A/N: I've been wanting to write Veggie Express for over a decade (concept art can be found on my DA account), but as I still have stuff to do before I can tackle the full story, I decided to try my hand at shorter pieces using the idea.
Starlight Express (or StEx) is an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical about toy trains where the actors perform on roller skates — a lot better than it sounds, haha. I recommend checking out the song "He Whistled at Me", from the original London soundtrack, but it's not necessary to do so before reading this fic.
Time off was a welcomed relief to talking vegetable trains, and having one's free day aligned with one's friends was sheer windfall. Hardly anything could deter a vehicle with settled plans, not even an inconsequential thing like the weather. Thus, when Petunia the observation car rolled out of her shed in the coach yard to discover a cold, gelid blanket of snow covering the surrounding valley, she had no thought about canceling her plans with the Dill sisters.
"This is why we have switchers," she said with an easy shrug as she trekked her way over the slippery rails to the depot where the three sleeping cars resided. Petunia was a new addition to the yard, a first-class vehicle built to resemble a redhead rhubarb, and though the Dill sisters belonged to a different train, Petunia enjoyed their company. Ever since she had met the three mechanical sweet potatoes at a Sunday school hosted by the local chapel car, the sleeping cars had made Petunia feel welcomed.
At the Dills' depot, Petunia shared her idea, pleased to see the sleeper sisters were of a similar mind, but acquiring a switch engine was a challenge in itself, since the snow threw a wrench in the normal yard schedule.
"Just ask Bob," shrugged Sabrina, the sister with a synthetic peel painted green. "If Katrina so much as sneezes near him, he's sprinting down the track to give her a tissue."
"I wonder why," grinned Mirabelle, the youngest and a fellow redhead. She looked like she was trying hard not to laugh.
"As if," sniffed Katrina, flipping her floating glove against her blonde hair, but Petunia thought she looked a little pleased.
The sisters needed a little time to switch to day mode, primping and straightening their maid-like, candy-striped dresses and headpieces. Sabrina offered to do Petunia's fingernails while she waited, before Katrina reminded her that they didn't actually have hands inside their gloves. When they were all ready, they hitched up for safety and rolled out to recruit Bob to be their temporary taxi.
Of course, Bob agreed. He was a diesel vehicle who resembled a tomato, the ideal size for a switcher, and he often worked in the carriage yard. He was usually quick to help anyone, but he seemed to agree to the girls' request a lot quicker than normal.
"I should be able to sneak away for thirty minutes, as long as it's not too far," he told the four coaches, but he seemed to address Katrina in particular. "Where are you headed?"
"Beet's Alpine Roundhouse," Petunia supplied. "Mirabelle reserved us a table for lunch."
"Oh, that's not too far," Bob replied brightly.
"But it is up the hill," Katrina said, nodding her head up the track, which was obscured by trees and rock formations. "With all this snow, it'll be hard to get up the grade without an engine."
Bob nodded with sympathy. Asparagus Yard had been built within a valley on an easy incline, which unpowered vehicles could normally navigate without help, but bad weather could leave a rail car stranded. After Bob left word for his supervisor, he offered his couplings — big rings on the back of his belt — to Katrina, and the carriages cheerfully linked up.
They started up the slope, passing snoozy carriages covered in snow, sheds where dining cars served coffee to sleeping cars back from an overnight run, switch engines pushing snow-plow cars to clear the tracks, and here and there a French-pea hand car or a broccoli-shaped caboose trying to make themselves useful. Bob steered them onto a spur line to avoid traffic, and it was a quiet, pleasant ride.
The further up the slope, the more rock formations separated the tracks, some like half pipes, which normally provided hours of fun to rolling stock who were into extreme sports. With a frosted cliff on their right, Bob pulled the coaches to a quiet portion of the line which ran past a frozen river, separated by a latticed guardrail with red-and-yellow stripes on the top bar.
Petunia wondered how much further they had to go when the speakers erupted with the scratchy, youthful voice of Junior, who handled all the administration commands in Asparagus Yard.
"Bob the switcher to the main classification yard," he sang out. "Big freight train just rolled in. Go at once!"
Bob slowed, tilting his head up toward the speaker. "Can I finish taking my friends up the hill?"
