This... is weird, very weird to say the least. I only remember going to sleep in my bed last night watching Thomas And The Magic Railroad because of some misplaced sudden nostalgia and now I am in a building? It looks like the giant door in front of me is closed too and I'm trapped inside.
Well, I just have to hope I haven't been kidnapped by anyone too crazy, it wouldn't surprise me any more these days... wait a minute, why can't I feel my legs, or my arms?
Where the fuck are they?!
As soon as I finished that train of thought, I tried to look down at myself I seem to have become a train...
Let me repeat that for the readers in the back;
I'M NOW A MOTHER FUCKING STEAM TRAIN!?
How is that possible?
A wave of panic surged through me-or whatever passed for a nervous system in this metal body, making my wheels shudder against the rails. I looked around, and the shed seemed old and brand new at the same time, like something straight out of a model railway set.
I was reborn as a train.
Guess the Hindus we're right after all.
Wait, does that mean I had good karma or bad karma?
"Well, this is just fucking peachy," I muttered, my voice now sounding like my old American one mixed with one from the British Isles.
Wait a minute.
I just talked.
Out loud.
Despite being a train.
Despite having no lungs.
Despite having just experienced a world-ending panic attack—if trains could have those—the realization hit me like a runaway freight car. The shed, the smell of coal and oil, the way my voice echoed in that distinctly British yet not quite way, I now knew exactly where I was.
There was only one universe I knew of where talking locomotives existed—and I was now trapped in it, sputtering nervously unable to puff without a driver and fireman to give me coal in a shed that smelled of grease and hot metal. The realization settled heavier than coal dust:
I was in the world of Thomas The Tank Engine.
This was... kinda fine... mostly...
I mean, there were certainly worse universes to be reborn into—at least I wasn't in Warhammer 40K or some other dystopian hellscape like that's just a completely normal person. But then again, being a sentient steam engine in a world where some random controller outside of Sodor could scrap me for being "unreliable" wasn't exactly comforting.
My wheels clanked nervously against the rails as I tried to take stock of my new form. The polished crimson red paint gleamed under the shed's holes revealing faint sunlight, I felt large, and felt a tender attached to me, filled with coal and water. My boiler was cold—no steam yet—but I could already tell it wouldn't take much to get me puffing properly.
I had twelve wheels not counting my tender as I couldn't feel those as much. I had ten large driving wheels, two smaller ones behind them, and two smaller ones in the front of them, giving me a 2-10-2 configuration—something I only knew from model trains I'd played with as a kid. My funnel was medium sized, and my boiler was long, but not overly so, and my cab had a slight backwards lean to it—though I couldn't see it myself without a mirror or something.
Maybe I was a freelance model like Percy or something.
After a while, the shed doors creaked open with a groan of unoiled hinges, and sunlight flooded in, making my brass fittings gleam.
"Well, I never!" boomed a familiar voice—deep, proud, and unmistakably human. Sir Topham Hatt stood in the doorway, his round frame silhouetted against the morning light, his top hat nearly nearly falling off in surprise. His eyebrows shot up so high they threatened to vanish into his hat line. "A new engine? Without my knowledge? This is most irregular!" He adjusted his waistcoat, frowning. "And who, pray tell, might you to be sitting in this long abandoned shed?"
"I'm Rowan sir," I blurted out instinctively, my voice echoing in a way that sounded both confident and utterly terrified. Sir Topham Hatt's frown deepened as he stepped closer, his polished shoes clicking against the stone floor. He adjusted his hat and peered at my smokebox door as if expecting to find some sort of paperwork pinned there. "Rowan, you say? And how, precisely, did you come to be here? Engines do not simply appear overnight, not on my railway at least."
"I don't know sir," I wheeshed nervously, or I would of if I had any steam, my wheels shifting slightly on the rails. "One moment I was—" I froze, realizing explaining my previous life as a human might make me sound utterly mad. Sir Topham Hatt's expression softened slightly, though his bushy eyebrows remained skeptical. "Well, well," he muttered, circling me slowly. "A mystery engine indeed. But you seem sturdy enough—Very unique design by the looks of you. Heavy freight and passenger mixed traffic type from what I'm seeing. Very useful indeed, and you already have a giant tennder full of coal."
His cane tapped thoughtfully against my buffer beam. "We'll have to test you properly, Rowan."
He then left to fetch a driver and fireman, muttering something about "most irregular" under his breath. The moment the shed doors closed again, my boiler shuddered—not from steam pressure, but from sheer existential dread.
Sir Topham Hatt; The Fat Controller kept engines as long as they tried their best, but I wasn't sure if trying alone would be enough.
And well, I was kind of lazy in my past life—would that count against me now?
While I didn't remember a lot of specific things from the show, I do remember that this universe has high Karma values.
Simply put, if you work hard and are useful, you'll be fine, but slack off or cause trouble, you're going to quickly regret it via embarrassment, crashing, or work you hate.
