Crashed

by MozaWesterburg

It's 1965. Another Christmas has arrived on Sodor, and tension between several of the engines that has been building up for years is reaching a peak. But this year, a brush with death will have them see each other with new eyes, and their lives will change forever. 4 engines. 2 crashes. T for mild cursing and graphic engine injury.

13. David Speaks

A/N: Firstly, sorry this chapter is long compared to the normal length. If you're tuning in, just a head's up on that. A major conflict revelation comes out here, and I am sacrificing some realism for le drama. Though by keeping Lady in this per my old drafts, I've already shot realism down quite a bit. That said, critique is welcome. Oh, boy, here we go!

---

Chapter 13: David Speaks

A lone, decorative red ribbon broke off from the atrium and flew away in the breeze across Knapford station, just before dawn. The very ideas of mirth and celebration might as well have gone with it.

The 26th came with no fanfare or sunshine as over fifty engines resumed their jobs. Fire boxes were lit, whistles blew, and steam trails were born. As the morning yawned on, they grew in number and weaved a familiar patchwork back and forth across the sky. They veiled leafless tree tops with their empty birds' nests, and disappeared into silver and platinum clouds. Crewmen across the island assured their engines that there was a sun behind those clouds, and that everything would be just as it was before Christmas. But the machines weren't sure if they could really believe the latter.

Four steamies hadn't come home. And if that weren't concerning enough, then the abrupt disappearance of their controller was.

---

"So… much… noise… Why can't humans come with silencers?!"

Cranky the crane was perhaps the very least of the Sodor residents eager to return to the grind. While his gripes weren't abnormal, his eyelids being puffy and dark were. After a peaceful, picturesque Christmas morning, the docks of Brendam Bay became steadily populated. Day and night, more humans came, ships carrying them in droves. Unlike the engines, there was no escape in a quiet, doored shed for him. No fleeing the noise. Never a separation from the people.

HONK! HOOOONK! There went the horn of another steamer ferry. Unscheduled drop offs and large passenger numbers meant the ships had to wait well beyond their departure time. And their crewmen were starting to lose patience, too.

"I could say the same for certain cranes!" snapped Carly, finally. She meant it as a joke, but it came out uncharacteristically harsh. Ironically, the lack of such a breeze made her cheeks red and hot. Her sleep had been short, too, but the ships were unloading just as much cargo as passengers, and there was quite a queue waiting, hence all the impatient horn-blowing. To think that the other crane had once worried about Carly taking over his job, while just this morning alone went to show that that was a fear he could lay to rest. There was plenty of work for both of them, and Big Mickey too. And if Mickey was overwhelmed by this post-holiday workload, he wouldn't admit it. Not any sooner than pieces of the moon would fall to earth. "Would you rather be idle and have your claw sway in the breeze?"

Cranky could moan enough for the both of them, but he was trying not to. His New Year's resolution was to be more amiable and patient. And he'd applied the yard manager's wisdom that it was easier to keep to it if he began several days early. But the unprecedented rush hadn't made it easy for him. "Can I be useful—?

HOOOOOOOOOOOK! Bellowed a ship. It felt like it was right by his ear.

The shout launched from behind his teeth. "—WITHOUT A HEADACHE?"

---

"Earth, wind and fire!"

Henry halted sharply, nowhere close to the platform. "Clark…" he panted, trying to catch his breath. "… Do you see this?"

"Did I? Only just in time." Henry's driver raised the lip of his cap to watch a couple amble right in front of Henry's buffer bar, totally unbothered. "Didn't see this in the leaves at the bottom of my cup this morning. Heh, it's a good thing your breaks were checked not too long ago!"

Like old days, No. 3 was up first that morning, leaving from Tidmouth and arriving at the bay with the express, while the others were having their fires started. Normally, Edward would've taken the train from Wellsworth down, but because No. 2 was still MIA, it was up to Henry to finish the run on the branch line for him. This meant the passengers needn't switch trains, but Henry was pushing his luck. Even after his rebuild, he couldn't match Gordon's speed for long. And going twice the distance with extra work brought back memories of a youth ruined by feeling miserably feeble.

It was foggy that morning at the docks. The temperature had risen enough that the white blanket over the land had started to melt. About as much stone and sand could be seen as snow. Henry could only see well about a truck's length from the tip of his nose. Beyond that, everything was a blur.

He arrived, exhausted, but on time. His bright green boiler was sticky and damp, and he let go of his steam almost as soon as his breaks were on. Those few passengers exiting his coaches to hike the rest of the way up to the ships griped about the mist cloud ruining their new coats and hats. But Henry didn't care. He wasn't Gordon. He was never going to be Gordon. Though they saw eye to eye on some matters, Henry refused to worship that snotty perfectionist he was built to mimic, even if the comparisons were inevitable.

When his steam cleared, however, there was something Henry cared about: The sheer number of people around him. In and out of the fog, humans were everywhere. Men in dark coats darted along his wheels, women with their hair tucked under hats. Raising their arms, pocketbooks, purses, backpacks and suitcases, to wiggle their way through the crowds. Almost no children among them, either.

"Is this something new?" Clark, the normally mellow driver went from amused to aghast as he leaned out, trying to get a better scope of the world beyond his engine. "Thought I remember the Bay getting a little busy as people come home for Christmas, but this many?"

The engine need not be reminded. He knew this place, knew the ebb and flow of this island by the calendar year very well, even if he moved east. He'd worked these very rails longer than his current driver had. And never, not even on the Sudrian holidays, did this many people come at once. His eyes darted among the faces as they came close. Nobody seemed to care if he stared at them, scrutinizing them for clues until they were out of sight. Certain manners were understood by locomotives, but not always expected from them. Sometimes it was convenient to be an engine that way. "Whatever they're here for— oh!" He cut himself off as a wave of bodies came close to his front wheels, and quickly disappeared behind. As if Henry was a wall. Not a massive, living entity insulted at being unacknowledged. "—they're quite set on getting wherever they're going. But where is that?"

"Million pound question," replied Clark, thoughtfully. "If we could follow them, we would."

The sea of people moved among his tracks, charging haphazardly over the rails on their way to transportation further inland. They carried photo cameras on straps around their necks, and pads of paper. Pens in breasts pockets. Pens in hands.

"These aren't islanders," Henry concluded.

"Aye."

He squinted his eyes to the new voice on his right. Several tracks over, through the curtain of mist appeared a locomotive with no use for steam. A hazard-striped diesel, but one the steamies were never unhappy to see. "It be a wave of tourists," stated Salty tensely.

"After Christmas?"

"Oh, great! It's the tree hugger, now!"

No. 3's eyes landed on a familiar crane hook, and followed its cord high above the crowds, to a vaguely familiar scowl. "Cranky," he exhaled.

"Even if I hadn't heard your voice, I could tell it's you by the waft of skunk from your cab! Tell me you're bringing more tourists to the boats to get out of here. It's loud enough as it is without more mainlanders choking the place out!"

He chose not to acknowledge that accusation. "No… not me," Henry told him. "My coaches…" he panted again. Bother it all. "... are… nearly empty."

"Well, you're sure panting like an engine in labor anyway!" Cranky snapped back.

"As if you'd know what labor sounds like," muttered Salty, bearing his buck teeth.

"As if either of you do?" A tank engine's whistle sound.

Henry's boiler swelled with relief at the recognition of a Vicarstown engine. "Rosie."

The tank engine had crawled forward through a brief clearing on the track, only to slam to a stop with a strangled cry, as short as another trickle of people ran right before her buffers. If it weren't for the lamp affixed to her funnel, there might have been another accident, right then and there.

"Rosie, look at all these people!" said Henry.

"I can't not see them!" She managed to get as close as three tender lengths to Henry, but she would risk coming no further. "They're everywhere!"

"Well what are they doing?" asked Carly.

"I don't know!" she shrieked. "I'm just here to warn you about it!"

"A little late for that, isn't it?" asked Cranky. "You'd better not be carrying more of them in those coaches behind you!"

"As if I could control that..." Rosie's voice faltered. But there wasn't the time to feel small.

Henry only then realized what it meant to see Rosie here, with two very familiar coaches. "You pulled the express westbound?"

"I had no choice, you weren't there! Look, you've gotta turn back to Tidmouth! Hide, ASAP!"

"Ah, but I just want to go home!" cried Henry.

"You can't! It's not safe! I could barely climb out of the shed this morning, there were so many people on the tracks, I was sure I'd hit someone!"

"Leaving?" declared Cranky. "Good riddance!"

"No! I mean they're coming! They're flocking to the west, even jamming up the bridge! There's gotta be hundreds!"

Across several tracks, Henry and Salty found each other's eyes. The Fat Controller's machines were used to unexpected rushes, but not like this. As the next ship let off its passengers, it only got worse. Now all three of the engines were afraid to move.

"Reporters," declared Henry's fireman. He joined Clark at the cab door, wiping sweat from his eyes and drawing his temples with soot.

"Man alive, you'd think the queen was on the island! You don't suppose that's it, do you?"

"That doesn't sound right," murmured Henry. "Even when she visited the last time, we'd have some notice of it before the press did."

