So this is it! Season 3 is over after this chapter! I'd like to thank all of you for continuing on this ride with me, and I hope that you've, at the very least, got a bit of fun out of this one.
Quick announcement. Following the end of Magic Railroad, I was originally planning on just continuing on from Season 6 onwards, but I've decided that that's going to be a speerate story, so I don't have too many chapters that could put potential readers off. Plus, it'll make a nice neat little package as well.
And with that out of the way, CUE THE THEME!
...
Angelis was waiting in a cold car, angrily trying his best to get the air conditioning to work. "Bloody idiots, locking me in here. What the hell do they think I am? I was in Boys from the Black Stuff, they can't do this to-"
Inside the recording studio, Steve glared down the phone. "What do you mean, there's no Christmas party this year?! Why!? ...No, I understand that flying the entire production crew from Shepperton is a big ask, but- Wait, he has?" Steve pulled out a piece of paper. "Okay, new railway for next time. Merchandising's going to love that...what the hell is a Skarloey?"
...
If some day you should see Thomas the Tank Engine puffing happily down his branch-line, shoot him. Seriously. He will probably do something stupid in the next five minutes and destroy most of your house.
But if you don't have a gun, you may be lucky. For he may be heading to a little village nestled deep in the heart of the Island of Sodor. Or possibly the pancreas. Definitely not the liver.
One December morning (Or possibly July. It was probably December, but with the island and it's weather conditions that had to be either controlled by a weather machine or decided by a multi-sided die, it could have easily been July), Thomas whistled to all of his friends in the village. All two of them. Nah, I'm kidding. For some reason, this village (Currently believing that Edward Heath was still Prime Minister and that the eighteenth season of Porridge was to air soon, buried so deep into the Island as it was) liked Thomas. Mostly because they believed him to be a weapon against the dirty Russkies.
Thomas didn't really have the heart to tell them otherwise.
"It's nearly Christmas!" he bellowed like Brian Blessed with a megaphone "I'll bring you lots of letter and parcels! Postman Pat'll have to get a move on to stop me!"
Postman Pat, sitting quietly atop his millions earned from his own TV series, declined to comment.
...
But a week later, the storms came.
"AGAIN!?" wailed Henry.
"I know. I mean what are the odds?!" fumed Edward, thanking God that the vicar had been buried before the snow had started in such force.
"Gordon, since when was it your liberty to take my berth? Like you have for the past three nights?" James was sulking, as he always was.
"James," Gordon grunted, scowling, "you do realize that we don't have set berths?"
"Yes," he replied, stammering, "but that one gives me the best view of the sunrise."
"Ha!" interjected Percy. "You mean you want to get a look at that nice little-"
"PERCY!" snapped James. "Not. NOW!"
Percy grinned, and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Not fooling anyone here, James." James bounced the shed wall and allowed some of the snow to pour onto Percy's head. That stopped his giggling all right.
...
The next day, the Island was covered in a blanket of white. The snow, like James's head, was thick. The engines found work to be difficult. James in particular was beginning to declare a war against anyone who tried to make him move another set of tankers from the thick snowdrifts that permeated the Island.
Some, like the Scottish Twins, got on with their jobs and bashed away at the snow drifts, leading workmen to hack away at the hard packed ice and snow that covered the rails.
Because of this unfortunate freak incident of nature fighting back, Thomas and Percy had most of the mail from the previous night or so plus the day's load of mail packed inside their mail coaches.
"Bloody Christmas." remarked Thomas, usually in a better mood for the holiday, but currently suffering from the fact that it was so cold that one could reasonably find your fingers have turned to icicles. "Driver says there's plenty of post for the village."
"Which one? There are so many."
"Ulfstead."
"Oh that one! I mean, you hear about towns like that on the news, but damn!"
"Driver says it's something to do with just how nuts they were about the Cold War. Entire town's a fallout shelter in preperation. It's like Doctor Bloody Livingstone if they ever try and convince them "Hey, the USSR gave up." But I kind of like it. Kids'll be loving this. Need a extra truck for it"
"But it's not fair! You're not leaving any post for me."
"Oh BOO HOO, I'm so sorry, Percy, that you get to go home early to a nice warm berth while I have to trek through the cold and snow to deal with all this extra post."
Percy's chance had come. Not to represent Britain at Eurovision, which was a flawed dream, but the other chance.
"Been a change of plan." remarked Thomas's Driver.
"We can go home?"
"No, unfortunately. The Fat One requires us at the big station. Percy, you're on your own for this one."
"Oh no. How...unfortunate." Percy couldn't help but grin.
"Aw...I kinda did want to say Happy Christmas to all my mates down there."
"Don't worry! I'll do it for you!" Percy puffed away, leaving Thomas to contemplate why he opened his mouth and invited such karmic punishments to fall upon him with regularity.
"Well, it's not the same." he sighed, and puffed off to Knapford.
Percy shrugged. By the time he was on his way to Ulfstead, he had made good time when suddenly-
"THE **** IS THAT!?" demanded Carlin. There ahead was a fogman by the line. He waved Percy down.
