One night, you boarded the last train home as usual. After a busy day, the gently shaking of the carriage made you sleepy. You couldn't help but doze off by leaning against the glass window. When you opened your eyes again, all the passengers seemed to have gotten off, and you were the only one left in the train. You glanced at your watch, only to find that your usual arrival time had passed. The station you're about to get off at is already at the end of the line. Even if you didn't get off in time, the train shouldn't have moved on.
The train was still moving, showing no sign of slowing down. You wait, for what feels like a long time, until the train goes through a tunnel and starts to slow down. Weird...was there a tunnel when you usually took the train home? Finally, the train stopped at an empty station. The train lost power the moment it arrived at the station. No one was there, and even the name of the station sounds really unfamiliar... You have been taking this railway line since childhood, and you are sure that this station doesn't even exist. What is this place? You tried to check the map on your phone, but all it showed was an error message.
You suddenly blacked out again—only for a second—and when you came to, everything was wrong. Your body wasn't yours anymore. Metal groaned where bones should be, steam hissed through unseen pipes like a second set of lungs, and your vision stretched out in a way no human eyes could manage. Panic flared—or tried to—but it was dampened, smothered under the weight of something *else*.
"Oi biggie, you awake and working yet, or just standin' there like a daft lump o' scrap?" The voice rattled through your new metal skull like gravel in a tin can, thick with Yorkshire vowels. You looked around and saw a middle aged man in overalls standing in front of you, his face lined with grease and perpetual irritation. "Well? You gonna answer or just let steam out yer ears all day?"
Your response came out as a mighty voice—booming and metallic—"I am *not* scrap," which would've sounded commanding if steam hadn't chosen that exact moment to whistle indignantly out your safety valves. The man just snorted, wiping grease off his brow with the back of his sleeve. "Aye, tha's got fire in yer firebox, I'll give ya that," he muttered. "But fire don't pull coaches and coal wagons, do it?"
A deep, grinding irritation settled in your pistons. You did not want to deal with this at all. Somehow you now were trapped between these officious little men and their endless bloody rules while being forced to acknowledge that your own boiler pressure was rising into dangerous territory. Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Hughes 4-6-4T—bloody hell. Could've at least been a proper tender express engine, not some shunting hybrid with pretensions. But no, fate had a sense of humor.
You let off a bunch of steam in sheer frustration—probably wasted half a ton of coal-worth—and the bastard had the audacity to *laugh*. "Oh aye, tha's got Lancashire temper in ya, don't ya?" He thumped your boiler with a wrench like you were some prize pig at a county fair. The metallic clang reverberated through your entire frame. You hated that.
Then came the worst part—*instructions*. "Right, listen sharpish," he barked, jabbing a finger toward the tracks ahead where a line of rust-streaked coal wagons sat like a rotten spine. "Shunt those down to siding three, then fetch the milk vans from platform two. No dallyin', no showin' off—just *work*." He spat the word like it was holy.
You hissed steam through your teeth—if you'd had teeth, thought the fact youwere blinking it was about fifty fifty that you did somehow—and resisted the urge to curse him out, you had had to deal wih customer service before and this was just like that. The bastard even had the same expression, like he was doing you a favor by explaining how breathing worked.
You chuff forward with all the dignity a metal monstrosity hauling coal wagons can muster—which, as it turns out, is none. The wheels screech against the rails like a cat dragged backward through a keyhole, and you swear you hear one of the damned wagons snickering. "Shut it," you growl, but it comes out as a series of clanks and a hiss of steam, which only makes the situation more humiliating.
Coal dust clings to your undercarriage like bad decisions. Every jolt of the couplers knocks your firebox just *wrong*, and your boiler pressure needle dances perilously close to the red. You're *built* for this, supposedly, but no one told your temper that. Ahead, siding three yawns open like a trap, and the wagons lurch into place with all the grace of a drunkard collapsing into bed. You don't even wait for the clang of buffers before reversing, wheels shrieking protest. Henry's satisfied nod makes your safety valves twitch.