"Leave them for right now," Junior ordered. "This is a super important delivery, and the train cars have to be separated before lunch time. Move, or you'll make us late."
"But, Junior—" Katrina started to protest.
"Bob can come get you when he's done," Junior cut her off. There came the click which signaled he had cut off the two-way transmission.
The coaches groaned with disappointment. Bob gazed helplessly at the silent speaker before he unhitched himself from Katrina, looking deflated.
"I'm so sorry, Katrina — and everyone," he apologized. "With so many switchers in the repair shop with colds, the rest of the staff has to fill in."
"But what does Junior expect us to do?" Katrina grumbled. "We'll miss our reservation."
"And it's cold," Sabrina added sadly.
"I'll try to hurry," Bob promised, "but if I can't break away, I'll try to send somebody to help you."
"Thanks anyway, Bob," Petunia said appreciatively.
Bob pulled them onto a siding to keep them safe from traffic, even though it seemed unnecessary in this quiet section of the snowy yard. He touched the brim of his hat, apologetic, gave one last look at Katrina, and reluctantly turned himself around, rolling carefully back down the slope.
Katrina waited until he was out of earshot before she made a sound of annoyance.
"Oh, sure, this is how I wanna spend my day off," she exhaled, "getting frostbite on my wheels."
"And with no head-end power to keep our heaters on," Sabrina sighed before she breathed on her gloves to warm them.
"Maybe an engine will pass by and give us a lift," Petunia offered helpfully. "There has to be a lunch crowd going up to the roundhouse, right?"
"At the very least," said Mirabelle, "once Finnegan sees we're late for our reservation, he might send one of the inn's switchers to come check on us."
"But we could be ice cold by the time that happens," Sabrina returned glumly.
"Try to think of something else," Petunia advised.
They tried. Mirabelle reminded her sisters of the southern railroad where they used to live, with barbecues on the Fourth of July and sipping sweet tea on hot summer nights. Petunia shared an anecdote of when she and her late fiancé took a trip to Miami to see Twippo, the electric-engine rockstar.
"I thought only diesels lived in Florida?" Sabrina pointed out.
"Sure, but Twippo is a professional," Petunia said fondly. "He needed a diesel to transport him from New York, and he had to perform without being able to turn on his air conditioning inside his own cabin — in Miami — but he did it for the fans."
Mirabelle nodded. "We got to meet him once, back when our single was still trending on the radio. He seemed to care about his fans, even though you'd think a guy that famous would have a huge ego."
The sisters had once released a record, before they came to Asparagus Yard, although now they mostly sang in Sunday school or for dinner shows at Beet's Alpine Roundhouse.
Petunia smiled, brightening.
"Oh, you guys are so lucky! My Ryan always hoped to meet Twippo in person, but when we tried to catch him at the back door, the other trains complained about Ryan's smoke — I didn't think there was anything wrong," she added stoutly. "Ryan was burning cedar that night, which smells much nicer than diesel fumes."
Mirabelle gave her kind look. "He was a steamer, right?"
"Yep," Petunia returned, "with a heart as warm as his flame. On cold days like this, he used to come over with a thermos of cocoa, and he'd let me warm up beside his firebox."
"That is so cute!" Sabrina laid her gloves over her heart.
"I wouldn't mind finding a guy like that," Katrina sighed wistfully.
"Oh, I think Bob would bring you cocoa if you ask him," Mirabelle replied.
Before Katrina could do more than roll her eyes, a blast of an air horn reverberated over the snow-covered rocks. Petunia turned, hopeful, to see the figure of a diesel engine down the line, coming up the grade. She was about to suggest flagging the train, but to her surprise, Katrina's lip curled.
"It's those freight engines again," she sniffed.
"Maybe Charlie could give us a lift?" Sabrina pondered, breathing on her gloves again, but Katrina rounded on her.
"No," she clipped. "We're not that desperate."
Mirabelle touched Katrina's shoulder cabin, sympathetic.
The engine blasted his horn again, chugging with purpose, and Petunia caught on to Katrina's distaste. Per safety regulations, the parts of the yard closest to the nearby neighborhoods of tiny "organic veggies" (as rolling stock referred to passengers and train crews) required locomotives to sound their horns, but this section of the yard did not have such restrictions. An engine honking away was either saying "Hey, look at me!" or trying to send literal signals to impress a very special train. From the way the locomotive smirked at the unimpressed Katrina as he approached, Petunia was inclined to think the latter.