"Village is cut off by the storm. We need workmen, snowplows and a helicopter. Also, some cocoa'd be nice, I'm freezing my balls off out here and it is NOT a pleasant experience, let me tell you. Trucks in the sidings, go back quickly!"
"Yeesh, demanding type." muttered Carlin as Percy backed up. Percy ignored this, for he knew that he was probably going to have to go to one, very, particular source.
Dryaw Airfield was populated currently by a single helicopter, who grinned as he saw Percy. The little green tank forced a smile on his face. "Harold! How are you doing today, good sir?"
"Watcha want, old boy? You're never this polite, doncha know!? Need to learn how ta lie a little better, wot wot?"
"Mountain villagers need you help!"
"Well why didn't you say so, old chap!? Whizzo! I like a emergency to keep me warm!"
"You have issues, Harold." muttered Percy under his breath as the helicopter took off. "Now, what's next? I'm not getting the fogman cocoa. I'm a engine, not a receptionist."
He heard a familiar whistle. "OI OI!" called Thomas proudly. His snowplow was attached to him, and behind him he pulled the Breakdown Train, carrying onboard a very familiar smiling tractor. "Come on Perce! Follow me!"
"Glory hog." muttered Percy. But he did so, and soon they had arrived at the village. They battled their way through, and when they came to a particularly thick drift, they launched out the attack tractor.
Harold was already there, looking smugly down at the rest of the villagers. He busily began throwing food and water to any people or animals that came his way. A couple of concussions were a interesting Christmas gift, even if that wasn't what Harold intended. Meanwhile, Terrance had already gotten to work and was cutting through the snow like a baker cuts through a fine cake.
"Lovely stuff!" he said as he pushed the snow aside.
"You have issues, Terrance. Can you...actually not smile at any point?"
Terrance stared at Percy for a while until he shut up.
"Nice work Thomas! Nice work Percy!"
"What are we, chopped liver?!" Harold growled.
"You're the best Santa Claus this village has ever had!" the villagers called out
"What's a Santa Claus?" asked Percy.
"...Are...are you serious? We met him in 86! Big man! Jolly! Laughed a lot! Gave presents! Drops presents down chimney's around Christmas time!? THAT SANTA CLAUS?!"
"I wonder if-"
"Not funnels Percy. Percy, focus here, he's called Father Christmas over here, but they're probably drunk off their asses because they can't get out of the village at all. Did...did that fruit van give you a actual concussion?"
"I can't tell. Can you usually smell colors?"
"Oh god alive...Post train still in the siding."
"Oh GREAT BLOOD OF ZEUS!" wailed Percy as he puffed off. The second he was gone, Toby and Henrietta rocked up.
"Hot drinks! Hot chocolate, cups of char, hot dogs, soup, anything for the villagers!"
"Hello there, good samaritan!" Thomas said with delight. "You've been quiet recently."
"Haven't I just? It's been a nightmare trying to keep the Branch Line running with all the chaos going on, isn't it m'dear?" Henrietta made a grunt of acknowledgement. "I'll take over here, Thomas. You run on home and get some rest."
"Merry Christmas!" Thomas peeped to the villagers, and then he turned back to Toby. "And to you too. Thanks for helping out."
"Just m'job. Merry Christmas, Thomsa."
...
That night, all the engines had gone back their sheds, save for Toby. The Villagers had made a plan, and they loaded the entire contents of the arts and craft center into Henrietta.
"I don't like being a art college!"
"I know!" Toby said sympathetically. "But this'll be a nice surprise for the others, won't it?" And he set off into the dark countryside. He had it on good authority that the engines were using the larger than usual shed occasionally used in case Tidmouth was out of action. As he passed the regular sheds, Toby's eyes kept on the look out. At last, he spotted the shed and crept towards it.
The engines were all sleeping as the villagers crept across to the sheds. Toby hadn't a clue what was going on, but he was very sure that it was going to be a big surprise.
...
"BLOODY HELL!" exclaimed Duck.
"How-" questioned Henry.
"WHAT!?" shouted Gordon.
"Almost as pretty as me." remarked James.
"Santa Claus, right Thomas?"
"Don't push it, Percy."
"So miracles do exist." Edward remarked simply.
The sheds had been repainted and decorated, Christmas cards were hung up all over the roof, baubles and tinsel hung from everywhere, even some minature robins danced a mechanical dance around the rafters. Parcels lay under a massive tree, and as the engines whistled in delight, they agreed it was really a happy Christmas after all.
At least until James accidentally set the tree on fire later that night and burnt down the spare sheds.
But for the most part, a happy one.
...
In a rather cold office, somewhere in the vast complex that was the Other Railway, the Fat Director held council with his inner circle. He glanced around the room, surveying each with a critical eye.
The Captain was angrily tapping the desk, clearly wanting to be off and back on the water again, but for what, only he knew. Besides him, Gotch rested his weary head on the table, trying to get some sleep. His journey to the Island had been a long one, and thus he was feeling the after-effects.
