#Bell Scheduling System | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

clairewritesfanfics · 1 month ago

Text

Villain Creation System Chapter 3

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

CHAPTER 2: Tutorial Mission START Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

For a fake world, the chemistry lecture here was as dull as the real one’s.

After Mark disappeared to who knows where, you resumed life as a college student and went to class. Biochemistry, a fascinating subject, but the teacher had a voice that could put dragons to sleep. Compared to your philosophy professor, the man detailing the steps to the citric acid cycle spoke without a change in his inflection and was less “discussing” and “more reading from his powerpoint.”

It was a good thing you–this version of you–took up philosophy. The so-called “hard sciences” are fun, but being human means having limited time, and when buttloads of information is crammed into you without time for processing and then quizzed, the fun tends to diminish.

The bell rang.

“I will upload the modules for the next session by tonight, and don’t forget to answer the formative quiz for today’s lecture. Have a good day, everyone.”

You opened your planner. This was the last class for today, and there didn’t seem to be anything else written here, only this semester’s schedule.

Huh.

[Accurate to the real thing, I’d say.]

“If that is a jab at me then you’re wasting your breath, or whatever energy you use to talk.” You didn’t like social engagements. It would seem this version of you was the same. Good. At least you didn’t have to worry about making small talk with strangers. You had this body’s memories, but they were limited, imperfect.

“What should we do now?” You asked, walking out of the auditorium.

[That is up to the Host. ]

[Your will is my will.]

“Is that your way of telling me you’re not gonna help me?”

[ ˶ˆ꒳ˆ˵ ]

You rolled your eyes and opened your phone. The list of contacts you had were straightforward; parents, several family members, some old classmates and friends. Vague figures in the back of this brain’s memory. The system told you not to bother contacting any of them. [It would be pointless] was its reply when you inquired why.

You checked the apps. Facebook was a thing here but Twitter was replaced by “Z” and Youtube was “WeTV.” A lot of the creators “you” followed were news outlets.

You clicked a WeTV link to a livestream report of a monster attack in Australia, then another in Brazil, and one in the Philippines.

“Geez.” You were never going to complain about being bored again. “Those poor people.”

[Look on the bright side, Host, here the destruction of nations can be blamed on an external threat rather than the political leaders. In your reality, you humans have no one else to blame but yourselves.]

Spoken in a robotic voice with a cheery lilt. It seemed genuine in its attempt to comfort you, so you bit your tongue and continued scrolling.

Monsters, villains, more monsters, more villains. Hundreds of people injured, dozens dead.

Just then, a light bulb went off in your head. “I think I know what I’m supposed to do now.”

The dorm was too far so you went to the campus library. You found a vacant computer near the wall, far from prying eyes.

[Resorting to cyberstalking, I see.]

“Before I can make him snap, I need to figure out what makes him tick.”

Judging from his socials, Mark’s popular, not just as Invincible, but as Mark Grayson. He was on the debate team back in high school, played bass at a band called Indigo Muse, and, if the many, many, many posts about him were anything to go by, he was well-loved by the ladies.

When you couldn’t find any family pictures, you decided to study his superhero identity.

This world’s Invincible wore a black suit with blue accents. Most pictures of him were blurred, which was either on purpose or incredibly fortunate, because he didn’t wear a mask or cowl.

UNKNOWN SUPER SAVES BUS OF TEENS

NEW SUPERHERO RISES THE RANKS

INVINCIBLE HELPS OLD LADY DOWN THE STREET

Going by the news articles, he’s been a hero for a mere four months. “No wonder the corruption meter is mostly empty.” You’ve seen this play out before, not in Invincible , but in various coming of age stories. This Mark was a fledgling. His morals were still intact, but judging from that 3%, he’s starting to see that the world of superheroes isn’t squeaky clean.

You pushed down the pity in your chest and continued with your research.