Platform two smells of sour milk and rust. The vans sit there, pristine and mocking, their white paint glaring under the weak sun like they've never known a day's hard work. You roll up with all the subtlety of a brick through a window, brakes screeching loud enough to make the porters wince. One of them—a wiry little man with a Liverpool lilt—grins up at you like you're some kind of circus act. "Ey, Dreadnought, you gonna handle these like a proper engine or just stampede 'em to the docks?"
Your firebox pulses hotter than hell's own furnace. You could run him over. Just a little nudge. The rails would call it an accident. But no—you're a *professional*, damn it, even if professionalism currently feels like swallowing a lit fuse. You hiss steam through your nostrils (since when did you *have* nostrils?) and couple up with a clang that sends milk bottles rattling inside the vans. The sound sets your rivets on edge.
Then it happens. Some absolute genius of a human decides now's the perfect moment to lean against your buffer beam while lighting a pipe, blissfully unaware that your entire chassis is vibrating with barely-contained fury. The scent of cheap tobacco mixes with coal smoke and something dangerously close to murder. Your whistle lets out an involuntary shriek—high, sharp, enough to make the idiot stumble backward into a stack of milk crates. The resulting domino effect of clattering glass and swearing dockworkers would be funny if you weren't currently picturing twenty tons of steel grinding his pelvis into the ballast.
"Bloody 'ell, Dreadnought!" The foreman's voice cuts through the chaos like a dull saw through cheap timber. His Lancashire accent stretches the vowels into something that sounds suspiciously like a threat. "You tryin' to bankrupt us with breakages before breakfast?" You could point out that the idiot deserved it. You could explain that your safety valves were *this close* to blowing. Instead, you let loose a long, deliberate hiss of steam that coats his overalls in a fine layer of condensation—petty revenge, but satisfying.
The wiry Liverpudlian porter scrambles out from under the avalanche of milk crates, his cap askew. "Right moody bastard, ain't ya?" He's grinning like this is the best entertainment he's had since someone fed the yard cat laxatives. You'd like to grind his smirk into the ballast, but the weight of the milk vans tethers you to something resembling responsibility. Your fireman—a gangly youth with grease smeared across his forehead like war paint—chooses that moment to toss another shovel of coal into your belly. The heat surges up your flues, momentarily drowning out the urge to commit wholesale property damage.
You wait for the lines to change so you can shunt some more wagons—because apparently, your entire existence now revolves around being a glorified shopping trolley for coal and coaches—when some bright spark in a too-clean uniform saunters up with a clipboard. His accent is all wrong, Manchester but poshed up like he's swallowed a dictionary. "Ah, Dreadnought, splendid! We'll need you on the 3:15 to Huddersfield—passenger service, mind, so none of your apparant..." He gestures vaguely at your still-steaming buffer beams. "Drama."
Your pistons tighten. *Passenger service.* Meaning you'll have to haul those prissy little suburban coaches full of judgmental humans who'll clutch their hats and gasp every time you dare to let off steam like a living thing with actual *needs*. The Manchester prick is still talking, tapping his clipboard with a pencil that deserves to be snapped in half. "And do try to keep the *excessive* noise to a minimum, hm?"
You just rolled your eyes, still, you hated disapointing others and admitting that you weren't good enough. So instead, you let off an angry puff of steam—not enough to scald the clipboard-wielding prick, but enough to make him flinch and wipe condensation off his spectacles. The Liverpudlian porter snorted into his fist. "Proper prima donna, this one," he stage-whispered to your fireman, who grinned like he'd just been handed a front-row seat to a pub brawl.
The Manchester official straightened his tie with prissy little flicks of his fingers, but you caught the way his knuckles whitened around that stupid clipboard. Good. Let him sweat. You'd show him "excessive noise"—you'd show him the goddamned symphony of a proper engine working hard, pistons pounding, whistle screaming across the moors like a declaration of war. Your fireman must've sensed the murder in your steam pressure because he started shoveling coal like a man possessed, the rhythmic clang of iron on iron syncing up with the furious hammer of your own pulse.