The engine pulled closer. He was modeled after a yellow scallion and had thick eyebrows; he wore black and yellow paint, stamped with the decal of the Asparagus Railroad — a white circular with the face of an asparagus child in the center. As he came closer, his companions became visible. Three other diesels, resembling carrots, glided behind him, each wearing a primary color. They wore sunglasses and had their brown hair slicked back like they were members of a greaser gang.
"Oi!" Charlie called with a biting laugh. "Are these coaches or freezer trucks? I can't tell."
His friends chuckled at the low-hanging fruit.
"Did you girls hear something?" Katrina said dryly, refusing to look at the diesel. "It sounds like a lot of hot air was suddenly released."
Charlie laughed again, swaggering to the other end of the siding so that he could face Katrina directly. Petunia shifted a little closer to Mirabelle, not liking how their tiny loop of a track was cut off on both ends.
"You're feisty for a sleeper, Katie," Charlie observed.
"Katrina," she replied coldly, planting her hands on her hips. "Just keep rollin', fella."
"And leave you damsels in distress? Perish the thought!" Charlie smoothed back his stalks. "If you meet my price, I can get you girls outta the cold."
"Yeah! Charge 'em, Chuck," snickered the yellow engine.
"How about a hundred bucks?" suggested the blue.
"Each," added the red.
Charlie ignored them, keeping his large eyes on Katrina.
"How about a date, Kate?" he suggested, wagging his thick eyebrows.
"Get real," Katrina retorted.
"Bob promised to send us somebody," Mirabelle jumped in firmly. "So, we'll just wait for that train."
"Dollars to donuts, it's Larry," the yellow one snorted, rolling his eyes.
"You'll be waiting forever if you wanna go with that guy."
"Larry's a fine switcher," Mirabelle defended.
"But he's no freight train," Charlie scoffed. "Look, since I like you girls' fire, give me ten bucks, and I'll show you how fast a diesel guy can really go."
"Pass," Katrina sniffed. "At least Larry doesn't stink of diesel."
"Your loss." Charlie smoothed down his stalks. "C'mon, chaps. Let's hit the fuel station for a cuppa oil."
The engines filed behind him, blowing raspberries at the coaches, and Charlie zoomed down the line, kicking up powder.
Petunia exhaled as the engines vanished from sight, and her mechanical stomach relaxed. Right then, he was glad she was a carriage; she could not imagine dealing with rude engines like that everyday.
"Freezing my rivets off is preferable to their company," Katrina declared, flipping back her blonde hair. "Can you believe the nerve of that train blasting his horn at me like he was shooting cattle off the track?"
"Well, he likes you, Katie," Sabrina pointed out.
"I can do better," her sister snorted. "Freight horns sound like a dying goose. My future husband is going to have a gorgeous air horn, I'm telling you that right now."
"Like Bob's?" Mirabelle asked innocently, causing Katrina to shoot her a scowl.
Petunia smiled, nostalgic. "I've always had a taste for whistles myself. The steamers on the heritage line near my old yard sounded wonderful."
Like Ryan, she added silently, remembering the clear blast from his shining, pipe-like apparatus.
Sabrina touched her cheek, suddenly a little giggly. "I've always liked caboose whistles in particular."
Katrina shot her an incredulous look. "The only cabooses around here with whistles are museum pieces."
"Actually, just about every caboose is a museum piece now," Petunia pointed out.
"You never know," Sabrina replied, unperturbed. "One of the younger trucks might get a whistle installed, just to impress me."
"Ugh." Katrina shook her head. "If you marry a freight truck, you're gonna regret it, you know."
"Cabooses are practically coaches," Sabrina giggled. "I don't mind being on a mixed train."
Petunia chuckled at her enthusiasm before she turned to Mirabelle. "What do you prefer? Whistle or horn? Or maybe an alarm bell?"
Mirabelle smiled. "Oh, I don't think about signals that much."
"Because your guy doesn't have one, Katrina smirked.
