Ever since she was a little train, Wrench had been fascinated by the variety of mechanical tracks used in the championship races. When she had watched it on television, in between races there would be footage of the different things the tracks could do, and rolling stock came from all over just to see the novelty rails, from the bridges that could spin like turntables to the box-like trestles that could rise and fall like an elevator. Yet as Wrench leaned now against a trussed structure, watching fleets of work trucks pulled by switchers navigate their way over the uphill course for last-minute inspections, she felt no joy witnessing the technological marvels.
She had left Electra's track in a hurry after she had been dismissed, rolling past the blue dining car, who looked decidedly frustrated, and Volta, who did not seem to have a kind glance for her carriage replacement. Purse had called after Wrench, but she had not slowed — and as she had passed Krupp, sitting cool but alert on a guard rail, he had given her a grim, knowing nod.
Now, Wrench stared up at the intricate beams of the different fixtures, doing her best to focus on the race track which she would soon be zooming across, but, as much as she tried to ignore it, her mind kept returning to Electra's cold gaze.
Along with the ultimatum that still rang in her ears.
He's just stressed, she assured herself.
After the humiliation he had been subjected to, both by his components and by Pearl leaving him — and coming in second place to that diesel engine in his elimination heat — of course he would be testy. He would not have threatened her if his evening had gone smoothly and if he did not have the fate of all American electrics resting on his shoulders. After all, how many electric engines and their wives had come up to him to ask him to take pictures with their children because he was their hope? How would those parents react to their hero if he should lose tonight? It was only natural for Electra to be on edge with that kind of pressure.
Though she knew Electra's better nature, she also knew that after everything that had happened to him he would see it as an act of betrayal if she did not at least try to obey him.
And Electra is so kind to those he cares for, Wrench reminded herself. Electra was a good boss and a good friend who had taken a chance on a diesel mechanic when the other electrics insisted he take a different employee. She would move heaven and earth to please a train like him.
All she had to do was just ruin Rusty's life.
What could that fool even give me?
The steamer was nobody going nowhere fast, a relic from the past who was too stupid to give up his hopes for a gilded, shallow little girl who dumped him for a better electric man — and then dumped that better electric man for a despicable diesel. If Rusty could be loyal to such a girl, it was his loss — and if he got in Electra's way, it was Wrench's duty to clear the superstar's track.
And a platonic friendship with Electra is better than risking everything for a man who wouldn't want me anyway — even if I did want him.
Which she didn't.
As she stood there brooding, her synthetic ears suddenly picked up the sound of slow chugging. She turned her head and was greeted by the sight of a figure in faded brown. Ambling smoke puffed from his cap.
Rusty's grandfather.
Poppa waved as their eyes met, flashing her a white-toothed smile that could be seen even at a distance.
"There you are, Miz Wrench," he beamed. "Rusty wanted me to tell you he would be a little late."
Wrench raised an eyebrow. "Where is he?"
The old man's brown eyes seemed to flash.
"Control sent him on an errand — as if the boy wasn't about to enter the race of all races." He shook his whitening head, but then he seemed to recover his good mood. He jabbed a thumb toward the race track. "You're quite a ways from the starting gate, Miz Wrench. Can I give you a lift?"
Wrench did not even glance at the aging limbs. "Think you should risk it?"
"I haul my boxcar boys everywhere, and you don't look like you weigh as much as them," the old man quipped, but Wrench noticed that his dark eyes had an odd look as he regarded her. He turned his couplings to her. "C'mon. It ain't too far for me."
Wrench opened her mouth to say no, but she briefly saw a flash of Electra's cold eyes. With reluctance she hitched onto the old man's belt. Delaying the inevitable would not help her tonight.
The elderly engine started off with a huff and a hiss, and he chugged down the track, pumping his arms in a slow but steady motion. The smell of his coal-enriched smoke reminded Wrench of Rusty — and she put a stop to those unwelcome thoughts by focusing her mind on an image of Electra soaring over the finish line, taking his rightful place as the superstar champion.
Unfortunately, Poppa McCoy's deep and kind voice broke its way through the wall of her cogitations: "Rusty spoke very highly of you, Miz Wrench."
Wrench bit back the comment she wanted to make and instead replied, "I'm sure he did."
Right after he got done gushing about his Barbie coach.
