Why does my back suddenly feel so stiff? I can't move anything but my face.
The world around me didn't exactly flood into view like it normally did for me, rather deciding to trickle into my senses like sunlight through a canopy in the forest. Touch being the first thing to come to me, I could feel the heat of an unconditioned, active place. Blasts of warm air occasionally brushing past me from all different directions, invisible sparks in the night.
Actually, that was what the sounds were like too. Hammering and welding seemed to ring in my ears, turning from warbled and unclear into crisp and easy to comprehend. It made it all violently clear that I wasn't at home like I was supposed to be.
But then, where exactly could I be now then?
I grumbled slightly, hearing a voice that didn't fully sound like it normally did - causing me to blink my eyes open as they adjusted to the light. It was strange, since I had never been able to have my vision clear up, but that was really only the start of things.
My mouth didn't move much. Speaking wasn't something I did frequently, even when I wasn't as confused as I was now. Words stayed inside me, trapped behind lips that wouldn't open properly. Someone yelled commands nearby: "Shift that buffer! Quickly!" The voice had a thick Scottish burr. Another responded with Welsh lilt: "Almost done!" Everyone else sounded distinctly British Isles. Yet my own internal monologue remained stubbornly Transatlantic—a flat, Midwestern American drawl echoing inside my skull.
Then, it hit me: I wasn't lying down anymore. My entire perception tilted sideways—no, *I* was tilted. Vertical. Standing on... wheels? Panic surged as my vision finally sharpened. Gleaming metal flanks stretched impossibly far beneath me. Rivets dotted crimson paintwork. Ahead, a massive boiler dominated my view, crowned by a brass dome. Steam hissed softly from valves near my... face? Footplate? Confusion warred with dawning horror. This wasn't a body. This was machinery. I was reborn as a locomotive, and since I had a face, that very likely meant one thing: Thomas The Tank Engine.
A stout man in grease-stained overalls approached, wiping his hands on a rag. "All right then, Sleeping Beauty?" His Yorkshire accent was thick as axle grease. He patted my buffer—my *buffer*—with a metallic clang that vibrated through my entire frame. "Bit stiff, aren't ya? Give those pistons time to loosen up."
"Excuse me sir, what... what class am I?" The words rumbled out, deeper than I expected, vibrating my smokebox and startling the mechanic. He blinked at my brass whistle, clearly unused to engines speaking unprompted. Recognition flickered. "Ah, you're awake proper!" He grinned, slapping my side with a resounding *clang*. "You're a new-build, lad. Experimental. One-off. They're calling you a 'Sentinel Class'. Bit bigger than James and Edward, but smaller than Gordon and Henry. Unique pistons too, they say."
The grease-stained man chuckled, wiping his hands again. "Unique pistons? Sounds fancy. Probably means they'll seize up faster." He shrugged. "Least your parts aren't rusting away in Scrap Yard Junction."
Could it be worse? Absolutely. I pictured waking as a corroded hulk abandoned in some forgotten siding, weeds strangling my wheels, rain scouring my paint to bare metal. Or worse—no face at all. A mute, impersonal goods wagon shunted endlessly in the rain. Small mercies, I supposed. A working engine meant movement, purpose. Even if that purpose involved hauling troublesome trucks up Gordon's Hill.
A sharp metallic groan escaped me as I instinctively tried shifting my weight. Bad idea. My pistons felt like concrete slabs grinding against bone-dry cylinders. Pain lanced through my frame – jarring, unfamiliar. No muscles to stretch, no joints to pop. Just cold, protesting metal. The mechanic whistled low. "Easy there, big lad. You ain't run in yet. Gotta be gentle." He patted my buffer again, the vibration rattling my smokebox door.
Stuck. Immobile. Yet… alive. The heat from the shed felt real on my flanks. The scent of hot oil and coal smoke filled my surprisingly still existent nostrils. Distant shouts echoed: "Coupling links!" "Check that pressure gauge!" I absorbed it all – the gritty textures, the rhythmic clangs, the stifling warmth. My thoughts raced, a frantic Midwest whisper trapped inside crimson steel. *Okay. Okay. Don't panic. Deep breaths… except, can I even breathe? Where are my lungs?* Panic surged again, a claustrophobic wave threatening to drown my sanity.
