “So therefore…”

     His brain, so recently starved of oxygen, is having trouble getting up to speed. “So therefore… they probably didn’t go down at all. They’re alive.”

     The weapons weren’t dropped. They were laid aside. Scott’s friends have been taken prisoner by the express train. By Peter Hale.

OPENING THEME PLAYS/TITLE CARDS

Allison Argent walks carefully through the frozen woodland. Her hands are bound behind her back with heavy-duty zip ties, so if she stumbles she’ll have no chance to break her fall. Lydia follows close behind her, similarly bound, and Stiles behind them both. Last of all comes Peter Hale, carrying the unconscious form of Chris Argent slung casually over his shoulder. The veteran train spotter’s head lolls at an uncomfortable angle and blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth.

     “You could just let him go,” Allison calls back, after a swift glance over her shoulder. “He’s nothing to Scott.”

     “No,” Peter agrees. “But tonight isn’t just about punishing Scott for his disloyalty.”

     “No?”

     “No,” the express train confirms. “Tonight is about revenge.”

     “My father had nothing to do with whatever happened to your family. He wasn’t even in New Sodor back then.”

     “No?” asks Peter, sounding but faintly interested. “Perhaps not. But several of his lieutenants were. Even his own sister. Who gave them the order to murder children, half of them without even a tank engine to call their own, if not your father?”

     “My father would never do something like that.”

     “You have no idea what your father would or would not do.”

     That silences Allison. Her family has kept so much of themselves hidden from her. How can she trust that anything she once thought about them still holds true?

     The barren tree cover gives way, revealing a high embankment, half overrun with brown and crackling pokeweed. Between the dead stalks and desiccated leaves the dull gleam of ancient railroad tracks can still be discerned. And there, at the top of the embankment, a dark shape looms against the night sky.

     For a moment Allison thinks the blocky mass must be another engine, one more monster on this night of monsters, but she quickly realizes her mistake. It’s an old boxcar—not animated by any fiery magic—worn and weathered, with rust crawling over the metal fixtures and moss growing on its wooden planks. One of the heavy sliding doors stands open.

     “Get in,” Peter orders.

     “What?” Allison demands. “Why?”

     Peter grinds his teeth in impatience, a disturbingly metallic noise. “You said your aunt has my nephew in a cellar on west side of town. I propose to take us there as quickly as possible. You can either get in, or I can throw you in.”

     Allison gets in. The others follow her and the Peter drops the limp form of Chris Argent down beside them. The door closes with a rattling slam, leaving them in darkness. The air is thick with the smells of must and rust, overlain by something sweet and faintly chemical, like banana candy. Heavy bolts slide home with a series of steely thuds.

     “What’s he going to…” Lydia whispers.

     From outside comes a rushing noise, strangely metallic, followed by the deep, steady chugging of an engine. Something collides with one end of the boxcar, causing the whole conveyance to shudder. Then there is the loud click of couplings catching, and the wheels beneath the prisoners’ feet begin to turn.

     Long moments pass as they travel in silence, save for the creak of machinery. Feeling around, Allison finds that the walls of the boxcar are lined with crates. She settles gratefully onto one as though it were a bench. She can feel a headache building up behind her eyes.

     “How close to the cellar can he get by rail?” asks Stiles from somewhere in the gloom.

     “I don’t know,” Allison admits. “It seems like we can barely move in this town without tripping over an old railway.”

     “Allison…”

     That voice is her father’s, rough and ragged.

     “Daddy?” she yelps, unthinking.

     “Allison, I’ve still got a knife in my belt.”

     “I’m sorry, Mr. Argent,” Stiles says ruefully. “The expr… Peter… he searched you for weapons while you were out. He searched us all.”

     “I know,” Chris rasps. “I’ve been awake for a while, but I didn’t think he should know that. The knife is built into the buckle of my belt, but I can’t reach it with my hands bound behind my back.”

     “Our hands are bound too,” Stiles points out. “Even if we could get the knife, I don’t think we could cut anyone free without slitting our wrists.”

     “I think I can get my hand loose,” Lydia volunteers, “if someone can undo the straps on my wrist brace.”

     “Isn’t that wrist sprained?” asks Stiles.

     “It’s been feeling fine,” Lydia insists.

     Stiles grunts skeptically, but starts shuffling towards her. A moment later, Allison hears the sounds of ripping Velcro.

     “There we go,” Lydia says, squirming first out of the wrist brace and then the heavy-duty zip tie. Her voice still sounds small and wobbly in her own ears, but it is tinged now with satisfaction. Surprisingly, her wrist doesn’t so much as twinge. Distantly, she wonders if she should be worried about pinched nerves, but for now she has more pressing concerns. This mystery will have to wait.

     She stands, picks her way carefully across the floor of the boxcar, and stoops over the prone form of Allison’s father. She finds the belt buckle by touch in the darkness. It’s a heavy, cowboyish affair and the wicked little blade slides smoothly out of the left hand side.