Salty, Henry, Rosie, Cranky and Carly sat like cliffside rocks, as the waves of bodies crashed around them. Even while they were being spoken about like an infestation, the humans paid them no mind. The engines and cranes and the staff with them might as well have been invisible.

No one was surprised by who's patience ran out first. "I'll just ask one of them what's going on."

"You?" asked Carly.

"Well, we're not going to find out what's going on just by watching them!" shouted Cranky. "Big Mickey, you want to do it?"

The third crane, who'd been there the longest and had spoken the least, just glared at him. An expression communicating a 'no thank you', and, apparently, something else that neither Henry nor Rosie could decipher.

But Cranky did. "OH. It's a bet, then! I'd gladly have tomorrow off! Watch and learn, buddy:"

"Whoa, Cranky, cool it!" shouted Clark. "I doubt they're all going to the same place."

"We don't know until we ask, do we? Hey- hey you ! With the blue bowler cap and the beard! I'm talking to you!"

The gentleman, very tall, and very fat, with a long bushy white beard, heard the description, and slowed. The crowd went on ahead, bumping right up against his elbows, offering no apologies, and he offered none back. He spun around. "Who said—?"

"Up here!" Cranky called. "Hell-oooo- ooo ! Yes, I'm talking to you, big catch!"

Rosie winced. "Does he have to say it like that?"

"It might be the only dialect he knows," whispered Henry.

"In Cranky-Speak," said Carly, desperate to lighten the mood, "it's kind of like a compliment. Fishing for humans is one of his favorite pastimes."

The well-dressed stranger looked absolutely puzzled. The human wave parted around him, and the large man found himself in a two foot space of elbow room. He looked from Cranky above, to Henry, to Rosie, Salty, and even the crewmen peering out from their cabs.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Would you like to be the one to explain to my friends what the big deal is?" Cranky went on. "Why are you mainlanders here?"
Even if his rudeness didn't quite justify an answer, Cranky was about to have one anyway. "Didn't any of you hear?" Caught in the lamp light directly between Henry and Rosie, the stranger froze, seeming intimidated. "You should be the most aware! It's about to be world-wide news!"

"Hear what?" asked Henry. "What news?"

Bowler Cap did a double take—the sort of reaction that could only come from a desk worker who wasn't used to dealing with talking machinery. It was at this time the man must've realized the gang was cornering him out of desperation rather than accusation, and his shoulders relaxed.

Cranky couldn't have known the luck of who, of the hundreds of people, he decided to stop, until the man reached for something tucked beneath his hefty upper arm. "Just printed last night. My editor got one of the first twenty."

He unfolded it along the horizontal crease, and presented Henry and his crewmen with a sweaty and battered newspaper. While the headline in bold was concerning enough, it was the face of the man on the front page which gave the Sudrians their shock.

"That's Sir Topham Hatt!" exclaimed Henry. "Where did you get that?"

"Straight from London," supposed Rosie's driver, leaping out of her cab. "May I?"

Jeffrey the driver crossed the sleepers and took the paper from their captive mainlander with a grateful nod. This gentleman seemed impressed to discover that the islanders had been in the dark about the reason for their arrival. But apparently, he did not have the time to wait and witness their reactions. He left his paper with Jeffrey and carried on in the wave, going along Henry's right running board before disappearing in the crowd, like a salmon upstream.

The driver unfolded it in both hands, reading the subtext of the article inside. "'Crash investigation to take place on the 26th'?"

"What crash? Thomas and Emily's?" asked Henry.

"Or James and Edwards?" asked Rosie. Their crash had happened over a day ago. Surely that one would've been heard of first, right?
The driver's knuckles became white as he gripped the paper concerning his employer harder. "Both."

"Investigation? Why?" Clark wondered aloud.

"What does London care about what happened here?" demanded Cranky. "It's none of their business!"

"Shush! Let him read!" shouted Rosie.

Rosie's driver hadn't realized that he had taken the liberty of proclaiming news of a much unsettling manner. This realization became more apparent the longer he read. "Following reports of a crash in the early hours the morning of the 25th, Scotland Yard has been asked to join a mainland investigation. This regarding two major steam engine collisions taking place within a 72 hour period on the self-controlled main railway of the kingdom-financed, independent island of Sodor. While no known casualties have been listed between either crash so far, the tip suggests that such incidents cannot be ignored as isolated occurrences. Furthermore, while the NWR has been regarded as a leading example of safe rail control, the jarringly short period between these accidents demands the consideration of… " Jeffrey lowered the paper. " ... gross negligence?"

"Ne-negligence!" sputtered Rosie.

"Oh, please!" Though Cranky had his differences with the locos, there was one thing he and they had in common: Unwavering loyalty to the man who employed them. "That's what this is about? Because four bugs got into a little buffer-bender? They'll sensationalize anything these days, won't they?"

"But if nobody was hurt but crewmen, what do they even care?" gasped Carly. "And why's Sir Topham Hatt on the front page?"

"They don't have a picture of the engines," pointed out her driver. Coincidentally, it was at that moment a man in the crowd carrying a large tripod, and a flash camera around his neck. "Not yet, at least."

"Mateys." Salty, at the other end of the yard, turned his eyes upward. The hardened diesel seemed so suddenly small and weak as he hid in his little pocket of buffer-room, up against the sea-facing wall of his shed. "I sense a storm a'brewin'."

He wasn't talking about the weather. And not a Sudrian present misunderstood.

---

Whatever light could fight its way through the clouds illuminated the lands of Sodor. By nine in the morning, they spilled into the Arensburg shed to find Thomas and Emily, exactly as they were last night.

And yet, somehow, different. It was in the air. A feeling that Emily did not possess the verbage to describe. Thank God she did not have to. She drowsed comfortably in the tank engine's presence until his eyes opened. She smiled, and despite the lack of sun, and the throbbing that still echoed across her smashed buffer bar, it wasn't forced. "Look who's decided to meet the day."

"Look who's doing the unconsented gawking." Luckily for her, he either hadn't the energy to analyze her tone, or he just chose not to. Otherwise, he'd discovered just how irrationally relieved she was.

She had had one job—to stay awake. To keep vigil, and had failed. She didn't know what good it would do. It shouldn't do anything, but it was all she could do. Yet Emily felt like, if she made this one sacrifice, Thomas would pull through. Maybe this mysterious spirit engine, the one who had tried to warn them about the trap, would recognize her effort. Maybe she could help them.

But Emily had fallen asleep, and Lady—if that was her name—never spoke to her again.

And still, when Emily awoke in the morning, Thomas was still breathing. He was still alive. He'd made it through another night.

Thomas risked an obnoxiously big yawn. He felt next-level stiff, and his body ached for movement. Anything, even turning his wheels. But it wasn't worth incurring a fresh blaze of agony. At least he could stretch his mouth. "So, today… it's…"

"… Monday…"

"… Boxing Day," they said together.

Emily went for broke. "Aren't you afraid?"

"You're not."

"I am." Her eyes were shimmering. She'd run out of smoke, out of bravery, and after everything they talked about yesterday, she had no reason to fake it to him anymore. "I really am."

"Why? Everything's going to be okay! C'mon—Do you know how many scrapes I've been in before you got here?" He managed a grin.

"Not that I think it'd surprise you. I fell down a mine shaft once," he went on. "All because I didn't like the idea of a wooden board telling me what to do. It's a wonder I was still alive by the time we met. I guess I'd listen to a piece of plank over a girl."

He'd just opened the door for her to give him a well deserved, clever comeback. But Emily just sat in the doorway. "Don't prod me right now. Please."

She wasn't in the mood. In all her life, she had never heard of a pair of engines resuming work after a crash this bad. Yesterday had been nothing but pain, cutting remarks and pouring out her most shameful secret, but at least they'd been given twenty four hours of waiting before… whatever happens next.

What would become of them once they were extracted from the shed?

"You're going to be fine, Emily. I know you will. And while I might be gone longer, I'll come back, too. And you'd better watch out: I'm going to raise hell to earth to make up for the time lost."

They fell silent. Even if he denied it, it occurred to Emily that, in the worst case scenario, this could be her last chance telling him everything, and anything. "Thomas?"

He had already dozed off again. "Hm?"

"I just wanted to say… ah… despite what an awful situation this is, I'm glad yer here. With me. This might've shaped up to be the worst Christmas ever, but it wasn't… wasn't as bad as it could've been. Well! I don't know how you feel, but… at least it hasn't been for me."

"Ah, Em." He closed his purplish eyes. "That almost helped a little. You know, you have a way of getting my back up. But at the end of the day, your loyalty always comes through when it's needed the most. I don't think you'd have the capacity to make me so cross if you didn't make me care about you. At least… not in the way that you make me cross. I can't seem to find any love for a certain steamy-hating diesel right now."

"Hm. Well… ya wouldn't know it from how I've been acting lately, but if that's yer wondering if the feeling is mutual, it'is. I could never hate you. It's too easy to like you. Stupidly, frustratingly easy. Even when you're not in such a pathetic state."

