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Momma had taken in a plethora of locomotives over the years, each with their own distinct personality and charms. To sweet yet tentative coaches like Tassita, brash and competitive engines like Silver Bullet, and shy yet upfront freights like Hydra. She knew it was wrong to compare the trains in her care to one another, knowing no locomotive is the same. But this new diesel engine that had been assigned to the Troubador yard was unlike any she had ever taken under her wing.
Greaseball had been brought to the Troubadour yard a few weeks ago. She had been transferred from a yard up north by her manager with only the plating on her skin and a facial expression she couldn’t quite read. The diesel's eyes were as dark as the deepest depths of the ocean, and they darted around her new surroundings as if she’d never seen a place so big in her life. Her lips stayed in a thin line as Momma went through paperwork with her manager. There wasn’t a lot known about Greaseball; only that she started racing quite young and seemed to be good at it. No records of previous yards, parents or any caregiver. The diesel was 16, though she looked nothing like it: tanned skin, shorter than expected of an engine her age, lacking the figure a normal diesel would carry.
Still, Momma took her in as one of her own. She’d set a room up in her shed for the diesel. It was simple: a single bed, a desk with a chair, and a mirror. It wouldn't be permanent, only until management had fixed up a room in the engine shed for Greaseball to live in. The diesel didn’t say a lot, just a quiet nod or a look up in acknowledgement here and there.
However, as the weeks had ploughed on, the once innocent enough looking engine had done a complete 180. Momma had gotten word from the coaches about Greaseball constantly starting fights. Whether it was a harmless misunderstanding or insult muttered under breaths, it would set Greaseball off. Within 2 weeks alone, Golden Eagle had ended up in Wrenches medical tent multiple times. The reason? He’d ended up getting the brunt of the diesel's anger.
Rumors of cheating surfaced right as the new racing season began. Allegations of her cutting corners and pushing other competitors a bit too hard spread like wild fire around the yard. And when Greaseball was confronted about it, it was met with a distasteful comment or complete ignorance.
Concern grew in the steamer as she observed the young diesel engine. Greaseball was at best rude and blunt, and at worst violent and explosive. One word misspoken or something not going her way would send her into a furious spiral. She had attempted to talk to Greaseball about the kind of behaviour expected within the Troubadour yard, but her well meant criticism was met with bitter comments and dismissal.
It was a Tuesday morning. Momma was alone in her shed, her young freights out doing their daily yard work. She took a seat at her kitchen table, delving into the schedule for everyone's daily tasks. Her eyes fixed on Greaseball's name, noting that she was scheduled to be out on the tracks pulling coaches. Greaseball was still getting to grips with the work expected of her, though no one commented on it unless they wanted their jaw spun.The steamer sensed Greaseball would be preoccupied with her current tasks; maybe now would be a good time to talk to her about her actions. Momma stood up from the table, her hand reaching for her coat. The thick material slipped onto her body with ease. She checked her reflection in the mirror near the foyer of the shed. Nodding with approval at her reflection, she drew in a quiet breath before stepping out the front door.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Greaseball hated everything about daily work.
Her wheels itched to be on the race track. She wanted to practise some new moves her manager had asked her to work on. But instead, she was stuck hauling coaches until 2PM.
It’s not like she had any distaste towards the coaches. The purple one was nice enough: pleasant, welcoming, very drowsy (Starlights knows what it's like to have her as a race partner). The pink one was…sweet. The scent of cookie dough always lingered when she was around, and Greaseball was weirdly drawn to it. Her smile was infectious, the diesel always cracked a slight smirk whenever the coach beamed. She would always steal small glances at her, whether it was from across the yard, on the tracks or during work.
“Greaseball, we can stop here.” Belle’s voice made Greaseball snap out of her trance. Blinking a few times, she noticed they were at the end of the line. She rolled to a stop at the end of the line, a bit too fiercely.
“Starlight, no wonder you’re a racer.” The sleeping coach grumbled under her breath as she steadied herself and uncoupled from Dinah.
“You what?” Greaseball retorted, turning towards the purple coach with a sharp glare.