     Little it may be, but it is sharp and a few deft strokes later, the entire company is busily chafing life back into their wrists and hands.

     “Now what?” Allison whispers.

     “Now we wait,” Mr. Argent says darkly. He takes the knife back from Lydia and she hears the floorboards creak as he takes up a position near the door of the boxcar.

     “You’re going to attack him?” Stiles demands. “Shouldn’t we be trying to escape?”

     “Even if we could force the door,” Mr. Argent growls, “we’d be leaping from a moving train. We might get lucky and only break our legs, then die a few minutes later of shock and exposure in this cold.”

     “Oh,” says Stiles, subsiding.

     “Our only way out,” the captain of the train spotters tells them, “is through the express train.”

Scott’s instincts are screaming at him to act, to run, to pursue. He fights them down. Even if Scott could pick up his trail, Peter has a head start and a more powerful engine to call on. Scott hasn’t a prayer of simply outrunning him. He needs to outthink him instead.

     He settles down to sit cross-legged on the asphalt of the bus lot and concentrates on his coupling with Peter. He’s almost never done that before. He’s always been trying to block out the strange pangs of purpose or raw emotion that echo across their mental link. He’s never tried to listen in on them. He lets his eyelids close and takes slow, steady breaths.

     An image comes to him: his mind as a rail yard, literal trains of thought rolling down many complicated and overlapping tracks. New ideas and old memories are shunted to and fro like trucks of freight. The workings are not modern or elegant, but they are powerful and implacable.

     But Scott realizes—as he sinks into the vision, as though into a dream—his mind is not the only station on this railway. A single line of rails, two parallel ribbons of shining steel, stretches away into the distance. He follows them, and there on the horizon appears a second train yard, vast and soot-blackened and clangorous. This is the mind of Peter Hale.

     Scott enters it, drifting without a body, perspective without form. An ancient boxcar, marred by rust and by moss, rolls into sight. The metal rails it follows glow orange with the heat of some powerful purpose.

     Intrigued, Scott peers inside the boxcar, its wooden sides melting away like mist as he leans forward. There sit Stiles, Lydia, Allison, and her father, all bound and trembling.

     But where is he taking them?

     Scott turns his nonexistent head to follow the line of the red-hot rails. A moment before they had been twisting and coiling crazily, obeying the hidden laws of Peter Hale’s subconscious, but now they resolve themselves into a familiar pattern. Scott can remember carefully tracing that shape onto sheets of graph paper, as he and Stiles mapped out their day’s wanderings along the derelict railways.

     “It’s Wellsworth and Suddery,” Scott whispers. “He’s… he’s headed for Brendam Station.”

     Why the express train wants to take his captives to the western edge of New Sodor county is more than Scott can guess. He supposes the answer must be here somewhere, tucked away in another freight car, but Scott can afford to delay no longer. He turns to leave.

     I can see you, Scott.

     Peter Hale’s voice echoes of out of empty air on all sides.

     Terror rips through Scott and his eyes fly open. The tangled darkness of that hadean train yard gives way to simpler shadows of a moonlit parking lot. He surges to his feet, raising his mental blockade once more. He doesn’t want the express train to overhear the plan that’s already taking shape inside his head.

     Scott dashes from the bus lot, hopping over the low median that divides it from the school’s main parking lot. A car. He needs a car. Brendam Station is miles away, but its more miles by train than by car. The Wellsworth and Suddery railway curves around a line of stony hills that the main road—built during a period of federally funded highway expansion—blasts right through. Add to that whatever slow downs Peter Hale might face thanks to the burden of an ancient boxcar and several generations of disrepair to the rails, and Scott has a chance—just a chance—of beating him to the station.

     But he can’t do it on foot. Oh, he might be able to run as fast as a speeding car. But Thomas only has so much boiler pressure to call on, and burning through it while in this mostly human shape is hopelessly inefficient. He can’t stage much of a rescue if he arrives at the station breathless and jelly-legged. And if someone saw him tearing along like that… or worse, if he got caught by a traffic camera… Scott shudders. In the long term, that could be even more dangerous than Peter Hale.

     So he needs a car. Preferably an older car. Scott knows enough from his work with Alan Deaton that he’s pretty confident he could hotwire an older model in a matter of minutes. Still, every minute will be precious.

     But to Scott’s dismay he sees that the school parking lot is all but deserted. Only one car remains, and it looks quite modern. It’s sleek and sliver and sporty and… and…

     “Jackson!” Scott bellows.

     Jackson Whittemore lurches upright behind the wheel of the Porsche. His expensive grey suit is rumpled and his eyes are having trouble focusing on Scott through the glass of the windscreen.

     “Are you drunk?” Scott demands, yanking open the driver’s side door.

     “Fuck off, McCall,” Jackson slurs.

     “Jackson, I need your car,” Scott pleads. “Allison and the others are in danger.”