"I take that for what it is." He paused to look her over in the morning light. "You should know, at any rate," And his lips turned upward, slow, and ever slightly suggestive… "You're not a bad sight to wake up to."

"Thomas." She didn't even recognize her own whisper.

It was hardly a compliment, if that's even what he was going for. But in the context it was said, and their history, it was a milestone. An olive branch. It was the sweetest thing he'd ever said to her.

But before she could decide how to react to such a profound moment, something had changed. In the wilderness surrounding the shed, there was noise. A subtle thump thump thump of multiple engines approaching on the same line of track with which she sat. A whistle. A car. Two cars? Maybe lorries.

Their time of waiting was over.

---

Beneath his flatbed, Thomas felt movement on the tracks, far away. Tiny vibrations that were detectable only in the areas of him that were the most sensitive. The engines became silent, and Thomas' gaze shifted above Emily's head, blinking in a shower of particles. Noise. In minutes, it went from almost inaudible, to loud enough to kick the dust and rot from the support beams holding up the roof.
It sounded like an army was here.

A shuffling of vehicles, maybe three cars and two engines, pulling up outside of the shed. After a full day of listening to nothing around them but the wind, the commotion was enough to send the tiny field mouse that had taken up room with the engines scurrying for the forest.

He should've been ecstatic, but the gravity of the unknown made Thomas' feeling to this rather apprehensive. "Here we go."

What had been a drowsy, comfortable morning died, as the vibrations and noise gradually climbed until it was overwhelming. The tension increased along with it until it was as strong as the steel cable that Gordon used to pull him up from the mine. Thomas felt it in his throat, dryer than the desert, even with the icy water still trapped in his boiler. He wanted to be unflappable, to not look afraid for Emily's sake. But it was hard.

Emily's eyes darted left, but peripheral vision couldn't aid her here. The shed doors were directly behind her.

And then the tension broke, as the engines recognized the voice of a man they both knew so well. "Alright, well… bring them out." He sounded defeated. Disappointed. Tired. But it was him. He was right outside the doors. "Let's see them."

With a great effort, the doors to the shed were opened, scraping against snow and ice to stand wide before the misty morning. Silhouettes of warmly-dressed crewmen entered, including some silver-haired engine repair people. Thomas recognized several faces from the West Sodor Steam Works, though he never learned their names. But he knew they knew him. As many locomotives that had been acquired by the NWR, human staff still outnumbered them at least 6 to 1. And to be one of the first standard gauge engines from Tidmouth was to be kind of famous. Even those who never spoke to him knew about him before they even had a chance to do his first diagnostic since being put on the flatbed. People were addressing him by name, telling him to 'stay calm' and 'not to worry, Thomas', and Thomas had never even met them before.

It was uncomfortable to be an engine at times, in that way.

Then Oliver forwarded into the shed. And behind him, due to his strength, Gordon had been assigned to help, too. He was front-coupled to Oliver's back, and Oliver was coupled to the crushed, but usable back buffers on Emily. Her wheels groaned, and Emily winced as her body was put into motion. But with their combined effort, the pair pulled her and Thomas from their prison.
It was colder up in Arelsburg, but the same fog dominating Brendam Bay had made its way up here. Leaving the lampless darkness of the shed, Thomas had to squint as their train rolled out under overcast skies.

There was an almost serene moment when Thomas' eyes met Gordon's again, and it felt for sure that he and Emily were safe.

And then the people happened.

Along with their friends and allies, the crash victims were surrounded by hundreds of strangers. Humans who came with their flashing cameras, their notepads and microphones. They cried out with questions, shouting at each other, shouting over each other in various regional accents from all over the Kingdom. Bumping each other in the shoulders, kind of like young engines fighting to overtake a track.

Once Thomas' bunker was a good several feet from the shed doors, the train was stopped. Gordon was uncoupled from Oliver, who then was uncoupled from Emily. Oliver forwarded over a set of points leading onto the shed's previously unused track on their left, out of the way. Gordon forwarded, and workmen then detached Emily from Thomas' flatbed, reattaching the same chain from her back buffers to Gordon's front. As gently as he could, Gordon pulled her away. With he and Oliver guarding them from either end, Emily and Thomas were finally separated.

While this was all going on, the workmen did their duty. The engines squinted as cameras flashed in their faces, although most people wouldn't step any closer than a foot from the rail sleepers.

The initial diagnostics finally began. Checking over their gauges, jotting down notes of the physical injuries, noting all the immediately visible areas where the engines needed repairs. After that was an alertness assessment, with simple questions: Can you name the current monarch? The five stations that leave Knapford in order? The location of the water tanks? What year did you arrive on the island? Answers that should come easily, assuming their consciousnesses weren't already fading away.

Somehow the workmen managed to tune out the reporters, perhaps because they weren't their focus. They were just accessories to the pictures, not relevant to the story. It felt as if the vague civil understanding that they needed to complete their jobs was the only thing keeping the reporters from getting any closer.

One photographer, however, had less of a qualm about this. Once near the front, he biffed a woman to the side like a dirty freight truck, knocking her paper and pen to the snow. While she stooped to the side to pick it up, he got so close that his camera was practically up their nostrils. In response to this, Emily beset him with the most contemptuous gaze Thomas had ever seen. When he finally lost interest in Emily, the man started taking pictures of Thomas. Like human nature, another photographer decided this meant it was alright to get even closer, and it wasn't long before yet another was actually stepping on Thomas, using his running-plate to get up-close pictures of his intact boiler.

Everything was happening so fast, Thomas was too overwhelmed to react. Between this guy, the workman's questions, and the obnoxious flashes, it was all he could do just to keep his eyes open. Straining his pupils upward, his gaze shifted from Emily, to Gordon behind her. And Gordon looked terrifying. Like a fire-breathing dragon who'd just noticed a fly, it made Thomas fear for the man who was using his mangled metal like a climbing wall.

But they were being photographed from so many angles, and their every word represented the dignity and honor of the railway. Gordon said nothing. Neither did Oliver. Nor Emily. But knowing her patience in particular could be as thin as a hair, this wouldn't last for long.

These strangers didn't know Emily like Thomas did. Didn't know Gordon. Didn't know steam engines, or understand them. They might assume that they were helpless machines without arms or legs, entirely at the mercy of human control. But most living beings had some sort of defense. This proved itself true when suddenly, amidst the rapidly growing commotion, and the personal space being invaded, something gave way. Literally.

Before he even realized it was happening, a piece of the tank engine's running board, twisted upright after the crash, finally broke. As uncanny as if it had been a piece of the sky itself, the cold, old iron fell off almost soundlessly, and the man fell to his knees near the tracks.

Thomas screamed. A scream loaded with agony. A scream louder than human vocal cords could ever make. No engine with any consideration for the delicate nature of humans should make such a noise, but Thomas couldn't help it. It launched from him like vomit.

People staggered. People shouted. People ran. The human wall took on an enormous circular gash. On the left of the track, the nearest reporters pushed backwards, who pushed back against whoever was behind them. On the right, workmen tripped over stones and other debris that had fallen off the crash victims, scooting backwards on the seat of their pants as their ears demanded retreat.

The sound rippled across the stone-still water in Emily's boiler. "THOMAS!"

"GET AWAY FROM HIM! " Gordon's voice was like a gunshot, silencing all around him. Snow that had blown onto his boiler in the wind fell off as he shouted.

Steam billowed around the engine, rolling right up over Emily's tender and over her face. She shut her eyes, bracing herself, as if she expected Gordon to charge right through her, blowing her to smithereens as he ran to protect Thomas. He couldn't care less about the Stirling. She wasn't his ally.

For a fraction of a moment, an agonizing Thomas was afraid he'd do just that.

"Enough!"

Another voice sounded. Not as voluminous as an engine, but effortlessly commanding.

Even before his face appeared, his tophat stood out like a beacon the engines clung to. He excused himself through the bodies, managing the patience to get to the front of his engines alone, without laying a finger on anyone. But one might pity the bloke who caused Thomas to scream. He was still kneeling at Thomas' side, now without a footrest to climb back up, or the foresight to leave. He turned and looked up at Topham, a deer in the headlights. The scream had left him stupefied.

"Have you no sense of compassion?" The Fat Controller hissed. "Step away from my engine. Immediately."

The young photographer, a scraggly city man in many layers of ill-fitted clothing, looked at his camera. Then he looked at Thomas, who was now breathing through his teeth. And then at Emily, who looked as if she was a second away from lurching forward, fire or not, towards Thomas, if Gordon didn't do so himself.

Finally, the cameraman got onto his shoes with a running start, and disappeared into the crowd. Like a drop in a pond, he disappeared, never to be seen again. Sir Topham watched him go with mercy. That kid, wisdom would hedge a guess, was nothing but a low level intern at a shady tabloid journal. One who'd been cast out here, at the risk of losing his tuppence of pay. He, like many others, was just doing a job, but there was barrel-to-skull pressure to get the best coverage of all.