Poppa turned his head to look back as best as he could.
"I'm much obliged toward what you're doing for my boy," he continued. "If you ever need something, it's yours."
Wrench looked away. "I'm not doing much."
"But it's 'much' for him," Poppa insisted, and his pistons chugged a little faster. "He's a good boy. This race will give him the chance he needs to get fixed up again."
Wrench scoffed softly.
"Well, he's not the only one counting on a victory," she pointed out. "The other three racers have their reasons for racing too."
Such as the entire future for electric engines and their families.
Poppa made an odd noise.
"Yeah, Rusty told me about your electric feller." He rubbed his neck — much like his grandson did. "Well, I don't know too much about the modern 'lectric folks, but I raced against a few DC boys in my day. I can understand the need to do what it takes to help your family."
Would you still say that if you knew what I'm about to do to your family?
Wrench released his couplings. "I can make it the rest of the way. Thank you."
Poppa turned with a look of surprise.
"Ain't no trouble. My flame is burning bright right now," he said as a sleepy stream of smoke trickled out of his cap.
Wrench skated around him.
"But they don't let just anyone into the starting gate area," she argued quickly — and she had a sudden idea, "and it would be best for you to get to a public place with that diesel gang roaming around."
The steamer suddenly looked grave.
"Yeah, you're right." He shook his whitening head, sending his smoke up in a sloppy serpentine shape. "Them poor boys can't right help themselves, can they?"
Wrench had started to take swift strides toward her destination, but at that last comment, she braked and turned.
"Say that again?"
Poppa shrugged. "Well, oil burns hotter than water, don't it?"
"Yes."
"I always thought that's why so many get such nasty tempers. Their heads get too hot, and they can't think right. They could use a drink of water now and then."
Wrench thought of the stories she had grown up hearing about diesel engines bullying electric engines and stealing their tracks — and never once had she ever come up with such a bizarre idea.
"It's a little more complicated than that," she sniffed.
He gave a half grin. "Well, I ain't a repair truck either, so forgive an old man for putting his wheels in his mouth."
Wrench remembered how quick Rusty had been to help Gook simply because his grandfather told him it was the right thing to do. Was that all based on a faulty idea of how diesel engines worked?
"You would give a cup of water to a diesel engine even after all that they do to your grandson?" she asked, incredulous.
He shrugged again, but for a moment his eyes hardened. "I ain't gonna pretend that what they do is right, but I'd rather Rusty always be the better man."
Wrench shook her head.
"Don't you think that could lead to being too tolerant?" she pointed out. "Not very loyal to steam, is it?"
Poppa blinked, raising an eyebrow. "Loyalty don't mean you don't do the right thing when you gotta."
His eyes trailed to the race track beside them, and he pointed to a consist of switchers heading down a grade.
"I remember when all that would be done by steam-powered boys, but being mean to diesels ain't gonna bring the steamers back. It'd just make steamers look bad if I tried to hurt them."
Wrench recalled the gadgets in Electra's hands which could shoot electricity at his opponents. The engines who had commissioned him had put those in specifically to use on Greaseball. They had trained Electra to punch and ram racers who got too close and to do anything and everything to make sure that he crossed the finish line ahead of the diesel champion, including shocking carriages and causing them to uncouple from their engines. Wrench tried to imagine what Electra's builders would say if they could hear this coal-powered coot.
However, before she could form a response, a steam whistle rang out, reverberating across the surrounding rock face. She turned and saw the rusted switcher coming toward them, looking annoyed and hurried.
"Sorry, I'm late," Rusty greeted them, sounding stress. He braked beside Wrench. "Control had me deliver shampoo to Bobo's track. As if he didn't have a whole fleet of switchers to do it."
"How you feel, son?" Poppa asked, rolling up to the younger engine.
"Well, besides the earful I got from Ashley about the race being too dangerous, I'm pretty good," Rusty cracked, rolling hazel eyes which then fell upon Wrench. He visibly swallowed.
"You ready?" he asked, a hint of anxiety seeping into his voice that had not been there before.
"I was built ready," Wrench replied in a monotone and took his couplings.
Two switch engines in yellow jerseys with shoulder pieces painted to resemble checkered flags stood guard at the gate. They nodded to Rusty when the partners were just feet away, but to Wrench's surprise, Rusty suddenly slowed. He turned to face her, and a troubled expression etched his boyish features.