     Jackson grunts and heaves himself out of the sports car, shuffling off without meeting Scott’s eyes. Scott hops in behind the wheel, and then glances down at the ignition.

     “Jackson, where are your keys?”

     The older boy laughs, as cold and empty as the December night. Scott turns to see Jackson standing over a storm drain. The keys to the Porsche gleam in his right hand, dangling loosely over the metal grate.

     “Jackson, what are you doing?”

     “I’ll drop them, McCall,” Jackson warns. “If you don’t promise me, I’ll drop them.”

     “Jackson…”

     Jackson shakes his head violently, cutting Scott off.

     “No. No way. I’m getting what’s mine. Swear to me, McCall. Swear you’ll get me the brand. Swear it on your engine’s name. Or these keys go to the sewers and Allison and the rest of them can go to hell.”

     Scott glares, but every second is precious.

     “I swear I will get you the brand, Jackson. I swear it on my engine’s name. I swear it by Thomas.”

     Jackson laughs again—a wild, drunken gurgle—and tosses the keys to Scott. Scott twists the engine to life and slams the door.

     Hey loser, the Porsche’s voice echoes in his mind. Where we going?

     “Brendam Station,” Scott mutters. “And we gotta get there fast.”

     Oh hell yeah! the car crows. Fast is my fucking middle name. Hang on, loser. We’re about to burn some rubber.

Derek Hale strains against his bonds. The interwoven lengths of railroad vine, lashed together in complex knots, are more than merely physical restraints. Each knot is a charm, imbued with purpose, and under their influence he is severely weakened. It’s not just that he can no longer call upon Edward, the steam engine spirit with whom Derek shares his soul, for strength. Even his merely human muscles are crippled and deadened by the magic. Right now Derek doubts he’s stronger than a five-year-old child.

     So he hasn’t been trying to burst his bonds by main force. Instead, he steadily chafes the knots against the scaffolding that holds him suspended above the concrete floor of the cramped cellar. The vines are surprisingly tough and woody, but slowly they have been fraying.

     It is excruciating work. Derek’s skin has begun to react to the uncanny irritant of the railroad vine. Fat red blisters, full of oily pus, have bloomed over his wrists and knuckles and are steadily marching their way up towards the level of his elbows. Every time he moves a muscle, a dozen or more of these sores break painfully open and begin to ooze and burn afresh.

     Worse are the scores of small gashes and puncture wounds that cover his chest, abdomen, and thighs. Kate Argent and her array of vicious little gold-titanium blades didn’t let up after extracting Scott’s identity from Derek and the same charms that keep him weak also prevent his injuries from healing properly. Clammy sweat trickles over his ashen skin and drips into the cuts, making each throb like the sting of a hornet.

     It would be easier, far easier, to submit. To hang motionless, without strain or sweat. To retreat into his own head. To let the present fade to a dull and distant ache. To await death with something like serenity.

     “I’ll kill them,” Derek whispers to himself, as his throws his pitiful strength against the knots. “I’ll kill them both.”

     Their faces flash before his eyes. Kate with her golden hair. Peter with his cold eyes. Kate with her knowing smile. Peter with his savage grin. Kate, who betrayed his trust. Peter, who enslaved his mind.

     “Murderers,” he growls. “They’re going to pay. For Mom. For Dad. For Laura. They’ll pay.”

     A single knot gives way. A wisp of Edward’s steam-driven strength flows into Derek. He strains harder and a minute later a second knot collapses, unleashing a fresh burst of energy. A third knot breaks, and then a fourth, and then Derek feels the cascade begin. Ropes and vines snap and lash about him. Scaffolding crumples like a house of cards. Derek lets out a hoarse bellow of triumph and falls to floor on his hands and knees.

     He crouches there for a long moment. Then he pushes himself to his feet, wounds already closing on his bare chest, the red and yellow numeral ‘two’ on his shoulder blazing like a beacon. He bares his teeth. He knows where his enemies will be.

     “Time to end this,” Derek murmurs and Edward’s steam whistle howls in agreement.

Kate Argent settles into the shadows at the foot of the wide flight of stairs leading down from the lobby of Brendam Station to the passenger platforms. The curl of a stone bannister provides her with a certain amount of cover and her thoughts are deliberately nebulous, scattering and dispersing the rails of light that might give her away to any enemies with tunnel vision. A scant handful of other train spotters, those few who are more loyal to Kate than to her brother, are arrayed in other hidden positions, all with a good view of the four passenger lines—each separated from its neighbors by a wide, tiled platform—that travel under the high glass ceiling of the station.

     The crescent moon is now directly overhead and its silver beams stab down through the grimy glass and broken panes. Spindly saplings, currently bare and brittle, have sprouted up between the rusting rails wherever the cold light touches. The metal girders high overhead, still shedding flakes of lead paint, are lined with moss and empty swallows’ nests. Rats and chipmunks scratch and scamper behind the ivy covered walls. The tunnel-like arches in the eastern and western walls that once admitted trains were boarded up long ago, but those planks have rotted away, leaving the archways gaping like toothless mouths.