The door swung open, and the final member of the group joined them. "Can't believe you dragged me away for this." growled Boomer, his eyes flashing with anger. The Fat Director raised a hand to stay any more remarks, and Boomer subsided with a grumble. The Director stood up, looked around until his eyes were adjusted to the dark, and then nodded at the two guards. They left, shutting the door behind them quietly.
For ten seconds, no one spoke. Then at last, the Fat Director began. "You're probably wondering why I have called you here so suddenly. That is because I believe it is time that you were all let, as it were, onto the secret. What it is I'm doing here. What is it you've...signed for, in a way."
"We know." The Captain snuck out a cigarette, and when he saw the Director had no problem with him smoking, lit it up. "Power. Take over the world."
"Ah, but you don't really know how, do you? For the most part, I have sent Mr Boomer to be our liaison with the ghost known as Marklin, but recently I have charged him with a task of quite a different nature. Searching out the last line of defense and eliminating her as quickly and as quietly as possible. Now, sadly, he hasn't been able to do so yet, but I am aware that this particular...avenue of enquiry was not going to be easy. In all honesty, it should take us years to track her down, and even further to formulate a way of destroying her."
"God alive, you speak like this gal's a world ender!"
"She is." Gotch shut up. The Captain stamped out his cigarette, suddenly deciding the taste wasn't to his liking. "I've been giving ye most of the hauls that me and my fleet have been scourging. Don't see what that has to do with-"
"Captain, you and I searched for the engine for years upon years. I sent you out onto the ocean in the hope that being back on familiar ground would be a tonic. And indeed it has. Indeed, what you've discovered tells me that that Bigg City is indeed dead and buried. Your elimination of the last of the Old Ones has proven to be most useful."
"Old Ones?"
"Long, complicated story. Bottom line and short version is that they're somewhat of the same temperament as yon Sudrians, except older in every way." The Captain glanced around. "Ye mentioned Marklin. Where is the jammy dodger?"
"Here." came the blunt response. The faint outline of a engine could just be seen in the darkness, glittering faintly. "Job's finished, Mr Boomer. Sir."
"Excellent." The Fat Director stood up, and nodded in satisfaction. "The Vicar is dead?"
"Indeed. Quite a ironic way to go, I think. Stung to death by his own bees. With a little help from yours truly, of course." Marklin may have made a mocking bow, or it could have been a trick of the light. Either way, he was clearly enjoying himself. "Gotch preformed his job admirably."
"Why kill the Vicar?" objected Gotch, who had no qualms about killing the old man, but at the very least considered it wasteful. "I mean, I don't see the point of it, in all reality."
"Because-" explained the Fat Director "-it's required. A long time ago, a curse was set upon the vicar of the Island of Sodor. He took part, along with other magical elements, to banish and restrict a great and powerful demon. Some argue that he was the devil. Others say he was the one demon who Lucifer himself feared. But whatever he is, it is through him we shall take control of this world and drag it to it's knees. The Malevolence, as it is referred, has a number of various components, located in various places. One of these components is our friend Marklin here. A ghost of pure dark energy."
"Guilty." smirked Marklin.
"By killing the vicar, he has not only kept to the rules of the curse, but we have also gained significant power from doing so. Every day, the Malevolence grows stronger and stronger, as it should." The Fat Director steepled his hands. "But it comes to my attention that the true scope of our plans are not yet known to you all." He walked around, gesturing calmly.
"The Captain's expeditions have provided me with enough of the materials of the Old Ones to construct something that will be able to harness the power of the Malevolence in a manner that will not immediately destroy the entire world, and more importantly, will be under our shared control. There are two vessels that contain the essence of the Malevolence, each chosen at the height of great negative emotion. Marklin is one such creature, but the other...the other remains situated somewhere in the world, under my orders. To be guarded until such time that we have constructed the foretold weapon that it shall possess.
This weapon has been foretold to be the tenth diesel upon the Island of Sodor. The tenth diesel to breathe the same air as the scum that populate the Island, and it will be by his hands that we raze that Island to the ground, and there will be nothing anyone can do to stop us!"
There was a knock on the door. A bodyguard wordlessly handled the Director a package. He grinned. "Ah. My agents have successfully managed to capture one of the more high profile steam engines. Stepney'll chase Bluebells no more." He looked to the bodyguard. "Keep him in solitary. See if the Facade's can't get any information out of him."
He turned back to the men. "Well. Captain, scour the seas, make sure that there are no Old Ones still hiding. Boomer, get back to work on the Lady case. Gotch...impressive work adding a dash of poison to those bees. Bio-mechanical engineering is a rare art form. And thank you as well for the kind gifts from your old friends at the USSR."
"The conversion process should go quicker now, boss."
"Excellent. There is a steamroller I simply must introduce you too. A new name, a new job...and a new chance to spy on the Railway."
He paused. "Oh, and Marklin?"
"Sir."
"...Get ready. I think we have another candidate for you to take control of. This time, no one will suspect a thing."
...
Somewhere in a cold car park, Micheal Angelis swore aloud.
"I'm never doing another bloody series of this. MERRY BOOMING CHRISTMAS!"