"Wrench, can I just say something real quick?"
Wrench shrugged, feigning disinterest. "I won't stop you."
He looked down at his race helmet, fiddling with its chassis. He took a deep breath.
"I really am grateful for... for everything, Wrench."
He looked like he had no experience with this sort of situation.
After a few moments of obvious deliberation, he blurted out, "Truth is, well, nobody in this yard ever thought I could race except Poppa and Pearl — and you. I think you're a great train."
Wrench said nothing. Rusty gave her a sheepish smile.
"But, you know, the champion team gets to go on a victory tour across the country for two weeks. Poppa made Control promised he'd provide the coal and water I'll need if I win." His face became wistful. "I've always wanted to travel from coast to coast — and it'll be fun if I have a good friend like you coming along."
He looked at her expectantly.
Although she kept her expression cool, an odd feeling rippled over Wrench at the friendship in his gaze. He was serious about this. Rusty believed in his dream so much that he took it for granted that she would be part of his victory trip. It would be cruel to steal that dream away.
But he won't win.
Whether second or last, he would not be the champion — and he would not be in a position to help Wrench if Electra fired her. He would not have the power to help her find work anywhere on the railroad.
What made Rusty's life and happiness worth throwing away her own?
"We should go," she said curtly, pointing toward where the track marshals watched them.
The light in his eyes dimmed a little, but he nodded and allowed her to re-hitch before he pulled her into the tunnel.
The other three racers and their partners were already in line waiting. Bobo and his brown smoking car were at the back, sharing a cigarette and seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world or the smell of the tobacco filling the enclosed space. Ahead of them Dinah waited beside Electra. The dining car did not even hold the electric engine's couplings but stood stiffly beside him, occasionally shooting dirty looks at the gold carriage and the diesel engine ahead of the superstar. Electra seemed to be deliberately ignoring the observation car, who returned the favor by gliding her dainty fingers over Greaseball's rippling muscles. Greaseball gave her a smile, and Pearl laid her golden head against his bulky shoulder.
Rusty turned away.
Wrench told herself that she did not care. Instead she looked over the blue TGV and his smoker and focused her attention on the glittery head of her megawatt. As she watched him admire his own shining metal, Electra suddenly turned his head, and their eyes met for a brief moment.
The electric engine gave a hint of his wonderful smile and a secretive wink, which she quickly returned.
The four trains charged up the slope which grew steadily steeper. Greaseball was far up front with the golden Pearl clinging to his couplings, delight on her face whenever she appeared on the monitors. Electra was a few legs behind him, obviously doing better with the experienced Dinah, but he seemed to be pacing himself, waiting for just the right moment to turn on his full speed. The roar of the crowd had long vanished in the rush of wind thundering around them, and the pack climbed higher into the mountains.
"Here's a surprise," Control suddenly cried with genuine glee, his voice ringing out over the arena. "Look at that Rusty go!"
Wrench clung to the corroded couplings as Rusty effortlessly pulled her past Bobo and his smoking car. Wrench saw over her shoulder that the blue-clad TGV made an obvious attempt to exert himself, but he could not catch up to his rusted opponent. So much for the Train à Grande Vitesse.
Wrench looked for a safe place to let go, but the slope was too steep, and Rusty was not close enough to the guardrail for a non-motorized truck to grab hold of it.
Just wait, Wrench told herself. Make it look natural.
At last the slope evened for several meters only to ascend again. Rusty took advantage of the easier terrain and charged at full speed, coming closer to Electra. The blue helmet turned, and Wrench saw annoyance on the visible part of Electra's face. The red hand flew back, and sparks erupted from the superstar's fingertips.
Wrench promptly released the couplings, and Rusty staggered as the electricity hit him. Electra and Dinah shot ahead like a torpedo. Rusty continued to roll forward up the slope for a few seconds before his metal body collided with the guardrail, clanging like a broken bell.
Fake an injury.
Always one to take advantage of an opportunity, Wrench wobbled on her wheels, preparing to fall over convincingly — but Rusty pushed himself up from the protective barrier and grabbed her hand, yanking her forward as Bobo started to gain on them.
"We can do this!" the steamer shouted to her.
