A/N: I am generally opposed to 'spelling out accents' except with the very lightest hand, agreeing as I do with the not-even-especially-enlightened G.K. Chesterton, who even over a century ago was able to observe that it's classist af. (It's the Queen's English that ought to be written phonetically!)

Obviously, it's different if you *actually have* that accent, but I do not have Donald's and Douglas's. Don't even have a good ear for it. So, out of respect, I'm mostly leaving it be.

Given long-standing canonical tradition, you might sometimes see me bending my rules a *little*.

But, for the most part, we all have "voices" in our heads for the characters, and I don't believe that me butchering the spelling of their every word is really enhancing my readers' experience.

5702 had cause to re-think a great deal of his conclusions so far, though, when they arrived at the junction. Like the harbor, this was a set-up on a much greater scale than the rural branch line that ran between them. Unlike the harbor, it was quite busy with people and engines, the latter exchanging whistles as they saw each other. A main line passenger train was pulling out just as they arrived, hauled by none other than a Black Five, who, for all its unusually bright green paintwork, nevertheless at once gave 5702 much more a sense of being in the right era. Black Fives were still common on the mainland, and indeed he and his brothers had been bailed out by that class of engine perhaps more often than any other. (And they had been bailed out by many.)

Of course, close-mouthed Myron was up here too, with a push-pull train, which the main line passengers were beginning to board. His side of the platform also led to a goods yard, though this one was much more cramped than the one at the docks. They wouldn't have much luck, if they wanted to put 5702 to shunting there. Some of the sidings were no bigger than he was, and just then it was crowded and in some disorder. 5702, his own hearing more than acute, caught his rescuer hiss impatience as he pulled into it.

"Honestly, boy, you've left this place a right mess," 5702 heard the fireman tease, after they came to a stop.

This made the engine hiss some more, and the driver laughed even as he reproved the fireman. "That's enough out of you for one morning! Never mind, Edward. You'll have a chance to get it to your liking again sometime this decade, I'm sure."

A deep-toned whistle demanded their attention. Now that the Black Five had left, another engine, with its lengthy train of coal trucks, was visible on the track beyond.

5702 stared at the angry-looking steam engine. He was blue and old as well. Of course, this was a six-coupled goods engine. Stronger and hardier than Edward's speedy kind, there had still been more than a few on the mainland when the diesel had first been made. 5702 and his brothers had felt real respect for their sort, for—within certain weight limits, of course, and over shorter distances—they had proven, despite their age, capable of hard work even with rather little fuss taken over them (as compared to other steam engines!), and it had not altogether seemed fair to the Metrovicks that literally every single one they had once known had been scrapped in so brief a time. In fact, more than unfair, the sheer haste had been indecent, and not a little frightening.

Anyway, it seemed that the Black Five might be an exception, with the Victorian engine not actually so unusual, around here.

And 5702 might have been rather heartened to see one of the plain old six-coupled type still around and at work—if it hadn't been scowling deeply at them both.

"And where have ye been?" he demanded of Edward.

"We're not yet due," retorted Edward. "You're early!"

"Aye, and double-quick it was I sorted this lot, to try and gain some time!" The deep-whistled engine was eying 5702 with great suspicion. More than suspicion: hatred. The diesel was familiar with that sort of reaction, although in his experience steam engines—while never the most tactful sort of vehicle—generally did not display quite such open animosity. (While still on-shift, at least. All bets were off, when left alone in the yards or sheds.) "And what might ye have there?"

"This is D5702. He's come to help with goods on my line. And this is Donald."

Donald looked as though he wanted to laugh, but was too bitter and furious to manage it. "Looks as if he's been a muckle lot of help so far! Failed already, have ye, square wheels?"

"Not that it's any of your business," said Edward coolly, "but he's to be cleared at the Works before they'll let him take trains."

"Ach." Donald was still mocking. "But I thought yon diesels needed no such fash taken with them!"

"We're all engines, Donald. None of us move on our own!"

Donald had been all along glaring at 5702, but only now insisted on speaking directly to him. "We'll outlast ye yet, boxy. Ye'll see."

Edward hissed sharply. But 5702 responded with boredom. The truth was, Donald's aggression was familiar. Tiresome, yet much to be preferred, really, to the pitiful tank engine who had cowered at the sight of him. "Reckon we will see."

"That's enough of that," snapped Edward.

"I hope ye're not speaking to me."

"And I'd have hoped you could be more civil, to a guest—"

"A guest! A guest, says he. Aye, a sweet summer colt, it is... "

5702 had to work hard to maintain his stoniness as he gazed at the bickering locomotives.

Uncoupled from 5702, Edward left to join the rear of Donald's heavy train. Although both engines went about their business with cool competence, their whistles, when starting, made their mutual annoyance abundantly clear.

Steam engines aren't able to keep much secret of their emotions. 5702 had always either pitied or looked down upon them for that. But somehow, already so immersed in their turf, he found himself a little wistful.

5702 and his kind had always understood steam engines, on the whole, to be rather crude and ill-behaved. They caused the workers and crews a great deal of trouble, and therefore could expect nothing better than to be replaced. Both scorning and fearing such a fate, the diesels prided themselves on their own self-control. But now, seeing them here quite free about their feelings, yet perfectly useful, and obviously in no danger of being disciplined or scrapped for a mere show of emotion, 5702 found his world quite backwards. Now it was he who felt deficient… and a little envious.

Even once the coal train had vanished from sight, a series of distant whistling could be heard. Such communication was needed during uncoupled banking operations, so that everyone knew when it was time to push, drift, or brake. The tones of both whistles grew less angry as the job went on, and, by the end, when Donald whistled thanks, and Edward whistled good-bye, it was clear that the engines had somehow wordlessly made up the quarrel.

5702 felt his first near-overpowering wave of homesickness. (It was not to be the last.) In that moment he wanted at least one of his own brothers, very much.