A/N: The London versions (both the original and the caboose-less revamp) are the only time Wrench participates in a race. Hence (in part) this premise.
"Remind me," Electra said tightly, his blue eyes moving from truck to truck like a death ray, "what do I pay each of you for?"
The four of them stood beneath the overhanging wires at the end of the track reserved for the superstar racer. Electra struck the most impressive figure of the bunch, glimmering in the white beams of the nearby lampposts like a star come down to earth. Ordinarily, Wrench would have taken the time to admire the way his tall Mohawk matched his red shoulder compartments or the way his blue lips popped out against the white-and-red streaks on his handsome face or the way his blue eyes could light a whole town when he smiled or even the way the machinery inside his wonderful brain sent out delicious wireless signals which her receiver detected when she was this close to him, but right then the repair truck would have given her entire tool collection to be anywhere else.
As if sensing her hidden distress, the laser-like gaze stopped on Wrench first. She resisted the urge to look away. "I am your repair truck," she replied respectfully, keeping her electronic voice even despite the sudden increase of her diesel-powered heartbeat, "and I carry a piece of your computer."
She was a short woman, a crane car made of metal and muscle, decked in reds and blues and silvers to match the electric engine before her, though Electra's level of fabulous fashion was still far from her forte. Still, he had given his much-coveted approval of tonight's appearance: a new flame-like hairstyle, cropped short; a wide red collar above her blue leotard, silver legs and springs, and apron-like panels hanging from the front and back of her belt which reflected her position as a certified repair truck - and as said repair truck, she had developed a proverbial tough skin from the many collisions and disasters she had seen over the years. However, the enraged blue eyes that bore into her now filled her with a dread which she had not felt since she had treated her first patient in mechanics school.
She expected a shock from the mechanisms in his hands which could send electricity into his opponents, but none came. Mercifully instead, that heated glare moved to the money truck beside her. "And you, Purse?" he demanded.
The short man bowed his well-groomed head, but his pale countenance visibly struggled to remain calm. "I am your money truck, sir," he answered. His electronic voice held a cultured cadence. "I handle your great wealth, manage your extensive estate, and have always shown the utmost loyalty - "
"Enough," Electra snapped, and the armored car fell silent, but he kept his brown head lowered, fidgeting with his red bow tie.
Two cars were absent from the electronic consist. Joule the dynamite truck had wisely hitched herself to that German racer, Ruhrgold the ICE, instead of returning to face Electra's wrath. Krupp the armaments truck had curiously not come with their train either, even though he probably had the least to fear from the locomotive.
That left Volta the freezer truck.
The dark-haired beauty met her lover's glower without a blink. As Electra's preferred car, she was easily the best dressed of the components. The lower half of her silky black hair had been bleached white and styled into a tall, snowy fan which showcased her status as both a freezer truck and a beautician. Her shoulder compartments and legs were painted a reflective black while her chest piece consisted of inverted blue triangles which rippled to a single white center like an archery target.
Volta smiled at the locomotive for a moment before answering. "I am your hairdresser," she said, calm as ever, "and your race partner, dearest. I also carry a piece of your computer."
Don't antagonize him, Wrench urged silently as a jolt shot through the electric's muscular frame, causing his blue arm to jump.
"And how long have I been training for tonight's race?" he demanded, his voice growing dangerous.
"Three years, my love."
The blue eyes narrowed further. "Then why," he growled, "did I just now see my own coach and my crew fraternizing with the one diesel engine I've spent my entire life preparing to defeat?"
Purse quickly spoke, "I didn't go, Elec - "
"Quiet, you," Electra snarled before he turned back to his freezer. "Explain yourself, Volta."
Volta's blue lips formed a coquettish smile. "What, jealous Oberon?"
In a flash he had gyrated his legs, screeching to a halt in front of her. "Don't mock me, woman," he warned, pointing a gloved hand at her icing white face. "I'm starting to reach my limit with you."
Volta glanced at the silver wheels on the back of her black hands as if to inspect their polish. "I only went over to the handsome oaf because Wrench and Joule were already so absorbed in him, darling."
Wrench's mechanical stomach dropped.
That sub-zero backstabber...