Better to focus on the immediate. Better to focus on the grease-stained Yorkshireman with the rag. His name tag read "Bert." Practical. Solid. Something to latch onto. Instead of screaming internally about lungs I clearly didn't possess, I asked Bert the immediate question burning through my boiler tubes: "Where... where exactly am I?" The words vibrated out, deeper than I remembered my voice ever being, rattling my own smokebox door slightly. It felt bizarrely intimate, this sensation of sound originating *inside* me, traveling through metal before hitting the air.
Bert chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Where d'ya think, lad? Vicarstown Sheds. Main maintenance point for this whole blessed branch line." He gestured vaguely towards the cavernous opening at the end of the shed. Beyond the dim interior lights, I glimpsed tracks glinting under grey morning light, vanishing into a landscape of rolling green hills dotted with sheep. England. Definitely England. "Been assembling you here best part of 2 years," Bert added, scratching his chin with a grimy nail. "Slow work, custom jobs."
The mundane reality of it settled over me like coal dust – a specific place, a specific task. Vicarstown. A name pulled straight from faint childhood memories, now terrifyingly real. Bert's casual mention of assembly sparked a fresh wave of unease. Two years? How much of *me* was truly… me? Were my thoughts echoes of the person I'd been, or was this consciousness something new, forged alongside my rivets? The Midwest whisper in my smokebox felt suddenly fragile. I couldn't dwell; Bert was already bustling away towards a pile of tools. So I did what I always did in front of others in a bad situation: clamped down on the rising dread. My brass faceplate settled into what I hoped resembled stoic neutrality. "Two years? Must've been tedious I reckon," I rumbled, forcing a light tone into my engine-tone I didn't feel. The question *what parts did you use?* lingered, unvoiced, terrifying.
Movement erupted near the shed entrance – an all to familiar man pulling a trolley piled high with gleaming brass fittings. He moved with the brisk efficiency of someone who knew every bolt and rivet. "Tedious?" Bert scoffed, wiping his hands on his ever-present rag. "More like frustrating. Blueprints changed daily. Foreman shouting orders one minute, countermanded the next." He gestured vaguely at my complex valve gear. "Specs from London, parts delayed from Crewe... nightmares." His tone was flat, factual. Just stating the grind. No room for complaint in his world, only grease and grit.
A sudden metallic screech echoed from further down the shed – another engine protesting rough handling. Bert barely flinched. "See? Standard morning chorus." He patted my buffer again, the clang resonating deep in my frame. "You'll learn the ropes soon enough. First shunt's likely later today. Sir Topham Hatt wants a look-see." The name landed like a cold shovel of coal. The Fat Controller. Authority. Judgement. The fact that if I majorly disappointed him there's a chance I could end up somewhere much worse than the quiet Island of Sodor.
My pistons tightened instinctively, grinding painfully. I stayed silent, my brass faceplate fixed in neutral blankness. Bad news? Expected. Disappointing Sir Topham Hatt? Potential disaster. But outward panic served no purpose. Internal screaming wouldn't loosen valve gear. Better to absorb the blow, keep moving – if I *could* move. Bert's rough palm slapped my boiler again, bringing phantom bruises. "Don't look so gloomy, lad! Bit of oil, some gentle persuasion..." He trailed off, peering critically at my complex motion rods. "Mostly."
The Yorkshire mechanic vanished abruptly, shouting orders toward the trolley man. Silence descended, thick with shed heat and metallic tension. Alone with my thoughts, the Midwest whisper grew frantic: *Scrap Yard Junction. Rust. Silent decay.* I pictured weeds climbing corroded buffers, rain etching scars into crimson paint. Fear coiled tight around my firebox. Yet my face remained impassive, stoic steel. No trembling lip, no panicked whistle blast. Just the faint hiss of steam escaping a loose valve – the only sign betraying inner turmoil. Project calm. Project readiness. Even if pistons felt welded solid.