"Finnegan's just fine the way he is," Mirabelle insisted. "His singing is enough to woo me."
"Only after you gave him lessons," Sabrina teased.
"Finnegan?" Petunia repeated, jerking a thumb toward the track ahead. "You mean Mr. Beet? The snow-plow car who owns the hotel we're going to?"
"That's the one!" Mirabelle chirped, her large eyes growing soft. "I wouldn't change a bolt on him."
"Love is blind," Katrina cracked, playfully poking her little sister's cheek.
"Oh, stop it," Mirabelle chided. "Dreamboats and model trains don't always keep their looks, but when you love someone, you see their soul first. And I like what I see when Finnegan looks at me."
"It's so cute when she defends him like that," Sabrina conceded, poking Mirabelle's other cheek.
"Our widdle sister is all grow'd up," Katrina pretended to sigh.
Mirabelle, who was normally a picture of happy composure, grew flustered.
"Oh, stop," she mumbled, making her sisters laugh.
Petunia smiled at the sibling banter, privately agreeing with Mirabelle. Some rolling stock used to think Ryan looked a little goofy, with his long, banana nose and silly smile, but Petunia had always thought his unconventional looks gave his kind face much more character. When other vehicles brought this up, she would (half-)joke that she was perfectly fine if no other woman ever found her fiancé attractive.
"Sometimes," she said aloud, quietly, "a guy is just beautiful to you, even if no one else understands why."
As she lifted her head, reflecting on this, she noticed the relative stillness of the track had a new, soft sound added. Furrowing her brow, she laid a glove against her mechanical ear, listening.
"Chugga, chugga, chugga, chug! Chugga, chugga, chugga, chug!"
Petunia straightened, smacking her ear to make sure it was working. That noise sounded remarkably like a steam locomotive, almost melodic.
"What's that?" she asked her friends.
The sisters turned in unison, listening. At once, each of their expressions altered. Mirabelle seemed delighted; Katrina, annoyed; Sabrina, amused.
"Leave it to Bob to send Larry when nobody else wants to do a job," Sabrina tittered.
"Bless his heart," Katrina said, shaking her head. "He's starting up his theme song again."
"At least he's not doing the disco one anymore," Sabrina responded. "You know, 'Nobody can do it like a steam train.'"
"All of Larry's songs are fine," Mirabelle insisted. "It's tedious work being a switcher, so he's allowed to find ways to amuse himself."
"An actual steam train?" Petunia questioned, with unmasked curiosity. "I didn't know any lived in this yard."
"He mostly does switching work in the freight yard," Katrina explained. "Occasionally, he helps us coaches when our switchers are short staffed."
"He's a great guy," Sabrina added. "Just a little… well, you'll see."
The melodious chugging grew louder, and wisps of smoke began appearing over the rock formations. As the chugging reached a crescendo, the voice began to sing:
"My name is Larry, the steamer engine.
At the railroad station, I love sayin', 'All abroad!'
My name is Larry, the steamer engine.
It's awesome when you hear the mighty engine roar!"
As the voice sang this last line, a mechanical cucumber — at least a good head or two taller than a normal switch engine — chugged his way around the bend. His blue, iron chassis resembled the overalls worn by engineers of a different era, and his chimney sat atop a cute brimmed hat which puffed out white clouds of smoke. His firebox glowed on his chest, and a tender hung from his shoulders like a backpack. He pumped his gloves in time with his rushing pistons, bouncing on his wheels as he chugged.
"And how they love that chug, chug, chug!" he continued, wearing a wide smile which showed his single tooth. "It's music to their ears! And their heart takes wing when my—"
But he did not get any further. There was a little dip in the track, slick with ice, and his wheels must have hit it wrong because his body lurched and wobbled. He yelped, flailing his hands to steady himself. His brakes let out a shrill screech, but he kept sliding, until he fumbled right off the track and into a snowbank.
Gasping, Petunia rushed forward. She dropped on the snow beside him, grabbing his broad shoulders.
"Are you okay?!"
She lifted his head from the bank, and Larry at once spat out snow, rubbing his glove against his round nose, which had a small, fresh dent.
"You should be more careful in all this snow," Petunia told him, helping him roll onto his back.
