Hehe, trains

Meet Frank! It's short for "Frankenstein's Monster". It's definitely not his original name but he doesn't remember his old one (if he even had one), and it's a bit of a fitting name given his past. No one quite knows where Frank came from, not even Frank himself. He's a heavily modified 4-4-0 tender engine, whose build suggests he was originally built sometime in the early 1900s, but his mangled assortment of mis-matched parts makes it hard to know for sure. All Frank remembers is that he was once an engine on a Railway. Then he was put in a shed, and people came to take pieces away and put new ones on in a neverending cycle for what felt like decades. He was a bit of a "project" engine, if you will. One that never saw the light of day, as he was inevitably abandoned in his haphazard state before finally being found again many years later. Rendered without a true sense of identity (his old one now long gone after all that heavy modification), Frank is a anxious old fella but he's kind at heart. His memory is nothing like it used to be, and he's constantly struggling with his sense of identity and purpose. After all, a bright new paint job may make him look a little more cohesive from the outside, but on the inside he still feels terribly misshapen and almost wrong. And one of the things that haunts him the most is never knowing where any of his parts came from, or who they might've belonged to. But for the sake of his sanity, it's probably best he doesn't think too hard about it. ~~~ AAA I'm so excited to finally be able to share this guy!! <3 Him and his emotional support tank engine (or at least what's left of one... I'll share more on her another time ;P) have been so fun to work on and I already adore them sm. ;;; And I genuinely had so much fun drawing him here hehe! So I hope you guys can enjoy it too ^^ And as a thank you for sitting through all my loredumping, here's a bonus lil sketch of Frank too <3 Bc lookit him, I love my anxious old man train

Prayers were common in the scrap yards that dotted England’s rail system.

The engines, once Gods, now assuredly mortal, prayed often. 

Gone were the terrified prayers to them from those beneath them

Gone were the desperate pleas to their own bodies

Now it was the last entreaties of the condemned

please let me see tomorrow

please let someone buy me

please don’t take me

please don’t take her

please don’t take him

please take me instead

please don’t make it hurt

In one yard, somewhere in the middle of the country, a proud diesel sat. He was long, and filthy. His numbers were so obscured that only the first two could be made out: 45. His eyes still shone, as he looked about the yard, trying and failing to find something, anything that could aid in his escape. 

The sun slipped below the horizon, and, like most nights, he wondered if he’d ever see another sunrise. 

The dark fell quickly, and the yard around him fell silent as the workers ceased their daily mutilations. The moon was gone, and the only lights were around the small portakabin that served as the site office, leaving him in inky black darkness that was so total it was suffocating. 

How long later it was he didn’t know, but a noise drew his attention. A clanking noise, like an engine with a stuck bearing or untrued wheel, seemed to be rolling through the yard. His eyes had adjusted to the night’s darkness, but even then he could scarcely see anything, until a pair of bright red eyes opened just a few dozen feet from his face. 

He sat there, mouth agape, the breath stolen from him by shock, as the light from the eyes revealed huge strips of metal that could possibly be called teeth, arranged into a horrible, awful smile, set into the smokebox of a steam engine.

Hello, it screeched in a chorus of the damned. You’ve reached the end of the line, haven’t you?

The diesel couldn’t even muster forth a scream.

Scrap-man got your tongue? It asked, mockingly. I get that a lot. 

This is a nightmare, the diesel thought. 

Not quite. We haven’t even gotten started yet. The… monster(?) said, as though it had read his mind. 

The diesel choked, and sputtered. His tired and worn motor tried futilely to start, to turn over, to get him away from that, but nothing happened. 

You’re not getting away that easy. The ghastly horror in front of him rumbled. I’ve got all night.

“WHAT ARE YOU?!” The diesel finally found his voice, several octaves above where it should be. 

That caused the deformed smile to droop into an evil sneer. I’m fate. Or something like that. You’ve been a very naughty engine, haven’t you?

“How dare you!” The diesel retorted automatically, defending his honor like the vengeful God he once had been. 

The sneer curled into an irritated glower. Maybe this will jog your memory. 

Please just leave me here! I won’t tell no-one!

Did he really say that about me?

You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming into my yard and saying that!

I knew I could trust you, 116. 

Just you wait, diesel! One day this will be you!

You did this to us. 

Why are you doing this to me?

What did I ever do to you?

Stop. Please.

I thought we were friends...

All we ever wanted was to be useful!

Each voice that emerged from the horrifying face was different from the last. They all had a ring of familiarity to them, and a heavy weight of recognition began to build in his fuel tanks as he realized why the monster was saying those things, in those voices. “You speak for the steam engines.”