Early morning light streamed into the shed as my new crew arrived—a wiry fireman with soot smudged cheeks and a driver whose cap sat slightly askew. "Blimey, Rowan's your a big 'un," the fireman whistled, patting my boiler. "You're bigger than Gordon, real Santa Fe type you are!"
The driver that was just behind him chuckled as he swung into my cab, testing my regulator. "Right then, let's see if you're as strong as you look," he said cheerfully. Coal clattered into my firebox, and soon, warmth spread through my boiler like a heartbeat. With a sharp whistle from my driver, I eased forward—the first real movement of my new life—and rolled out into the crisp Sodor morning.
Outside was Sir Topham Hatt, with a gentle, fatherly smile on his round face, his thumbs tucked neatly into his waistcoat pockets. "Ah, Rowan, you look splendid in the daylight!" he declared, his voice warm but firm. "A proper engine, indeed—just what my railway needs."
The fireman shovelled more coal into my firebox, and I felt my pistons thrum with power as steam hissed from my valves. "Easy now," my driver cautioned, adjusting my regulator with practiced ease. "We'll start slow—no need to strain the rails just yet."
I puffed forward carefully, my long wheelbase making me acutely aware of every curve in the track. Some lines in the UK could barely handle engines like me—2-8-2s or 2-10-0s were already pushing it, and a 2-10-2 tender engine like myself? Well, let's just say derailments wouldn't be uncommon if the crew wasn't careful.
The last thing I wanted was to damage Sir Topham Hatt's precious tracks on my first day.
"Mind the points ahead, Rowan!" my fireman called out, wiping his brow with a soot-streaked sleeve. I slowed instinctively, feeling my long wheelbase flex uneasily over the junction. It wasn't just my size—my 2-10-2 configuration made me a proper handful on tight curves.
It's like they say, slow and steady wins the race—or in my case, prevents a very expensive derailment. I eased around the bend, my driver expertly feathering the regulator to keep me from swaying too much. The rails groaned slightly under my weight, and I couldn't help but wince internally. "Careful, Rowan," my fireman muttered, tossing another scoop of coal into my firebox. "You're a right beast on these tight curves."
It seems as if we were in a hidden part of the island, far away from anything that I recalled, or maybe I just didn't remember them, but I had to trust my crew and Sir Topham Hatt knew what they were doing. As I rounded another bend, the rails squealed in protest beneath my long wheelbase, and my driver eased off the regulator just a touch. "Steady, there," he murmured, patting my cab wall reassuringly.
"Where are we going sir?" I wheeshed cautiously, feeling my cylinders pulse as we approached a steep incline. Sir Topham Hatt, also in my cab now, adjusted his hat and smiled. "To Knapford, Rowan—a proper test for a proper engine!" My firebox roared as we hit the gradient, and for a terrifying moment, my wheels slipped—but then they gripped, and we surged forward, my long boiler heaving like a living thing.
I saw the sights of Sodor unfolding before me—rolling green hills dotted with sheep, stone bridges arching over babbling streams, and distant glimpses of the sea sparkling under the sun.
We soon arrived at Knapford, where Thomas, Edward, Henry, and Gordon were talking amongst themselves. They all stopped dead in their buffers when they saw me—especially Gordon, whose smokebox nearly dropped open in shock. "What in the name of the Fat Controller is that?" Gordon huffed, his pistons freezing mid-stroke.
Thomas whistled sharply, his little wheels spinning excitedly. "He's new! He's new!" he chuffed, bouncing on his springs like an overgrown blue puppy.
Soon we stopped at platform 5, and Sir Topham Hatt stepped down from my cab with a pleased huff. "Well done, Rowan!" he declared, adjusting his waistcoat. "You handled that incline splendidly—though we'll need to watch your wheelbase on tighter curves." My fireman wiped his brow, leaving fresh streaks of soot, while my driver patted my cab wall proudly. "Rowan seems to be a strong 'un, sir," he said.
Gordon rolled forward with a dignified puff, his brass fittings gleaming haughtily in the sunlight as he chuffed forward with the express, shock clear on his face as he had to make his run, likely wishing he could stay.
"Everyone," Sir Topham Hatt started, "this is Rowan, our newest engine. Rowan, these are Thomas, Edward, Henry, and you've already seen Gordon thundering down the line with the express." He adjusted his hat importantly. "Rowan is a very big engine, and I expect you all to help Rowan settle in." The other engines stared—Thomas with open curiosity, Henry with quiet appraisal, and Edward with a grandfatherly twinkle.
"You're the biggest engine I've ever seen." Thomas whistled, rolling closer until his buffers almost touched mine. His eyes were wide with awe. "Bigger than Gordon, even!"
"Don't let Gordon hear that!" Henry joked, letting off steam with a chuckle. I could already tell this was going to be... complicated. Gordon was the pride of the railway, and here I was—bigger, newer, and potentially more powerful. His pistons would *not* take that well.
"It's a please to meet you Rowan," Edward offered kindly, his old and warm voice smooth as polished brass. "Though I daresay you'll want to take those curves carefully—especially at and around Tidmouth." His brow-plates furrowed slightly in concern. "Some of our lines can scarcely handle Gordon, let alone a beast like you."