It was 10:53 right now, which meant you had about four hours and fifteen minutes before you had to haul those unbearably precious suburban coaches—four hours and fifteen minutes to either decompress or commit several OSHA violations. The Manchester official was still talking, something about "appropriate decorum," but his voice faded into static as you focused on the rhythmic creak of your own frame cooling. Somewhere beneath the rage, a traitorous thought wriggled: *You're better than this.* You crushed it under a mental piston.
The yard cat, a mangy tortoiseshell with half an ear missing, chose that moment to saunter across your tracks like she owned the rails. Liverpool Porter made a half hearted shooing motion, but you let out a soft chuff of steam—just enough to ruffle her fur. She paused, tail flicking, then deliberately sat down on the rail ahead and began licking her paw. You had a soft spot for certain animals, even if everything else in this fucking god forsaken yard made your boiler pressure spike.
The Manchester Clipboarder was still droning on about "time keeping standards" when you chuffed off—you still had shifting and shunting to do before they'd let you near a proper line—but not without rolling your buffers just close enough to send his clipboard papers fluttering into the wind like startled pigeons. Liverpool Porter's cackle followed you down the tracks, mingling with the rhythmic clank of coupling hooks as you bullied a fresh set of coal wagons into submission. The coal dust tasted like pettiness, gritty on whatever passed for your tongue these days, and you reveled in it.
By midday, the sun had turned the yard into a frying pan, heat shimmering off the rails in waves that made your paint itch. You'd just finished bullying another string of wagons into their designated hellhole when Henry—your so-called "watchman," though the man couldn't navigate his way out of a wet paper bag—leaned against your cab with a sigh that smelled suspiciously of last night's ale. "Ey up, Dreadnought," he drawled, patting your side like you were a nervous horse. "Tha's got a right face on thee today. Summat crawl up yer smokebox and die?" You didn't dignify that with steam, just let your safety valves hiss ominously until he took the hint and backed off.
Soon it was 3:00 PM—time for the Huddersfield run—and you'd be damned if you'd let Manchester Clipboard see so much as a rivet out of place. You rolled onto the main line with a hiss of steam that sent pigeons scattering from the station roof, your polished buffers gleaming despite the coal dust clinging to your undercarriage. you made your way to the first station to find the coaches waiting—prim suburban things in an overall light brown, the lower panels were painted a 'lake color'. The upper panels are buff with the lower in purple-brown, the ends were dark brown. The roofs were a bit of dark grey but some did appear in red oxide.
The lead coach chirped up as she saw you chuff up—"Ooh, a big tank engine! Well isn't this a pleasant surprise!"—and you immediately regretted not derailing yourself in the yard when you had the chance. Her voice was the sort of polished suburban twitter that made your rivets ache, all lilting vowels and faux cheer. The other coaches tittered in agreement, their couplings clinking like teacups at a garden party. You wanted to growl low in your firebox, but people can't help how they sound—so you settled for just slowly cuffing infront of them in silence so you could be coupled upto the four of them.
The Manchester Clipboarder was watching from the platform like a particularly smug vulture, so you bit back the urge to let off steam directly into the lead coach's prissy buff-and-brown face as you coupled up. The coaches twittered among themselves—something about "such a *strong* tank engine" and "what *lovely* buffers"—while you resisted the urge to jack knife them into the nearest ditch. The signal clanked to clear, and you chuffed forward to the station with deliberate, grinding precision, feeling every ounce of their dead weight drag against your pistons.
You fully pulled into Platform One with a hiss and a hiccup of steam, the four bastard coaches clinging to your frame like they were glued there. The people all slowly walked—god damn it why did everyone dress so fucking. old timey!?—towards the coaches, chatting like you weren't even there. You let off a bit of steam in irritation and a few of them glanced up only to immediately descend back into their conversations.