“No, 116” The monster said, with a voice that oozed familiarity and fuel oil in equal measures. The diesel realized that it was the voice of one of those hydraulic failures from ages ago. “I speak for all of the engines.”

It looked him in the eyes, and spoke with its own unsettling voice. And they said a lot about you. 

Still looking into his eyes, the monster’s red pupils suddenly flared to a blinding brightness. 

When his vision returned, the diesel was bathed in sunlight on a siding, somewhere far from the yard. 

‘Where am I?’ He wondered to himself, before the silence of the area was broken by the arrival of a small shunter. 

He tried to speak to the engine, to get any sort of information out of it, but it stared seemingly through him with distant, glassy eyes, before running around to the back, and buffering up to him. 

“Where are we going?” He asked.

The shunter didn’t answer, and merely began pushing. 

The rails quickly became older and rustier, the sleepers starting to rot and sag. Obviously some kind of industrial siding or spur line of some sort, but to where? Despite rolling through an industrial area of some kind, there was very little sound, other than tools and machinery in the near distance. 

Wait. 

Tools. 

“Where are we going?!”  He asked the shunter with manic intensity as they rolled through a level crossing and over a bridge.

“i’m sorry” was all the shunter said in return. 

They crossed the bridge, and in that moment, the diesel knew his life was to end. 

The scrap yard was piled high with engines, coaches, railcars, and everything in between. 

At the rear of the yard, a pile of locomotives - types two and four, including some of his own siblings -  was stacked three high, while cabs from others were piled in macabre heaps, their dead faces staring out at nothing, expressions fixed in terror, fear, and pain - their last moments.

Off to one side, a stone faced excavator was methodically tearing a coach to ribbons. 

Directly in front of him, a pair of frames, traction motors and wheelsets still attached, sat on the rails. 

The locomotives - his brothers - to whom they belonged were nowhere in sight. 

“i’m sorry” the little shunter whispered again, before retreating to a siding near a group of parked and shell-shocked looking-excavators. 

-

Prayers were common in Vic Berry’s slice of hell. 

oh god i’m going to die here please someone help me 

There was only one who could possibly hear. 

The big diesel sobbed as the monster reappeared in front of him. He did his level best to throw himself at the creature’s twisted buffers, begging for mercy, promising to change, hoping against hope that this was all some sort of twisted, Dickensian dream. 

The monster looked at him, wailing piteously. 

No. 

And vanished. 

The diesel looked where the monster had gone, and despaired. 

Then there was a noise. A sound of creaking metal and breaking glass. 

Voices rising from the scrap.  

All around him, the dead, the dying, and the soon to die were looking at him with forlorn gazes. Some had only one eye. Others had none. They still looked too, empty sockets fixing on him. 

Joooooiiiin uuuuussss They groaned as one. 

Jooooooiiinnn uuuuusss

Jooooiiinn ooouurr rrrraaannkksssss 

The horrible moan emerged from every mouth, even the decapitated cabs.

The diesel screamed. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed, until an group of dead-eyed excavators brought their claws down on him, again and again, cutting and tearing away until there was a third set of frames, traction motors and wheelsets sitting in a row. 

Prayers were common in the scrap yards that dotted England’s rail system.

The engines, once Gods, now assuredly mortal, prayed often. 

Gone were the terrified prayers to them from those beneath them

Gone were the desperate pleas to their own bodies

Now it was the last entreaties of the condemned

please let me see tomorrow

please let someone buy me

please don’t take me

please don’t take her

please don’t take him

please take me instead

please don’t make it hurt

In one yard, somewhere in the middle of the country, a proud diesel sat. He was long, and filthy. His numbers were so obscured that only the first two could be made out: 45. His eyes still shone, as he looked about the yard, trying and failing to find something, anything that could aid in his escape. 

The sun slipped below the horizon, and, like most nights, he wondered if he’d ever see another sunrise. 

The dark fell quickly, and the yard around him fell silent as the workers ceased their daily mutilations. The moon was gone, and the only lights were around the small portakabin that served as the site office, leaving him in inky black darkness that was so total it was suffocating. 

How long later it was he didn’t know, but a noise drew his attention. A clanking noise, like an engine with a stuck bearing or untrued wheel, seemed to be rolling through the yard. His eyes had adjusted to the night’s darkness, but even then he could scarcely see anything, until a pair of bright red eyes opened just a few dozen feet from his face. 

He sat there, mouth agape, the breath stolen from him by shock, as the light from the eyes revealed huge strips of metal that could possibly be called teeth, arranged into a horrible, awful smile, set into the smokebox of a steam engine.