     Kate sets an arrow to the string of her recurve bow. In the distance, she can hear the rumble of approaching wheels.

     “Get ready,” she calls, her voice low but carrying. “And remember, I want the target covered, but no one is to fire until I give the signal.”

     A chorus of affirmative grunts and small metallic noises emanates from the shadows. The sound of the approaching engine grows and grows. Now Kate is sure it must be the express train. No mere tank engine ever made a din like that. But even that certain knowledge doesn’t entirely prepare her for the blue liveried monster, shrouded in steam and sulfurous vapors, that comes flying through the archway nearest to her hiding place. Gordon might not be the biggest engine Kate has every seen, but he comes damn close. What’s more, he’s dragging something behind his tender, a derelict boxcar. Kate frowns, an ill-defined unease stirring somewhere around the level of her navel. Still, she hasn’t come this far, hasn’t murdered and tortured and violated the code of the train spotters, only to get cold feet now.

     She steps out into the wan light, her bowstring draw back to her ear, the gold-titanium point of an arrow trained on the wide grey face of Peter Hale’s engine.

     “Evening Peter,” she drawls. “What’s in the box?”

     The immense steam engine shudders from stovepipe to couplings and then a man is standing on the rails in front of the boxcar, his hands spread wide in a gesture of disarming amity.

     “Would it be too melodramatic to say ‘Pain’?” asks Peter.

     Kate tries not to betray any surprise at the change in the express train’s appearance. Gone are the rags and the sooty beard. This man wears a knee length coat of glossy black leather over a well-cut suit of charcoal gray. His dark hair is combed straight back from a clean-shaven face. Yet his massive frame is just as heavy with muscle and his pale blue eyes are every bit as sunken and cruel.

     “Don’t mess me around, Peter,” Kate instructs. “I’m about half a second away from putting this arrow through your eye socket.”

     “I wouldn’t advise that, Miss Argent,” Peter says, his predatory smile widening. He wiggles the fingers of his right hand, revealing something small and plastic held there.

     “What is that?” Kate demands.

     “A remote detonator,” says Peter calmly. “The corresponding unit is attached to a generous supply of dynamite and roofing nails.”

     Kate nods towards the boxcar. “In there?”

     Peter nods. “Along with your brother, your niece, and two of her friends. I trust that the poetic irony is not lost on you.”

     Kate pales. Dynamite and nails. That was how she killed the Hale family.

     “Put the detonator down,” she orders, her voice shaking slightly. “Or I drop you where you stand.”

     Peter clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “You’re a good shot, Kate. But do you really think you can kill me before I can so much as twitch a finger?”

     “You’re bluffing,” Kate asserts. “Standing that close, you’d be caught in the blast too.”

     “I’ve survived worse,” Peter declares, grinning like something loosed from hell.

     Kate swears loudly, and eases the tension from her bowstring. “What do you want?”

     Peter only stares at her. “You’re the last one left, Kate. Everyone else who hurt my family has been punished. Once we’re finished, it can all end. No one else has to suffer.”

     “So what? You want me to just lie down and die?”

     Peter shakes his head. “I want satisfaction. Face me Kate. No tricks, no weapons. Just you and me. Let the fates decide if my grievance is just.”

     “A bareknuckle duel with an engine,” Kate says flatly. “You must think I’m crazy.”

     “Well, I am crazy,” Peter confides, “and if you refuse my offer, Miss Argent, I’m more than happy to blow us all to kingdom come and let the fates sort it out afterward.”

     Kate grinds her teeth in fear and frustration.

     “Show me these hostages first,” she demands. “I won’t consider any offers until I see they’re alive and unharmed.”

     Peter inclines his head in a tiny half bow of acquiescence. Moving with deliberate slowness, carefully aimed crossbows tracking his every step, he walks around to the door of the boxcar, which is on the side closest to the train spotters. One by one he slides back the heavy bolts. Then he throws wide the door.

     Chris Argent’s foot snaps out in a lightning fast crescent kick. A steel-toed combat boot connects with Peter’s right hand and the remote detonator goes flying away. In the same instant Chris slashes the wicked little buckle knife across the express train’s throat. The gold-titanium edge cuts cleanly through thick arteries and tendons. Great gouts of blood paint crimson Jackson Pollack forgeries over the boards of the boxcar.

     Peter claps one massive hand to his spurting neck. With the other he seizes the front of Mr. Argent’s off-brand tactical vest and hurls the train spotter captain bodily from him. Chris collides hard with the lip of the platform nearest Kate’s position, then drops back down to rails with a sickening thud.

