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Chapter Text

Lady of the Lake was behind schedule as she finally puffed out of Union Station, billowing steam as she gathered momentum. She loved her summer beach runs, but today the blistering heat of the afternoon had given way to a sweltering, muggy night. Her train, affectionately nicknamed the ‘Moonlight special’ was packed with youngsters looking for a night out of the city. She could hear them carrying on even from her position up front and she rolled her eyes as she made for the city limits.

Winnipeg, Manitoba was the hub of the eastern prairies. Built around the meeting of two rivers and born of the fur trade that shaped the country, it was a meeting place and a crossroads. To the East, over 2000 miles of rugged wilderness, endless forest stretching out to the Atlantic coast. To the South lay the American international border and to the West, almost a thousand miles of wide open plains, sweeping up to the eastern fringe of the Rocky mountains like a great blanket of green and gold. 

And to the North? Great swaths of water, limestone lakes to rival Superior, Huron and their sisters. Lake Winnipeg was aptly named. Her waters were brown as mud and cloudy as milk, but that stopped no one. 

Lady whistled as she left the city, gold-orange light dropping away behind her to be met with black dark farmland. The only light, beyond her own lamp, came from distant farmhouses and small, outlying towns.  

It came to her first as a cool breeze in the otherwise suffocatingly still air. It was barely noticeable as she whistled through Selkirk, but as she followed her northerly heading, it seemed to breathe life into the world around her as it picked up, rustling the tall stalks of corn and sunflower that grew in the fields along the tracks. 

Sporadic stands of trees whispered warnings as she passed them by, their leaves ruffled by gathering wind. The sky to the north rumbled ominously and she looked up, for the first time noticing the lack of stars, the lack of moon. 

Lady pressed on. She had heard tales from the big transcontinental engines of the oceans, and the Great Lakes with their wicked tempers, but none of those engines had believed her when she’d said that Lake Winnipeg was a fury in herself.  

She passed through Clandeboye and on into the interlake. Distant lightning flashed across the sky to the northeast, a telltale sign. 

There was a storm brewing over the big lake. 

As the line curved in toward the shoreline, her coaches were battered by ever more furious gusts of wind. In Matlock, she was met by a spray of rain as she came within sight of the lake. Waves crashed against the shore and water frothed up the beach, nearly to the grass. 

“She’s in a foul mood tonight, Frank.” She vaguely heard her driver call to her fireman. She did not catch his reply. 

The rain never left them as they left the lake shore again. Instead, it rose from a bothersome spray to driving within minutes. No stranger to the big lake’s storms, she blinked the water from her eyes and powered on. Her wheels slipped on the tracks slick with rain, emitting screeches that were drowned by the rolling thunder. 

“Sand, driver!” She called. 

The man was already on it. Her wheels bit back and with a huff, she pushed onward. 

The wind was howling now, bending the trees and breaking off their branches, sending them scudding across the tracks ahead. She cried out as one of particular size and weight thunked against the side of her smoke box and shattered her headlamp, knocking it from its holdings. It flew off, bumping her side before disappearing into the night. Her brakes squealed on as she was plunged into black dark, close as the wind and thick as ink. 

The train came to a stop on the line, buffeted by wind and rain from all sides. A moment later, Lady was met with the shadowy outlines of her crew. 

“What happened?” One of them asked. “Why is your lamp out?” 

Lady blinked rainwater from her eyes and spoke above the wind. “A branch hit me, knocked my lamp off. I felt it fly off behind us.” She explained.

“Shit.” The driver swore. “We can’t go on without it, it’s too dangerous.”

“Well, we can’t stay here.” Said the fireman. “I’ll run down the train and see if I can find it.” 

“It’s probably broken, mate.” The driver pointed out. “That was quite the bang we heard.” 

“Still.”

As the fireman left, the guard ran up from the back of the train. A handheld oil lamp gripped in his hand. 

“What's going on?” He called, clutching the hood of his coat against the wind.

“Lost the lamp.” The driver shook his head helplessly. “We’ll have to go back to Matlock. They might have a spare there.”

