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 meant one thing: Thomas The Tank Engine.
A stout man in grease-stained overalls approached, wiping his hands on a rag. "Right then, Number 4072," he declared with Yorkshire bluntness. His accent curled around vowels like steam around pistons. "Sir Topham Hatt will want you operational yesterday, apparently he accidentally bought you alongside a tram engine." Around us, other engines murmured—they all looked more or less the same as me, some had sharper noses, others were shorter, and that was just to start. But even with us all looking so similar, they all spoke with distinct regional flavours: Liverpudlian, Cornish, Highland Scots. My own voice box broke free, after all, it's rude not to introduce yourself to others, especially when you're stuck in a shed with them. "Hello everyone my name is Matthew," I stated, my flat Midwestern drawl slicing through the symphony of British Isles accents like a misplaced banjo at a ceilidh.
The words hung heavy in the humid shed air. I rarely spoke back home; silence felt safer than awkwardness. Now, my flat, Midwestern greeting echoed strangely against the curved metal walls, utterly alien amidst the rich tapestry of British Isles accents surrounding me. It felt like dropping a plastic spork onto a table set with sterling silver. Silence followed, thick and sudden, punctuated only by the distant *hiss* of a steam leak and the rhythmic *drip* from a condensation pipe somewhere overhead. Every gleaming boiler face seemed to turn fractionally towards me, their painted expressions unreadable yet intensely focused.
My vocal apparatus clicked shut automatically, reverting to ingrained habit. Conversation wasn't my forte. Around me, the murmurs resumed, a low symphony of Scottish brogues, lilting Irish cadences, clipped English tones, and melodic Welsh inflections – a vibrant chorus missing only my discordant Transatlantic note. Faces remained impassive, riveted plates hiding thoughts. That Yorkshire mechanic scratched his chin, squinting. "Matthew, eh? Somehow it sounds like you've swallowed a Yankee newsreel, lad." His blunt observation hung there, neither hostile nor welcoming, simply stating the obvious sonic anomaly.
Silence stretched again, thick as the grease clinging to my piston rods. I focused on the rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of my own boiler heart, a grounding counterpoint to the bewildering reality. The sheer impossibility pressed down – metal skin, coal furnace, wheels instead of feet. Yet, the sensory overload was undeniable: the sharp tang of hot oil, the damp warmth radiating from my flanks, the distant, rhythmic clatter of shunting yards echoing through the shed's open doors. My gaze drifted towards those doors, catching glimpses of verdant Sodor countryside bathed in afternoon sun, impossibly bright after the shed's gloom. Freedom lay out there, tracks winding towards horizons unknown.
A practically identical engine nearby, painted a deep forest green with a distinctly Cornish burr, finally broke the quiet. "Well, Matthew," he ventured cautiously, his smokebox door seeming to creak into a hesitant smile. "Bit different soundin', aren't ya? So strange, innit?" His tone was nothing but unkind, merely curious, yet it felt like a spotlight swinging onto my awkwardness. My usual silence felt safer than attempting speech again; words were clumsy tools I rarely wielded well.
Then, a sharp-nosed engine with a Liverpudlian twang chimed in, his voice dripping with mockery. "Matthew? Sounds like a Yank biscuit tin that'll soon be tryin' tah rattlin' down the tracks!" His boiler chuffed with amusement, steam curling like laughter. "Bit lost, are we? Wrong continent, mate!" The jab landed hard; my usual quietness felt like armor pierced. Words tangled uselessly inside my smokebox.
Suddenly, it clicked: I scanned the shed. Every gleaming boiler beside me showed subtle thier numbers were all lower than mine: 4071, 4070, even 4069. My own number plate declared "4072". The realization chilled my firebox. They were older, practically weathered veterans compared to me; I was the freshest off the assembly line, barely cooled paint. This explained the stiffness, the unfamiliarity humming through my frame – I was practically newborn while everyone else was at least a toddler. My vocal chords tightened instinctively. Speaking wasn't something I did frequently, especially under scrutiny. Silence felt safer than potentially embarrassing myself further.
The Liverpudlian engine snorted another plume of steam, his voice sharpening. "Freshly painted scrap, eh? Betcha won't last a fortnight out there!" His boiler clanked derisively. "Thinks 'e's special, just 'cause 'e sounds like a bleedin' radio announcer?" My firebox churned hotter; silence felt easier than defending myself against such hostility. Words tangled uselessly inside my smokebox, thick and clumsy.
