Another little note regarding a new character this time! I'm going to be referring to Rusty without specific pronouns, mostly because the original plan was for Rusty to be androgynous, which I think is far more interesting, and that brief kerfuffle a few years back when the narration referred to the diesel as a female. So, that's the quick little summary.
CUE THE THEME!,
...
Duck's driver and fireman poured over the jotter with a great amount of detail. Every little note was coped and pasted into a official looking document, which made Duck feel very relieved that he didn't have hands to wear out doing this boring work. He kept himself occupied by turning over the information in his head, but still, one thought persisted in his mind.
We haven't found her yet. And we should have, by now.
His mission had been his first priority when he had arrived on the Island. He hadn't expected the inhabitants to infect him with their...madness? Unique personalities? Special brand of arrogance mixed in with just the right amount of vindictiveness? Whatever it was, it had got into his systems, and it had slowly corrupted him into focusing on other, less than important things.
No more, he decided. He was going to get things moving again if it killed him.
With a loud crash, a truck left lying in the middle of the line near Tidmouth was sent hurtling through the air as a very angry Henry steamed through. He was followed by a matching Toby and Edward, a somewhat bemused James, Gordon who was only just now coming out of his state of shock, and Thomas the Tank Engine, who looked indignant and sheepish at the same time.
"So how'd it go?" Duck asked casually, as his driver and fireman hid their work in his cab. "Where's Percy?"
"Percy's currently looking into how easy it is for engines to emigrate to far off lands!" Edward snapped. "Oh, and how did it go? Would you like me to tell you, Duck? Are you sure you wouldn't like to watch the Trainspotters footage?! THEY'RE DEVOTING A ENTIRE PROGRAM TO THIS ONE DEBATE!"
"I still don't see what went wrong." Thomas said, stuffily.
"Oh DON'T you!?" Toby turned around on the turntable rather roughly. "Well, I suppose starting off with the first question is as good as any place to start!"
"What was the question?"
"What do you believe is the single most positive attribute that you can bring to the people of Sodor?"
"I see." Duck sighed. "And I suppose he said "Himself" as per usual."
"Not exactly. He said he was rich, and could probably give them quite a lot if they were wiling to give him their votes. And winked at the voters. I'm pretty sure that half of them walked out right there and then."
"It was a bit of banter!" Thomas sulked. "They took it entirely the wrong way!"
"Suggesting BRIBERY can usually lead to that mistake!" exploded Henry.
"I thought it was great, Thomas!" James said, honestly.
"You see! Maybe James is more in touch with the fine and wonderful people of Sodor than any of you FUDDY DUDDIES!"
"OH, REALLY?!" Toby exploded with rage. "That would explain, of course, why everybody started howling with laughter, when James did his little routine?"
"Routine?"
"Duck, in describing this to you, I am aware that it'll sound so utterly ridiculous. But none the less, I could not make this up if I tried. That Refreshment Lady ended up turning in briefly before she headed off,, and she asked each candidate how confidently they felt they represented the youth of today. Drampf gave this long speech a tad on the rambling side that described how the youth of today were 'angry' and 'confused' and 'out of jobs' and how he was going to change all that. The TLC party and SDP one just sort of gave the vague answers they usually do. Bedella had this lovely speech about how a lot of the values he had grown up with needed to be passed on to the young uns, with a bit more...well, what's the word...new spin on them, that's it."
"And the Drunken Sailors?"
"Well I'm pretty sure their representative was doing his Flowerpot Men impersonation." Edward rolled his eyes. "So it comes to Thomas's turn. At first, it takes him five minutes just to get his microphone working, and then he decided to show how touch he and the rest of us were with the cool kids."
"God, don't tell me."