From what you can tell, the professional supes were employed by the Global Defense Agency aka the GDA. The veteran heroes were known as the Guardians of the Globe, and there was the Teen Team, composed of younger heroes. Invincible wasn’t part of either. He assisted both groups in the past, usually to evacuate civilians.

No interviews, no press conferences.

He was surprisingly mysterious. With how much of a flirt he was, you thought for sure he would be the showboating type, but judging from the poorly recorded videos of him zooming around, he did his job quickly and left before news reporters could hound him.

There were only so many news articles and blog posts about him before you realized there was nothing else to study.

You opened your notebook and made a summary of everything you knew so far:

Womanizer

Doesn’t remember me from childhood

English major *shares same philosophy class

Bass player

Debuted as a hero four months ago

Not part of a team

Popular as civilian and hero

Home life?

You circled the last item on your list several times. Try as you might, Mark’s parents were mysteries to you. Omni-Man disappeared ten years ago and you had nothing on Debbie Grayson. Her son didn’t have her as a friend on Facebook and he had zero pictures of him and parents.

“Not even a hint?” You asked the system.

System: (づ_ど)

Giving up, you decide to switch topics and begin digitizing your lecture notes.

[You’re actually studying?]

“Not like I have anything better to do. I can’t exactly hack into the Pentagon’s database and my head hurts from all that research, and since someone refuses to be useful, I’m stuck on what to do now.”

[...]

The system fell quiet and let you be.

The minutes flew by as you typed.

“Excuse me.” A feminine voice whispered and your knee jerked against the table.

You gasped in pain, earning a few looks from the neighboring students.

“Sorry,” the snooper said.

[Ding. The character known as Amber Bennett has made contact.]

No kidding! Couldn’t you have warned me that she was here!?

[Host looked so deeply invested in studying that this system did not wish to disturb you.]

[Fufufu.]

Rubbing your knee, you met Amber’s apologetic eyes. “I didn’t mean to spook you, but uh, your typing’s… a little loud.”

Ah. That would explain the hard glares from some of the people here. “Sorry, I got too excited I guess. I’ll keep it down.”

“Thanks.” She glanced at your desk. “By the way, I can’t help but notice, you're in Professor Gonzales’ class, right?”

When she saw your brows crease in confusion, she added, “Biochemistry?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“We share the same class then, I’m Amber Bennett.”

“I know.”

She blinked, wide-eyed.

You quickly added, “You’re one of the scholarship students. I saw the university page congratulating you.”

“Yeah, um, about that…” She turned to your monitor. “Your notes are easy to follow. Especially compared to the professor’s powerpoint.”

“I try.”

She grabbed her shoulder. “This is gonna sound weird but are you available for tutoring?”

“Tutoring?”

There was a collective “shhh” from all directions and Amber ducked her head.

“See, I’ve been struggling with chemistry since the first day and I’ve never failed before, but–”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

You nodded.

She beamed. “That’s great! I think we’re already in the same group chat for the freshmen course but just in case–” She pulled out a pen and you pushed a blank page towards her. She scribbled her number.

“I’ll pay you, of course.”

“Sure, we can talk about details some other time.”

“I really appreciate this–”

You gave her your name and her smile brightened. “You’re a lifesaver! I should go now before the rest of the library decides to crucify us both.”

You raised your hand in goodbye and then picked up your notebook.

No, Amber, you’re the lifesaver here.

***

That evening, Amber asked to meet with you at the campus coffee shop.

The Coffee Mug, more colloquially known as The Mug, was three storeys high and looked far more interesting than any Starbucks you’ve been to. Cubist and art deco paintings lined the bare brick walls, contrasting the wood and iron furniture. Bossa nova jazz played from the ceiling speakers.

“I gotta hand it to the author, or whoever, whatever made this place, they know how to design a good-looking cafe.”

You almost didn’t mind that the person who asked for your help was already eight minutes late.

You were getting impatient, mostly because it was seven o’clock and you still haven’t had dinner. You had a black coffee to stave off the hunger pangs, but the scent of toasted savory pastries and the sight of cake called out to you like a siren.