My gaze drifted past the mocking faces towards the shed's wide-open doors. Outside, sunlight glinted off parallel ribbons of steel stretching towards distant hills. That promised freedom, escape from this claustrophobic ridicule. Yet, movement remained impossible; pistons frozen, brakes locked tight. The sheer helplessness intensified the sting – trapped metal skin, unable to flee or fight back. Only my internal monologue remained free, that stubborn Midwestern drawl echoing internally: *Just gotta endure it.*
The Cornish engine, quieter now, offered a hesitant puff of sympathy. "Don't mind 'im, Matthew," he murmured softly. "Robert seems to already always got somethin' nasty to say." His kindness felt unexpected, a small warmth against the chill. Yet, my own voice remained stubbornly locked away; verbalizing anything felt risky, exposing my awkwardness further. Silence remained my shield. My focus shifted internally, tracing the complex interplay of forces holding me upright—multiple axes of rotation intersecting beneath tons of steel. Understanding brought cold comfort.
I need to behave to get to Sir Topham Hatt, it's been so much longer than I can remember since I've seen the show, but he was always a kind man from what I can remember, finding uses for all engines on Sodor that tried their best to be useful. My smokebox tightened slightly at the thought of being useful - I have always enjoyed being needed, it help me feel less awkward most of the time. The Cornish engine, Number 4071, nudged gently against my buffer beam. "Don't fret, Matthew," he murmured softly, his accent warm as Cornish cream. "Sir Topham Hatt sees potential everywhere." His reassurance felt like oil on jammed gears. "Well, you know my name, but I don't know yours," I replied, my Transatlantic vowels stretching awkwardly between his rounded consonants. "Arthur," he chuffed warmly. "Named after the king, see?" His forest-green paint seemed to glow faintly in the shed's gloom.
Suddenly, the Yorkshire mechanic slammed my cab door shut with finality. "Right, Matthew," he barked, wiping oily hands on grimy trousers. "Sir Topham Hatt's impatiently awaiting your arrival. You'll be shipped to Sodor in mere hours." His blunt announcement hung heavy, cutting through lingering tensions. Arthur beside me emitted a sympathetic puff of steam; Robert merely snorted derisively. My boiler tightened. Hours? Barely time to grasp this impossible reality.
"Shipment?" My Transatlantic drawl sliced the humid air, sounding alien against Arthur's Cornish warmth. "You mean... crossing seawater?" Panic surged hotter than furnace coals. Saltwater corrosion haunted every locomotive's nightmares. "How?" The single syllable stretched thin, betraying my dread. Arthur nudged my buffer gently. "Big ferryboat," he reassured softly. "They'll cradle you safely aboard. Dry as Devon cream." His kindness was a balm, yet Robert's sharp Liverpudlian laugh cut through it. "Dry? Until waves splash yer fancy paintwork! Then you'll truly sound like a rusty porker squealin'!"
Silence fell thickly again. My gaze drifted towards the distant shed doors, sunlight glinting off tracks leading towards docks unseen. Freedom felt simultaneously terrifyingly close and impossibly far. Movement remained impossible; pistons locked, brakes clamped tight. Helplessness gnawed deeper – trapped metal skin, unable to flee mocking voices or looming saltwater. Only internal monologue remained free: *Just endure. Survive the crossing. Meet Sir Topham Hatt.* Optimism felt fragile, a tiny coal ember against overwhelming uncertainty.
The Cornish engine Arthur chuffed softly, breaking the quiet. "Ignore Robert," he murmured, his voice low and warm. "Ferry trips aren't scary. They cradle locomotives gently." His reassurance felt genuine, a small anchor against the dread. "You'll see Sodor soon enough." My smokebox tightened slightly; optimism felt fragile, tentative.
Hours crawled past, filled with grease-stained mechanics shouting final checks. Hydraulic lifts groaned beneath my wheels, shifting my entire frame onto sturdy railway bogies designed for maritime transport. Arthur offered encouraging whistles as they secured chains around my chassis. "Safe journey, Matthew!" he called out. Robert merely snorted steam, muttering something cruel about Yankee scrap metal sinking. The Yorkshire foreman slapped my cab side sharply. "Right, lad. Off you go!"