"Then, James swans forward, and right there, I think the other five of us were considering just letting the smelters melt us down right there and then. His driver then plugs in something and James lights up like a bloody Christmas Tree. And then he starts rapping." Edward let the mental image sink in for a moment. Duck shuddered, Henry looked as though he was going to be sick and Toby had his eyes shut, trying to block out the awful memory. "I'm pretty sure that there were at least several minorities insulted by his use of the slang words. I believe that some of his words were: Wicked, radical, hizzy, nizzy, biz, up in my grill and juicy."
"It was art!" James beamed proudly. "I thought i danced very well!"
"I've never felt more humiliated in my life!" Gordon muttered at last. "It was like being able to physically see the air leave your lungs, not least because his dance looked like he was about to seduce many of them."
"You never know, there are some people who are into that."
"Of course, all the Christmas tree lights eventually exploded due to how many he'd shoved into adapters, and now the town hall is on fire and we have to pay out of our own pocket." Edward snarled. "The SDP and TLC have already withdrawn because they fear that they don't want their parties associated with such a embarrassment, Drampf's got more supporters than ever and I'm pretty sure that the Vice-Mayor urinated on me at some point in the affair. And if I hear another word about that BLOODY mayoral race for the rest of the night, PAH!"
And for the rest of the night, he addressed his remarks solely to Toby, Henry and Duck, while Thomas sulked in the corner, and James tried desperately to get the smell of burning Christmas lights out of his paintwork.
But Gordon didn't do anything but think. He thought long and hard about a great deal of things, but many of them, as was per usual, eventually ended up coming back to himself.
The reason he was so shocked, he reasoned, was not because he had been taken aback by the way Sir Handel had acted. Well, that was true in part, but people assumed it was sort of a wake up call for himself, that he had seen the error of his ways and was going to become a modest and humble sort of engine. Of course, he already was one (In his mind, at least) but what had actually surprised him was that, for the first time in his many years on the Island, he had found someone who had gotten the important things in life. Pride, the express, smart coaches, power, speed, the need to impress.
And so he made a decision.
Sir Handel was going to be his apprentice.
...
It was the next day, and as the little engines got to work, and as Sir Handel began returning to his usual jobs, their work was constantly interrupted by a all too familiar sound, of whirring and very over the top Britishness that many would have thought only existed on Allo Allo. The lakes and mountains, as has been previously discussed, have many visitors who apparently come from places where lakes and mountains were to them what the leprechaun or the vampire is to you or me. This means they can get rather stupid, and so, Harold the Helicopter flies above the sky making sure no one is in trouble.
Duke had already had a coronary at this 'strange beastie' that shouted at him repeatedly in a aggessively British way. Sir Handel had cheekily asked him if he'd looked in a mirror, and had gained himself a black eye for saying so.
The Fat Controller had stepped things up with regards to his governing of the Narrow Gauge Railway. While finding a permanent replacement was turning out to be a real struggle, he had been able to assign a number of sub delegates to act as managers, while he handled the buying of new engines to help even more in the running of the railway, as with Skarloey finally having been sent off to the works, and with both Handel's and Sam's faults lain bare, he needed someone to keep the peace. This someone was on their way now.
"All present and correct, chappies! Return to base!" Harold remarked, and headed off towards the mountain base established by a group of well meaning emergency teams. And then he noticed something a little different.
There was a little diesel crossing the cliffside line. A orange diesel, with faint hints of black paint that had yet to be fully painted over, and a smallish, square face, as per most of the diesels. The chap looked friendly enough. He hovered down. "Good day, old chap! I'm Harold, you seem to be new around here! Who are you?"
"I'm Rusty." said the diesel, sedately. Now that Harold listened, it was clear that the chap in question wasn't a chap at all. Or was she...he?
"Er, don't mind me asking, but I want to get it right. Are you a chap or a lady?"
"Neither. And both. But mostly, I'm just Rusty."
"Ah." Harold didn't pretend to understand these new definitions that were going on in the world, so he merely nodded, or gave the impression of a nod. "Don't recall seeing you here before, old chap...er, old mucker. What brings you here?"
