Would once more like to thank all of my lovely reviewers, and special shout out goes to the guest whose kind words made me get off my ass and do this episode. Not going to lie, this one isn't one of my favorites. Still, it's fun. And at the end, I promise you more storyline updates.

Cue the theme!

...

Duck is still a bit of a enigma to me. Though I admire his work ethic and how he seems to be able to deal with anything, given time to adapt, I still feel as though he is hiding something from me. His clear pride in his heritage is something to be admired, though I must admit the other engines have steadily grown tired of him out-classing the rest of them on a daily basis. But still I am no nearer to tracing his origins. I know that he briefly worked as a shunter somewhere in Paddington, but apart from that, it's a blank slate.

Since we last recorded, Duck has gone from strength to strength, though some of his calm was worn away significantly following multiple arguments and fights with Gordon and James. Apart from that, he has kept in the limelight. No TV apperances, no dodgy CD'S or music to be found, not even a mention in the tabloids, and how desperate they are to find things out about him.

Yes, he certainly is mysterious.

...

Duck, the Great Western Engine (What, you know that? Well, put it this way, he'd bring it up in conversation if he could, so we're getting that out of the way.), worked hard in the yard around the big station. He regularly tidied up, to the point where he actually regretted letting any engines in as they would mess up his brand spanking new work-space. He often whistled to the other engines, partly as greeting and partly as warning that he was not in the mood to be interrupted by a witty crack about his organizing skills.

When he wasn't doing that, he was often out and about delivering goods and passengers alike, all the while keeping a eagle eye out around the Island for...something. Even after all this time, no one had actually dared to ask him what he was looking for.

Sometimes he pulled coaches, others he pushed trucks, and some times he was ready to fight Gordon or James.

But whatever the work, Duck got the job done without fuss, compared to some engines. Hint hint, it's Gordon and James.

...

One day, Duck was resting in the sheds after a particularly hard working day, when the Fat Controller drove up. As he got out of the car, Duck wondered if this portly gentleman even knew what it was that he had on his hands.

"Your work in the yard has been good." said the Fat Controller, not wanting to go out of his way and praise Duck in case he grew a massive head and started competing with the bigger engines and Thomas for the 'I've got the Biggest' award. He took a deep breath. "Would you like to have a branch-line of your own?"

Duck's mind stopped working for a minute.

Because that idea had never even crossed his mind.

It was all he could do to stammer out a "Yes please sir!" before he began to lightly chuckle to himself in a vain attempt to keep himself from joyously rubbing it in every engine's faces.

The other engines looked worried.

...

So Duck took charge of his new branch-line, which mainly seemed to operate from Tidmouth. travelling through a variety of stations. These included Tidmouth Square, Bluff's Cove, Haultraugh, Tidmouth Hault and finally Arlesburgh.

Speaking of Tidmouth Hault, there was a great deal of work to be done on it, in order to get it looking branch-line material. To begin with, they had to get rid of all the smells that came of being 'That station that no one really remembers or cares about'. And also to begin construction on a new shed that would keep the engines warm and less complaining about their situation.

The responsibility delighted Duck, and the idea of having something to do aside from just merely push and pull trucks and coaches, but now actually take part in building something, made him shiver with excitement. A orderly mind like Duck enjoyed working on a good, old fashioned problem.

The line itself ran along the coast, by sandy beaches and even sandier tourists before reaching a port where big ships can come in and rest. Duck enjoyed in particular exploring every curve and corner of the line, examining it minutely for any details. Some engines would have assumed that this was just mere curiosity, but Duck knew better. His mission had given him a chance to explore the Island in detail, whereas before he had been restricted by time tables and such, he now had a actual chance to do so.

Sea breezes swirled his smoke high into the air, and his green paint glistened in the sunlight. Duck enjoyed the peace and quiet. No noisy people. Or engines. Or trucks. Or coaches.

"This is just like being on holiday!" He marveled.

"Well you know what they say!" laughed his driver. "A change is as good as a rest. And enjoy it! We've got a lot of work to get to."

For that one, brief, shining moment, it was just Duck on his own, no problems at all. And he reveled in the silence.

Then he got to work.

...

Soon he was busier than ever. He had drafted in reliable and safe engines and non-rail vehicles to give him a buffer or two. He pulled stone from the quarry, passing over a rather rickety and unreliable bridge to do so. The thrill made him remember why he was here, and he resolved to find at least one important thing by the end of the next year.

Not only that, but the Fat Controller had made a grand announcement that they were building a new station. It was only later that Duck realized that he was slightly drunk at the time and had actually meant the shed.

Never one to shirk hard work, Duck pulled the heavy trucks of ballast wherever they were needed, and they needed in a lot of places. Bertie, for once glad to be helping the railway, looked after Duck's passengers, and the other engines helped to.

Donald and Douglas could often be seen bringing supplies and the breakdown train on a regular basis, while Trevor took away anything that wasn't needed to be recycled elsewhere as part of a more economic scheme cooked up by Vicar Teddy. But even with all this help, the work was taking a long time.

Noise and dust filled the air, and for a engine like Duck, this would have usually had the same effect of saying to James that his paintwork wasn't the reddest thing on the Island. But he grit his teeth and was determined to get the work done.

"Don't worry!" Toby said comfortingly as he helped out one day. "The station-"

"It's a shed."