The pantograph concealed in the tall hair crackled with electricity as the locomotive spun to face the repair truck. "Well, Wrench?" he mocked. "Since you're so social today, please elaborate."
Wrench struggled to keep her expression politely neutral. "I... only wanted to observe. As a mechanic," she answered carefully. "You know I think highly of you."
"If that's observing, then what's your idea of engaging?" Electra demanded.
Wrench averted her eyes, choosing instead to study the crisscross design on her silver legs.
Even then she could not fully explain what had come over her mere minutes ago. She had seen Greaseball plenty of times on television. For the past three years, she had sat with Electra watching tapes of the champion's previous victories so that the electric engine could learn his weaknesses and develop a strategy. Electra had valued her input because Wrench had actually studied Greaseball's model back in school; the EMD E9s, once the spectacle of the Western rails, were now museum pieces in many parts. Greaseball himself was one of three that the Union Pacific still kept for parades and special occasions. Though he was obviously in top condition, he was still just a relic: nothing which could match the power and allure of Electra.
Then they had all been there in the Wilton Yard, surrounded by Electra's new audience as the superstar shone the brightest among all rolling stock. The electric engine had shown off his skills by using his magnetism first to pull a golden observation car with blonde curls toward him, showering her with his coveted attention before he had caused the rest of the vehicular spectators to orbit him like Saturn's moons. It had been a stunning victory - at least until the familiar diesel air horn had echoed across the hills.
Then Greaseball had been there, right in front of her - a living, breathing E9 who looked like he had just come out of the factory. Something inside Wrench had made her roll forward, wanting to study him, to put her hand on his rippling muscles to see if he was real, to get lost in the excitement over this celebrity. It had been like stumbling upon a lost species in a rain forest, and yet this specimen could gyrate his hips and flex his massive arms and smile and win championship after championship, year after year.
Then all of a sudden Joule had joined her to flirt with the mechanical Adonis - not much of a surprise there - but the final nail in the proverbial coffin had been when Volta had rolled up to run her manicured hands over the diesel's bare metal chest, flaunting her admiration while her electric lover sparked on the sidelines.
"I suppose," Wrench said at last, choosing to play to the young locomotive's ego, "you might call it a scientific curiosity for obsolete machinery. Your victory tonight means electric engines will be replacing diesels in this country. Might as well study them before they're all gone."
Another twitch went through Electra's body, and she looked up to see his painted jaw clench. "Maybe," he said through his teeth, glowering from one woman to the other, "I have too many obsolete machinery in my employ. Maybe I'll have to do some downsizing after the championship."
Wrench's diesel tank grew cold. "Electra - "
"Don't," he ordered. "Evidently, you must think being a repair truck makes you indispensable, Wrench, but I can make sure you never find work on the future electric lines if I choose." His eyes slid to Volta. "And you, my dear, will have trouble getting a job on a freight line today. Not much business for freezers. Maybe you could convert yourself to a baggage car and find work on a passenger train," he added nastily.
Volta's cold face could not conceal her grimace.
"But, sir," Purse interjected, taking a risky step toward the enraged diva, "it's mere minutes before the first elimination heat. You've spent so long training with Volta - "
Electra rounded on him. "Do you think I can't win with a new partner?" he demanded.
Purse's gray eyes filled with sudden horror. "Of course not, sir! You can do anything you put your mind to, sir!" he said in a rush, putting his palms together in a hurried anjali mudra. "I only meant - "
"Enough," Electra commanded, and the money truck fell silent, still making several deep bows. The engine tapped his painted chin, and when he spoke, it was in a sweet, mocking voice, "Purse, do you remember that fetching little observation car with the gold cabin and silver trim? Blonde curly hair?"
"Very clearly, sir," the money truck replied.
"He should, considering the spectacle you made of her," Volta said darkly, but Electra ignored her.
He waved a red hand at the money truck. "Find her and congratulate her. I have selected her to be my partner for the first heat."
"W-What do I tell her?" Purse asked, his electronic voice cracking.
Electra's eyes flicked to Volta, but he continued to speak to the money truck. "Tell her my coach has a headache - and that I think she's second to none."
Purse bobbed his head. "Y-Yes, Electra, but..." He swallowed noisily. "What if she already has a partner?"
Electra gave him a shark-like smile. "Then you're fired."