Harold's manner, as it had so often before with other engines, rubbed Rusty the wrong way. "Fat Controller sent me to help the others." This was no time for a chat with a helicopter, especially with one that was infamous even on the mainland for his attitude.
"Well done! Cheers, good luck and keep up the good work!" And off he buzzed.
"Patriarchal cheeky chopper." muttered Rusty rebelliously. They set off on the line once more.
"Not now!" encouraged the driver. "We'll soon be at the top station! ...I wonder if that insanity thing is catching. Do they give good money when you're off in a asylum somewhere?"
...
Both Peter Sam and Sir Handel were glad to see Rusty, but all the same, Sir Handel was still in a bad temper over the whole affair of the past few weeks, and so was taking out his anger on the trucks, as most engines would do. But most engines wouldn't go so far as to deliberately piss the trucks off by hitting them even after they had been brought into line.
Sir Handel was not most engines. The trucks hated him, and so began to plot together on how to play tricks on him.
Gordon watched with amusement as Handel went to town on the trucks. He liked this kid, even if he was probably somewhat older than Gordon himself. He had guts, and pride, and confidence. He gave a whistle as Handel grumpily shunted some coaches into position.
"Nice work." He said approvingly. "Sir Handel, right? The express engine?"
"Indeed! And you're Gordon."
"Indeed. I was quite impressed by your actions the other day. Rather a bold stand, I thought." Handel puffed with pride, and Gordon saw his chance. "You know, interesting thing is, I believe that you deserve a lot more than just working with trucks. Nasty, vulgar little things, always said so." Handel seemed to be listening, so Gordon put forward his idea. "No one understands our feelings, do they? They assume that they're all namby-pamby wimps who'll fold like a house of cards in a earthquake. Now, if you were ill, you couldn't shut trucks, could you? You'd be pampered like a king, like you deserve."
"Good idea!" Sir Handel enthused. "Fireman's still on holiday visiting my old driver, so the relief don't know me too well! I'll try it!"
"Good man. I'll be back along this way in a few hours, and we'll talk a little more. I have the feeling that this is the start of a beautiful friendship!"
...
"Oooooooh, I don't feel well! Oooooooooh heck!" wailed Sir Handel. He was laying it on thick, not quite as thick as James would have, but thick none the less. But, because of the naivety of the relief fireman and driver, and because there was little time, he was sent back to the sheds, and his trucks were coupled up behind Peter Sam's coaches. Rusty promised to follow with the rest, and so the two engines set off.
Rusty had formed a quick and natural bond with Peter Sam, helped enormously by the fact that he was a utter sweetheart when he wasn't off in doolally land, so the chance to work together pleased them both. Peter Sam didn't mind the extra work, and so reached Skarloey station in good time. He left his coaches at the station and ran round to push his trucks up to the old Mid Sodor Railway Slate Quarry, which had been bought and transformed by the Fat Controller into another part of the Skarloey line.
After a rather awkward confrontation between Peter Sam and a rather obtuse and rude steamroller, he made it up to see that Rusty had apparently taken a back path, and was dropping off the last batch of trucks. They smiled at him. "See you in a moment, Peter Sam! Careful, these trucks are rather tricky!"
"I can handle it!" said Peter Sam with confidence, and his driver immediately groaned. You never said those words on the Island of Sodor unless you were suicidal or stupid. Possibly both.
Rusty smiled, and went on their way. As one of the workman took a leak near the edge of the rails, the empty trucks were hitched up to a long steel rope at the bottom of the slope. The loaded trucks at the top of the incline were hitched to another, and by their weight, in theory the heavy trucks would slide down the slope, pulling the empty ones up to be loaded up properly. In theory, even back in the day it had been considered a occasionally dangerous way to transport materials, not helped by the fact that the workmen often were drunk as skunks or were bored out of their skulls half the time.