“Nothing, nothing.” Belle replied, tossing her hands up defensively. Her eyes darted on the dining car. “Cmon, Di. Tass is probably waiting for us.”
Dinah watched as Belle rolled towards the coaches shed. Her frosted blue eyes met with the diesel's dark ones. “Thank you, Greaseball. I’ll see you around?”
Greaseball's brain would always short-circuit whenever Dinah spoke to her. She attempted to avoid eye contact with the dining car as best as she could, but she couldn't stop sneaking glances at those icy blues. “U-Uh, yeah. I’ll see you around.” She fumbled gruffly as she crossed her arms over her chest. Dinah flashed a quick smile before rushing off to catch up with Belle.
That coach was gonna be the death of her.
“Greaseball?” A familiar voice broke through the air, breaking the quiet moment. Momma, of course. The steam train was always on her ass about something. Whether it was for another fight with Golden Eagle, or suspensions on cheating, Momma was always there to deliver her speeches about kindness, or some shit like that.
“What?” The diesel grumbled, turning on her wheels to face the older woman. She was only an inch or two taller than the steamer, which was weird considering all of her kids were at least 6’0.
“I’m glad I caught you, love. How are you?” Momma asked with that sickenly sweet tone. Greaseball hated it. Every syllable felt more like an insult than calling her every name under the sun.
“What do you want, steamer?” She rumbled.
“Theres no need for the comments. I just wanted to have a conversation with you, sweetheart.” Momma replied. The older steamer made her way over to a couple of crates scattered near the tracks. “Come sit.” Greaseball, being absolutely bored out of her mind and having nothing else better to do on a Tuesday, sat down on a crate next to Momma.
“It must be scary, moving to a new yard, not being with your friends.”
Greaseballs could’ve laughed. Friends? Who needed friends? She had her racing career, and that was enough for the diesel engine. Who needs friends when you have a champion title under your belt and the trophies to show it. Friends would only drag her down, distract her from the one thing that mattered: Winning.
Momma continued: “What you need to understand is that you can’t pick fights with others, or use techniques others find unfair in the races. At the Troubadour yard, we treat others with respect, and follow the rules laid out.”
“Respect, my ass.” Greaseball scoffed internally. The moment she stepped into this yard, hell, this world, respect wasn’t something handed to her on a silver platter; it was earned. You don’t earn it by being a walking doormat for others. You earn that respect by being better than everyone else. You work until your fingernails break, until your vision blurs, until every fibre in your body begs you to stop. That is how you earn respect.
Momma paused for a moment, waiting for a reply from the younger diesel. When Greaseball said nothing, she went on.
“I knew this diesel once. He was like you: strong, brutal, and a brilliant racer. But, because he was so brutal, many people weren’t a big fan of him. I don’t want you turning out like him.”
Why did Momma always dwell on the past? She was always droning on about stories from the good old days, when she was a champion racer. Maybe that's why she wasn’t a champion anymore; she goes on and on about the past when she should really be looking into the present and future. Constantly thinking about the past makes you lose focus on what's right in front of you.
When Momma noticed the far away look in Greaseball's eyes, she took a quiet breath to herself. The diesel was always prone to going into her own little world. “Look, I know I don’t fully know what happened when you were younger, but if you ever need anything-”
“You don’t know shit.” Greaseball retorted, standing up from the crate with a huff. Before Momma could even get a single word in, the engine had already skated down the track promptly.
Momma let out a soft sigh she wasn’t aware she was holding. Momma saw a lot in the diesel engine: ambition, drive, and a lot of talent for a diesel so young. Though, she had seen this same narrative play out time and time again. A diesel who believes they're better than everyone else, who thinks they way is the way. They win some races, gain glory and fame. But after that, not a lot.
The steamer stood up from the crate with a huff. She knew Greaseball had some kindness within her; She’d seen the way she stole glances at Dinah when she thought no one was looking, the way she’d have quick but peaceful conversations with Hydra.
As Momma made her way back to her shed, her gaze caught the sky. She had never doubted her faith with the Starlight. But with all the stress and grief this new diesel was causing, she started to believe perhaps it didn’t look out for everyone.
“Starlight, just believe in her.”