Purse's pale face seemed to grow whiter. "S-Sir - "
However, there was no mercy in the locomotive's stare. "Why are you still here?"
Purse did not even bother giving a bow. He spun and sped off into the night, nearly derailing in his hurry.
Electra returned to Volta who stared back defiantly. He leaned down and spoke softly in her ear, but Wrench could still hear every word. "I may prefer you over coaches, but I can always replace you just like that," and he snapped his fingers beneath her white nose. "Try not to forget."
Volta pursed her lips, but she lowered her eyes.
"That's my girl," Electra smirked. Then his gorgeous eyes trailed to Wrench - and narrowed. "And you," he said coldly, "get out of my sight."
Wrench watched the first elimination heat from afar, finding a nice hill that overlooked the lower half of the mountainous track. The monitors above the audience gave a good view of the racers as they sped and swerved through the treacherously serpentine rails high above their heads.
Her diesel-powered heart quickened as she watched Electra zoom from curve to curve, and even in her apprehension, she could not help admiring the way the stadium lights glistened off his polished frame. Even with his blue helmet concealing his face, his whole look was a much better sight than Greaseball's yellow Union Pacific livery - or that red-and-white striped ensemble which Espresso the luxurious Settebello wore or the yellow-and-gray striped monstrosity sported by the record-holding bullet train, Nintendo.
Occasionally, the monitors would show the faces of the partners, who wore no masks, and Wrench found herself rooting for another piece of rolling stock - though the sentiment was more for his safety than for his partner to place in the final. It had been a complete surprise, but Krupp had rolled out in Track Three hitched behind the yellow-and-gray Shinkansen. In the three years Wrench had known the gray armaments truck, she had never seen him participate in so much as a practice trial. Krupp was a reserved man who spoke little of himself and did not seem to have much warm feeling for anyone outside of Electra and his entourage. Perhaps tonight he had broken tradition because he had wanted to avoid the train wreck waiting for them once Electra had his trucks alone.
Wrench gritted her teeth, feeling her diesel tank begin to boil as Electra sped along with his pretty new coach in tow. Why did you do it, you moron? she fumed at herself. Don't you know how lucky you are to be on HIS train?
She had grown up on electric lines as a maintenance truck. Though diesel powered her crane, from the moment she had been able to stand on her wheels by herself, she had been trained to maintain electric tracks. Her work-truck parents and grandparents had served electric engines and their trains as had her aunts, uncles, and cousins. When she had made the decision to rise above the drudgery of track maintenance and become a repair truck - a mechanic for other rolling stock - it had been for electric vehicles that she had studied. Though the engines back home had made it clear that they considered her diesel tank a necessary evil, it was electricity which her generator produced, and it was electricity which ran through her wires. It was electricity which held her allegiance - and it was Electra, the champion of electricity, who held her heart. How could she have let herself get so carried away that she could publicly shame him with her betrayal?
She would tear off her brake shoes if it meant she could be in the heat with him right then. It seemed to have escaped Electra's memory that the golden carriage had been among Greaseball's gathered admirers, but even Wrench had to admit that she was his type: long curly hair, a fair visage with pink streaks which drew attention to blue eyes, and gold paneling trimmed with silver while pink and pearl-white paint lined her window-laced limbs.
However, good looks meant little in a race. The observation car (named Pearl, as Control had announced over the intercom) could not have been a day over six months. Though she kept her head when a fight broke out among the racers on the trestle, she did not have much strength in her white, hollow arms to ward off Electra's attackers, and her pretty face was spared a blow only because Espresso's yellow buffet car pulled her out of the way. Electra tried to send a jolt of electricity at Greaseball, but Pearl clutched him, causing him to hit the nearby lamppost instead and make it flicker. When the racers started forward again, Pearl's wobbling forced Electra to fall behind Greaseball. If only Electra had taken a better partner...
"If wishes were coaches, then hobos would ride," Wrench chided herself. Even if Electra had forgiven them, he would have been in there with Volta - prim, prissy, diesel-powered Volta who thought she was better than the rest of them. Occasionally - usually when he grew bored with Volta's airs - Electra raced with Joule, the dynamite truck with the wild hair and a tight red leotard. A few times he had branched away from his components and selected a lucky car for a casual competition, like a stylish magazine model or an athletic but extremely photogenic male truck, but among his computer Electra preferred those two ladies: Volta with the cool class and Joule with the feminine, animalistic appeal.