Peter Sam dutifully waited at the bottom of the slope, his driver and fireman parking just underneath one of the drainpipes, and both of them got out to have a quick chat with the foreman. Peter Sam went back into his little world, where he was currently having a tea party with Mr Rabbit and Mr Snowman. He never bumped trucks badly, unless they misbehaved, which made him a surprisingly popular engine amongst the nutty trucks.
But the loaded trucks at the top couldn't see him properly. They thought he was Sir Handel. Honestly, even from far away, it raises the question of whether or not the trucks were actually colorblind, because they really didn't look that much alike.
The lead truck saw his chance for trickery had arrived. "FASTER! FASTER!" They yelled, maniacally laughing to themselves as they did so.
"NO! NO!" wailed the empty trucks, who had been surprised to discover how nice Peter Sam was compared to the other engines they had had. "It's Peter Sam! We can use him! He's too nice!"
But, as always, it was too late. The rope decided at that particular moment to snap off their couplings, and the loaded trucks took their chance as it came, hurtling down the hill as fast as they could. "HURRAH HURRAH!" They laughed.
Peter Sam snapped out of his dream just in time to see the trucks racing down at lightning speed. He shut his eyes and prayed that when the end came, it came quickly. The driver covered his eyes, and the fireman started to run towards the train.
The lead truck had just enough time to recognize his mistake, utter the immortal words "OH SH-" and regret a lot of his life choices before-
...
The sound of smashing and screaming and chaos echoed across the station and around the countryside. Rusty, who had been working off in the corner of the quarry, reversed backwards onto the turntable as fast as they could, just in time to see one truck launch into the air and smash down upon the drainpipe, defying all the laws of physics known to man and engine alike.
Peter Sam opened his eyes. Or tried to, as the slate had managed to shatter just enough so that the sharps were almost digging into his eyeball. Water, cold and freezing, gushed onto his head, forcing him to shut his eyes just to stop it from stinging his eyes even more. He shivered automatically, as the fireman tried in desperation to start removing some of the remains of the trucks, which had pierced his boiler and dome.
"Peep...peep." wailed Peter Sam quietly. Rusty rounded the corner quickly, and did a double take at the image in front of them.
"Oh...my! Bust my buffers!" They hurriedly called, in case Peter Sam couldn't hear "Never mind, Peter Sam! We'll get you out! Things can't get worse!"
It then began to rain. Peter Sam's screams could be heard echoing around the island.
Eventually, they helped Peter Sam to the nearest depot, not too far from the engine sheds, and tried to get as much of the painful stuff out of his boiler and off his buffers. Peter Sam looked as though he had been through the wars. His funnel was cracked and seemed to be on the verge of shattering apart into a million different pieces, and his boiler was dented and filled with small and tiny holes that workmen were filling as best they could with whatever they could find.
"Ank oo Rusty." he said out of the side of his mouth, and sidled off sadly home.
Rusty hesitated for a moment, then followed behind him subtly. They wanted to make sure he got home safe.
...
Sir Handel, contrary to popular opinion, wasn't a complete and total asshole. The second Peter Sam backed down, rocking and coughing painfully, he started forward. "Oh my god! What happened?! Where does it hurt!? Peter Sam!? Stuart! Talk to me buddy!"
And later, as the workmen continued their surgery on him, Sir Handel coughed. "I am so sorry about your accident!" He gushed, feeling the first hints of something he had only heard of in fairytales called a conscience pricking at him. "I always get back as far as I can, the trucks don't like me very much!"
Peter Sam's mouth was so numb from all the medication that had been given to him that it was rather hard to make out what he was saying, but this Sir Handel heard clearly. "Y idn't oo arn me?"
"I didn't think." he stammered, closing his mouth.
A very larger than usual shadow was suddenly cast over his buffers, and Sir Handel jerked backwards as Sir Topham Hatt appeared to materialize out of the wall like a ghost. In reality, there was a convenient door that allowed him to scare the crap out of his engines.
