Work Text:
Because, in the beginning, he had everything he could want.
Supporting siblings, a lovely place of work, a great manager, what more could he want?
But things never lasted this way, and if you asked him, the memories of his glory days would be just a faint aftertaste to him.
Steam engines were banned, he got told more “favourable” diesel engines had come to work.
That sticks with you, doesn’t it? Being told that you are a disposable amalgamation of metal compared to a big, strong, other.
But he remembered; back then, when he was built, when he was beautiful, he was considered a treasure; a great locomotive by the ever-so-famous Sir Nigel Gresley.
He remembered the crowd’s faces and cheers as he thundered down lines, remembered the sweet words spoken to him by his late driver, by the people in the workshop, by everyone around him.
But now, those words were just a grey memory; they didn’t bring him joy anymore, they didn’t bring him comfort anymore, they didn’t bring him warmth anymore, for he knew their words were useless, and for his or his sibling’s greatness never mattered as they were all sent to burn under the cutter’s torch.
He remembered his sibling’s cries for help, pleas towards him, sickening, throat-burning screams as they got dragged into the hellish yard by diesels, or by another of their kind. Ryan. Himself.
And he remembered all too clearly; an order in the morning to send his sister to scrap; another order right after to send that young saddle-tank too; another order to work with a diesel to send a whole line of engines. And he knew that soon, he would be the one getting dragged away too.
And soon, he stopped caring about his siblings' pleas or that engines cry or the other engines scream, for by taking engines to be scrapped, he had perhaps taken his own soul to be scrapped too.
But, perhaps by a stroke of luck, or a sick, twisted, chance by the heavens, he managed to escape the hot pits of the smelter’s yard.
He was to be sent to the island of Sodor, a safe haven for engines like him, where scrap seemed ever so far away and paradise was right by his buffers.
And, as he went to Sodor by boat and by land, he thought about it for a while, cried about it, screamed about it in his own mind; the debt that he had collected in his time.
He had so many siblings, so many friends, so many people that supported him, and he had sent them all to die in sparks and flames. His old driver moved away after the first trip, people that once cheered for him didn’t look at him when he puffed past them. He remembered one of his siblings' words; they asked him why he was doing this; why was this happening? And why did they deserve this? And over a thousand sorry’s that would take Ryan a millennium to count.
So, he felt as if he now had a big, heavy debt over his smokebox; avenge his siblings, if they were so great yet were thrown away like rubbish, why should the engines on Sodor deserve peace without the fear of scrap?
And eventually, as Ryan landed on Sodor, he decided that that was the very thing he would do.