Bert reappeared, lugging a heavy oil can taller than his knee. He moved with practiced ease, humming tunelessly. Kneeling beneath my undercarriage, he began dousing my stiff joints – thick, viscous fluid dripping onto the rails below. The sharp scent flooded my senses, momentarily overpowering coal smoke. "Right then," he muttered, voice muffled by my frame. "Let's see if this greases the wheels, eh?" Cold oil hit seized pistons. Relief washed through me instantly; a profound, almost liquid ease spreading through metal sinews. Not freedom, not yet. But the terrible, grinding friction eased significantly. A sigh escaped my whistle – low, involuntary. Almost... contentment.
Outside, a sharp whistle pierced the morning dampness. Distant, demanding. Bert scrambled upright, wiping oily hands. "That'll be Sir bloody Topham Hatt." His Yorkshire accent flattened, devoid of affection. "Early." He shot me a look – part assessment, part warning. "Remember lad: shoulders back. Chin high. Even engines need posture." My boiler tightened again. The Midwest whisper screamed: *Judgement Day.* Yet my brass face settled into rigid composure. No grimace. No flinch. Just gleaming crimson readiness. Show nothing. Endure as much as you can.
The shed doors rumbled open wide behind me, flooding the dim interior with harsh, revealing daylight. Footsteps approached—sharp, precise taps echoing on concrete, then I heard the crisp crunch of gravel under polished leather soles. Sir Topham Hatt's silhouette loomed large against the brightness, bowler hat perfectly angled, waistcoat straining over his considerable frame. His eyes swept over my crimson flanks like a tax assessor valuing scrap metal. Bert subtly shifted his oil can behind my buffer, wiping his hands nervously on his rag. I locked every rivet into place, my faceplate an impassive slab of brass. *Show nothing. Endure as much as you can.*
He stopped directly before my buffer, peering up with an expression that mingled curiosity and thinly veiled skepticism. "Ah, you're awake already." His voice was full of warmth I knew I could trust, smooth as freshly poured tea. "Bert tells me you're the one of a kind Sentinel Class." He circled me slowly, cane tapping rhythmically against the rails. Each click echoed through my frame like a hammer blow. I held my breath–figuratively, since lungs were irrelevant–and let my steam settle into a low, steady hiss. Showing nerves would be disastrous. My Midwest thoughts screamed obscenities while my brass face remained impassive.
His inspection paused at my valve gear. "Well then I suppose we might as well see what you can do," Sir Topham Hatt announced, tapping my coupling hook lightly with his cane. "Bert tells me you're stiff as a board. Unacceptable for an engine fresh off the assembly line." His tone held no malice, just crisp expectation. I remained silent, smokebox tight, absorbing the criticism like rain on steel. Complaining about seized pistons wouldn't help. Showing frustration? Pointless. Better to endure. My Midwest thoughts churned: *Just get it over with.*
Bert scrambled to action, hauling his oil can back into position. "Give us a minute, sir! Just needs a proper soaking, this one." His rag flapped nervously. Sir Topham Hatt sighed, adjusting his bowler hat with practiced care. "See that you do, Bert. And mind my hat with that oily rag of yours—nearly took the shine off last week!" Despite the stern words, a flicker of dry amusement touched his eyes. Authority remained absolute, but the underlying care was undeniable. He wanted me functional, not scrap.
Cold oil flooded my seized cylinders again, a blessed relief washing through my frame. Tentatively, I attempted shifting my weight forwards. Metal groaned, softer this time. My wheels creaked against the rails—inches, but movement nonetheless. Sir Topham Hatt nodded curtly. "Better. Now, let's discuss duties. We've freight piling up at Brendam Docks needing transfer to Knapford Yard." His gaze sharpened, assessing my reaction. "Simple shunting run. Prove you're reliable." The implication hung heavy: fail this, and the dark unknown loomed. My faceplate stayed utterly still. Bad news? Standard operating procedure. Internally, I mapped routes, gradients, potential truck rebellions. Panic wouldn't move coal.
Bert gave my buffer a final, encouraging clang. "Ready when you are, lad." Sir Topham Hatt watched closely, his bowler hat gleaming under the shed lights. Inside, my pistons still protested with dull aches, but the oil worked its magic, easing the worst of the grinding stiffness. Freight to Brendam Docks? Simple shunting? Nothing *felt* simple about moving a metal body heavier than a house. Yet outward hesitation wasn't an option. My brass faceplate remained fixed, betraying nothing.