“But we’re closer to Winnipeg Beach now.” Lady protested. “We’re already late, it would be better to continue.” 

“Without a headlamp? Lady, we can’t -“

“There's no guarantee that Matlock will have a lamp, and they certainly won't have another engine there. They’d have to send one up from the city.” She argued. “We have a train full of passengers here that are relying on us!” 

Thunder cracked across the sky as if to enunciate her point. 

“Let me have a look.” The guard spoke. He climbed up onto the engine’s running board and inspected her lamp irons. He fiddled about for a moment before looking up. “Do we have anything I can use to tie this down?” He said, indicating his lantern. 

The driver and fireman looked around and shrugged. “Will one of our boot laces work?” 

“If it’s all we’ve got, it’ll have to. I’ll use mine.” The guard replied, and started unlacing one of his boots. 

Soon, the small lantern was fixed to Lady’s lamp iron. It did not emit much light and was the wrong code, but it would serve. If nothing else, they would at least be visible to bystanders. 

Her crew back aboard, Lady eased cautiously forward. She ran slowly the rest of the way to Winnipeg Beach. On arrival, the boardwalk was suitably deserted, but the dancehall was clearly packed. Her passengers piled off the train, screaming and grabbing for their hats as the wind howled in off the lake, and though she couldn’t see it, she could hear the waves crashing over the beach. 

This was Lady’s favorite part of running beach trains - the thrill of the lake itself, her own inland sea. She could admire its fury, while staying safely back from the edge. 

Chapter Text

“There are two of them.” 

“So?”

“So, there are two of them and one of me.” 

“Again, so?” 

The workshop was dark and silent. It was the middle of the night. An onlooker would never have noticed anything out of the ordinary. 

“Your math skills are abysmal.”

”My math skills are perfectly adequate. I fail to see how this is a problem.”

“You fail to see how - two engines need two souls! I cannot occupy both of them!” 

“Of course you can. It has been done before.” 

“That is beside the point! It is inhumane, to bind two beings together in such a way!” 

“They are not human.” 

The two engines in question sat in the center of the workshop. They were brand new, fresh, black paint glistening in the moonlight that filtered in through the small windows. They were exactly alike in every way, right down to the last bolt; mixed traffic tender engines, each with six driving wheels, no trailing wheels, an open cab and the Caledonian Railway emblem painted on their tenders. 

Their three digit numbers were the only things that differed them. 

“They will think like humans, feel like humans!”

“They will be twins. Is that so wrong?”

“Of course not, but most twins, even identical twins, don’t share a soul. Do you have any idea of the curse we’d be forcing upon them?”

“Curse? I think not. They will share a bond beyond any other they will ever come across. They will be best friends, even born soulmates. There is no greater gift.” 

“They will be inseparable in a way that will only bring pain!”

“You are wrong. They are engines, they will not face the same hardships and frailties as their human counterparts.”

“They will face others! Engines are reliant on humans to care for them, they have little to no free will. They cannot choose where they will end up, whether they will be placed together or apart. If they are seperated, forced to live their lives on opposite sides of the country? What then?”

”You are overthinking this.” 

“I am not. What if one were to suffer a terrible wreck, from which he could not be saved? The other would be forced to go on, to live a half life, unable to be who he was before without the literal other half of his soul!” 

“That will not happen. They will work together, double head. If one wrecks the other will too. They will be fine, together.”

“You are being unrealistic!” 

“So are you. This is something that has been done for eons, through all walks of life. There is no reason for it not to be done again now.”

“No reason? The history of twin souls - split souls - is riddled with heartbreak, with needless misery and pain! I see no reason why we should continue to do it when we have the choice not to!”

“Ah.”

“Excuse me?” 

“The choice is not ours, it never has been. It is one that belongs to the higher powers and them alone.”

“Then they are wrong. Careless and unempathetic. They should be ashamed of their decisions.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps they have their reasons. Regardless, we cannot change it. Our duty is to obey, not defy.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“Sentient beings need souls, which it is our job to supply. Without souls, the world will go to hell. You know that.”