Despite that understanding, the Fat Controller kept an aura of menace, until the moment he was face to face with the engines. And just about any one of them would've been shocked by his condition. Dark smudges sat under his eyes like half moons, and his jacket and pants were creased and dirty, as if he'd slept in them. He looked like he hadn't seen an actual bed in days. Maybe longer.
Thomas remembered his appearance moments after he'd cussed out Emily, and that was days ago. How long had he been trying to hold himself together?

Sir Topham approached the female engine first, taking a look over her damage with his own eyes. Then did the same for Thomas, crunching snow beneath his dress shoes as he crossed the thirty feet of space between the two. Aside from that, the shutters of cameras, and the dance of colorfully coated reporters, making swinging tracks in the ice-covered snow as they moved here and there and back around the left side of the rail, all was quiet.

Then emerged six men who hadn't yet introduced themselves. Thomas only vaguely recognized some of them. All high in power, yet with their hands held behind their backs with subservient uniformity. Hard to believe there was a time the Fat Controller used to stand in that line with them.

"The whole, infernal board of directors?" Gordon grunted.

At last, Topham stopped in front of Thomas, digging his hands into the warmth of his pants pockets. "Well, Thomas, we've known for a while that you have a knack for commanding the spotlight."

"I don't aim for it," the engine rasped.

"No indeed." Topham's voice was loud and clear, just like the oldest engines on Sodor might remember his father sounding. But it was also every bit as kind. "How bad is the pain?" he asked more softly. "On a scale of one to ten?"

"It... was a seven." That was about as much as Thomas was willing to say. Given his wail moments ago, though, he needn't really say much else. Just seeing the Fat Controller hover in front of the space near to his amputated wheel rod hurt. Even if he knew better than to touch a maimed engine, if anybody laid a hand on him in the wrong place again, Thomas was certain he would pass out.
"Thank you for finding a shed for them on such short notice, Mr. Duncan," Topham said to the taller man on his right.

The Small Controller nodded solemnly. His ever-present pocket-pinned yellow flower was as vibrant as summer, but it clashed with his sad eyes and wobbling lips. Standing next to him, Mr. Percival was propping his chin up with his eyes firmly on the horizon, and not on the mutilated engines. The victims couldn't suppose what he was doing here, except that he was there to support the man who'd entrusted him with his position on the mountain railway.

"Sir?" started Emily. "What is this? Who are all these people?"

"I wish I could say that your guess was as good as mine," Sir Topham said plaintively. "But I'm afraid that this is inevitable. And these people are part of the package."

Gordon. Emily. Thomas. Oliver. If nothing else, one thing was clear. It rolled across each of the engines with the western breeze. These reporters, these people that scurried about their chassis like human vermin, had stolen the engines' recovery for a press conference! They'd come to turn the story of the engine vs. engine crash into a national headline!

And Sir Topham couldn't do a thing to stop it. He focused on Thomas, now with scrutiny. "You should know, I've been given accounts from all four of the crewmen, as well. And I find it all most interesting."

"Sir Topham! Daily Kingdom News wants to know—!" a female reporter had bullied her way to the front. She was thrusting a microphone at his back. "—Will you be repairing these engines?

"What are your plans?" shouted another. "Are the rumors true?"

"Is it worth the cost? Given how many others you already have?"

"Do you think now that steam engines are too unpredictable to be the lead vehicles of your entire railway? Will you be considering alternatives to replace the older engines?"

"Sir Topham Hatt…" A new voice. A young man, who couldn't be older than seventeen, was shaking as he held his pen and paper in the pond of reporters. "... k-knowing your prior stance on steam engines, d-do you believe now following this accident that they have become too antiquated to be trustworthy?"

"Quiet!" Sir Topham turned and pointed a finger at each of these four impatient reporters, somehow knowing exactly which ones had spoken out of turn without looking their way. It was as if he had eyes in the back of his head, and this shut the lot of them up good. This, combined with the thundering quality of his voice, no doubt. It was intimidating enough for the massive machines under his authority, nevermind other people. Deeper and more convicted with age. Contradicting the alleged negligence they'd come here to document, no one person in this crowd wondered why this man was put in charge in the first place.

And he would only go on to reinforce that notion with the following: "Seeing as none of you have the patience to let me continue speaking with my engines one-on-one, I will have no choice but to carry out the necessary conversation before you. So by all means, lend me your ears, ladies and gentlemen of the mainland." Sir Topham turned back to the male engine. "I need not point out, Thomas, that it is not usual or correct for an engine to command your driver to action. The driver commands the engine, and the engine obeys. Furthermore, it is unheard of, in all my years, that an engine should scare their crewmen away."

"But sir! I had to! I—!"

"However:" He cut Thomas off, thrusting an ungloved finger in the air.

He left the last word to linger in the frigid air. The reporters looked amongst each other, confused.

"Your intent was for your crewmen to evacuate your cabs." The controller gestured to the front row of clueless journalists. "When a crash is imminent, it is up to their operators to regain control however they can, so that they can direct their engines back to safety. No control means there is no hope of stopping the crash. But, as someone who has worked with these machines alongside his father for all his life, I must stress how difficult it is for the engine to recognize that their crash is unavoidable, and act in such a way, in a timely manner, to the benefit of their crew. What you all need to understand—what the public at large needs to understand, as we enter a new age of technology—is that a sapient machine is a blessing to us, humans. They are individuals, thoughtful, and feeling." He turned back to his engines. "And you two have honored your crew to the highest degree by putting them above yourselves. It is certain that because of your insistence to abandon control and jump from your cabs that all four of your crewmen left the accident with their lives."

Emily was staring at Thomas, and he watched puzzlement giving way to guilt. The Fat Controller was speaking as if they both had shouted for them to jump.

But I didn't, she mouthed to him, lips moving slow enough for Thomas to read. He was the only one to thank in that regard.

Doesn't matter, he mouthed back. It didn't matter that Thomas was the one that whisked them all away from Diesel 10's clutches either. Not right now. Sir Topham was making a point.

Palm upturned, the fat controller turned and gestured to his right. The sea of human noisemakers parted, as a small railway van came and parked a stone throw from the broken engines. Weaving their way through the extra bodies came three familiar faces. Kyle, glasses still broken and chin scraped, walking on his own two feet. Then Matthew, being reluctantly pushed along in a wheelchair, a loose fitted boot over one of his ankles. He gazed up at Thomas with the same quiet sadness as he did the other night. The crash had rendered both the engine and driver immobile.

Both were in bright blue, clean uniforms, with bandages sticking out from beneath their sleeves and under their collars, from the various cuts and bruises they'd received from their escape. As if they were here for another day of work.

And then there was David. Between Kyle and after Matthew, with his hands on the wheelchair, his face downcast. A man who looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

David, Matthew, and Kyle, who'd walked away from the accident with minor injuries, joined Topham at the impromptu stage on the left side of the rails. Cameras turned to them in seconds. Questions flying in their cheeks and backs. Microphones almost brushing skin. Once they were in the eye of the storm, it was their turn to behave as if the crowd didn't exist.

"W-Wait!" Emily cried out in alarm. "Where's… ?"

"Marty is taking a leave of rest," Sir Topham explained. "But he'll be just fine. To answer your question, reporter:" The controller put his hands behind his back, and turned on his heel, facing as many cameras as he could identify. Two seconds at a time, one after another. "I will be having them repaired. And I will return the tender and tank engine to my railway in working order, because that kind of loyalty is irreplaceable." He pointed to the young legman who's question had brought on his wrath. "I want those exact words in every paper in the kingdom."

"Y-yes, sir. I'll-I'll uh, do my part, sir." He was shaking long after Topham peeled his eyes off of him, and not solely because of the cold.

"Oh, those words will be in the papers," said a new voice. "And so will mine."

Sir Topham's firm expression at last gave way to confusion at the unfamiliar voice. Out of the confused crowd of reporters and rubberneckers stepped a new railwayman. Body like a grizzly bear, tall and wide, and heavy footed, and dressed in the same uniform as the rest. Unlike their controller, this man was about half his age. He came close enough that his entire body cast a shadow over Sir Topham in a way few dared to. Rather than a hat, he had natural jet black hair that was oiled down to his head, and a handlebar mustache that curled tightly at the end. A wave of unease rolled across Thomas' chassis. All the directors of the Sodor rail system were already here. So who was this?

"Randal Frickhem of the Kingdom Railway board." He extended a hand towards Sir Topham. "I don't believe we've met, sir."

"No… We haven't." Sir Topham slowly extended a hand. Reporters took a few hesitant pictures of the controller and the Sodor rail directors all shaking hands with him. Not one of these pictures would contain any of the Sudrian men smiling. "I take it that Kinder is on holiday, sir?"

"Retired," Frickhem answered promptly, with a tight-lipped leer. "I'm his replacement."

"I see."

As he quickly looked over both Thomas and Emily, the chief Sodor railway inspector approached Sir Topham Hatt, leaving behind two of his best mechanics. They had huddled together near Emily's big wheel and carefully whispered to each other during Topham's speech.

The Fat Controller greeted him gratefully. "Diagnostic, inspector?"

The chief inspector tucked his clipboard under one arm. "There's good news and bad news. Which… would you like first?"

"Surprise me," Topham said, somewhat testily.