Wrench had just a tool box and a diesel tank.
She ran a hand through her short hair. Ordinarily, she wore her work helmet - the typical accessory of crane cars - but for race night she had chosen to sport the new wig she had purchased, an eye-catching number that was black at the back and shifted to red at the front, then orange, giving it an overall flame-like design. Without the crane extension, she resembled a flat car with a red operating booth around her neck - more like someone the electric superstar challenger would have in his employ.
"But he hired me because I'm the best," she said through her teeth, resting her chin against her clenched fists. The other electrics had wanted him to take an unpowered tool car for his mechanic, but Electra had taken a chance on her because she was the first in her graduating class. Electra did not care if a truck used diesel: even he admitted that putting a pantograph on a freezer or a crane car was counterproductive. As long as they could serve him to the level that he deserved, he did not care if his employees spent part of their paychecks on fuel. That was what made him so amazing - and why Wrench could not imagine working for anyone else.
She adored Electra. Of course, everyone adored Electra. No one could ignore him once he switched on his magnetism, but Wrench knew that what she felt went beyond artificial affection or starstruck wonder. She had spent the greater part of three years in his presence. She knew the man he was when the cameras were off - the man who never failed to greet her in the morning; the man who came in for overhaul once a month and talked for hours with her about everything from music to her latest mechanical journal; the man who had taken her on a trip for her last birthday to spend the day in the city, just the two of them. Even though Electra had never made a move on her the way he had with Volta and Joule (or several other fancier trucks and coaches), she still valued each and every moment she had spent in his presence.
"And now Electra takes it!"
Wrench was pulled out of her thoughts as Control's narration grew more excited. The racers sped down the steep grade back to the lower tracks. Electra and Greaseball were struggling to pull in front of the other, but they were too well-matched.
"C'mon, dearest," Wrench urged, clenching her hands. "C'mon!"
Suddenly, a yellow figure bolted from behind, and Wrench sat up with a jolt as Nintendo zoomed ahead of the pack.
"Nintendo makes his play..." Control said dramatically, allowing for a pregnant pause.
...But Wrench could already see that something was not right as the Shinkansen charged for the final curve. Krupp must have seen it too because he released the bullet train and hurriedly grabbed the nearest truss structure to brake himself. Immediately, Nintendo zoomed off the track for the nearest hill - and went flying head-over-heels right over it.
"He's overdone it!" Control shrieked. "Nintendo crashes!"
The familiar sound of denting metal reverberated off the mountainside. In the next blink - so quick Wrench almost missed it - the remaining three figures flew across the finish line.
"Winner of Heat One: Greaseball the diesel! With Electra in second place! Greaseball and Electra have a place in the final!"
The words echoed in Wrench's ears, drowning out the thunderous applause of the audience. She numbly watched as the monitors showed an instant replay. In the momentary distraction of Nintendo's prowess and defeat, Greaseball had pulled a hand's-breadth further than Electra.
"Second place," she said aloud, and her electronic voice sounded hollow to her ears.
Not first. Not a dead heat.
The electric superstar had placed second behind the diesel champion.
She felt the signal from Krupp's computer piece before she even saw him, and she followed it in time to see her friend coming off the track which the marshals used. Despite the tension in her chest, she was glad to see him in one piece.
The armaments truck gave a small nod as she rolled near. Krupp was a tall man, almost the same height as a locomotive. Wrench knew he had been a piece of head-end equipment on a German passenger train once, probably a baggage car, but now the male coach carried Electra's collection of guns and bullets. Despite being a member of Electra's entourage the longest, he was dressed simply in a bodyguard's uniform made of unpainted metal panels and wore sunglasses on his gray face.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," Wrench observed, giving him a sweeping glance. Her expert eyes could not spot so much as a scuff on his polished frame. "Since when do you go racing?"
Krupp shrugged. "Since when do I get the chance to pair up with a bullet train?" he replied. Despite his European background, he spoke with no trace of an accent - though perhaps that was covered by his electronic voice, which was deeper than the other components'.