     All of this happens in the space of perhaps two heartbeats. Kate looses a desperate shot from her recurve. Peter’s legs buckle under him as his crisp white shirt colors scarlet, so the arrow she aimed at the spot between his shoulder blades punches a hole through his right earlobe instead. He drops to the ground and rolls as half a dozen crossbow quarrels rain down around him. With an audible grunt of effort he rolls under the cover of the boxcar. A second volley of shots leaves bolts quivering in the ancient timbers.

     “Hold your fire!” cries a voice from within the boxcar. Kate recognizes the voice instantly as Allison’s. The tone, however—a carrying battlefield command—is new.

     Three teenagers leap from the boxcar. Allison all but flies over the ground, her dark hair streaming out behind her. She vaults up onto the platform, defying gravity as only a trained gymnast can. She wheels around at once and reaches down, calling instructions back to Stiles and Lydia. Her two friends grab the limp form of Allison’s father, one supporting him under each arm. With Allison’s help, they manage to wrestle him onto the platform and start to clamber up after him.

     “Get clear!” Kate barks, advancing with an arrow on the string. Her eyes flick from her niece to the shadows beneath the boxcar and back again. “Go on. Up the stairs. Get clear of the building. We’ve got transport in the…”

     Her words are cut off by a sudden peal of laughter. Harsh and haunting, it bounces around the station, rebounding from crumbling bricks and rusting beams, until the whole places seems to be ringing like an iron bell atop a chapel of the damned. A reek of brimstone accompanies the hateful noise and Kate grimaces in disgust.

     “Peter,” she calls loudly, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but…”

     And then Peter Hale stands up. He does not bother climbing out from under the boxcar first. Instead, he hoists it above his head, the shoulders of his suit splitting as his muscles surge with Gordon’s titanic strength. The gash in his throat is gone. Sulfurous steam is pouring off his skin and his eyes are no longer cold but blazing with a hellish joy. Then he heaves the boxcar and its cargo of dynamite and nails at the train spotters in a single mighty toss.

     The shadow of the car falls over Kate’s face. And then everything goes black.

Allison yells as the boxcar soars over her head. Fear and defiance tear from her lungs but their sounds are swallowed up in the deafening crash of shattering timbers and rending metal as the car collides with the wide flagstone staircase. Splinters as long as her arm go whipping past Allison like javelins. An iron wheel bounces by. Crates tumble down in an avalanche, splitting open as they land. Out spills the dynamite, the sticks rolling over the tiled platform like runaway pencils, their long fuses trailing. Long nails rattle and jingle as they too scatter.

     “Allison!”

     That scream is Lydia’s. Allison turns towards her friend, but the other girl is already moving. Too late, Allison sees the huge wooden beam, its metal fittings bent into cruel teeth, tumbling towards her. Lydia lunges across the space between them, reaching for the beam with both hands.

     “No!” Allison bellows.

     Then the wave of flying dust and grit sweeps over her, momentarily blinding her. Allison swipes furiously at her stinging eyes, her heart pounding.

     When she can see again, she gasps. There stands Lydia, her feet braced, her hair shining like a sheet of living flame. In her hands she grips the beam, a slab of timber as thick as a tree trunk and more than twice her height. She holds it at arms length, holds it steadily, holds it still.

     “Holy shit,” Stiles whispers.

     Lydia looks around at the sound of his voice and sees them both staring at her. Her face is ashen. She drops the beam and sways. Stiles catches her before she can fall.

     Allison scans the scattered debris wildly, looking for Kate, but an odd sizzling noise distracts her attention. She turns to see Peter still standing where the boxcar had been mere moments before. The infernal glee has not faded from his eyes. Now he holds out his right hand, palm up, fingers curled into cruel hooks. As Allison watches, the flesh of that hand begins to smoke and slough away, revealing something like a steel gauntlet, every joint glowing orange-white with heat. The reek of sulfur intensifies and a trembling orb of blue flame gathers in Peter’s palm.

     Allison stares around desperately at the sticks of dynamite scattered across the platform. One spark is all it would take.

     “Peter, no,” she gasps. “Mr. Hale, please.”

     The express train only bares his teeth and draws back his right arm like a bowler.

     Glass shatters high above and something drops through the station ceiling. As it plummets towards Peter, Allison recognizes it as a human shape, a familiar shape…

     “Scott!” she screams.

     Peter looks up, startled, but he’s too late. Scott changes in midair, exchanges legs for wheels, arms for pistons, flesh and blood for tons upon tons of tempered steel. A stocky blue tank engine, a bold red and yellow ‘one’ painted on its side, lands directly on top of Peter Hale.

     The big man is slammed against the rails like a stomped cockroach. But like a roach, he is still alive enough to twitch. There is a shudder in the fabric of the world and Peter abruptly shifts back into his engine form. The violence of the sudden transformation hurls Thomas from him like a horse bucking a green rider. Scott’s engine goes tumbling away and he shifts again, landing on his hands and knees atop the platform that separates tracks one and two.

