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He was a coward.
Deep down, it was something Flat Top had always known, despite his tough, punk-ish exterior. Beyond his rebellious nature and his piss poor attitude. Behind his blatant glorification of diesel as a source of power. And beneath his misguided idolization of the reigning champion. They were all carefully constructed ruses to hide his true colors. Not that he would allow anyone to ever know that.
That idiotic guise had backfired the worst it ever had now, after Rusty was sabotaged during the final championship race.
He had known, and he hadn't said a damn thing. He was right there as Caboose unveiled his plan to Greaseball, and he turned his head and pretended not to hear.
To be fair, he was terrified at what would happen if he did decide to squeal - Greaseball's gang was ruthless and unforgiving. They would have left him for dead, no doubt about it.
So what did he do instead? He decided to keep his mouth shut, and now Rusty…someone who had always been kind to him, who never had ill intention to him or any of the freight….he was paying the price instead.
Flat Top felt sick as the diesel gang circled around the steamer, the brutes throwing his racing helmet to the side. They grabbed the steamer roughly and - Flat Top didn't even want to look at what happened next. He heard screams and moans of pain from the steam engine, pleas for mercy, a horrible gurgling noise as he coughed up blood.
He was a fucking coward.
Even at this moment. He could have done something - come between the gang and Rusty, shouted for the marshals, something. But he stood there in shocked silence, praying to a God he didn't believe in that it would all be over soon. That he could sweep this all under the rug and pretend it never happened after the championships were over. After Greaseball claimed another undeserved gold medal.
Rusty was on the ground now, barely able to move. He reached out desperately in some vain attempt to crawl away, but they were still kicking him, pounding him into the dirt.
Everything ceased the moment Greaseball rolled in with Pearl in tow, the coach unequivocally devastated at the state Rusty was in. For all she knew, he crashed like this, the other diesels making themselves sparse to appear innocent, Caboose along with them.
Flat Top had a deadly urge to wring that little caboose’s neck, but he felt no better than that cheating scoundrel right now. At the very least, he had the guts to fucking feel bad about it, unlike the brake van. That sickening smile etched onto his shitty, scheming face.
Would he teach him a lesson later? No, because the constant still remained that Flat Top was a fucking coward.
These thoughts were all swirling in his head as Pearl rushed to Rusty’s side, begging the steamer to stay with her, despite him barely being able to lift his head. No one had ever seen her quite this distressed - well, perhaps that wasn’t the right word as her distress turned to rage, screaming at Greaseball, the diesels, whoever was in her line of sight.
Threats of informing the marshals of the true nature of the crash fell on deaf ears, the reigning champion laughing off the idea.
“You’re in on this too, princess. You squeal, you get suspended as well. Got it?” Greaseball’s words were like venom, and there wasn’t a damn soul who didn’t see Pearl’s eyes glaze over in horrified shock.
“You fucking monster.” She uttered under her breath, averting her gaze from the diesel. Her eyes fell back on Rusty for a moment, softening in a pitiful realization of exactly what was at stake here, before being ushered off to prepare for the re-run.
She stopped abruptly in front of Flat Top, the look in her eyes both mournful and menacing.
“And you’re a fucking coward.” She spat directly at him before Greaseball yanked her away. Flat Top was almost thankful. He had not a goddamn word in response to that. Other than I know.
He swallowed hard, staring straight ahead of him as the rest of the crowd of diesels dispersed, only leaving Caboose to throw a last hoo-rah in Rusty’s face before fleeing in the opposite direction, the sounds of his deranged laughter still echoing in the quiet air around them.
It was hard to imagine that what just happened wasn’t some sort of twisted dream. A hallucination of his guilt that was eating Flat Top alive. He wished it was. Hell, how he fucking wished it was.
He shuffled slowly to where Rusty’s racing helmet had been discarded, picking up the battered metal delicately.
Rusty was only just managing to sit up, his face bloodied and tear stained. But he didn’t utter a single sound as he got on his knees, clutching his dented side.
Flat Top rolled over to return his helmet, attempting to formulate some sort of sentence. But what was he meant to say? What weight could an apology even hold at this point? Looking down at Rusty, he felt tears forming in his own eyes. The voice in his head scolding and screaming, This is your fault. This is your fault. His suffering is because of you. How can you live with yourself?
That question was one he particularly wanted to avoid for as long as possible, choking back a sob as he knelt next to the steamer.
He placed the racing helmet on the ground beneath them.
“Just….give up, Rusty.” He said softly. There was no malice behind it whatsoever, even if it felt harsh. But the last thing Flat Top wanted was for his friend to get hurt like this again. And in his mind, the only way to assure that is to make Rusty see that it was all a pointless endeavor. They had both known Greaseball long enough to realize that.
“It’s rigged. You’ll…..you’ll never fuckin’ beat ‘em.” He went to stand back on his wheels, thinking for a moment to extend a hand out, to help Rusty up.
Rusty only glanced up at him, fresh tears in his eyes. Flat Top was…taken aback, to say the least, that the steamer wasn't seething. He simply looked…crestfallen.
“Why…. Why do you hate steam so much?” He asked softly, his voice wavering like he was about to start sobbing. Neither could bear to look at one another. Flat Top out of sheer guilt, knowing that he could have saved him, a lump forming in his throat.
“I…I don't-” What words did he even have to respond to that? Of course he didn't hate steam? Despite how it might have come off before….
He was just…stubborn. And stupid. Not caring about what anyone thought of him, but deep down caring far more than he should.
He didn't think Rusty would even dignify him as a friend anymore, let alone any lingering feelings Flat Top still held for him. Who would stoop so low as to return the feelings of someone who betrayed you? He knew Rusty was insecure, but he wasn't stupid. By any means.
The eventual plan to ever come clean about any of those messy emotions was quickly thrown out the window, along with any self-respect.
He was a coward, and he hated himself.
A rogue diesel rolled back along, giving him an impatient gesture. “You comin’ or fuckin’ what, brick truck?”
Flat Top gave Rusty one last forlorn gaze, meeting his eyes for the first time since before the championships.
He had no words left, and coupled onto the diesel engine who pulled him away, leaving Rusty in the dirt.