Ok this is my first attempt to write a fanfiction, so I ask every reader to not be too hard. Moreover, English is not my mother language, so I apologize for every possible mistakes!
DISCLAIMER : I don't own Thomas the Tank Engine.
CHAPTER 1 : WAITING
Rusty.
Yes, that was the right word to describe his situation. Or maybe not? He sighed to himself. Boy, maybe all the time spent in that empty yard was starting to take his toll. Well, why not? At the beginning, there were other engines to talk to, but year by year, all were gone... to scrap.
He was mildly surprised when he noticed the word had no effect on him. But what do you expect, after years and years of being 'waiting for scrap'? He remembered that day, when he first heard those horrible words....
February 1st, 1967
The engineer carefully approached the rusty engine, and when a soft 'clang' was heard, he stopped the engine. His fireman had already lowered the fire, it was so small now that he could have put it off simply by pressing his hand. Now he was standing there, a sad look in his grey eyes. With mechanical precision, the engineer make sure the engine couldn't move anymore, and then he pulled his hat off his head and sighed. "I'm gonna miss him!" he complained lowly. The fireman lowered his eyes. "Me, too. But I'm afraid the time of steam engines are gone. Sooner or later, it should have happened!" "That's not making it any easier." said the engineer. He looked around, fixing every detail of the cabin. Then he slowly got down of it. The pair then walked on the front of the engine; the wanted to say their farewell, but it was difficult. Then, the engineer slowly started : "I'm sorry, we're both very sorry, but we must leave now. You're a very good and reliable engine, so I'm not gonna lie : you're going to stay here, waiting for scrap." He stopped, and it was clear he was struggling not to start crying; he was very attached to his engine. "We shared a lot of good moments together, you know." He said; and then, lifting his gaze, he murmured : "Goodbye!" The fireman said nothing, he just stood there, watching the engine on which he had worked more than twenty years. Then, the two walked away, leaving behind a lonely and sad engine, and not the least important part of their lives...
Now
Lost in his memories, he didn't noticed the group that was walking towards him until they were near. He was surprised; from years he had seen no one coming near him. And it was for very dreadful reasons...
November 15th, 1977
"...And then, I was there, coupled up to a train I couldn't have even tried to pull before the war, and boy was it heavy! When I arrived, I swear I couldn't think of anything besides 'Do I still have wheels?' "
Everyone in the yard laughed. The old engine smiled happily; his stories were the craziest the others had ever heard, and in his very long career he saw so many weird things he had enough stories to entertain them for ages.
But then, an old-looking electric engine shouted : "Hey guys! Look! There's people coming!" And then, everyone spotted them; about ten persons, marching towards the engines, with no expression on their faces, and with a can of paint and a brush. All the engines turned silent; they felt something was going to happen.
The people went into the 'corridor' (they called it the space between the two adjacent tracks occupied by them), and one who looked like the chief indicated one engine; one then took the brush and swiftly painted a white X on the side of it. There was no reason to explain : they understood that the branded engines were soon going to their final destination.
Silently, the men advanced; most of the engines were now with the condemning sign. Finally, they came close to him. The chief lifted his gaze on him, and he braced himself, ready to feel the brush saying his sentence. The chief went on, without lifting his arm, and the brush remained in the can. He felt at the same time relief and guilt; and couldn't lift his eyes to look to the others, not wanting to be reminded his luck...
Now
He remembered too well that shortly thereafter, the branded engines were gone. And he was not : he remained there, waiting for someone at the offices to remind him.
And someone did that. The engine closed his eyes, refusing to see his executioners coming closer. Well, he didn't have any right to complain : he had had a very long life, outliving many other engines. He knew he was the last of a surpassed and obsolete era, and now the last relic of that era was going to disappear. He thought that after all that time spent there, being scrapped was not so bad; it was better than remaining there, useless and lone.
He heard someone climbing on him; he waited to hear the blowtorch's hiss, the pain of the steel being cut, the gradual loss of conscience, after what the only thing remaining of him would have been some dismembered wheel, tube and lever.
But it didn't came.
He was puzzled when this people started to examinate him : opening his firebox, checking his cab, inspecting his tender, scanning for any sign of structural damage. But there was none : he was one of the latest steam engines to be built, and he had endured very well to the time and to the rain. His last coat of paint had fought very effectively the advance of rust.
So, when all of them declared one by one that he was in very good shape, the one who was looking as the chief smiled, and looked up to him. "Very well!" he said, and patted with satisfaction his left cylinder. "You're up to be refitted, pal! You're not ready for the scrapyard yet!"
And for the first time in nearly forty years, Luigi the Freight Engine felt a surge of true hope filling his boiler...