Wrench cursed herself as she lowered her head to avoid his smoke — and that gave her an idea. All she had to do was wait for another level area and let her eyes be temporarily damaged. Then no one would accuse her of cheating if she happened to let go.
But after what happened with the caboose, would anyone even believe Rusty if he accused me?
Wrench ignored the brief stab of guilt that thought produced — it was either her or him.
Rusty caught up to Electra. Wrench waited with bated breath, half hoping Electra would send another bolt of his lightning their way, but the steamer suddenly swerved to the left, taking the track furthest from the electric wires. He picked up speed, soon passing the electric superstar.
Wrench looked over her shoulder and jerked a nod which she hoped Electra could see before she faced front.
Then she saw the bridge.
Perfect, she thought with grim determination.
Greaseball soared ahead of the pack, but Rusty steadily gained on him, soon soaring beside his precious Pearl. The grade beneath their spinning wheels became more level as the track ran toward the bridge.
Wrench raised her head just the tiniest bit. Then a little more. She could always tell the marshals that she had been trying to look ahead for safety reasons.
The bridge was meters away now. Slowly, she unhooked her thumbs from the couplings. Then her two little fingers.
She raised her head an inch more. The trestle loomed closer. The top of the structure was connected to wires and metal rods, showing it to be a mechanical novelty.
Was it the same bridge C.B. the caboose had kept Rusty from reaching back in the Christmas race?
Sparks of electricity crackled behind her, and the sound of familiar wheels closed in. It was now or never.
Rusty finally pulled even with Greaseball, putting Wrench beside Pearl, and the four sets of wheels clattered as they ran onto the trestle. Wrench steeled herself, ready for the pain she would inflict upon her own eyes as she straightened...
...And that was when Greaseball suddenly spun, turning about face with such force it uncoupled Pearl, sending her flying ahead down the track, alone. What came next happened in a matter of seconds.
Rusty staggered to avoid the diesel, but Greaseball rammed him into the trestle's beams, sending Wrench with him. Before Wrench could do more than disconnect from her partner, Greaseball turned toward the approaching Electra and shoved him back, uncoupling Dinah from the electric engine. Bobo and Ashley zipped forward, unable to swerve or brake, and Greaseball rammed Bobo, making the partners disconnect, before returning his attention to the steam locomotive. Rusty had regained his footing only for Greaseball's fist to collide with his chest, and the steamer let out a yelp as he lurched backwards.
The famous bulldog-nose helmet then turned to Wrench. She tensed, raising her arms to defend herself.
Greaseball's arm swung out—
—and Rusty threw himself onto Wrench. The diesel's fists connected with the tarnished helmet, sending an echo of crashing metal reverberating across the mountains. Rusty uttered a cry of pain, slumping against Wrench, but he did not let go of her.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, Greaseball stopped pummeling the steamer and fell to his knees, gripping the guardrail with a convincing look of pain on his features.
"What happened?" Control shrieked. "I can't see! Who crashed?!"
Without waiting for an answer, the unseen observer shouted, "Race canceled! Race canceled! Rerun in fifteen minutes! Head to the downhill course, folks!"
The mechanical bridge shuddered and began to lower with Greaseball, Rusty and Wrench aboard. Pearl, still on the high level, peered over the ledge at the three of them, but a track marshal quickly collected her.
Wrench's gaze slid to the other ledge where Electra stood with his blonde dining car. The blue race helmet tilted toward the repair truck. For a moment she wondered if he was displeased — but then a red hand raised to give a subtle thumbs up.
Wrench looked down at the ties of the track, exhaling with relief.
The mechanical bridge jostled as it hit the ground, and Rusty let out a disoriented groan, dropping to all fours. Mechanically, Wrench knelt to touch his shoulder, but her head snapped up at a flash of sudden movement from Greaseball.
The diesel engine tore off his yellow helmet before he rolled off the platform, heading straight to a pair of approaching switchers in track marshal gear. He said something to them, and the track marshals looked at each other in alarm before turning to look at the electric engine above their heads.
"Is that true?" one of the marshals called to the superstar. "Did Rusty do it?"
The blue helmet jerked a nod.
Dinah shot Electra a glare, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Electra grabbed her arm and pushed away from the edge, out of sight.
Greaseball turned on his front wheels with a smug look at the steamer and repair truck before he headed over to his awaiting gang of diesel engines.