Sunlight blinded me momentarily as shed doors rolled wide open. Fresh air, smelling of salt and distant meadows, flooded my senses. Tracks stretched towards bustling docks where a massive vessel awaited. Its ramp lowered like a hungry jaw. Dockworkers shouted commands, their accents thick Cockney and Geordie: "Ease 'er forward!" "Mind the buffers!" My pistons remained locked, wheels rolling only by external force. Helplessness intensified; movement dictated entirely by others.
Inside the ferry's cavernous hold, shadows swallowed daylight. Chains clanked taut, securing me against gentle rocking. Salty dampness permeated the air, prickling my paintwork. Distant engines murmured nearby – Caledonian twins discussing Glasgow rain, a Southern Railway pacific lamenting Brighton delays. Their voices blended into a comforting symphony of familiar British Isles cadences. My own silence felt protective now, a shield against further mockery. *Just endure,* my internal Midwestern drawl repeated. *Survive this crossing. Find Sir Topham Hatt.* Hope flickered, stubbornly refusing to extinguish.
Suddenly, a sharp Geordie accent sliced through gloom: "Oi! Newcomer! Yer accent's queerer than a three-wheeled trolleybus!" My smokebox tightened instinctively. Silence felt safest; speaking invited ridicule. Nearby, a Caledonian engine chuckled darkly: "Sounds like a Yank radio advert stuck repeatin'!" His Scottish burr dripped contempt. My internal Midwestern drawl protested: *Ignore them. Focus on arrival.* Salt air thickened, clinging metallic surfaces. Distant waves slapped hull rhythmically. Hope felt fragile—Sir Topham Hatt's kindness seemed my sole anchor.
Hours later, ferry horns bellowed arrival. Sunlight flooded hold as ramp lowered, revealing Sodor's verdant coastline. Dockworkers' shouts mingled—Cockney directives, Welsh cautions. Chains rattled loose. Arthur's Cornish farewell drifted faintly: "Good luck, Matthew!" Movement returned; pistons hissed freedom. Tracks stretched inland, promising purpose. My whistle blew instinctively—a clear, Transatlantic blast silencing nearby chatter. Eyes turned, expressions unreadable.
A portly figure approached dockside, bowler hat impeccable, mustache bristling. Sir Topham Hatt, even if different from what I remember. His voice, crisp Home Counties English, cut through breeze: "Ah! Our newest, if accidental acquisition! Welcome, Number 4072." Relief washed over me; his tone held only brisk professionalism. "I hope you don't make me regret bringing you here on the Great North Western Railway's recommendation," he added, eyeing my crimson livery. My whistle blew again—that same jarringly Transatlantic note—before words formed. "Matthew, sir," I managed, Midwestern vowels stark against his clipped syllables. "It's an honour." He nodded curtly. "Operational trials on aiding in the finishment of the railway commence in two hours. Please do prove yourself useful, Matthew."
A wiry foreman with a Belfast brogue shouted orders: "Couple 'im tae that goods train! Sharpish!" Dockworkers scrambled, coupling chains clanking against my buffers. Sir Topham Hatt watched, expression unreadable beneath his bowler hat. My pistons hissed nervously; proving my worth felt dauntingly immediate. Arthur's Cornish reassurance echoed faintly across the water: "You'll manage splendidly!" Robert's Liverpudlian sneer followed sharper: "Watch 'im stall on th' first incline!"
My fireman, a cheerful looking lad with a Devon lilt, shoveled coal briskly. "Ready, Matthew?" His accent wrapped around vowels like warm pastry. I blew steam affirmatively, my whistle emitting its distinctively flat Transatlantic *whoo-oo* that clashed violently with the surrounding symphony of British Isles tones – Belfast commands, Cockney shouts, Robert's distant Liverpudlian jeers. "Right, let's head out to what's gonna be Maron Station!" the foreman yelled, his Belfast brogue thick as peat smoke. Chains tightened; buffers compressed against the laden goods wagons behind me. Sir Topham Hatt observed silently, bowler hat impeccably straight.
My driver, a wiry man possessing a distinct Somerset burr, eased my regulator open cautiously. Pistons groaned, then surged powerfully, pressing me forward onto gleaming rails. "Steady now," he murmured softly, his voice curling gently. Ahead, tracks climbed towards distant hills crowned by fluffy clouds. Behind, wagons rattled rhythmically, their couplings singing metallic tunes until they decided to try and play tricks on me.