“These are not sentient beings, they are machines. They will have no life unless I occupy them.” 

“You are wrong. We are not in the business of bringing life to lifeless things. These engines have a magic running through their frames that allows them to come alive with the application of a soul. Left without one, that magic will fester inside them.”

“What are you saying? Stop speaking in riddles.”

“While they’ll appear as ordinary non-sentient engines to everyone around them, they will still have the breath of primitive life the magic lends them. They will not see or hear or even think as such, but they will act. Without thought or reason or barest consideration of consequence. Is that what you want? Thoughtless beings running amok in the world?” 

“Hardly. What I want is for these engines to have their own separate souls, as they deserve. I see no reason why that can’t be.”

“It can’t be because it is not our choice for it to be. The higher ups have spoken. If you do not do this, then I will find someone else to take your place.” 

“I will not have you force this on anyone else.” 

“Then you’ll do it?”

“I have no choice. You are right, it is our duty. But do not delude yourself, one day you will understand my view on this. You will know the pain I speak of and wish you’d acted differently.” 

“. . .You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” 

“. . .I have.” 

“And do you remember your past lives?”

“Not beyond the barest recollection of feelings.” 

“Then you have nothing to fear. You will not recall this life once it is over.”

“Engines have the potential for very long lifespans.”

“It will end eventually. Now, go on. The night is growing old.”

“. . .Fine.”

                                                             o0o

In the silent, dark workshop, life was breathed into the twin engines. Two sets of eyes opened for the first time, a fraction of a second apart. As they did, they caught sight of the other. A connection was made and recognized. In that moment, they were innocent, aware only of the completion they felt at the sight of the other. 

Later, when the twin engines left the workshop to start their lives on the railway, they drew the attention of everyone around them. This was not due to their appearance, however. They were plain engines in a plain livery who were half the time covered in grime from coal wagons and slate trucks, and though they were physically identical, twin engines were not uncommon. Instead, it was their mannerisms. They knew each others’ feelings without speaking, could finish each others’ thoughts without forewarning; and, thanks to the kind manager, they were always always together.  

But they were young then, still with the bright-eyed naivety of new life. 

They were not aware of what was to come. 

Chapter Text

It was October, nearing Halloween. An engine from the mainland had come to visit. This was not uncommon, and the island engines scarcely batted an eye over it anymore. This engine, however, was different. Interesting. It was a lady diesel, who claimed to be a medium. 

Now, considering the time of year, this alone was enough to peak interests around the island. The fact that she had taken a keen interest in Donald, of all engines, only added to the intrigue. 

Donald was a sullen, ornery Scottish engine. He wore a filthy, black livery and was always up to his funnel in goods work. He’d been on the island for many years by this time, plenty of time for the other residents to get to know him, had he been willing to reciprocate. As it was, he seldom spoke and when he did, it was never about himself. As a result, no one knew anything about him. 

Except for one thing.

Donald hated diesels, and with such vehement passion that the workmen had seen fit to go to great lengths to keep him separate from the island’s diesel fleet. Ordinarily quiet as a field mouse, he was known to pick fights - both verbal and physical - with the diesels over the slightest things - or indeed, nothing at all. His long years on the island had not changed that. 

The lady diesel, who had no name in the way of the mainland engines, did not know any of this when she approached him. He was puttering about Tidmouth yard, lining up trucks and coaches to be taken out by the other engines. 

“Hello.” She said, stopping in front of him. 

He looked up, saw what was blocking his path, and glowered. “Ge’ oot o’ my way.” He snapped in his rough Scottish burr. “I’m busy.”

She ignored this. “What’s your name?”

His eyes dropped to slits. “And what makes ye think I’d be telling that tae the likes o’ you?“ 

“Why not?” She pressed.

“Just get oot o’ my yard, ye filthy diesel.” He spat. 

She was mildly affronted by this, being young enough to have not encountered many steam engines in her time and fewer still of the highly abrasive sort. 

“You’re a curious one.” She said after a moment. 

“Am I?” He responded in a warning tone. 