"Nothing I can't—" he started to say painfully, but he opened one eye and stopped when he caught sight of Petunia. "Oh!"
"Oh?"
Larry sat up, brushing snow off his iron chassis, looking suddenly embarrassed. "Oh, uh, you're that new coach, right?"
She nodded, holding out her hand. "Petunia the observation car."
"Larry the steam train — but, uh, you probably already knew that from my theme song," he chuckled weakly as they shook gloves.
Mirabelle skidded to a halt beside them, panting slightly. Petunia had not realized she had also started forward when Larry fell, but Petunia was naturally quicker than most coaches.
"You hurt, Larry?" she asked.
Larry seemed to remember where he was, and he pushed himself out of Petunia's invisible arms into a sitting position.
"Takes more to take Larry out," he told her cheerfully.
"Can you get up?" Petunia asked, scanning him for serious dents.
"I think I can."
Curving his riveted body like a crescent moon, he rocked back into the snow, then — clank! — he jumped onto his wheels with a lot more agility than his frame seemed to suggest. He next offered his thick hand to Petunia, helping her up.
"You should really be more careful," Mirabelle cautioned. "The repair shop doesn't specialize in steam trains, you know."
"Aw, this is nothing a plunger and some hot water can't fix," he insisted with a wave of his hand. He glanced at Petunia before straightening his shoulders, as though trying to make himself seem a little taller. "Now, weren't you ladies about to go somewhere?"
While an observation car, Petunia saw no reason why she couldn't hitch up right behind the cheerful steamer. It felt just like being at home near the heritage yard, when she used to visit Ryan and his family.
It's funny how much you miss the little things, she reflected, admiring the puff of smoke floating up into the sky. The hiss of his pistons, the clicks of his wheels, the jostle of his coal inside his tender backpack — it all worked together to take Petunia to another place, another time.
Larry seemed like a fun, silly guy the more Petunia observed him. He reached into his tender for four lumps of coal, tossed one inside his chest, then juggled the remaining three.
"Does your choo choo have a boo-boo?" he hummed, starting a silly song about a dilapidated engine.
As they rounded a bend, the cliff face on one side stopped short, and a low fence ran along the track in the sudden gap. Beyond it, tiny houses where organic veggies lived formed a street.
"Larry," Mirabelle spoke up, "residential neighborhood on your right."
Larry fumbled with his coal, losing hold on two, which clattered off the track and into the snow. He cleared his throat.
"Right…" he mumbled. He looked both ways quickly, as though checking to see if any other trains were nearby, and his floating glove tugged the air.
"Whoo… whoo…" he tooted out, barely above a whisper.
"Larry," Mirabelle chided, "you know that's not safe."
He rolled his metal shoulder pads back, took a deep breath, and let out clearer notes: "Whooooo. Whooooo. Whooooo."
He continued like that until the track bent away from the tiny veggie houses. He picked up speed, keeping his head down, and he was silent the rest of the way up.
Several trains were using the turntable in front of the refurbished roundhouse. Inn guests went to and from their suites; baggage cars dressed as bellhops carried luggage and room-service; expectant patrons filed into the shed which had been remodeled into a dining room. When it was their turn, Larry pulled the coaches right up to the doors and stepped aside, waving.
"Bob says he'll try to come by to give you a ride home if you still need him," Larry said, glancing at Katrina in particular.
The carriages thanked him, and Katrina led the way into the dining room. Petunia started to roll with the sisters, but she stopped, tapping Mirabelle's shoulder.
"I'll be right with you," she said in an undertone. "I just wanted to tell Larry something."
Mirabelle smiled. "No problem! I'll order you an ice tea, if the waitress asks."
Petunia thanked her and stepped back onto the snowy track. Larry was waiting his turn for the turntable, patting his side as though in time to some song only he could hear. She started toward him.
"Larry!" she called. "Mr. Steam Train? Just a moment!"
He spun, his eyes bulging in surprise before they softened with a friendly smile. She braked, accidentally kicking up snow which bounced off his large wheel. Smoothly back her red hair, she beamed.
"Hi!" she started. "I just wanted to say you have a wonderful whistle."
An alarm cloud of smoke shot out of his chimney, and he all but slapped a finger against his lip.