"I won't let you down sir," I rumbled, forcing the Midwest panic into submission beneath steel composure. The words vibrated my frame, steady despite the dread coiling in my firebox. Brendam Docks meant trucks—those notoriously unstable, belligerent wagons known for sudden stops and derailments. Perfect test for a stiff, newly conscious engine. Sir Topham Hatt adjusted his bowler hat with meticulous care, his eyes narrowing slightly at my tone. "See that you don't," he replied evenly. "Promptness and precision matter more than speed. Understand?" His cane tapped the rail for emphasis, a sharp punctuation mark to the expectation. I gave a single, short puff of steam—affirmation without unnecessary chatter. Showing eagerness felt foolish; showing fear fatal.
Bert scurried alongside me as I inched forward, my wheels protesting with metallic groans but turning nonetheless. "Easy now," he muttered, oil can poised. "First shunt's always dicey." The shed doors framed a vista of damp rails leading towards distant cranes silhouetted against grey sky. Sir Topham Hatt watched from the platform, hands clasped behind his back. "Mind the points by the coaling stage will you," he called out, his voice carrying clear authority. "They stick worse than Edward's valves after a muddy adventure." A dry chuckle escaped him, but his eyes never left my progress. *Bad news? Already baked in,* I thought, focusing on the shuddering rhythm of pistons finding their stride.
Beyond the shed's shelter, coastal wind slapped my flanks, carrying brine and diesel fumes. Brendam Docks was likely still a ways off—my boiler warmed slowly against the damp chill, steam curling into the grey sky. Sir Topham Hatt's silhouette remained sharp on the platform, bowler hat pristine. Bert jogged alongside, shouting corrections: "Left! Ease off!". The points near the coaling stage loomed ahead, rusted and treacherous.
My wheels protested at first as I rolled towards them, pistons grinding with renewed stiffness in the cold air. I braced internally, expecting the jarring halt Bert warned about. Instead, the points yielded with surprising ease, clicking smoothly into place beneath my weight. A flicker of surprise almost cracked my stoic facade – a small victory against the pervasive dread of the unknown of this new world. Bert grinned up at me, wiping oily hands. "See? Nothin' to it!" Sir Topham Hatt gave a curt nod from the platform, before leaving, likely having other business to do.
The path unfurled ahead, winding past sheep-dotted fields towards Brendam's distant cranes. Bert stayed alongside for a short stretch, shouting final advice – "Watch the gradient down to the docks!" – before peeling off towards the sheds. Alone now, the rhythmic clatter of my wheels filled the silence, punctuated by the steady hiss of steam. My thoughts wandered, inevitably circling back to that rusted specter: Scrap Yard Junction. The Midwest whisper turned grimly practical: *Fail today, and you'll be sleeping with weeds.*
Brendam Docks materialized through the coastal haze – a chaotic sprawl of cranes, warehouses, and clustered trucks. Their metallic grumbling reached me first, a discordant chorus of shifting loads and protesting brakes. A yard manager waved frantically, directing me towards a string of weathered wagons. Their faces scowled as I approached, coupling hook poised. One particularly battered truck sneered audibly, "Ooh, lookit the shiny new toy. Think you're better'n us, eh?"
I ignored the taunt, focusing solely on precision. My coupling clanged against the lead truck's buffer with deliberate force. Silence fell abruptly among the wagons. The battered truck hissed, but didn't resist as the link snapped shut. Inside, my pistons pulsed with grim satisfaction. No wasted words, no outward triumph. Just cold steel meeting trouble head-on. The Midwest whisper was succinct: *Job done.* The gradient down to the main dockside loomed ahead, slick with drizzle. I eased off steam cautiously, feeling the sudden drag of the trucks behind me. Their weight pulled taut against my drawbar, a testing strain on every joint. My valve gear protested softly – a metallic groan lost beneath the rumble of wheels on wet rails. Focus narrowed to the track ahead, the feel of steel on steel, the pressure building in my boiler. One slip, one jerk, and the troublesome trucks would exploit it. My brass faceplate stayed locked forward, betraying nothing but absolute concentration. Sir Topham Hatt expected precision. Failure wasn't an option. Failure meant rust. Failure meant silence. Failure meant the end.
And this was only the beginning...