She was blocking his path directly, and he looked as if he were strongly considering moving her himself and damn the consequences, for he was never gentle. He’d already been relegated to shunting duty for the incident with Bear the other day, after all, and what more would they do?

“Yes.” She said. “You don’t seem at all happy here. I’ve heard stories of engines like you who’d have killed for a place on this island.”

It was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say.

“Stories.” Donald scoffed. “You’ve heard stories. ‘O my kind.”

“Yes.”

I’m 

He laughed humourlessly, a sound like something breaking. “How old are you?” 

“Just about fifteen, why?” She was undeterred by him, and he didn’t like it. 

“Do ye ken how old I am?” He demanded crossly. “I’m eighty-one. I was built in 1909, in Glasgow. I worked for three different railways before here, carried three different numbers. Fifty years of devoted service and do ye ken how they repaid me? They threw me away!” 

“Threw you away? No, you’ve been preserved.” She said. “They scrapped the ones they threw away.” 

An odd, involuntary shiver ran through his frames. “Preserved.” His voice shook now. “I never wanted this. No’ - no’ like this.” 

She looked at him strangely, then. “You weren’t talking about yourself just now, were you?” Her gaze slipped to something behind him, then back. 

“What?” He said, all traces of animosity gone.

Briefly, her eyes go to that spot behind him again. “You have a ghost following you, my dear.” She said. 

“Oh.” He muttered sullenly. “Aye. I imagine I do.”

                                                           o0o

One night, a day or two later, the main steam fleet, along with the lady diesel, were gathered for the night at Tidmouth sheds. Donald was also there, if only because it was more convenient than going back to where he normally slept in Arlesburgh when he would have to return for morning shunting duties the next day. 

“Welcome, everyone.” The lady diesel was sitting on the turntable, facing the occupied sheds. “Many of you have shared stories of engines past, who’s spirits still linger here on this island. I must say, you’ve intrigued me, which is why I’ve invited you all to join me tonight.” She gazed around the sheds.” I know some of you have your doubts, so gather round and listen.”

She paused as the engines hushed each other, bickering slightly as they did. 

“Good evening, benevolent spirits of the island. We welcome you to join our circle tonight.” She said. 

There was a hush over the sheds as everyone watched and listened. 

“If there is anyone here with us, please give us a sign, converse with us.” 

 Nothing stirred save the wind whispering through the trees and the distant tolling of church bells, announcing the late hour. 

“I told you this was nonsense.” Gordon huffed, eyes rolling. “Ghosts, pah.” 

“Shut up, you great, galloping sausage!” Thomas hissed. “They won’t come if you insult them.” He paused, listening. “Spirits, Gordon apologizes. He’s quite narrow-minded, you understand.” 

Gordon’s face went red, but he didn’t reply. 

The lady diesel hushed them and spoke again. “Again, if any friendly spirits are here, please let us know.” 

There was another moment of silence, and James seemed about to say something when, quite suddenly, a shrill whistle split the still, night air. 

Everyone jumped and looked around. “Who was that?” Henry said, sounding nervous. It was not a whistle they recognized, though it was not completely foreign. 

In the end berth, where Donald was backed right to the buffers, he jolted and rolled forward, eyes wide with shock. He glanced around the yard, searching the wisps of fog for something he’d lost many years before. 

The whistle sounded again. It was deep toned, carrying like an echo on the breeze.

“Hello, there.” The lady diesel greeted it gently. “We are pleased to have you join us. Do you have a name? A number, perhaps?” 

A moment went by. Then, James’ headlamp blinked on, quite of its own accord. 

“Hey!” He exclaimed. “What the -“

But before he had a chance to finish, it went out, followed closely by Toby’s coming on. The old tram just blinked and raised his eyebrows, having seen stranger things in his time. It went out again, and Percy’s came on. He yelped and jerked backwards.

“What’s doing that!?” He cried.

The lady diesel hushed him. “I believe it’s telling us its number.”

Edward agreed. “Which would be. . .5-7-6 -“

“Four.” Gordon supplied, as his lamp came on. 