Wrench gave him a smirk. "You realize he doesn't have any actual bullets, right?"
Though it was hard to tell with his dark shades, she was sure he rolled his eyes. "Are you going to inspect Electra?" he asked.
The small smile she had formed instantly died. "I don't think he wants to see me right now."
"Probably not," he agreed, and she heard him give a small scoff. "Volta would've been a better partner than that coach."
"Try not to tell him that," she warned, biting back her bitterness. "He threatened to fire Purse if the little bimbo didn't race with him."
The visible portion of his gray features took on a look of surprise - and his jaw tightened. "That train..." he muttered, making a fist. "If he's not shooting electricity without checking his surroundings, he's pulling stunts like this. He's going to be the death of me." He shook his head and started down the track, heading toward the visible electrical structures in the distance. Wrench grabbed his holdings, moving her legs in time with his.
Together they followed the electric overhanging wires and lampposts toward where Electra's reserved track laid, passing the mechanical tracks for which Wilton Yard was famous. Ordinarily, Wrench might have taken the time to admire the technological novelties such as the moving bridges or the sections of ground which spun like turntables, but the thought of facing Electra again after his failure to place first sucked out her inner mechanic's interest.
They had gone a little ways when Wrench finally asked, "So, why did you race? You never partner up."
The broad shoulders in front of her gave a shrug. "He is a fast train," Krupp replied. "Shinkansen have broken many records."
"Point," she replied, giving him another sweeping glance. "It's a good thing you saw Nintendo was overexerting himself, or you would've been in the repair shop right alongside him."
Krupp was silent for a moment. "That's not why I let go," he said softly.
She waited for him to elaborate - and then she realized what he meant. She grabbed his muscular arm, yanking him around to face her. "You did it on purpose?!" she hissed. "Do you know the kind of scandal that would've made for Electra if you got caught?" It was one thing for partners to attack other racers; it was another for them to disqualify their own team member.
However, Krupp was unabashed. "I did it for him," he insisted.
"Yes, I figured that," she said through her teeth, "but he's already mad at us. Imagine what he would've done to you if you dragged his name through the dirt."
The male coach's gray mouth twitched once. "Were you watching at the end?" he asked coolly. "I know you were watching Electra, but did you see? Just as Nintendo pulled ahead, Electra fell behind Greaseball. If Nintendo had won - "
"Electra would've been in third," she realized. Her stomach clenched.
Krupp jerked a nod. "And he would've lost. And the last three years of my life spent guarding that train would've been for nothing. That's why I had to let go." He looked away. "It's just lucky Nintendo was going too fast anyway."
Wrench had to stagger to the nearest electrical structure for support. She leaned her head against it. "I can't wait for this night to be over."
Krupp stepped beside her. "He still has the final to run."
Wrench scoffed. "And he'll still take the Barbie doll," she said bitterly, glaring at the bits of ballast beneath her wheels, "and the other racers will be pulling cars that have actual experience."
At that last word, Krupp made a sudden soft sound which she could not decipher - and she felt his hand on her metal shoulder. "That reminds me," he said quietly, but she recognized a note of conspiratorial excitement. "There's still the second heat."
"What are the odds?" Wrench cracked.
"Well, if you keep your ears open around the track marshals," Krupp continued, ignoring her comment, "some of the coaches of these National champions are out of commission. Apparently, a few contracted food poisoning. Hasn't made the newspapers yet because Control's PR team is trying to keep it under wraps."
Now that she thought of it, red-clad Espresso had been racing with a yellow buffet car during the first heat instead of one of the cars from his trainset. Her dark eyes moved to the armaments truck at last. "Your point?"
A small smile appeared on his gray mouth. "Control has given the Nationals their pick of his roster, but some might prefer a repair truck."
She raised her head.
"Just something to think about," Krupp finished. He gave her shoulder a light pat before he continued down the track, alone.
Wrench headed down the line, powered by a new determination. If Krupp could get a partner, so could she.
Her best bet seemed to be to keep following the electric wires. Besides Greaseball, the only other diesel engine was the British train, the Prince of Wales, and even with her new mission to disqualify a champion racer, there was no way she would make any sort of indention in the competition through partnering with that clumsy oaf. No, if she was going to help Electra, she had to find herself an electric vehicle.