The inspector pointed the tip of his ballpoint pen at Emily. "The Stirling's front will have to be completely redone. The Steam Works will keep her for weeks. Maybe even a month. And I'm not sure what her reported gauge failures from the night before last mean. Maybe steam is escaping somewhere. It'll have to be seen from the inside. The fact that she's awake and communicating with us is a good sign. But until we have her back under fire, she's not in the clear."

"And the good news?" asked Sir Topham.

The inspector's eyes flicked to the snow. "That was."

The crowd grew quieter and quieter, eager to hear and jot down what he said. Real life, of course, was often more gripping than any dimestore novel.

The inspector took one last look at Thomas from a distance, and shook his head. "There's no saving this one, sir," he told the controller. "He's done."

"Done?" Thomas echoed the word as if it were martian. As if he didn't know what it meant.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" Topham put his hands out. It sounded as if he was trying to keep his volume under control, but with the whiplash of this news, his words still boomed. "You can't mean that!"

"Send him to the Works if you like, but the replica parts will take ages." The inspector flipped notes on his clipboard. "Months, at a minimum. Historically, the soul of an engine has departed the body with much less physical trauma than this. Even if we could afford it, we'll lose Thomas before then." He regarded the tank engine with a genuine frown. "Frankly, I don't even know how you're still talking to us."

Thomas stared at him for a moment. Through the pain, a wry smile had found its way to his face. "But I am!" he said at last. "I'm here! I'm talking to you!"

Sir Topham bore down at that man, the poor unwilling messenger of this news. "This is not the time for dramatics, inspector."
In response, the chief inspector shifted sympathetic eyes from Topham, to Emily, then finally back at the tank engine. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

Everything had suddenly become very, very, very cold, so much that Thomas became aware of the wisps of wind against his slacken, bruised cheeks. From the moment he saw her crushed against that boulder near the forest, face fit for wake, all the fears he'd been swallowing were about Emily. Every negative thought that crossed his mind tied back to her, and guilt for all the pain he'd put her through. She'd even taken the explosion for him.

The tank engine's painful chuckles began to falter as the inspector's cold, candid words started to sink in. How could he mean what he said? Thomas had come-to immediately after the crash, and this pain he felt now was too fierce, too real.

How could this man look him in the eye and talk to him as if he was a corpse?

"Sir!" he said, jovially. "Please… " Pleading eyes fell on his controller. His savior, and grace. In every blunder he'd found himself in, since he was a young, silly tank engine, this same man had seen to it that Thomas was rescued. "Tell me he doesn't know what he's talking about."

But the Fat Controller's upper lip quivered as he swallowed hard.

"Then he's not going to the Steam Works at all." Frickhem asserted.

The Fat Controller was so surprised by the interruption, he wasn't sure if it was a joke at first. "I beg your pardon?"

"Don't you have enough antiques in your little… collection, I've heard so much about? Let's be serious. The mainland board will not lend you the funds towards the repair of one that has been declared doomed. Not one more pound, Topham! Not when you're already in so much debt. Certainly not while the investigation goes on."

"I don't need the railway board's approval," said Sir Topham. "He's already going. To Crewe."

"Crewe… ?" Thomas' rasp so quietly, he might as well have mouthed it.

"It's the best thing I can do for you," the Fat Controller told him. "I've discussed it with the Sodor Railway board members before. With every prior accident we've found your parts are becoming harder to find. It could take years to wait for replicas to be made. At the state you're in, there's a good chance we could lose you beforehand."

"Wait, on th-the mainland?!" Thomas snapped into the moment.

The NWR directors, hands behind their backs, looked among each other, pursing lips, and exchanged 'hmm's and nods.

"You want to send me away—AAGH!"

His roar of pain rolled across the land. It made every reporter, and now half of the workmen, back away in fear. One cameraman stumbled over the tracks when his heel caught the tail of the left side tracks, and fell onto his backside, camera falling out of his hands, the flash's bulb smashing as it hit the earth. Thomas had inadvertently rocked forward against the chains, and another wave of agony rolled from beneath his boiler where crunched metal met the flatbed. It was all he could do to silence himself by locking his teeth.

The tank engine was vaguely aware that Emily was talking to him. Begging him in a choked-up voice to stay still, to stop fighting this. Stop hurting himself. But that couple yards of distance between them might as well have been another planet. She couldn't comfort him any better than he could comfort her. Comfort himself.

Topham grasped at his lapel, speaking to Frickhem. "As it is, I've been considering this engine for a rebuild for a while now. Seeing as Number Three's total rebuild was such a success." He didn't bother with Henry's name, Thomas noticed. Frickhem wouldn't have cared to learn it anyway.

Down the rails, he could see the confusion on Emily's face, too. Rebuilt? she mouthed. You?

Thomas stared at her, but the ability to articulate had packed up and left him with that last scream.

"That's ridiculous!" cried Frickhem. "A-a mere tank engine! Rebuilt?! For what purpose?!"

"A perfectly good purpose," said Sir Topham. "Many of my engines may be antiques, but I believe you'll find the designers of these steam engines in particular were quite clever. Number one is not just a tank engine. He is what's known as a push-pull engine. His shape means he does not have to turn around to shunt coaches backwards after long journeys, something tender engines usually cannot do. It saves much time and precious track-use, now that the island is much busier than it was when my father first had control. But his narrow bunker means he must make many time-consuming stops at coal depositories along the island. Tank engines were designed for short journeys, and thus the short coal bunker makes sense. But this engine is no longer station pilot. His varied workload means he's the first I have considered experimenting with, by giving an extended bunker, as well as a modern brake system, among other smaller changes inspired by blueprints of an elusive Hudson tank engine from the same period." He looked at Matthew. "Isn't that right, driver?"

"That's right, sir," Matthew answered promptly.

Thomas was as lost as if he'd been tied to a raft and set adrift at sea. This larger bunker nonsense would've probably insulted him if he wasn't still trying to process that his death had just been declared. To fathom the heartlessness that would force the man to declare such a thing before this massive crowd—and all of the kingdom, once the journalist returned to where they came from.
Why was the Fat Controller bringing up a rebuild now?

He didn't have long to wonder. "You weren't supposed to leave until the spring. Once I had another engine agree to fill in for you in your absence. But… circumstances have made it so I have no choice but to move up the date that I send you to Crewe, Thomas. I'm sorry that this is how you're finding out about it. But I'm sure that you understand."

The steady, unblinking gaze. The way he was running his thumbs back and forth across his lapel. Any engine who knew him even half as long as Thomas did recognized those subtle gestures for what they were.

The Fat Controller was nervous. Just to think what it could possibly take to make him that way made the sensation contagious. "I understand," Thomas wheezed.

"When?" demanded Frickhem.

"Today." Topham put his arms behind his back, swinging on his heel to meet Frickheim's eyes again. "As soon as I can find another engine available to escort him though Crovan's gate and across the bridge."

"I don't believe you."

"Oh." The controller tipped his head to the side. "Is that right?"

"Prove it. Take me to your office. Show me the paperwork."

"I don't need to prove a thing to you." He almost snorted, only resisting because he was a true gentleman. "It's already said and done. The paperwork is with Mr. Jones. Ask him and he'll confirm the rebuild's appointment in the spring. He's even received partial payment upfront, from my own pocket."

Frickhem's face was growing red. Little hairs from his mustache were starting to fly away. He gestured to what remained of the tank engine. "Are-are you blind?! He's scrap!"

"Not. Yet." Sir Topham Hatt turned to the inspector. "Does he have enough time, inspector?"

"That depends," the man replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "Base repairs would be his only chance. But he would have to go now."

"Sir Topham Hatt," the antagonizer went on. He was clearly used to getting his own way, and he thought this would be easy. "You cannot have either of these engines repaired until the investigation has been completed by the mainland police! Otherwise, you'd be tampering with evidence!"

Another curveball. The controller blinked at him with confusion. "Mainland police?"

"Yes, sir." This should've been a satisfying announcement, but Frickhem was growing impatient.

"What nonsense! This is a Sodor mishap!If there's an investigation, it will be handled with the island police!"

"Not this time." Frickhem's brow creased, his legs locked in place as he made Sir Topaham Hatt look small and old. "Scotland Yard has taken over the internal investigation of this crash."

None of the crewmen were killed, and nobody took up charges with the railway. Topham was prepared for a meeting with one constable, but this was just asinine. "What does the mainland have to do with my rails and my engines?"

"You might control these rails, but that only means that you had a responsibility to pay back the debt with which your father incurred to the kingdom to build this island's rail system. Sodor may be an independent country, but the money is English. You are still beneath the jurisdiction of the Kingdom's Railway Board, and as long as you owe, you are still beneath Parliament and the Crown. And instead of paying off that debt that your father incurred, you continue to purchase engines you don't need to add this this… ridiculous museum you've made of this rail network. I mean, really. Fifty eight locomotives? On a strip of water-locked island not even a hundred miles wide? Is it any wonder why accidents are as frequent as they are?"

"Fifty nine," Sir Topham corrected. "And every last one has a name, a job, and a life here. Not that I'd expect you to know that, as I've never seen you until today."