“And me again. Seven.” Toby added, as his came on for a second time. 

“57647.” Said Edward. “Huh. I don’t recognize that.” 

“It’s not an island number.” Said Duck. “It’s B.R.” 

“Great.” Said Henry. “The poor bugger was probably scrapped.” 

“Shh.” Said the lady diesel. “Welcome, 57647. Do you have a message for us?”

She blinked and when she opened her eyes again, they had darkened strangely and her expression had changed. 

“Donnie?” She spoke in a distinctly male voice, in an accent that was not her own. “Six?” 

Donald swallowed his tears. “Aye. Aye, I’m here, seven.” 

The turntable turned so it lined up with Donald’s berth. Everyone stared at him in shock.  

“Dinna blame yerself, Donnie, please. It wasna yer fault.”

“But I - if I had tried harder, then maybe -“ 

“You would only have been putting yerself in danger, and for what? They would never have let me go, Donnie.” 

Donald let out a sob. “I didna want to go either!” He cried. “I’d have rather stayed and gone tae the torch wi’ you than leave and continue alone!”

“And give up yer life, when ye were offered the chance tae keep living? Tae be saved?” 

“This isna living!” Donald wailed, breaking completely in the face of his ghost. “‘Tis been y-years and I still feel so lost. I was never meant tae be wi’out you, seven.”

“Ye’re no’ wi’out me, six - Donnie. I’m always here. Ye ken, I canna rest alone anymore than you can live alone. That’s why I’m here at all, instead o’ back in Scotland. I had tae follow you.” 

Donald whimpered, tears dripping onto his running board. “We were made tae be together, but I dinna understand why when we’ve been torn apart.”

“We’re no’ apart, Donnie, we never will be. I’m always here. All ye need tae do is whistle, and I’ll reply.” 

“Promise me.” Donald pleaded. 

“I promise. Now, I need tae go, Donnie, but dinna fash. I’ll run wi’ you in yer dreams tonight. Oidhche mhath, a bhràthair.”  

“G-Good night, little brother.” 

Chapter Text

When Douglas finally came around, it was in the pale light of dawn. He moaned as he pried open his eyes, barely able to focus on his surroundings. He ached all over, as if he'd come off the rails badly and his trucks landed on him as he went. 

Was that what had happened? 

Damn trucks. Fecking - 

There was a bang and a scream from somewhere to his left that jarred him back into clarity. It was only then that he became aware of the rusted out husks around him and the growl of a diesel engine somewhere nearby. 

He was in a scrapyard. 

“You're awake, then. I had thought they'd killed you for a while there.” 

The voice, scratchy and hoarse from disuse, came from his right. 

“W-what?” He asked, eyes searching in the dim morning haze for the source. 

“I thought I was the only one. It seems I was wrong. They do not care as much as they make themselves appear to, do they?” It spoke again, bitter, the voice almost recognizable.

Douglas spotted it, then. A big, hulking thing. Six big driving wheels, four front trailing wheels, two rear. Short funnel, pointed nose. Full cab. In the shadows of the scrapyard, he thought it looked green, and that the number, a single digit painted on its tender, was a three. 

“Henry? W-what happened?” 

The bigger engine caught his gaze. The face was the same, but something was off with the rest, he thought. Henry shouldn't be here. He was the island’s main goods engine, the backup express engine. 

“You know my name. The others - do they still talk about me? Remember me?” 

Douglas was starting to get freaked out by this. “What are ye on aboot, laddie? I dinnae understand what ye mean.” 

The other engine looked him over. “You are from the Isle of Sodor, no?” 

“O’ course I am, ye ken that! ‘Tis where we first met!” He snapped back. 

‘Henry’ looked at him quizzically. “They must have bumped you around harder than I thought.” He muttered, half to himself. “No, I've never seen you before today.” He added, louder. 

Douglas didn't know what to say. Had he been bumped around? It felt like it. He glanced around, trying to get his bearings. The sky was brightening, the sun beginning to rise, allowing him to make out more details of his surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was Henry. His shape was all wrong, he had too many wheels, too small a firebox. His once bright green livery was nearly non-existent, ruined by patches of rust and layers of grime. His cab windows were smashed out, his hand-rails bent. 