     Undaunted, Scott rips a rotting bench free from the bolts that hold it to the floor and smashes it over the top of Gordon’s head. The express train only chuckles, a ghastly smile stretching across its wide grey face.

     “Derek taught you that trick, didn’t he?” he rumbles. “He used to call it the Falling Anvil. But the thing about surprise attacks, Scott, is that they’re only surprising once.”

     Something—something red and blue and gleaming—hurtles through the archway in the western wall. A long scream of protesting metal and escaping steam tears into the ears of the onlookers. Edward slams into Gordon’s stunned face like a forty-one ton bullet.

     The bigger engine lurches backwards, wheels spinning out of control under Derek’s furious assault. He driven back to the eastern archway and shoved roughly through it, but at the last possible second he changes yet again.

     Huge arms, built to an ogrish scale and glittering with steel rivets, snap out to left and right, finding purchase on either side of the archway. The express’ iron fingers sink into the heavy stone as though they grip a down mattress. His legs are curled almost up to his massive chest, both feet braced against Edward’s smooth grey forehead.

     Peter lets out a bellow of effort and those legs fire like enormous pistons. Edward is shoved roughly away, sliding for more than a dozen yards before his brakes can arrest his momentum. Peter drops back to the rails with a clang and a perfect three-point landing. Then he begins to stalk towards his nephew, his hands balling into fists like steam hammers.

     With a wild cry, Scott leaps from the top of the platform. He manages to hook one arm around Peter Hale’s neck and with his free hand he punches the express train’s snarling face, over and over and over. Peter slams his back into the sheer side of the platform, leaving a Scott shaped dent in the concrete.

     Scott drops bonelessly from about the express train’s shoulders, his chest heaving like a bellows as he tries to draw air back into crushed lungs. Peter looms over him like a dark cliff, his eyes gleaming with a murderous light. But whatever brutal vengeance he has in mind is cut short as Derek comes sprinting up and kicks his uncle savagely in the back of the knee.

     Peter stumbles. Scott rolls away from him and staggers to his feet. Then the fight begins in earnest.

     Derek and Scott press Peter from both sides, pummeling him with iron fists. He responds with sledgehammer blows of his own, lashing out to left and right. Occasionally the combatants will flicker into their engine forms, Peter trying to shove his assailants away, Scott and Derek trying to pin the express train in a living vise. The teenagers on the platform can only stare in fearful awe.

     “Can they take him?” Lydia whispers, sidling over to Stiles and Allison. “Can they win?”

     Stiles shakes his head. “They tried this already. At Jackson’s place. He laid them out cold.”

     “Then we need to do something,” says Allison, the terror in her eyes replaced with grim determination.

     She turns back to the debris of the shattered boxcar. There. A limp hand sticks out from under a pile of planks. She dashes over and starts frantically tossing the broken boards aside.

     The form of Kate Argent emerges. She is still warm, but her limbs are bent at unnatural angles and there is blood, far too much blood, pooling beneath her. Her eyes are wide and vacant but as Allison bends over her, her lips move feebly. Allison leans in closer, tears already coursing down her face.

     “Allison?”

     “I’m here, Kate. I’m here.”

     Kate smiles. “Allison… always so beautiful. You’re going to be… incredible. I can tell. That fire…”

     And then she falls silent. The muscles of her face go slack and Allison’s sobs redouble.

     “No time,” she chokes. “No time.”

     She snatches up Kate’s longbow and fumbles around in her aunt’s quiver until she has retrieved a handful of miraculously unbroken arrows. Then she straightens, and turns back to the battling engines.

The first arrow takes the Peter Hale through the gut. Scott stares incredulously for a moment, frozen with his fists raised. He turns to see Allison standing tall amidst the wreckage, calmly lining up a second shot. This arrow strikes Peter around the level of his collarbone.

     “Scott!” Stiles bellows. “Get clear!”

     Scott’s eyes flick left and he sees that Lydia is fumbling with what must be half a dozen sticks of dynamite, all belted together into a single bundle. She has no lighter, but in her hands she holds a watch battery and a foil-lined gum wrapper. A tiny flame blooms and ignites the long fuse of the dynamite. Lydia passes the bundle to Stiles.

     Scott starts running for the eastern archway. Derek, catching on, sprints for the western one. Peter tries to follow, but a third arrow takes him through the thigh and he staggers to a halt. Stiles lobs the dynamite. It sails through the air as smoothly as any pass he has ever made on the lacrosse field and comes to rest at the express train’s feet. For a long moment the racing fuse sizzles and sparks. Then the world goes…

     BANG!

     Scott pitches forward onto his face. Dirt and gravel pelt down around him. For a terrible instant he fears that the explosion will ignite the rest of the dynamite scattered about the station and send them all up like Guy Fawkes Day, but though the shockwave brings shards of glass raining down from the ceiling, the actual gout of flame only envelopes Peter. Scott can’t tell where the echoes end and the ringing in his ears begins. His heart is pounding wildly as he scrambles to his feet and peers through the smoke and dust to see what has become of his enemy.