"Regardless, the kingdom has decided to seize control back of these rails. Not one more crash, not one more mishap. Not one more engine purchase. It's over."

Sir Topham Hatt blinked. "Did you not hear the inspector clearly? If my engine does not see a specialist soon, he will die."

"That is not my problem. First, I want a thorough explanation of the events that caused this crash. More to the point, I want the reason why these engines were doing so far away from their designated sheds on Christmas Eve."

The controller eyed the man, then the crowd. There was no reason this conversation had to be made public. No reason any of this should have been under the scrutiny of prying eyes. This man was using the pressure of the reporters to his benefit. "I'll have you know," Topham started, "That there is a perfectly logical reason for that."

"I'm sure." He looked at the three surviving crewmen, scanning their faces, one by one. Was he looking for something? A sign of guilt?

---

"Mr. Oliver," said Toad. Far right of the rails, out of everyone's earshot, a shivering brake van was listening to all this unfold from the safety behind his engine's bunker. "Why do you suppose that disagreeable chap with the permed lip hair is going on about?"

"Somebody's in biiiiiiiiig trouble," Oliver thought out loud. Echoing what that one crewman had said the night before last. Were they about to witness the first termination of four Sodor railway employees at once?

---

He thinks it's THEIR fault, Thomas shuddered. They want to blame our men for the accident!

Emily's brow creased with worry. It had been her driver's prompting that they stay out longer, but it was really Matthew's idea to use Toby's line to get to Tidmouth.

Thomas shifted nervous glances at Matthew, who seemed to not look as nervous as disappointed. And if the engine knew his driver well enough knew that disappointment was entirely for himself. Had Matthew only put his foot down and demanded to take Emily and Thomas on the mainline back home, this whole incident could have been avoided. Emily and Thomas wouldn't be in various levels of disrepair. And none of them would be in this state of disgrace. It only added to the disease that Thomas still smelled the peppermint. Even after two days in a moldy shed, he reeked of a pub, the cocktail dried and sticky on the floor of his cab.

All the pieces fell into place at once. The reporters. Frickhem. They all want a sensation. A scandal. A scapegoat. They wanted a name to attach to what was potentially the beginning of the fall of the NWR.

"Fine!" Frickhem shouted. "Nobody wants to talk? No problem!" He jabbed a furious finger down towards Gordon. "I'll get that tender there and drag him to the scrapyard myself!"

"NO!" Emily shrieked.

"An investigation—!" blurted out a new voice. "—won't be necessary."

Frickhem turned to David, surprised. Like the skinny, tall man who'd been standing there behind the wheelchair the whole time had only just materialized there in the fog. "Why is that?"

"Because it was me. It was all because of me."

Every last pair of eyes, human or otherwise, shifted to Thomas' fireman. While his eyes were white and sober, his cheeks still darkened with coal dust—what had he been up to in the last twenty four hours? Of the three crewmen present during the crash, he was the only one who hadn't washed his cuts and bruises. He was still in the same uniform as two days ago.

Matthew slowly turned to look up at his closest coworker. The camera flashes lit up his eyes like tiny sparks. "What are you doing?"

"Taking responsibility, for once in my life." David reached over the back of the wheelchair and squeezed Matthew's shoulder. Be quiet.

"You want to know how this happened? The Sodor rails aren't irresponsible. It's me. It was my idea to take Arelsburg home. In fact, I was behind Thomas' controls after Emily ran over the mine. The blast knocked everyone off their feet. Matthew twisted his ankle on the way down. So he let me continue practicing, driving the engine on the long way home. I didn't think there'd be any harm in it."

"Are you mad?" Matthew hissed.

David patted the other man's shoulder, and it almost communicated an apology. He then left Matthew's chair, came around and approached Sir Topham with his coal and blood stained hands. "I had the idea of staying out to celebrate a good year, sir. We wouldn't have been there if not for me."

It took no time for the Thomas to realize what his fireman was doing. "David, stop—!"

"Thomas, you know what happened!" David scolded him. And with the severity in his eyes, you'd think he really believed it. "I'm… I'm so sorry about what I did to you."

"You didn't!" His voice was wretchedly hoarse, but he still said it loudly. "It's not—! The diesel! The chase! What are you talking about?"

"It's legal on Sudrian rails for a fireman in training to begin operating an engine under the supervision of an authorized driver—" David told Frickhem and Topham. It sounded as if he was trying his hardest to sound like Matthew, with humorless conviction. "—As long as it is not carrying any freight or passengers. Thomas was pushing Emily, and the two were uncoupled from everything else, aside from Toad."

"How very convenient," said Frickhem. A wry smile curled the left side of his lip until it was almost identical to his mustache. "How do I know you're not making that up on the spot?"

"Ask anyone. Ask Sir Topham Hatt. He already knows about it."

"I doubt he'll take my word at this point." Sir Topham sounded surprisingly unsurprised. Was this really the story David had given him? "Matthew Schmidt, you have never once in your last four decades of service given so much as a hint of anything contradicting perfect accountability and professionalism." His eyes briefly flicked to Frickheim. "Check it, should you not believe me. Now, my good driver, can you confirm the story as it is told by Mr. Cohan?"

Matthew's Adam's apple bobbed. It was obvious he'd never been put on the spot like this in his entire life. Not in front of hundreds of reporters. David may have just ruined his life. There was no point in wasting the sacrifice. Not while Thomas' life hung in the balance.

"Matthew… " Thomas' eyes were bulging from his smokebox cover. Pleading. "... Don't. Please—"

"Yes," Matthew talked right over Thomas. "It is."

"That… is a story." The Fat Controller put his hands behind his back. "The. Story. I'm terribly sorry it has played out this way. But I suppose we can't change things now."

"No, we can't," David agreed. "I can't express how sorry I am."

For half a second, the yard fell into abject silence. Not even the wind dared to interrupt as the realization of his words sank in.
Folding his hands behind his back, Sir Topham took in a sharp breath. "David Cohan, you are dismissed."

"NO!"

Pain shot through Thomas' form as the raspy shout exploded from his lips, but he just didn't care. "No! DAVID! You can't!"

"Sir! Please, listen!" shouted Emily. "You haven't even heard our side of the story yet!"

"With all due respect, sir—!" Matthew's regret was immediate. "—isn't there anything we can do or say to—?"

But Sir Topham silenced them by raising a palm high into the air. "Believe me, all. This pains me as much as it does you. I'm terribly sorry, David. You've put many years of loyalty into this railway, and showed me and my engines nothing but respect. But if the railway board is filing an investigation of the crash, then Mr. Frickhem is correct. Someone has to be held responsible for what happened. If only it lets us get your engines the care they need."

"That's not it! This is wrong!" Thomas cried. They had been there, he and Emily! They had run from the Diesel! They had seen everything, too! Why wasn't their account of the events being taken? Why didn't Frickhem care what the engines had to say? How come nobody cared? Why didn't Sir Topham? This wasn't fair! "Sir, listen to me! It was Diesel 10! He made this happen! He and whoever helped him lay out the trap with Toad to hurt Emily! This is punishing the wrong person! Diesel 10 did this! They're up there in the forest! They got away! If you punish David, the police won't take the story seriously!"

"Thomas. Be quiet."

It might as well have been the hand of God, smacking him across the face. The Fat Controller's command shut Thomas up when nothing else did. "We have no proof. We have an explosion. We have a kidnapping. And that is it. And the police just won't believe the story without more than your testimony."

"Thomas, listen to me." David stepped onto the tracks between him and Emily to look him in the eyes. One last time. "What's happened has happened. We can't change it now. It's… it's time for me to grow up. To stop playing games. When you come back, I hope you've grown up too."

That. That hurt. When Thomas thought he was hurting absolutely everywhere, those words came and made pain where there wasn't any. "You're just gonna leave us?" Pressure was building up behind his eyes. "But we need you."

"No. You only think you do."

And David turned the full front of his body to the driver. And any words to acknowledge their nearly twenty year working companionship was reduced to a curt nod.

Matthew did not nod back. Thomas thought he saw his driver's eyes look watery, but it could've just been the cold. If he had anything to say, it never reached his lips. The hairs of his mustache twittered in the breeze, but the man in the chair was as still as a statue.
Thomas was stuck there, watching his ex-fireman begin making his way out of the hills. The agony to his mangled front and empty wheel covers was dulled by the cold open air, he felt a much different sensation begin to unfold, deep in his core. He didn't think anything could compare to the idea of his crewmen dying in the crash. Never in a million years could he have thought he'd be abruptly separated from the best fireman he'd ever had, nor that it would hurt the way it did.

When he was a good distance away, Thomas saw David reach for his cap, take it off, and make a motion to throw it across the hill like a frisbee. But before his wrist moved, something made him stop, and a few steps later, he pressed the cap back onto his head, and carried on.

Tears that he'd held back in the pain, terror, and worry of the last few days, tears he had protected Emily from, finally rolled down Thomas' cheeks. Hot. One after another. The will to stay strong disappeared with the back of his fireman's shirt. "David."