He looked as if he'd been there for years. 

“Ye're no’ Henry.” 

“No, I am.” Said the engine, Henry but not. 

Douglas frowned. “No, that's no’ possible. I just saw Henry yesterday, pulling a goods train. There was nothing wrong wi’ him.” 

It was the big engine's turn to look confused. He stayed quiet for a moment, thinking. “They must have replaced me with another engine called Henry, then.” 

Douglas jerked back in surprise. “No, no. I just met ye, on Sodor. Same face, same voice, livery. . .” 

The derelict engine beside him didn't reply right away. “What do you know about me, ten?” 

Douglas swallowed. “The others said ye couldnae steam properly, that ye go’ intae a bad wreck and were taken away for a rebuild. They turned ye intae a black five from. . .” He looked over the other engine, realization dawning. “A botched A1 pacific. Ye werenae rebuilt were ye?” 

Henry closed his eyes against some years old agony, a most horrific betrayal. “Fat Hatt lied to the others too, then. I had wondered.” He opened his eyes. “I was built from stolen plans - Gresley’s prototype plans for Gordon, in fact. My builders didn't do a very good job. They fucked up my insides and gave me an unsuitably small firebox. Fat Hatt bought me thinking he was getting an Atlantic - he got me running on Welsh coal and that was okay. Then I wrecked with the Flying Kipper.” 

He paused, letting out a wheezy cough. “He said he was sending me to Crewe, for a rebuild. ‘A fine place for sick engines’, he called it. The next thing I knew, I was here.” 

Douglas, horrified, didn't quite know what to say. It was one thing to send a sentient engine for scrap, but it was another entirely to tell one he was going to be repaired - rebuilt - only to turncoat and dump him in a scrapyard. Why had the Fat Controller lied to Henry about his fate? And then - and then! To replace the poor engine with another who could pass for his twin, and give it the same name as its predecessor! The horror! 

“What about you?” Henry - true Henry - spoke again when Douglas didn't. “Why didn't they want you? You don't look damaged or botched by design. You're a MacIntosh 652, no?” 

Douglas, finally, stumbled back into his senses. “How d’ye ken I'm fro’ Sodor? I didnae tell ye.” 

Henry’s eyes fixed on the smaller engine’s tender. “Your number, of course. The NorthWestern Railway is the only one I'm aware of to number their engines as they do.”

This was true. They not only had their own numbering system separate from British Rail, but the numbers themselves were painted large in bright yellow and bordered in red, making them very distinct. 

“Of course.” 

Henry went on. “So, why didn't they want you? They went to the trouble of giving you a number, you must have meant something to them.”

Douglas sighed. “They only gave me a number so’s tae tell me apart fro’ my brother. We - well I wasnae meant tae be there. They bought him and I was slated for scrap. Donnie and our crews smuggled me out, tae Sodor, but they didnae want tae keep us both. We tried tae make it so they had tae, pretending we lost our original number plates and didnae recall them. I guess that failed.” 

Henry chuckled darkly, his face cast in shadow as the sun dove behind a cloud. “You were there illegally, I was built illegally. I guess we're even, huh? So what's your name?” 

“Douglas.” He replied. 

“Well Douglas.” Henry went on. “Sodor doesn't often reject an engine. We must be something special.” 

Douglas gave a low Scottish noise in reply. “No’ the good kind o’ special, I take it?” 

Henry laughed - it became a hacking cough. “We’ll make a game of it, shall we? Whoever gets scrapped first wins. My coal’s on you, I've been here for decades and they've hardly spared me a glance.” 

Douglas’ lip turned up in a snarl. “I wilnae be scrapped! My brother will come for me!” 

Henry scoffed. “You don't realize how many other engines have come through here saying similar things. It never happens, so don't get your hopes up.” 

“Donnie saved me from scrap once, he'll do it again, I ken it!” Douglas snapped back. 