Staff members ushered the audience out of their spots to head to the downhill track on the other side of the yard. Wrench kept trying to rouse Rusty. Finally, he raised his head.
"What happened?" he mumbled, slowly removing his now much more dented helmet.
Wrench grabbed his arm.
"Can you stand?" she asked in response.
Rusty grunted, shifting his legs. "Yeah, I think so."
It took two tries, but Wrench helped him get to his wobbly wheels, and Rusty stepped off the trussed bridge. They did not get far before the pair of track marshals stepped in front of him. Rusty raised his head, blinking at the two helmeted men.
"I don't need a mechanic, guys," he assured them with a pained smile. "I can race."
The two marshals looked at each other, and they seemed uncomfortable. Finally, the one on the right said, "Sorry, buddy, but we just radioed the boss, and you... you're disqualified."
Rusty stiffened. Wrench quickly released him as he took a step toward the two switchers.
"What are you talking about, Chainlink?" the steamer demanded.
"I'm sorry, pal," the other track marshal chimed in, shaking his covered head. "You caused the crash, so Control says you can't race."
Wrench took a step back.
Rusty sputtered, "I did not! Couple, Chainlink, weren't you watching?"
"It was hard to see from where we were," the one called Couple admitted.
"Well, didn't Control see the crash?" Rusty demanded, throwing up his hands, nearly losing grip on his corroded race helmet. "He has cameras pointed at almost every angle of this track!"
Chainlink fidgeted. "The security camera aimed at the bridge started to malfunction before the race."
"Did somebody tamper with them?" the steamer challenged.
The marshal's mouth twitched. "Don't make waves, Rusty. The other trains won't like it."
"But Greaseball caused the crash!" the steamer insisted. "You don't have to be scared of him! Just disqualify him, and he won't show his face around here anymore!"
He whirled toward Wrench. "Tell them! Tell them Greaseball did it!"
Wrench looked away.
"Everything happened so fast. Who can say?" she said dully.
Rusty's limbs clanked. "What."
Wrench shrugged. "No point in arguing. That's life for you."
She moved away from him, giving a parting nod to the marshals before she said, "Take care of yourself, steam train."
In the tail of her eye, she saw him move toward her. She turned to give him a determined stare, and a look of betrayal took over his boyish face. His pistons hissed, and he shoved his helmet back under his arm.
"I'm not giving up without a fight!" he declared before he pushed his way around the marshals, heading straight toward where Greaseball and the other diesels stood.
Wrench turned away, preferring not to see the scene about to unfold, and headed off toward the next race course, intending to find her beloved superstar.
She had pleased Electra. She had done her part to help electrics everywhere by refusing to help the competition. Electra would win, and he would reward her — and then maybe, maybe someday he would start to see her as something more than just his mechanic.
...And still she saw Rusty's hurt eyes, staring in shock at her betrayal. He would not get refurbished now. It was doubtful that he would be able to work for much longer if the rust kept growing, seeping deeper and deeper into his limbs.
But Electra means everything to me, she told herself.
She touched her face, trying to hold onto the feeling of Electra's lips against her painted cheek. Yet, even as she tried to remember the long-awaited moment of intimacy between her and Electra — tried to hang onto the smell of his cologne and the feel of his warm breath against her synthetic skin — her mind could not push back another memory: Rusty's iron frame covering her to shield her from Greaseball.
Wrench stopped in her tracks, feet away from the tunnel that led to the downhill arena; a chill passed over her even though she could still feel Rusty's warm chest against her, taking each blow meant for her. Electra would have never had done that for his partner, not even for Volta; maybe he would have delivered a punch or shot electricity, but Wrench had never seen him throw himself over Volta to protect his favorite lover.
But Rusty had done it for a woman he barely knew — Rusty, who had helped Electra after the superstar's computer had crashed. Rusty, who had been willing to help the engine who stole his coach. Rusty, who wanted an electric to have a fair chance to race, unaware that the locomotive he had helped would soon plot to cheat him. Rusty, who had now lost his chance to be refurbished and who would spend the last few months of his life in rusted agony.
Rusty, who deserved so much more than what he got.
...What have I done?
Wrench turned away from the tunnel and charged back down the track toward the abandoned uphill course — and she rounded the bend in time to see Greaseball shove Rusty into the pack of diesels and grab Pearl's wrist, pulling her along with him toward the downhill race course.