"You never do, you little bastard. You can start thinking now when you do Peter Sam's work as well as your own. That'll learn ya to play sick!"
Sir Handel did start thinking, about Gordon. And what exactly he was going to tell him tomorrow.
...
When the wreckage was cleared away, Rusty started off along the line. They reached round the side of the mountain, making their final little trip before they were to start heading off back to the mainland for the night. Then, with a whirring, Rusty looked up to see Harold the Helicopter glancing down, grinning friendly.
"Splendid to see you again!" Harold said, with no small amount of genuineness. "I heard your friend got into a accident! Is he okay?"
"Er, yes, thank you. Well, he will be."
"I'm sorry I wasn't there to help!" Harold sounded so genuinely upset that he had missed the chance to help someone in need that Rusty suddenly felt a lot nicer disposed towards him. "I, er, just came around to tell you that, and...well, it's my evening look about. Don't want to miss anyone else."
"Nice job!" Rusty encouraged. "Well done! Keep up the good work-" They suddenly paused as the driver whispered something to them. A grin slowly broke over their face. "Turns out, Harold, we might be seeing a lot of each other now! They've just recalled me. Apparently I'm staying here!"
"Congratulations!" Harold declared. And the little diesel purred on happily to their new home.
...
"Mr Edward? Could I talk to you for a moment?"
Edward glanced back, trying not to curse. He put on his relaxed smile, and nodded, as Bedella climbed into his cab. "Where do you want me to drop you off?"
"Just by Tidmouth, I think." The ride continued in silence for a good few minutes or so before Bedella finally spoke up. "That was a good interview you did there. Nigel and Stan were very impressed, I think."
Edward had gone on Trainspotters once again to try and make something out of the disaster that had occurred the previous night, mostly because Thomas and the others had point blank refused to drop out of the race completely. He was left to salvage the situation again, as per usual, and had even admitted on air to Bedella that Thomas's youth had gotten the better of him once again. It was a fine balance between appeasing the critics and trying to keep Thomas looking like a viable candidate, one that teetered and tottered more than a Jenga set.
"Ah, thank you, Christopher. I...I must admit to feeling a certain sense of shame that we're even still standing." Edward groaned. "Oh shit, you have to watch yourself so damn much, don't you? Can I pay you to- Oh no I'm just making this worse!"
"There is no tape recorder on me!" laughed Bedella. "I won't tell a soul, Edward. I swear on my father's grave."
"Phew." Edward looked ahead, wryly smirking. "Thomas'll probably call this fraternizing with the enemy, but I don't care. I'd much rather you take over than that prat, Drampf."
"Means a lot."
"You don't have to lie."
"I am not! Despite what everyone says, your opinion carries a great deal of weight on the island."
"Tell that to the others." Edward paused, memories flying in. "They'll never know, you see. What it's like to go to war, what it's like to fear for your life, what it's like to have...to have things go on in front of you that you can't stop. They just see me as this old idiot who comes in to ruin all their fun, but I just want them to be safe. Do you get that?"
"My youngest is just like that. Always so impatient, so fussy."
"Funny. You could be describing Thomas." Edward smiled, a genuine nostalgic smile. "Thomas always wanted to go out and see the world. And I understand it. But I don't think his calling is for mayor."
"No. Perhaps not. But I swear, Edward, even if you don't win, things are going to change for the better. I assume most of the ideas about engine equality were your own?" Christopher smirked. "Somehow, you can just tell. Well, do you mind if I nick them at some point?"
"Not like we'll be using them that much." He came to a stop by the station. "Night Christopher. See you in the morning." And he puffed off back to the sheds. Maybe things would pick up a little bit. You never knew-
-He entered just in time to see part of Tidmouth Sheds collapse in on itself. He stared, open-mouthed, as James and Thomas began directing the camera crew to film this.
Or perhaps not.