"Shhhhh!" he pleaded, letting out a hiss of steam. "If any of the diesels hear, they won't like that."
"How's it any of their business?" Petunia returned in surprise. "You can't help how you came out of the factory."
Larry looked away. "A lot of freight engines think… whistles are… stupid and… well, unpleasant. I don't want to bother them…"
Petunia recalled Charlie and his unpleasant friends, and in that moment she had an inkling of what his work life must have been like. Although she had no firebox, a fiery feeling burnt a slow, steady course through her cabins.
"Whistles sound a lot nicer than some air horns I've heard," she replied stoutly, planting her knuckles against her belt. "Why, my late fiancé had the most gorgeous whistle you'd ever heard! His beautiful soul made his whistle that much better."
Larry seemed taken aback at the mention of her departed darling, and condolence crossed his green features.
"Really?" he asked.
Petunia looked down with a nod.
"I'm sure your whistle shows your heart," she said quietly. "You should never be ashamed of it, Larry."
He averted his gaze with an embarrassed laugh. "Nah, I sound silly."
"No, you don't," she insisted gently. "Whistle for me, and I'll give you my honest opinion."
He rubbed his neck. "Maybe that's not a great idea…"
"Whisper if you like," she suggested, lowering her own voice, "but whistle in that nice way you did."
Larry hesitated, sliding his tongue beneath his tooth. He shifted toward hers, as though trying to determine if she was making fun of him. Petunia held up her clasped hands.
"Please whistle for me," she pressed. "A nice whistle of friendship."
"Friendship?" He glanced down at his gloves. "You, ah, really wanna be friends with me?"
"If you don't mind," she smiled back.
"No!" he said, a little too quickly. "I mean, uh, you seem like somebody who could be a nice friend."
"Ditto." She gazed at him, encouraging.
Larry glanced around again and tilted his head toward her.
"Whoo-whoo."
He hurriedly checked her face. She applauded softly.
"See?" she replied pleasantly. "That was so nice."
Slowly, he brightened. "You really think so?"
"Sure do!"
He bounced a little on his wheels, as if her praise was a lump of coal added to his firebox. She could not help giggling at his chipperness. She did not think she would regret befriending him any time soon.
With eyes glittering, he lowered his voice once more. "Say, Petunia, if you're ever in a jam around the yard, or just wanna talk to somebody, just whistle, and I'll come running."
Petunia tilted her head, surprised. "Can I whistle?"
"Try it," he beamed. He pursed his lips together, tugging as though on an invisible cord. "Whoo-whoo."
Petunia did her best to copy him. "Whoo… whoo?"
Larry beamed, nodding. His whistle grew gentle. "Whoo-whoo-ooh."
Petunia imitated him again, fascinated with the sound passing through her pursed lips. If only Ryan could have heard her right then! He would have been knocked clear off his wheels.
Larry let out a friendly titter. "Hey, maybe that could be our secret code!"
"I'd like that."
Larry held out his knuckles, showing his couplings. "Friends?"
Warmly, she bumped her gloves against his. "Friends."
Her touch lingered there for a second or two longer than she meant before she remembered the Dill sisters inside the roundhouse. She bid Larry a friendly farewell and headed for the door but stopped on the threshold.
Larry finally stepped onto the turntable, which carried him over to the track which must led back to the freight yard. As he started down, he seemed to hold himself at his full height. He let out a whistle, stronger than what Petunia had heard thus far, and his reverberating voice sounded warm and friendly even as it faded away.
"Whoo-whoo! Whoo-whoo!
Nobody can do it like a steam train!"
THE END
A/N: This particular fic is based on one of the new numbers from the German reboot, "Pfeife für Mich" ("Whistle for Me"), which recycled the melody of "He Whistled at Me" but added a cute friendship chemistry between Pearl and Rusty.
While Larry & Petunia take the role of Rusty & Pearl, I decided not to pigeonhole the VT cast into roles that don't fit them, but assign them vehicle types that fit their personality. For example, Mr. Nezzer takes the role of Poppa (because that fits too well to pass up), but Bob isn't Red Caboose just because he's a tomato. The French peas are hand cars, even though that vehicle hasn't appeared (yet) in any of the musical's canons.
Fans of the Netflix series may recognize Larry's song. ;)