"Thank you Edward, I'll take that under advisement," I wheeshed carefully, feeling my long wheelbase protest as I shifted slightly on the rails. The platform groaned beneath my weight, and I caught Sir Topham Hatt glancing nervously at my outer driving wheels—they overhung the platform edge by a good six inches.
Henry rolled forward with a wide smile, "Still, imagine when Gordon gets back—his pistons will seize when he sees you fully!" His deep chuckle echoed through the station, "Now then Thomas, could you please fetch my train?" Henry asked politely if a bit conceitedly.
"Yes, yes, Henry—right away!" Thomas chirped, already rolling backward with a cheerful puff, his little wheels clicking eagerly over the points. His buffers twitched with barely-contained excitement.
Wait, Thomas was still the stationmaster, that means he doesn't have a branchline with Annie and Clarabel yet, I realised. My thoughts were interrupted as Edward rolled forward with a gentle clank of his buffers as he left, most likely to his branchline, "Hope you have a terrific time here Rowan," he wheeshed warmly, his kind blue eyes twinkling with genuine warmth.
Soon Thomas came back with Henry's train, puffing proudly as he shunted the troublesome trucks into place with surprising grace for such a small engine. Henry gave an approving whistle, his green paint gleaming as he buffered up—though he wrinkled his noseplate when one particularly cheeky truck gave a mocking clang.
"I'm off now, I'm off now!" He began to move away from the station, eager to be on his way, but not before one particularly cheeky truck gave a loud jeer as it rolled past me. "Oi, watch it, ya great lumbering beast!" it sneered, its rusty couplings clanking. My firebox flared indignantly—I hadn't even *done* anything yet!
Henry shot me an apologetic glance. "Pay them no mind," he wheeshed, his deep voice tinged with exasperation. "Troublesome trucks are *always* like that for some reason."
And then there was two.
Me and Thomas.
Thomas chuffed excitedly near me in tight puffs, his wheels clicking over the points with youthful energy. "What sort of work will you do, Rowan? Goods? Passengers? The Express? Oh that would show that bossy boiler Gordon" His whistle blew high and sharp with enthusiasm, his bright black eyes (as all engines had) shining with curiosity.
I hesitated—my long wheelbase wasn't suited for tight branch lines like Thomas' future route, and my sheer size would wreak havoc on some of the island's older tracks. "Probably heavy freight and occasional passenger work, if I had to guess" I wheeshed carefully, watching how my outer drivers barely cleared the platform edge. Thomas' eyes sparkled mischievously.
"Ooooh, wait till Gordon sees you pulling coaches—his valves will burst from jealousy!" His laughter echoed across the station as he went to organize the yard, leaving me alone with my thoughts as Sir Topham Hatt has to leave for other work.
I looked over at Knapford Yards, where there seemed to be a lot of troublesome trucks, and Thomas was left alone to do it all, with his driver and fireman working hard to get them in line. The trucks were jeering and laughing as they refused to budge—something about "not taking orders from a small engine." My boiler bubbled with indignation.
"Driver," I wheeshed cautiously, "could we help Thomas with those trucks?" My driver chuckled, wiping his brow. "You're a big 'un for shunting, Rowan, but let's give it a go—easy on the regulator now!"
My wheels groaned as I rolled forward, acutely aware of how my long wheelbase barely fit through the yard's tight points. I of course went slow so as not to come off the rails, but Thomas' eyes widened when he saw me approaching. "Rowan? What are you doing here?" he puffed, his driver waving gratefully from his cab. "Thought I'd lend a buffer," I wheeshed, trying to sound casual despite my nerves.
The trucks took one look at my massive frame and immediately started jeering louder. "Oooooh, big and scary!" one mocked, clanging its couplings. "Bet you can't shunt worth a piston-rod!"
I should have known better.
My first attempt to nudge the trucks into line sent three of them careening off the rails with a screech of protesting metal. My outer drivers lifted dangerously over the uneven trackbed, and my fireman had to grab the cab railing to keep from tumbling out. "Easy, Rowan!" my driver shouted, yanking my regulator shut. The trucks howled with laughter as they lay sprawled across the siding, while Thomas stared in horrified amazement.
Thomas was so surprised he forgot to puff for a full three seconds. "You—you tried to help me?" he finally managed, "Edward's the only engine on this island who helps me with trucks!" His wheels clicked excitedly against the rails. My fireman groaned as he rubbed his forehead. "Easy, Rowan," he muttered, "these old yards weren't built for engines like you." The trucks' laughter echoed across the junction as they lay scattered like fallen dominoes.
I might of been a bit lazy, but work was better than boredom, so I tried again—this time even slower, my long frame inching forward with agonizing precision. The trucks gasped as my buffers loomed over them, their jeers dying in their couplings. "N-no funny business now!" one stammered, wobbling nervously as my driver nudged them into line with feather-light puffs.
Thomas watched, his little wheels spinning so fast they kicked up gravel.