Henry just rolled his eyes. “He might try, but I doubt he even knows where you are, Douglas. Hell, I'm not even completely sure where we are, and I've been here thirty odd years!” 

Douglas would have wheeshed, had he any steam. “Ye dinnae ken my brother, Henry. He'd search every scrapyard in the country tae find me, as I would for him. Donald will come, ye'll see.” 

                                                                o0o

By all accounts, then, Donald would come. 

He had said goodnight to his brother and gone to sleep with knowledge that Douglas was safe in the shed beside him. So, when he awoke to find the neighboring berth empty, he tried not to panic - Douglas could have easily been called out in the night for something. 

When he saw the look on Duck’s face - Duck being on his other side - that forced calm went out the window. 

“Where's Douglas?” He asked. 

No one spoke. Duck looked away, his crew pretended to have not heard him as they inspected the western engine’s wheels and side rods. Donald could feel his own crew shifting about his cab in tense silence and knew something wasn't right. 

“Where's Dougie?” He demanded, voice going up an octave in his fear. 

Duck bit his lip. Donald's driver coughed nervously. A bird flitted past the shed, nearly brushing the engines’ noses. 

“Duck?!” It came out as a plea in his increasing panic. “What's going on? Where's my brother?” 

Duck, then, couldn't hold the silence any longer. “He's gone, Donald.” 

Donald, if such a thing was possible, choked on his own breath. At least, that's what it sounded like to Duck - a raw, struggling sort of sound, like something breaking. 

“W-what?!” 

Duck closed his eyes. Why did it have to him breaking this news to his friend? When he opened his eyes again, he forced himself to look at Donald, stark black and blending with the shadows of the shed. 

“They hauled him off in the night. A mainland diesel on direct orders from Fat Hatt. I don't know how, or from whom, but he found out Douglas was the ‘truant’. He's gone, Donald.” 

All the color drained from Donald's face then, which was a feat in itself since engines didn't have a lot of color in their faces to begin with. 

“No. . .No!” He cried, and his low, accented voice was sharp like shattering glass. 

There was the crunch of ballast as Donald’s crew climbed down from his cab and walked alongside him. 

“‘Tis true, I'm afraid.” Said his driver. He rested a comforting hand on the engine’s buffer beam. “We got calls from his crew earlier this morning. They weren't even notified until Douglas was off the island.” 

Donald, shocked, stumbled over his words. “That's no’ - they cannae -”

“They can.” His fireman pointed out. 

“No!” Donald snapped back. “Dougie cannae go back tae Scotland, ye ken that!” 

The driver shook his head. “They're no’ taking him back tae Scotland, Donald.” 

Both Donald and Duck stared. “W-what?!” 

Donald's crew looked forlorn as they replied. “Apparently, Fat Hatt spoke to our old manager and he didn't want to be bothered with having Douglas transported back to Scotland. They've taken him straight to a scrapyard here in England.” 

There was a moment of tense silence before Donald jerked forward in his berth. “No! I wilnae let my brother be scrapped!” 

His crew exchanged a look. “Donald, I dinnae think Sir Topam Hatt is going to change his mind now -” 

“I dinnae care!” Donald exclaimed. “We have tae go after him!” 

His crew might have argued, Duck thought, but the look Donald sent them was enough to make them back away, mouths snapping shut. Then, he considered, maybe it was Donald who had orchestrated the entire mission to get Douglas out of Scotland and the other involved parties had simply gone along with him. 

“That's better.” Donald settled, and Duck had never seen an engine crew yield to their engine in such a way. “Go and contact Douglas’ crew, have them meet us at the station. Duck -” 

“Go.” Duck interrupted. “Just go. I'll gather the others for an indignation meeting. We won't stand for this.”

Donald blinked in acknowledgement and pulled out of the shed and across the turntable, intent on meeting his and Douglas’ crews at the station. When Duck arrived at the station a few minutes later with his coaches, Donald was just leaving, all four crewmen crammed into his cab.  

“I hope you find him.” Duck told him.

“Aye.” Donald replied, spent steam hissing around him as he pulled away.