"Is it? The shed then, it's nearly finished!"

"And...And on the scheduled time too!" Duck muttered as his fireman wiped his brow.

...

Once they were done, the engines retreated back to Tidmouth Sheds. Duck felt his responsibility deeply and personally, and so talked endlessly about it. This had the added effect of annoying some of the other engines deeply.

And one particular night stood out.

"You don't understand Donald!"

"Of course I dinnae." Donald said moodily, in a vain attempt to get back to sleep. He didn't even remember what the argument had been about, he was so tired.

"Just how much the Fat Controller relies on me!"

"Och aye!" muttered Donald sleepily.

"I'm Great Western and -"

"Quack, quack, quack!"

"What?" Duck thought Donald was having a stroke.

"Ye heard! 'Quack, quack' ye go. Sounds like ye had an egg laid. Now wheesht and let an engine sleep!" Donald then turned away...kind of, and closed his eyes. Duck normally let this kind of thing pass, but it had been a long day and a long time since anyone had used that tired old insult, so he decided not to bite back.

Unfortunately, his mind was somewhat blank of clever insults, and so was left only to say. "Quack yourself!" in a indignant manner before begrudgingly trying to get back to sleep.

...

Later that morning, he spoke to his driver at the Quarry. "Donald says I quack! As if I'd laid a egg"

"You what?"

"Like the duck."

"Oh that old chestnut. Can't they come up with anything more original?" The fireman grinned suddenly. "Quack do you?" He whispered something to Duck and his driver.

"Risky."

"Definitely."

All three nodded. It was on. Paying Donald back for teasing Duck sounded like a fun way to pass the otherwise boring morning.

...

For the rest of the day, they were busy at the Quarry. Before returning to work at the sheds, they needed to prepare more building materials. Toby departed to check with Percy at the Quarry Yard to work out how much more they needed.

Nothing more was said.

Not even a quack.

But every so often Donald caught glances between Duck and his crew which made him a little concerned. Were things not going well with Duck?

So when at last Donald was asleep, the driver and fireman of the Great Western engine snuck aboard and popped something into his water-tank.

"Where did you find this?"

"Girl down at the pub works on a farm. She knows where to find these."

...

The very next morning, Donald went to fill up on water. Duck had quickly departed, citing needing to see a coach about a train or some such nonsense. As his driver and fireman prepared the water, they found a slightly unexpected visitor.

A small, white duckling popped out of his water tank and scared the hell out of both men.

"Wae the hell-" Donald stopped, and laughed. "Oh, nae doubt who is behind this!" He looked back. "Ah, but she's a grand lassie! Why not take her with us! That'll shake old quackers up and nowt mistake!"

The duckling was, luckily, tame. She shared the fireman's sandwich (Which he felt had been forced upon him by the driver having decided that the fireman could get food at the next cafe) and rode in the tender. It was a surreal sight.

The other engines enjoyed teasing Donald about it, especially Percy and Toby. Jokes about him going quackers and ducking responsibility echoed around his head all day. Presently the duck grew tired and hopped out at the next station, and there she stayed.

A more cynical person would have eaten the duck, but the stationmaster was a lonely old sod, so he kept her around.

That night, his driver and fireman got busy.

Get your minds out of the gutter.

In the morning, when Duck's crew arrived to look him over, they couldn't help laughing. "Look Duck! Look what's under your bunker! It's a nest box with a egg in it!"

Donald grinned and opened a sleepy eye. "Well well well, ye must have laid it last night, unbeknownst! Dinnae think ye had it ye!"

Duck sighed. And then he laughed. "Oh all right. Tou-bloody-che. You win Donald. It'd take a clever engine to get the better of you and live to tell the tale."

...

There's a pond not too far from the station, where the duckling swims with her friends and greets the trains that pass by like old friends. The station master has called her Dilly, because he randomly chose it, but to everyone else, she is always Donald's Duck.

Everyone else groaned too at that pun.

...

Meanwhile, far away from the japes of ducks and the construction of sheds, in a shady port in London, the relative silence was interrupted by the sound of a motorbike revving round a corner.

Coming to a halt, the driver stepped off and dismissively placed his helmet in a pouch on his larger than average bike. No one would come and steal it. They wouldn't dare. And if they tried...well the bike had more than it's fair features built in to prevent it.

He entered the nearest building. The room was shrouded in shadows, but Mr Boomer already knew his way around. He had been here enough times. He walked over, picked out a particular chair and sat down. He drummed his fingers on the table, and waited.

It took him a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he was not surprised to see, sitting in the darkness, the Captain. To this day, P.T Boomer could not swear to the look of the Captain, all he knew was that he was tough, cold, uncompromising and powerful. Boomer was a renegade on the road. The Captain controlled the waterways.

"Took you long enough." The voice was vaguely Orcadian in nature, though Boomer knew that the Captain, whenever he could, could turn on a dime and deliver a impression of just about any accent. Scottish could give way to English, or Welsh, or Irish at the drop of a hat.

"We can't all command such high respect as you, Captain." The hard American accent made his sarcasm far more clear.

"Silence."

Both men did so. They knew the reputation of the other. The third figure sat down. And not for the first time, Boomer wondered if the choice of his nickname among the local police force had been deliberate, or on accident.

Either way, it seemed a grim mockery of their main target's owner.

"Right then." said the Fat Director. "Bring me up to speed."