Instinctively, Wrench started forward. The diesel did not seem to notice her as he yanked his coach along.
"Stop your sniffling," Greaseball ordered the gold observation car as he moved her hands to his belt. "They'll only suspend you if you ever tell."
Pearl seemed close to tears.
"This wasn't how I wanted it," she lamented as she reluctantly clung to the diesel's holdings. "This wasn't what I saw."
Greaseball scoffed, and as he turned forward, his eyes finally landed on Wrench. The diesel formed a cruel smirk.
"Rust Bucket is all yours, toots," he mocked, flourishing his hand back toward where the steamer stood surrounded by the gang. "At least, what's gonna be left of him."
He gave a barking laugh and disappeared into the nearby tunnel.
Wrench wasted no time hurrying forward. The diesels surrounded the steamer. One man yanked the helmet from Rusty's hands and shoved into the arms of a little flat car with a flat-top hairstyle.
"Now that's just ungrateful, Slow Man," one engine said. He grabbed Rusty's arm and shoved him into another.
"We try to be nice and give you advice," the one who caught him chimed in, clutching his other arm. Rusty was stuck between them.
"It's really hateful," the flat car agreed, tossing the steamer's helmet into the air and catching it again.
A third engine approached, standing in front of the weaker engine. He pulled arm back —
— and Wrench charged toward the diesel and swung with all the strength of a work vehicle. A sound of metal, and the diesel groaned and stumbled. She promptly knocked into the engine holding Rusty's left arm captive, causing the diesel to release the steamer. Wrench grabbed Rusty's couplings. The steamer looked surprised to see her, but he recovered quickly and managed to yank his other arm free by first ramming his shoulder into the diesel.
However, before the two could make a break for it, one of the thugs swooped forward, and in a flash the brute sent a punch into Rusty's exposed jaw. Rusty tripped over the engine Wrench had hit, dragging her with him.
Wrench rolled and used the momentum to get to her knees quickly.
"You should have made tracks, girly," the engine who had punched Rusty leered, flexing his fist.
Before he could do anything, a voice barked, "Hey, cool it!"
The diesel gang turned in surprise. It was one of their own who had spoken. The locomotive standing over Rusty stopped, and he frowned at his comrade.
"You heard what Greaseball said, Tank."
"I said cool it, Lube," Tank snarled, striding over to him. The oily man stood tall, staring Lube down until his companion moved away from the steamer. Tank then turned to the fallen Rusty. Though his helmet covered his face, Wrench could see his mouth had become a thin line.
"You helped my brother," he said. "Stay down, and you can leave. Capisce?"
"What!" his companions protested.
Tank whirled around.
"Any of you bozos want to take me on right here?" he demanded.
None of the diesels moved.
"Thought so," Tank sneered.
Rusty struggled to get up — and immediately Tank's heavy foot shot out and slammed into the steamer's stomach.
"I said stay down!" the diesel ordered as the steamer doubled over with a clank. "Or I'll do worse to your girlfriend."
Wrench tightened her hold on her engine. Rusty sucked air through his teeth, but he did not so much as raise his head again.
"Good boy," Tank said before he jerked his thumb, indicating for the others to leave.
"C'mon," he commanded the diesels as he spun on his front wheels. "We got better things to do than watch this loser."
The locomotives reluctantly obeyed, shooting Rusty baleful glares. As the engines started down the track, the flat car with the bricks hesitated and then shoved the helmet into Wrench's hands before he spun and sped after the gang.
Once the last of the diesels disappeared from sight, Wrench switched her attention to the steamer.
"Let me see."
She helped him sit up, which revealed a small dent on his belly, but it did not look serious.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Do I have to answer that?" Rusty grimaced, shifting his weight to a more comfortable position. Then he turned his head, and he regarded her with an odd look.
Wrench averted her gaze. "I'm sorry."
"You came back." He sounded amazed.
"Not that it did much good," she returned flatly. She glanced again at the dent in his middle. "Can you get up?" she asked, more to change the subject.
"Should," he replied, and he climbed to his wheels, grunting.
Wrench handed him his helmet and folded her arms. Rusty looked down at the deteriorated gear, and his eyes grew steely.
"Everyone was right," he said quietly.
"Were they?"
Bitterness covered his face.