Just as long as none of them are as picky as the socialites back home, she thought darkly. Still, if a National champion was desperate enough to represent his country in the race and did not like the coaches Control had to offer -
It was then that she heard a noise, much like grumbling in a foreign language.
She looked up in time to see a tall electric locomotive with gray metal pieces roll out of a dark tunnel, carrying a racing helmet under his black-and-white striped arm. He sported a red chest piece with a yellow hammer and sickle. Even from that distance, the repair truck could see that his decorative tan face looked distracted, as if he were on a hurried mission. Wrench recognized him at once from the newspapers: Boris Turnov, the representative from the Trans-Siberian Railway.
...And the pretty dining car who had appeared beside him in those front-page photographs was noticeably absent.
Wrench started forward, feeling a rush of triumph. "Looking for something?" she called to him, making her electronic voice as friendly as she could muster.
Turnov looked up - and he coasted to a halt at the sight of her. His stern face was hard to read, but Wrench still saw a light appear in his dark eyes. In the next moment he rolled forward.
"Excuse me," he said, closing the distance between them. "My name is Boris Petrovich Turnov, and are you doing anything during the second heat, Miss?" He gave her a hopeful look.
Wrench quirked her painted eyebrows. "The second heat?" she returned, playing dumb. "I suppose I might be free. Do you need something, Mr. Turnov?"
He jerked a nod, and a shadow crossed his decorative face. "Some dumb switch engine with rust did not bring my dining car food in time," he said, his accent growing thicker as anger seeped into his deep voice. "She cannot race. Too dizzy." He put a hand to his forehead, miming a light-headed woman. "I need a partner very soon. Or I can't race."
Wrench tilted her head. "That sounds dreadful," she said, coating her voice with the empathy of a good bedside manner even as she gave his tall figure a sweeping glance.
Yes, he would be adequate. Muscular. Good wheels. (Not too bad on the eyes either, she noticed, admiring the red-and-black contours on his angular features.) She knew this was his first year racing in the world championship, but the newspapers had listed his speed record, which had put the previous Russian representative to shame. As an engine who worked on the world's longest railway, Turnov would have more stamina than even Electra, who had never pulled an actual passenger train before.
Definitely someone to keep out of the final.
She immediately gave Turnov one of her rare smiles, inwardly congratulating herself. "I suppose I could go with you," she finally answered as if she were only agreeing to go to the movies with him.
Turnov gave a respectful nod, but she saw the brief flash of relief in his dark eyes. "Then let us go, yes?" he replied, jabbing a thumb over his shoulders to indicate his holdings.
Wrench instantly complied, but no sooner had she gripped the shiny gold-plated loops - no sooner had she allowed a triumphant smirk to play upon her red lips, hidden from Turnov's sight - that a sweet voice came ringing down the track like a silvery bell.
"Dorogoy!"
Wrench whirled around to see a rosy-cheeked coach in a black-and-white skirt similar to the engine's livery emerge from the tunnel and race toward them. The ornamental samovar and food items that were woven into her brown hair denoted her as a dining car - specifically, that dining car.
Wrench clenched Turnov's holdings tighter.
Turnov turned as well - and a smile instantly crossed his long face. He twisted toward the coach - so fast that Wrench lost her grip on him - and sped toward her. He grabbed his diner by her wheeled hands. "Kasha! You're supposed to be resting!" he scolded, but excitement flooded his voice.
Kasha beamed, flashing pearly teeth. "A switch engine named Smuts brought me good food in time," she explained, touching his red chest piece with gentle affection. "I feel better now. I can race."
The man's grin stretched. "Zamechatelno!" he cried, picking her up by the waist and spinning her about. The coach gave a warm laugh.
Wrench could only watch them, trying hard to keep her composure.
Turnov set his coach back on her wheels, giving her a look of utter devotion - and then he seemed to remember the repair truck's presence. He gave Wrench a deep nod. "Good night, Miss. Thank you anyway."
"Don't mention it," Wrench said through her teeth as the engine and coach sped off toward the starting gate. She turned away, wishing them both loose wheels.
The blinking red numbers on each digital counter she past grew closer and closer to race time, and she did not spot another eligible racer. She did see Ruhrgold, decked in green and gold, pulling Joule toward the race track. Bobo, the blue TGV, had been pulling a wooden smoking carriage who had to have been fifteen times his age. That left just one racing spot.