     Peter lies staring up at the crescent moon. His legs below the knees are gone, simply blasted away. His thighs and abdomen are mangled charcoal and his ribcage looks to have been crushed by the force of the explosion. Gravel and bits of broken rail have torn into him like shrapnel, leaving dozens of oozing wounds. His dark hair is no longer sleek, most of it burned and shredded down to the skull. Blood drips steadily from the corner of his mouth.

     Scott feels a sudden and horrible pressure on his bond, a pulling, clawing sensation. He realizes that the express is trying to draw energy from him, trying to steal the strength to mend itself. Scott shudders and reaches into the strange dream space he found earlier. He locates the ribbon of railway that connects him to Peter Hale. Then with a sharp jerk, he breaks it.

     It feels almost too easy. A malevolent presence he had hardly been aware of is suddenly gone from the recesses of his mind. Scott is free.

     Derek strides over to the feebly twitching remains of his uncle. He does not rush. He moves with an utter surety and a dreadful weariness. Scott sees his intention written on his face.

     “Derek…” he gasps. His lungs feel raw from exertion. “Derek, you don’t have to do this.”

     The older engine ignores him. He kneels over his uncle, his sister’s murderer, and places his hands almost tenderly on either side of the man’s face.

     “Time to end this,” he murmurs.

     Then with a wrenching twist, he breaks Peter Hale’s neck.

     A cathedral silence descends.

     After a time Derek breathes out a sigh. He rises slowly to his feet. Then, walking as though a great weight has rolled from his shoulders, he leaves that place by same archway through which he entered. Scott thinks of calling after him, but cannot find the words. The night swallows Derek whole.

Emergency services descend upon Brendam Station, drawn from miles around by the sounds of the explosion. Stiles' father is among them. By this time Mr. Argent has regained consciousness. He draws the sheriff aside and the two men speak in low, serious tones. Neither looks very happy. The teenagers sit side by on the steps outside the train station. Scott stares at nothing, his arms around Allison as she weeps silently into his shoulder. Lydia has fallen into an exhausted asleep, leaning against Stiles, who is the only one of the four still paying any attention to their surroundings. Thus he is the first to notice when it begins, lightly, to snow.

     “The official story,” says Stiles, as Scott closes his locker, “is that we all got swept up in a feud between Peter Hale, who was using a custom built armored car of some kind to smuggle black market explosives across state lines, and Kate Argent, who was a crazy vigilante.”

     Scott grunts, shouldering his book bag. “That’s close enough, I guess.”

     Stiles nods. “The rest of the Argents are going to be under a lot of scrutiny, of course.”

     “Makes sense.”

     “And there’s still a thousand dollar reward out for information on the whereabouts of Derek Hale.”

     Scott’s face goes carefully blank. Stiles watches him.

     “You’ve talked to him, haven’t you?”

     “For about a minute.”

     “Was he… how did he seem?”

     Scott shakes his head. “I’ve no idea really.”

     “Something like that’s gotta really mess you up.”

     “Yeah.”

     Stiles follows his friend’s gaze down the hallway to where Allison’s locker stands unattended. There is no sign of the train spotters’ daughter.

     “The funeral is today, isn’t it?” says Stiles quietly. Scott nods.

     Stiles rests a hand gently on Scott’s shoulder. “None of what happened was your fault, Scott. Allison knows that.”

     Scott nods absently. “That makes one of us.”

At lunchtime, Stiles spots Lydia slipping out of the cafeteria alone. He finds her sitting by herself in an empty classroom, poking at her dish of jello with a desultory expression on her face. He raps lightly on the doorframe.

     “Hey. Mind if I join you?”

     Lydia looks up, shrugs, and looks back down. Stiles sighs and settles into the seat beside her. Lydia finally takes a bite of her jello, makes a face, and pushes the dish away. She turns to Stiles.

     “What do you want?”

     “Just to talk,” Stiles assures her.

     “About what?”

     “Well, you’re an engine, right? Shall we talk about that?”

     “I’m not an engine,” Lydia snaps, her blue-green eyes flashing fiercely.

     “You healed a sprained wrist over night and caught a beam half the lacrosse team couldn’t have lifted like it was a marching baton.”

     “Adrenaline can… I mean, in crisis situations…” Lydia, normally so poised, is all but babbling. “People have lifted cars off their children.”

     Stiles nods. “True. But do you really think that’s what happened to you?”

     Lydia buries her face in her hands. “I don’t know, Stiles. I… well, I looked at some of the sites you sent us. And I talked to Scott a little bit. And really don’t think I’m an engine.”

     Stiles says nothing, merely listening and chewing a mouthful of greasy cafeteria pizza.