"I tried to fight fair, and the cheaters still won," he spat, pumping his pistons to propel himself forward a few feet. "I was a moron for even entering. This race was nothing but trouble."
"You're right," she said, causing him to brake and look at her in alarm. She gave him a small smile. "It was stupid to think a rusted steamer could win — just like it was stupid to think the reigning diesel champion could be scared that someone like you could beat him."
She rolled a little closer. "And you're the only one stupid enough to help an electric engine who stole your coach, and you're the only one stupid enough to help Gook despite all the horrible things he puts you through. So Tank spared you because you were stupid enough to do the right thing when you could."
He seemed to mull that over.
"Small victory," he said at last before his eyes narrowed. "But there's no way Control will fix me now. I can't even go out and find different work because nowhere else has fuel." His voice broke a little as he spat out, "I'm never gonna leave this yard."
"Yes, you will," Wrench insisted, rolling up to him and taking his arm. "You can apply to a museum and get refurbished."
"No museum would take me," he said bitterly.
"I'll put in a recommendation letter."
He shook his head. "It would cost too much money for them to consider it."
"Then I'll fix you myself," she said, taking his hand. "I got some money saved, and I can do what I can."
Joule had laughed at her for saving so much of her generous paychecks, but now Wrench was glad she had been frugal.
She held his gaze. "I'll fix you one limb at a time if I have to."
Rusty looked first at the hand holding his and then at her.
"You'd do that?" he asked doubtfully. "But you just met me."
"Maybe I'm stupid too." She pressed his fingers for emphasis.
He stared at her, seemingly unable to believe his artificial ears, but slowly a new warmth appeared in his hazel eyes. He did not squeeze her hand back, but he did not pull away either.
Suddenly, a voice shouted in the distance, causing them both to jump. "Rusty!"
Wrench turned to see Poppa McCoy charging toward them, moving as fast as his old limbs could carry him — which was surprising considering his age.
"Rusty, what are you doing down here?" the older engine demanded, frowning at his grandson. "Don't you have a race to run?"
Rusty stepped away from Wrench, removing his hand. "Can't. Control disqualified me."
"Why should that stop you?" his grandfather countered. "You got into that final fair and square."
"Control has spoken," Wrench returned, folding her arms. It was probably too late to change her witness statement, she thought ruefully.
Meanwhile, Rusty grimaced in agreement. "And the race track's sealed off by security, Poppa."
The old man put his weathered hands on his hips. "You're a switch engine, ain't ya?"
Rusty's brow furrowed — and then his eyes lit up. "That's it! Poppa, you're a genius!"
He spun toward Wrench, excitement glowing on his dusty face. "Wanna try again?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Even after what Control said?"
His smile shifted into his goofy grin, but confidence shone on his face, making her heart flutter.
"Worth a try."
He held up a friendly fist.
She hesitated, thinking again of Electra — but then her eyes trailed the sooty features, which held so much kindness even in the face of adversity, and she made her decision. She bumped his knuckle, briefly connecting her wheels with his. She returned his grin, even though she did not understand what being a switch engine had to do with getting into the race, but if anyone deserved to compete in the rerun, it was Rusty.
"Of course." She took his couplers and thought it prudent to add, "If for some reason you don't win, you can still impress people with second place. Museums would stretch every last donated dollar to have you on their roster."
"Nice to know, but they're gonna get the new champion," Rusty declared, and as soon as Wrench coupled with him, he set off at full speed down the line.
A/N: Technically, in the London revamp, I believe Pearl discovering that Greaseball is a jerk comes after Rusty gets beaten up by the diesel gang, but I think the reverse (which gets used in at least the Las Vegas production) worked better for the flow of this narrative.
Special thanks to Belle Pullman for her hand in this chapter with the choreography of the show. A shout out to Dyanarosejl and her website, The Midnight Train Crossing, and the novelization she wrote for the London show.
The bit about Poppa wondering if diesels are nasty because of their oil temperature is partly based on an anecdote from Kenneth Copeland's Racism in the Church where one of America's more famous black military leaders had had trouble in his youth with the local white kids. His father told him that white kids were mean because their white skin was poor protection against the sun, and they were nasty from getting overheated. After that, whenever the white kids teased him, he would ask them if they needed a drink of water and would try to be nice to them, and in the end he made friends with the white children since he responded in love rather than hate.