Author's Note: This little slice-of-Sodor-life-in-the-'60s will be approximately ten chapters. BoCo will meet as many characters as I can cram in and we can explore BoCo's troubled backstory. It's a rough one!

April 1964

From the locomotive's point of view, it was not a notably lively harbor. A ship's cargo was being unloaded briskly enough onto one of the docks, but the cranes were not living, and there were no engines at all—the morning's deliveries seemed to simply be piled into growing stacks on the quay. The trucks seemed mostly to be dozing, although there was a mild ripple of interest among them, as well as the men, who were on hand to see the diesel engine lifted down onto the tracks.

It took the crane operator several times to get it right. The locomotive set his face like flint. The process wasn't comfortable.

He was afforded the privacy that rolling stock generally are, which meant that they talked about him, rather than to him, as they watched.

"Damn," said a docker. There was respect in his tone. "He's a monster."

"Thought that thing was meant for our line?"

"Nah. There's no way…"

"There is a way," said another voice, this one crisp and interested. "He'll run just fine on our tracks down here."

"Since when are you an engine-man, Dex?"

"I was talking to Sid all about it." Dex was gazing up at the locomotive in the air with real love. He wasn't an engine-man and had no prospect of being one—but he was far from the only layperson on the island of Sodor to cherish such machines. "This beaut's got five axles, you know, to divide all that weight. His class aren't hard on the rails at all."

"Bit hard on the eyes, maybe." To his credit, this commenter only mumbled his remark, but others elbowed him and called him a few names, for his rudeness.

There was some lazy, ironic applause, for the hapless crane-operator, when on the fifth attempt the diesel locomotive's crew gave him the thumbs up, and D5702 was left on the tracks, next to the new refuelling equipment.

"All right, then," hollered the foreman. "Get on with it!"

The workers dispersed, though Dex needed to be specially chivvied. He was very interested to see the locomotive crew's doings. This was the first diesel to ever be seen at Brendam.

The preparations were quick and uninteresting. D5702 was fueled up—and felt much the better, for that, and for being on solid rails. It's the rare engine who likes traveling by ship, and he wasn't it. Then it was just little wiping, a little polish, a quick look and a single sign of the cross over the motor, and they got him started.

The drivers weren't actually expecting the motor to turn over on the first try. They laughed a bit, at a loss, for they hadn't yet found facilities, found the freight described in their orders, or even found their bearings. They'd reckoned they would have plenty of time, while cursing at their recalcitrant engine, to tag-team in and out and do so.

"Let's get to it, though," grunted the first driver. "Don't know how long this will last, do we?"

"Foreman's coming now," said the second driver, looking over expectantly.

"Ace. Maybe he'll point us in the direction of a guard."

The foreman waved on his approach. "You lot are quick! You set to get moving already, old boy? Because if so, you're my new best mate. I need some fresh trucks."

D5702 froze, taken aback. He was used to requests or orders being addressed to his first driver, and was grateful when the latter stepped in. "Excuse me?" he said brusquely, coming to the right end of the cab.

It was an awkward little moment, that came full circle as the foreman blinked, then seemed to understand what was going on. "We could use him a tick before you're off."

The driver radiated skepticism and disapproval. It was so unsubtle that even his engine, who of course couldn't see him, felt it.

5702 hesitated, but kept still quiet. On the one rail, he of course wanted to make a good impression.

On the other rail, he did not wish to be taken advantage of, either.

"You realize he's not a shunter," the driver called back, voice dry.

"Oh, he's a big fellow, all right," agreed the foreman, grinning at 5702 with appreciation. "But we're in a bit of a bind here. Lend us a wheel for a turn or two, won't you?"

"It's 'lend us a bogie,'" said another man, nudging him, "I think."

5702 decided to speak up. He supposed the Sudrians might be making fun of the mainland men and their diesel novelty… but he did not suppose the situation would improve with more banter, and no action.

Besides, the steady thrum of his motor gave him a little heart. He had been so afraid that it might not turn over at all. "What can I do for you, foreman?"

"See that set of empties there? Bring 'em over to dock one, please."

5702 didn't regret it, once he heard the frank relief in the foreman's voice. This was no set-up, but a real job, fulfilling a real need.

His crew were inclined to grumble, within his cab, and as the second driver hopped out to spot them and to ensure they had clearance.

But Brendam Docks had been laid out quite ambitiously—perhaps too ambitiously, to 5702's eye—but at least everything was laid out in nice long stretches, and it was not so very awkward to slink in and out of the sidings, after all.

Then, too, the dockers proved friendly, and buzzed indistinct appreciation for the new engine who had set straight to work after being put on the tracks.

"God knows I love our lads," laughed a burly laborer, "but they'd still need another two hours to get checked and oiled and up to steam, and here's our newcomer already making himself useful, minutes from the crane!"

"The future is diesel," someone else joked.

"Knock it off!" Apparently seeing no humor in it, another docker elbowed one of the offenders roughly. "They'll take away our steamies over any proper Sodor man's dead body!"

"Of course, Roddy," someone else soothed. "But we do need some more locos, and no mistake."

"'Specially down our way!"

"Me, I vote we keep this one," said another, giving 5702 a wave as he backed away.

"They haven't seen him fail on the tracks yet," first driver muttered to second. Of course, no one heard—except 5702.

Who might, otherwise, have started to feel a bit comfortable.

They drove 5702 away before any farewells, nor even further direction, could be given, peering out the cab on the lookout for their train. "That's the one," said second driver.

He hopped down to set the points, but the engine had his doubts.

"Are those ours?" 5702 asked his driver.

"We're to take mixed freight, that's the only mixed train prepared, it's ours!" Driver spoke in mathematical tones. "Come on, Oh-Two, let's not dawdle."

"Yes, sir." 5702 thought they had really better ask. But then, he had also never felt greater reluctance to risk annoying his drivers. He was surprised they had agreed to transfer with him—they had never shown any partiality to him, nor to his class—but, for all he had never much cared for them, he was that morning almost painfully grateful for their presence. Otherwise he'd be quite alone among strangers.

Decent, friendly strangers, so far.

Of course, he expected worse, when he encountered another engine.