She took a deep breath and tucked her pride in her cabin before she stepped off the electric track, taking the route used by the diesel rolling stock. She kept her eyes open for the Royal Train, who should be arriving soon.
The things she did for Electra...
She had come to an intersecting track when her ears picked up a sound of a speeding vehicle coming from her left. She paused and turned - and stared as a rusted steam locomotive came chugging down the line, zooming at a speed that contradicted his appearance. He carried a corroded helmet under one arm, and his sooty, sunkissed face had a look of pure determination.
She recognized him as that little upstart from earlier - the one the National champions had mocked after he had declared he would enter the race. Rusty, they had called him, and it certainly fit. The corroded steamer zipped by her without a glance, sending a rush of wind that brought with it the smell of coal smoke and shook the loose panel she wore like a welder's apron - it was hard to tell if he even noticed her. He pick up his pace, trailing behind him a chain of smoke from his cap, and it was then that she saw what he was aiming for.
A brunette kitchen car with soft yellow paint and a blonde chair car in a sky blue dress made of metal panels were passing under a nearby bridge. The engine leapt over onto their track and zoomed toward them. "Kitty, Carla, one of you has just gotta help me! It's almost race time!" he cried in a young voice.
Both coaches stopped in their tracks. An uncomfortable expression crossed the kitchen carriage's fair countenance, but the chair car gave derisive snort. "You're still racing, switch engine?" she asked, pushing back her short hair as she gave the steamer a condescending sneer.
The kitchen car elbowed her and gave the locomotive a polite smile that still managed to say she would rather be anywhere else. "Why don't you ask Buffy or Ashley to race with you, Rusty?" she suggested, fidgeting with her lacy apron.
"I did!" the rusted steamer cried, flinging out his arms. "Ashley's racing with Bobo in the next heat, and Buffy is worn out from being in the first!"
"Why don't you ask someone else?" the chair car asked.
"The rest said no," he admitted.
"Can you blame them?" the chair car cracked. The kitchen car elbowed her again, but the blonde ignored her. "You didn't exactly do so hot at the Christmas race."
"That was rigged, and you know it," Rusty shot back, clenching his fists.
The brunette coach stepped between her friend and the steamer. "I can't help you, Rusty," the kitchen car said. "I have so much stuff to do back at the food tents. You understand."
"I can't help you, Rusty," the other coach said, "because I don't want to." She sidestepped around him and started down the track, heading toward the seating section of the race track.
"Thanks a lot, Carla," Rusty shot over his shoulder.
The kitchen car gave him an apologetic glance, but she too hurried down the rails, heading toward the food tents.
"Great," the steamer growled, rubbing the reddish-brown hair visible beneath his corroded cap. "Ju-u-ust great." He turned - and his hazel eyes fell upon the repair truck.
She returned his gaze, not moving a muscle.
He hesitated for a moment, obvious conflict on his sooty face, but desperation seemed to win out, and he started toward her. "Hey, you're Electra's repair truck, right?" he called out.
"Wrench," she replied, folding her red-and-silver arms.
He braked with a tomahawk stop, causing his toe stops to screech. "Are you doing anything right now?" he asked awkwardly, but there was still a hopeful gleam on his boyish countenance.
Wrench arched an eyebrow. "Do you switchers need another repair truck on duty?" she asked coolly, wrinkling her nose at the smell of his coal-produced smoke.
The gleam dimmed. He cleared his throat. "Uh, no. I, well, need a partner. Feel up to it?" he asked with a sheepish grin.
She shook her head. "Aren't you a switch engine?" This was one of the most famous race tracks in the world. Why did Control have such a run-down engine on his roster?
His jaw clenched a little. "By choice," he insisted, "but I'm really fast. I've trained all year for this."
"Like that's gonna help," she said dryly, giving him a critical glance. His damaged patches and panels were assembled together in a way that resembled overalls. His firebox doors protruded from his chest, and a tender full of coal sat on his shoulders like a backpack. Electra would have said he had no style, and Wrench agreed. On top of all that, he was easily smaller than most of the other racers. Even if he had not been a steamer covered in rust, he was still a switch engine, built for shunting cars around a classification yard, not speed. He had to be crazy if he thought he could keep up with the likes of Bobo or Ruhrgold or Turnov -
She looked at him, realization dawning. "You're the switcher who didn't feed Turnov's dining car."