Sir Topham Hatt swallowed a lump in his throat. It was time to end this conference. While he stood by his loyalty to his engines, he could not afford to be photographed showing weakness right now. "Kyle, please take Matthew, and meet me back in my office. We'll look over a time table and I'll issue your assignments while your engines are being mended."

"Yes, sir," both men answered. Matthew gave one last look at his weeping little tank engine, before Kyle had turned his wheelchair around, and with a great effort, pushed him back over snow and rock on his own. Van door open, he could hobble on one leg to crawl into the van. Seated beside Emily's fireman, when he thought the darkness of the van's roof caped him, he removed his spotless NWR cap—something he never did until he was home—and buried his face in his hands.

To the crowds of reporters, Sir Topham managed to dismiss them all with this: "The 'press conference' is over. I suggest you all start making your way back home, post-haste, especially if you are using my rails and my equipment to get there. Should there be an investigation, and should things come out of my control, I cannot guarantee you will all get home without confusion or delay." He rubbed his chin. "Now for Thomas…"

"Sir! Let me take Thomas to Crewe!" pleaded Emily. "I owe it to him! Please!"

"I'm afraid I can't allow that. I thank heaven you're alive, Emily, but you are in no shape to be taking another engine anywhere. Gordon, let Caitlyn run the express eastbound for you today. I need you to get Emily to the Steam Works."

"Yes, sir," Gordon forwarded and gently touched Emily's back again.

"But… " the Stirling couldn't think straight. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She and Thomas crashed together! They were supposed to get fixed together!

Sir Topham then looked to the little green western tank engine parked behind Thomas. "Oliver?"

"My pleasure," he responded in his gruff way. "Sir."

"You sure, Boss?" asked his driver, leaning out from his cab. "It's a long journey, and it's gonna be a heavy—"

"Don't care. The sooner we get away from this riff-raff, the better."

Ultimately, his crewmen agreed, and began discussing the route. Toad didn't offer a comment either way, but his tentative silence might've been his way of showing solidarity with the decision. Perhaps Oliver's distrust towards humans was finally wearing off on him.

"Don't worry, mate," Oliver told Thomas as he was coupled to the flatbed. "I ain't letting no grubby scrappers get their paws on you, anywhere from here to Crewe."

"But what about what the engines and I saw?" pleaded Toad. "I was the one who was caboose-napped!"

"Apparently," the western muttered, "the word of us 'equipment' means nada." Clearly, he was still angry that nobody took Toad's disappearance seriously until after all this happened. And now it was as if his long standing distrust of humanity was solidified. What kind of new world order was it that an engine's perspective on their own crash meant literally nothing?

Sir Topham regarded Frickhem last. "The police can follow up with Thomas on the mainland. We won't be hiding a thing."

It took the mainland railway leader an incredibly long time to accept he'd lost this battle. To a short, stubby man and a short stubby tank engine. But the war, as it were, was officially on. "You had better be right about that. Happy Holidays," he said, like it was a slur,

"Sir Topham Hatt. I'll be back."

"Don't hurry," the controller muttered. He nodded to his board members, and he and the five of them marched for their own railway vans.

With a grunt, Frickhem, the inspector, and the rest of the men from the railway safety board marched away, going their own separate ways. Cars and news vans were scattered down the hills. Presumably back to Knapford, where the express ran back to Vicarstown, and the mainland bridge. Any satisfaction Topham should have felt that Frickhem was using his rails to get there was lost in today's sorrow and humiliation.

Coupled again, Gordon started to roll backwards towards the nearest junction, where he might turn around. But he grunted, as it felt like the female tender had become stuck.

"What the… ?" Gordon thrusted back, It wasn't her wheels that resisted this time, but her own willpower.

She was holding back. "NO! Ya can't!"

Locked up, her wheels screeched along the wet rails. Before her, Thomas looked so defenseless, broken as he was, re-chained and dragged away. She wanted to put on steam, to charge after the flatbed. Steal him back from them. Her smokebox was swirling, and in that moment, she trusted nobody. But she couldn't even move. She was dead weight, her funnel ice cold. Her wheels were only resisting because the tracks were wet and slick. "We've made it this far together! Ya can't separate us now! Thomas! THOMAS!"

"Come, now! Don't embarrass yourself!" Gordon scolded. "It'll all be alright, but you have to go!"

Embarrass herself? As if she even cared anymore! As hers and the flatbed's buffers continued to draw apart, the last thing on her mind was dignity.

"Emily… "

Emily blinked away tears.

"Go." Thomas shouted at her. The tears had dried onto his cheeks. "Remember what I told you. I'll come back. No matter what happens, I'll come back. And I'm bringing that story with me when I do!"

"Thomas… " Emily never felt so helpless. Not even when Gordon was hanging off of that cliff, and she was the only engine around to keep him from falling. Not when Thomas was about to smash into Oliver. In those incidents, Emily had had some sort of agency. Today, she had none. She was a broken engine, unable to make steam, let alone save her friend from a perilous unknown. Once she realized this, she finally let go of her break. Her wheels started to turn backwards. Slowly, a placated Gordon picked up speed.

Crossing back over the points from the left track back to the right, Thomas' flatbed was quickly fastened to the front of Oliver, and the two sets of four engines took off their separate ways.

With Gordon heading west, and Oliver heading east, Thomas was pulled onto the horizon, where a fog had settled on the land. Oliver's steam blew hot and heavy behind his bunker, and draped over Thomas like a veil. Turning the engines from identifiable friends, to the vague outline of a train in the distance. Minutes later, they were a dark speck against the snow white ground and matching sky. And then they were gone.

"Shush, shush… girl, shush…" This was not Gordon, but his driver behind her. He cooed and cooed until the tank engines were gone. The sugar for Gordon's medicine. "It's going to be alright. Sir Topham Hatt knows what he's doing."

Emily didn't needn't be told. Of course Sir Topham knew what he was doing, didn't he? Sometimes Emily resented that the young human could know more than her, and he was less than half her age.

The fact was, she just watched her friend get towed away into a blinding oblivion. And no matter what he'd said, the lawful, logical part of her, the one that denied the existence of everything from werewolves, to magic engines that guarded them all between worlds, knew that she'd never see him again.

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A/N: Heyyyy, it's that person who posts once every five years and disappears again. I guess you could say I got a decent steam again for this story after I worked through the issues with chapter 10, aka the crash between Tom and Emily.

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WARNING: Grossly long spastic notes. Read ONLY at your own boredom. Acknowlegements after TL:DR.

One of the reasons I stepped back from this fanfic for so long was the embarrassment that I'm writing for a franchise I feel like I'm only surface-level knowledgeable of. I'm used to writing for nicher TV shows and franchises you could binge watch entirely in less than a day. I'm hung up by the ocean of Thomas media, hence some of my inaccuracies and scene edits. And of all the fandoms I've been in, this is the first where there's a book series canon, too.

I still have barely cracked into the CGI years. I took a break, I read a lot of the Thomas Wiki to suffice for what of the later half of show that's still on my to-watch list, and after having a somewhat greater understanding of both the book and TV lore, I've accepted that you just can't act as if both are canon for one story. Since we're using characters from the TV show, this is going to be a roughly TV-canon based fanfic.

The reason I was so stressed about acknowledgment the CGI years is since this fic was supposed to end with four platonic friendships evolving to romantic relationships, it would only make sense to take place at the end of the TV series. Which apparently isn't too crazy as the last episode is speculated to take place about the mid-1960s at the latest. The one big aspect of the CGI years I'm disacknowledging for the fic is Thomas' adventures overseas, and this is only because I literally just haven't watched that far into the show yet. There's a lotttt of episodes, and my sweet spot has always been seasons 1, 2, 3, 7 and 8. If I get there, I might go back and re-write the stuff in the fic about Thomas wanting to get off Sodor and swap out my OC Mira for Ashima (she is so much cuter and more interesting anyway, from the short clips I saw), but for now it's not totally important per the ships.

This fic also hinges on emphasizing the nastier parts of Emily's personality (especially in seasons 7-9), and the whiplash of that against her better moments in season 8 and clips I saw much later on in the show. I wouldn't like her at all if she were a Mary Sue among the equally flawed boyos, but as I've said before, wow her antagonistic episodes are hard to watch.

Anyway, we finally get to a number of key plot points, some of which I wager are not even remotely novel: Topham being suddenly stripped of his power, his engines removed from his mercy and into the hands of others who don't care as much about them, yada yada. Eventually I want to point it out in a later chapter, but the reason for the Christmas Trains tradition with Tom and Emily all decked they started this year, which I hinted Topham was already having a bad feeling about, was specifically to be a show of competency and compliance on Topham and the railway staff's part. If no accident had happened, it would've played up the idea that the Fat Controller actually HAS control of his engines. Unfortunately, the absolute worst case scenario, baring human death, happened. The very worst engine crash took place, so Frickheim has ground to swoop in and act as if he's taking charge (he's not, he doesn't have that authority, just being an intimidating asshole to be that.) Stupid to fight a knighted dude who actually knows the freaking queen, but I mean, power trippin dudes be power trippin.