     “I can’t see the rails Scott’s talked about. You know, those lines of light he said were the first weird thing he noticed after he was branded. I’ve looked for them everywhere, on everyone. They’re not there.” The worry and frustration are plainly audible in Lydia’s words.

     “And I don’t think I have boiler pressure. I don’t feel anything like what Scott described. I haven’t had any sudden attacks of fever or emotion or whatever. And that’s sort of the driving force for engines, isn’t it? It’s what it’s all about.”

     Stiles nods. “As I understand it.”

     Lydia shakes her head. “Then I don’t think I can be an engine.”

     “Which means you might be something else,” says Stiles slowly. “Something we don’t understand.”

     Lydia nods. “And that scares me, Stiles. It scares the hell out of me.”

     Stiles takes Lydia’s hand in his and holds it tightly until the bell rings to signal the end of lunch.

Scott is sitting at the kitchen table, revising his history essay. His mother is back at work at the hospital for the evening, though she has made him promise to call her every hour, just so she knows that he hasn’t been abducted by any more lunatics or gunrunners. The only sounds are the tick of the clock over the sink and the scratch of Scott’s red ballpoint pen as he underlines and crosses out and rephrases.

     Two lines of brilliant blue light appear, running in perfect parallel across the linoleum floor. Scott glances up, and sees that the lines lead out under the back door, before bending away in the direction of the driveway. A moment later, he hears the crunch of boots in snow.

     He stands, turns on the kettle, and is waiting by the door to open it when Allison Argent mounts the steps of the back porch. Under her long quilted coat she wears a black dress, trimmed with doves of black lace. The cold has brought some color back to her cheeks, but her eyes are raw, her mouth tight. She still wears the silver watch on its chain about her neck.

     Scott offers her a chair and pours them both mugs of candy cane tea. The heat and peppermint seem to bring a glimmer of life back to Allison’s face.

     “How was it?” Scott ventures.

     “Awful,” Allison admits. “My parents were… they were just so cold. She was his…”

     Her voice cracks. She tries again. “She was his sister, Scott. But they act like she was just another soldier. Worse. Like she was a traitor.”

     Scott sips at his tea. He knows that Kate did betray the code of the train spotters, that her hatred of engines drove her to do unconscionable things. He also knows that Kate loved Allison as much as anyone in the world.

     Allison sighs, wrapping both hands around her mug to warm her fingers. “I shouldn’t be so hard on them, I suppose. Things… well, I don’t really understand it, but other train spotters are going to be arriving. I think my parents are under some sort of internal review.”

     “That’s got to be stressful for them,” Scott suggests.

     Allison nods. “I know.”

     “Do they know you’re here?”

     “God no.” Allison lets out a strangled little laugh. “I barely convinced Mom that she didn’t need to have you killed. If I told her I still wanted to date you, even knowing that you’re a tank engine, I think she’d probably have an apoplexy.”

     “Do you?” Scott asks. His heart is suddenly beating far too quickly. “Still want to date me, I mean?”

     Allison looks at him, staring into his big brown eyes like a painter staring at sunset. “I want to do so many things with you, Scott McCall.”

     Then she sets down her cup, leans across the table, and kisses him full upon the lips. Her mouth is warm and tastes of peppermint and she moves it against his, gently and powerfully, as though she has all the time in the world.

     “Why?” Scott whispers, as she draws back at last.

     She tells him.

     “Because I love you.”

Jackson Whittemore steps out of his Porsche into the gloom of his parents’ huge garage. He shuts the car door with a bang and walks over, guided by memory more than by sight, to the light switch on the far wall. Fluorescent bulbs hiss to life. Their harsh glow reveals the dark shape of a man, seated at ease on a box of disused lawn ornaments. Jackson has no difficulty in recognizing Derek Hale.

     “Jesus Christ,” he swears, almost dropping his car keys. “What the hell do you want?”

     Derek smiles and straightens. He looks less ragged than the last time Jackson can remember seeing him. His dark beard is neatly trimmed and the black leather of his jacket buffed to a sable shine.

     “I understand that a debt is owed to you, Mr. Whittemore,” says Derek pleasantly.

     “A debt?” Jackson asks, eyeing him warily.

     “Scott promised you something,” Derek explains. “I’m here to deliver.”

     And before Jackson can protest, Derek reaches out and—holding his hand a bare half-inch from the exposed skin of the boy’s neck—snaps his fingers.

     A flurry of sparks, bright as road flares, accompanies the oddly metallic noise. Several dozen collide with Jackson’s skin. He yells in surprise and pain, staggering back against the car. The burning sensation does not lessen as Derek brushes past him and stalks out of the garage. Instead, it seems to intensify, burrowing deeper and deeper into Jackson’s flesh. Jackson gasps, clutching at his throat, fighting to remain upright.

     Ah, purrs an oily voice at the back of Jackson’s mind. A new one. Well, this ought to be interesting.

CLOSING THEME/SHOW CREDITS