The line to Huddersfield was a gauntlet of petty humiliations—every signal against you, every gradient just steep enough to make your wheels slip before catching with a break at the first station of probably too many. The coaches behind you giggled like annoying school girls every time you let off steam, their stupid buff-and-brown panels practically vibrating with condescension. "Oh, doesn't 11110 chuff *vigorously*?" the lead coach simpered, and you fantasized about uncoupling her at full speed just to watch her prissy little frame before realizing wwhat she refured you as—11110? That was your bloody number—your *name* was supposed to be—
Suddenly you saw a baby deer on the track—right between the rails—and you instinctively slammed on your brakes. The coaches shrieked as couplings strained, milk bottles shattered inside the vans, and the baby deer just stared at you with wide, adorably stupid eyes before casually strolling off like you hadn't nearly killed everyone aboard. The lead coach let out a slightly offended sound before seeing the baby deer—and then she was cooing at it, completely forgetting about you nearly ripping her buffers clean off.
Ahead, the next station loomed—some pathetic little halt with a wooden platform barely long enough for your damn coaches—and wouldn't you know it, the signal was against you. Again. You hissed steam through clenched teeth (maybe metaphorically speaking) as you waited, watching a farmer herd his sheep across the tracks at a pace that suggested he was being paid by the hour. The coaches twittered excitedly about "quaint countryside charm" while you had to begrudgingly agree with them—only because if you didn't, you'd probably try to shunt them into a siding and leave them there forever.
You came to a stop when you pulled into Platform Four, brakes screeching like nails down a chalkboard—just to see another Manchester Clipboarder standing there, tapping his stupid watch with his stupid pencil. The coaches practically vibrated with excitement behind you, their couplings clinking like a goddamn champagne toast. "Oh, such *prompt* service!" the lead coach chirped, and you seriously considered reversing full throttle into the nearest water tower.
"Yes and you're actually two minutes early," the Clipboarder sniffed, scribbling something that was absolutely a unmeaningful compliment onto his little notepad. You couldn't even see the baby deer anymore—that would've been something positive at least—just Platform Four's peeling paint and the farmer's cute sheep now wandering dangerously close to the tracks again. The coaches' passenger doors opened with a chorus of creaks, disgorging a gaggle of humans who smelled like mothballs and not taking enough showers.
You could've sworn the bloody fucking signal was green when you first rolled in, but suddenly it's red again—probably some sadistic bastard in the signal box jerking off thier tiny dick to the sight of your boiler pressure creeping into the danger zone. The coaches sigh behind you like this is some grand romantic delay, their stupid polished panels catching the sunlight just right to blind you every time you glance back. "Isn't country rail just *delightful*?" the lead coach trills, and you would agree if it was just you alone.
You started letting out more and more steam as you had to wait not just for the passangers to finally switch out but for the fucking red light to change—the signalman was obviously asleep, drunk, or both, since he seemed so busy jacking off he couldn't be bothered to switch the goddamn signal. Meanwhile, the coaches behind you kept sighing like this was some great romantic adventure instead of the logistical nightmare it was, their buff-and-brown panels practically *radiating* suburban entitlement.
Finally—*finally*—the signal clanked to clear, and you lunged forward (Guess the signalman finally came) with a vengeance, wheels biting into the rails hard as you stormed toward the next god forsaken station. The coaches squealed like school girls again, their couplings groaning under the strain of your acceleration. "Oh my, such constant *vigor*!" the lead coach trilled, and you seriously considered "accidentally" derailing into the ditch so maybe with enough luck you could be reborn as a nobleman or something—anything but this.
Next stop was the second to last station—Halifax Junction—where the line split off towards Bradford, and of course fate decreed you'd have to wait while some idiot shunted a string of empty cattle wagons across your path. The signal box took its sweet time switching points, and every second dragged like a rusted piston. The coaches behind you sighed dramatically—as if *they* were the ones hauling their own dead weight—and started murmuring about "quaint delays" and "the romance of steam."