Speaking of which… And now on National Geographic, we see the mighty Papa Bear Topham Hatt coming out of his cave to defend his engine children, swingin' claws and bearing teeth. I hope it's half as satisfying to read as it was to write. I'm really glad his fatherly side is supported in the fandom and even the writing of the CGI seasons, because it's extremely hard to imagine him with that aspect removed. It's so much of what makes him complex and interesting to me, and to hear one of his engines, someone he knows so personally, cry out in pain would trigger a response like he does with that lackey reporter kid. He sorta raised Thomas along with a number of the engines who came to him so young, so… yeah. Not so much in the book canon (that would be Topham I who would've done most of Thomas' rearing) but Topham in the show? Yeah that's his baby crying. He gon get MAD.

At this point in the story I did have to go back and edit small details in the previous chapters. It's not terribly relevant to the story, but I wanted to make an attempt to acknowledge the show's canon. Since the show and book canon don't line up 1 to 1, it might just be safer to stick with the show's canon, and fix errors I didn't see before.

Like:

the nod at Henry having moved to Vicarstown.

forgetting that Edward has a passenger branch line in my OG post of Ch. 3. For whatever reason I thought all he did in those days was help other engines with their trains. I think because it's never articulated by the narrator, unlike say, Thomas or Duck, it never registered in my head that his trips to Brendam were his line.

Then I realized it must've been focused on more in the later seasons that I hadn't gotten to yet at the time of starting the fanfic.

Henry being stationed at Vicarstown with Rosie at this point in the show's timeline, and Edward at Knapford's sheds. Ch. 1's been fixed to acknowledge that. And I think it makes the chapter more interesting.
James being only 13 years younger than Edward, yet behaving significantly less mature. I'm not complaining because it makes it less weird to ship the two, but it also confirms something that TheUnluckyTug on youtube mentioned in a video I recently watched: that age does NOT automatically equal maturity. It's a personality thing. Maybe Edward's open-minded personality must lead to him retaining wisdom. Just right now, I'm gonna throw out a guess that one of the reasons Edward is so much more worn out than James is because of all the extra work he takes on due to his responsibility and competence.

As the bossmang, Topham and say "here take this train" and go on with his day, knowing that it won't get into a wreck, at least not by Edward's fault. And that's without my understanding that he's taken over for parenting Bill and Ben later on in the show. I guess they were too much for Boco. (NAH! LIES).

Emily's Scottish accent. I was hesitant to work it into the story at first, for fear that I'd come off stereotyping, or even just doing it badly. And I was even contemplating removing it entirely, as I was taught she isn't even Scottish in terms of her build. Unlucky tug seems to suspect it's because her designer is Scottish. I kinda don't mind breaking absolute realism here to keep this aspect about her, because it gives a distinct flavor to her dialog. (Tangent: Admittedly I sorta picture her humanoid form looking like Merida from Brave, the red fuzzy hair and all, and now I can't stop. I try picturing her with long black hair, for instance, and it just doesn't stick for some reason. I think of Veronica from the Archie comics instead. Also those two have some personality traits in common, don't they? Does that make Rosie Betty, then? Funny cuz I'm def more a BettyxArchie fan, and this ship would be the equivalent of a RonxArchie ship. Gahhhhh)
As far as I'm aware, even if Emily wasn't built in Scotland, it's not confirmed what she, the character at least, was doing before she got to Sodor. If she was built in 1895, she definitely didn't arrive on Sodor until decades after. Who's to say her pre-Sodor work life wasn't in Scotland, thus the accent? For the sake of this fic, in chapter 10, I thought it would add to her and Thomas' dichotomy, if SHE started off only pulling passenger coaches and being really bored with it by the time she got to Sodor. So whereas Thomas had to rise to get out of doing grunt work, Emily kinda craves the change of doing so. I'm only getting away with that theory by the skin of my teeth because I can't find any evidence of her bitching about being above freight trains the way Gordon does.

My final possible argument for her accent could be the impact of her crewmen. Even if she wasn't put to work in Scotland prior to Sodor, her first crewmen could've had the accent, and she picked it up over time.

I say all this to justify why I'm gonna continue to roll with her having the accent, while understanding it might not be historically accurate per her model. I guess I felt insecure about it after finding this out this very surface level detail. But GAH it's EMILY, it's so hard to imagine her without the accent after watching the Michael Angelis dub! Hands down the best narrator of the series, imo, and that's admitting I'm way too attached to George Carlin's overly macho "get the fuck out of my way or I'll flatten you like paper" voice or Gordon. (I'm also partial to him making Thomas sound more like an annoying little kid in the first season, and I know that's an unpopular opinion.)
Lady Hatt's name, Jane. I had no idea until reading wiki today that she had a name in the show. I just made one up for her when writing chapter 11.

Edward's driver. In the books and show, his original driver's name was Charlie. It's a pretty big stretch to believe both Matthew and Charlie have been working with their respective engines for forty some odd years straight, but it feels wrong to have this knowledge and not use it? I don't know where he picked up the use of cigarettes (eim nawt hez keepah, how should I know?). It feels like a bad habit at least one of the drivers would have, if not more, given the period. I don't know how to explain it. It also gives Eddie and his driver a contrast. Edward is just so lawful and spiritual by his own choice, and his driver is more inclined to bad habits and bad choices in his youth. But they are very attached to each other, don't try and separate Charlie from Eddie, they will fight it! Besides mang, it's fictioN. Let's do it!

Cranky being alone at Brendam Docks in chapter 9. Carly was another character I didn't know about. (Big Mickey too, who I didn't realize was supposed to be sentient, but he doesn't even have a speaking role until the very end of the show. Oop pooop) Since this takes place a couple years after the show's estimated finale, it feels wrong to not acknowledge all the characters that should technically be there, even if they crowd the scene a bit. So I wrote them in, lol.

I also re-wrote the dialog between Thomas and the random kid in chapter 1. It's roughly relevant for the use of 'magic' in this story ala Lady/The Magic Railway, and if the story ever gets done, this conversation is going to matter again MUCH MUCH later on. Back when I started this story in 2020 or whatever, I vaguely had a plan for this very first bit of dialog to come full circle at some point.

P.S.—I tried to find out anything I could that was canon about this railway board away from Harvey's introductory episode, but at this point I fold, and run with my OC who's in favor of giving control of the railway back to the mainland UK, as in away from Topham.

P.S.S.—I know I started this story with an analogy of Thomas to a court jester, even though since then I've read something or other about James actually having been likened to the team's jester on the Thomas Wiki. Unless that's strictly talking about him being the comic relief of the group, which I think is fair, I think that analogy works for the both of them in some ways. If someone were coming into this without knowing the chosen ships for this fanfic, and just read the beginning poem, I think it would be fair to understand why they'd think it was an EmilyxJames story. Ooops.

The Thomas Wiki says Sodor is mentioned/implied to be an entirely independent country in the CGI seasons. But if they frequently refer to England as the "mainland" that kinda negates that theory for me. I'm leaning more on the idea that it's politically separate (hence Matthew's speech about firemen learning to drive engines being legal, without the license to do so, as long as there's an authorized driver in the cab present.

The idea that it's independent with its own mayor, while having close relations with England. It also lends me this conflict with Sudrian rails being secretly in debut with all the engine acquisitions, and this all coming out of the bag in this chapter.

I'm not an expert on politics, in fact I quite often learn how ignorant I am about them, but this was the best explanation I could come up with for their 'right' to control what Topham does with his engines.
Besides, Americans ought to know a thing or two about being in crippling debt to other countries and acting like nothing's wrong, amiwrite? \_(ツ)/

Lastly, I'm sorry if this chapter is treacherously void of James and Edward. We get back to how this same day, the 26th, unfolds for the boys in the next chapter. They still ain't happy, but they're not as bad off. And we get some insight on the situation with Sir Topham from a little benign engine cleaner, Joe's perspective.

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TL;DR: Spastically overexplaining tiny details/changes/acknowledging inaccuracies in the fic made for the sake of the story.

Love for Henry, I came home from work sleepy as heck, saw everything you wrote, and I spazzed OUT. I can't stress enough how much it means, especially that note of connection with Rosie at the quarry.
Mean-Scarlet-Deceiver, friend, I don't even know what to say. You are literally the reason I'm back and in a better place, too. I'm so grateful to get to call you a friend.

To everyone else, I'm sorry to keep disappearing and coming back. Juggling different hyperfixations and life obligations does that to those more diligent in the hobby than myself. I do miss it over here.

P.S. - Everybody's been super supportive of this fic, YET in the back of my head I got a voice saying "y'know, you're not convincing me that EdxJames and TomxEmily are gonna work as unironic non-toxic ships, given that they argue so much even in your own writing." And I'm grabbing him by the necktie and saying "listen, it's supposed to be funny." "Listen, give me another fifteen chapters, and five hundred more years or so, imma make it work."

With that all out of the way, hope you're enjoying whatever this is turning out to be. If you've been following along, smash the keyboard with some thoughts. Even if it's just to vent your frustration that you wasted your time reading it. Borrowing a line from the Company man on youtube, I'd genuinely like to hear what you have to say. And thanks for reading.