Rusty averted his eyes, guilt crossing his sooty face. "Well, I meant to," he insisted, fiddling with the piston on his arm, "but Control told me to do about fifty other things that had to be done immediately, so... I, uh, never got back to it. I hope she's okay," he added, concern appearing.
"Absolutely peachy," Wrench said tightly.
Rusty heaved a sigh, looking heavenward as if in thanks. "That's a relief," he said. "If something had happened, I - " but that was as far as he got.
A puerile voice exploded from the speakers that lined the track, "Control! Control! Five minutes to second heat!"
Rusty's face fell.
"Race time minus five minutes! Race time minus five minutes!"
Sucks to be you, Wrench thought.
Rusty turned to her as if reading her mind. "So, I can't convince you?" he asked, defeated, as he adjusted the straps that connected his tender to his corroded chassis.
...Wait, straps?
On a sudden impulse Wrench stepped closer, her dark eyes widening. "You're a tender locomotive," she realized, maneuvering around him to inspect the little bunker.
"Yeah, so?"
She laid a red hand on the rusted rivets. That familiar curiosity she had experienced with Greaseball returned in a rush, but now it was mixed with a disgusted fascination, like examining a tunnel collision. She instantly recalled the chapter her mechanics class had spent on steam locomotives. She had never needed to put that information into operation since her fields of study had been electronics and assembly, not museum restoration, but she remembered that steam locomotives who could remove their coal bunker could handle long distances much better than the tank engines who could not.
She looked him up and down, seeing him in a new light. "You're not a real switch engine."
"That's what I told you," he reminded her, a note of impatience seeping in. "I was built for passenger work, but switching was the only job I could get in this yard."
Passenger work...
Before she could reply, the speakers crackled, and Control's voice rang out once more. "Control! Control! Here is an announcement!" Both Wrench and Rusty looked up. "The British train has been scrapped! ...As I suspected," he added quietly.
Rusty's hazel eyes widened. "...I honestly forgot about him," he breathed.
"Good thing you didn't try to show up with that kitchen car before," Wrench said dryly.
"Space for late entry!" Control continued. "Space for late entry!"
The words continued to echo even after the speaker fell silent. Rusty turned to the repair truck, giving her a look like a drowning man begging for the last flotation device. "Look, this race is really important. Would you go with me?" he pleaded. "Just this one race. You don't have to go with me into the final," he promised. "I can probably find someone else by then."
"If you get into the final," Wrench reminded him.
"Oh, I'll get there," he insisted.
At least he doesn't fall over like the Prince of Wales, she thought. Even if he didn't keep up, she could probably knock down a few coaches before the other racers left the start line - that would still be of some use to Electra.
She gave a nod and took his couplings, careful to avoid the rusted areas. "Let's go, steam train."
A/N: In the Mexican production Turnov is called Boris. "Turnov," according to my old friend's Russian-born mother, is a surname, so I combined them.
In the number "Taunting Rusty", Turnov says, "My dining car is out of food." This is a reference to the Trans-Siberian Railway (Turnov's line), which is the longest railroad on the planet, and during the course of a trip, a dining car can run out of food. Why Turnov doesn't race with her/him is anyone's guess, so I came up with my own explanation.
I exercised a little artistic license with Purse's appearance. Whereas Wrench's and Volta's appearances follow the late London, Purse still has his bow tie of the old show/early revamp days rather than his armored-car design. I wasn't quite sure how to describe it in flattering terms: bellesdomain (dotco) (dotuk) /stex /brochures /l00_02 (dotjpg)
While Electra normally wears a red helmet in the races (like in Bochum), in London his helmet was blue. Speaking of Electra, have you guys noticed that Volta is referred to as Electra's "coach" in the show even though she's a freight truck? My headcanon is that when used in that particular context, coach can be a slang term for a female race partner regardless of model. (So, right now Wrench is Rusty's coach. XD)
If you know why Control's yard is called Wilton Yard, you've probably seen the show live XD