Hello, it screeched in a chorus of the damned. You’ve reached the end of the line, haven’t you?

The diesel couldn’t even muster forth a scream.

Scrap-man got your tongue? It asked, mockingly. I get that a lot. 

This is a nightmare, the diesel thought. 

Not quite. We haven’t even gotten started yet. The… monster(?) said, as though it had read his mind. 

The diesel choked, and sputtered. His tired and worn motor tried futilely to start, to turn over, to get him away from that, but nothing happened. 

You’re not getting away that easy. The ghastly horror in front of him rumbled. I’ve got all night.

“WHAT ARE YOU?!” The diesel finally found his voice, several octaves above where it should be. 

That caused the deformed smile to droop into an evil sneer. I’m fate. Or something like that. You’ve been a very naughty engine, haven’t you?

“How dare you!” The diesel retorted automatically, defending his honor like the vengeful God he once had been. 

The sneer curled into an irritated glower. Maybe this will jog your memory. 

Please just leave me here! I won’t tell no-one!

Did he really say that about me?

You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming into my yard and saying that!

I knew I could trust you, 116. 

Just you wait, diesel! One day this will be you!

You did this to us. 

Why are you doing this to me?

What did I ever do to you?

Stop. Please.

I thought we were friends...

All we ever wanted was to be useful!

Each voice that emerged from the horrifying face was different from the last. They all had a ring of familiarity to them, and a heavy weight of recognition began to build in his fuel tanks as he realized why the monster was saying those things, in those voices. “You speak for the steam engines.”

“No, 116” The monster said, with a voice that oozed familiarity and fuel oil in equal measures. The diesel realized that it was the voice of one of those hydraulic failures from ages ago. “I speak for all of the engines.”

It looked him in the eyes, and spoke with its own unsettling voice. And they said a lot about you. 

Still looking into his eyes, the monster’s red pupils suddenly flared to a blinding brightness. 

When his vision returned, the diesel was bathed in sunlight on a siding, somewhere far from the yard. 

‘Where am I?’ He wondered to himself, before the silence of the area was broken by the arrival of a small shunter. 

He tried to speak to the engine, to get any sort of information out of it, but it stared seemingly through him with distant, glassy eyes, before running around to the back, and buffering up to him. 

“Where are we going?” He asked.

The shunter didn’t answer, and merely began pushing. 

The rails quickly became older and rustier, the sleepers starting to rot and sag. Obviously some kind of industrial siding or spur line of some sort, but to where? Despite rolling through an industrial area of some kind, there was very little sound, other than tools and machinery in the near distance. 

Wait. 

Tools. 

“Where are we going?!”  He asked the shunter with manic intensity as they rolled through a level crossing and over a bridge.

“i’m sorry” was all the shunter said in return. 

They crossed the bridge, and in that moment, the diesel knew his life was to end. 

The scrap yard was piled high with engines, coaches, railcars, and everything in between. 

At the rear of the yard, a pile of locomotives - types two and four, including some of his own siblings -  was stacked three high, while cabs from others were piled in macabre heaps, their dead faces staring out at nothing, expressions fixed in terror, fear, and pain - their last moments.

Off to one side, a stone faced excavator was methodically tearing a coach to ribbons. 

Directly in front of him, a pair of frames, traction motors and wheelsets still attached, sat on the rails. 

The locomotives - his brothers - to whom they belonged were nowhere in sight. 

“i’m sorry” the little shunter whispered again, before retreating to a siding near a group of parked and shell-shocked looking-excavators. 

-

Prayers were common in Vic Berry’s slice of hell. 

oh god i’m going to die here please someone help me 

There was only one who could possibly hear. 

The big diesel sobbed as the monster reappeared in front of him. He did his level best to throw himself at the creature’s twisted buffers, begging for mercy, promising to change, hoping against hope that this was all some sort of twisted, Dickensian dream. 

The monster looked at him, wailing piteously. 

No. 

And vanished. 

The diesel looked where the monster had gone, and despaired. 

Then there was a noise. A sound of creaking metal and breaking glass. 

Voices rising from the scrap.  

All around him, the dead, the dying, and the soon to die were looking at him with forlorn gazes. Some had only one eye. Others had none. They still looked too, empty sockets fixing on him. 

Joooooiiiin uuuuussss They groaned as one. 

Jooooooiiinnn uuuuusss

Jooooiiinn ooouurr rrrraaannkksssss 

The horrible moan emerged from every mouth, even the decapitated cabs.

The diesel screamed. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed, until an group of dead-eyed excavators brought their claws down on him, again and again, cutting and tearing away until there was a third set of frames, traction motors and wheelsets sitting in a row.