[Just order, Host, don’t tell me you’re waiting for Amber so she could pay.]

“What do you take me for?” You harrumphed. “I’d love to, but it would be rude to start eating without her.”

[!!]

[Really? How so?]

You shrugged.

“But drinking is okay?”

“Yes.”

[You humans sure do like making things harder for yourselves.]

“Tell me about it.”

God, where the Hell is she?

As you started debating whether manners were truly necessary, your phone pinged. It was Amber.

Hey, are u at the cafe?

Im so sorry, my group meeting decided to have overtime.

I wired u some money, dinner’s on me. sorry again!

Well, damn. Guess God does listen.

Spirits lifted, you got up and practically skipped towards the menu. This place might’ve been called a coffee shop, it had a big menu not unlike a diner’s, and the food selection was listed with colorful chalk on giant blackboards hanging behind the counter.

You’ve been thinking about what to eat even while you were at the table. But even now you weren’t sure what to get. A sandwich and salad combo? The lasagna? Maybe something from their all-day breakfast?

[Ding.]

“I recommend their three-cheese omelette.”

You barely had to turn your head to find Mark’s chin hovering over your shoulder. Soft dark bangs tickled your cheek.

“Mark.”

“Gorgeous.” He winked and then approached the counter.

The girl handling the cashier noticed him and her surprise turned to coyness as she pushed back a pink strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. “Hey, Mark.” If this were a cartoon you’d imagine her eyes would be in the shape of hearts right now.

You couldn’t blame her. Looking around the floor, a mix of subtle and unsubtle staring were aimed at Mark. You understood. Six feet, jet black hair, strong biceps, a pretty waist that led to the most callipygous butt you’ve ever seen.

That being said, you’d rather not get into the habit of ogling at rear ends without permission, so you walked closer and stood beside him.

Mark leaned onto the counter, flashing a flirtatious smile. “Hey, Kelsey. Can I get my usual, for dine-in, and an om–”

“I’ll get the large grilled chicken salad with honey mustard and one medium choco mint frappe.”

Mark snorted, but didn’t say anything else as he handed her a few dollars.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t be like that, consider this my olive branch.”

“For what?”

“For cutting our date short and not walking you home.”

“First of all, that wasn’t a date, because if it was, then your standards need quality control. Secondly, it wasn’t like I needed to come home. I still had classes.”

Not wanting to third-wheel, Kelsey put Mark’s change on the small metal plate beside the register and hurried off to prepare the orders.

Without skipping a beat, Mark put the change in the tip box. “Then what is your ideal date?”

You tilted your head.

“You said my standards need to improve, but how do I know yours is any good?”

“I guess you don’t.” You crossed your arms.

His grin turned mischievous. “Let me guess, you want a fancy dinner? No, you don’t seem like the type who dresses up frequently. I know, is it this cafe? Are coffee shops your thing? Bookish girls like these kinds of places.”

You turned on your heels. “I’m ignoring you now.”

Folding his hands behind him, he trailed after you, remaining two steps behind, pretending like he couldn’t outpace you with those long legs of his.

“Wait, is that why you’re here? You’re waiting for a date?” He watched you take a seat. “That can’t be it though, who orders before their date?”

Refusing to look at him, you opened your phone as you expressed your gratitude, “Thank you for paying, now would you kindly get lost?”

[Host, what are you doing? This is the perfect time to seduce him.]

Yeah, not happening. I need to be five kinds of drunk before I even consider– “What are you doing?”

He slid into the seat across from yours. “Hey, I’m hungry too.”

“There are other tables, y’know.”

He cocked his eyebrow and you briefly scanned the room. Right. This was a university cafe. Dammit. He did pay for your food, and he wasn’t totally obnoxious to warrant a kick out.

With a sigh, you opted to just ignore him and kept refreshing your phone.

“So, are you going to study here?”

“...”

“The music’s pretty nice, if a little basic.”

“...”

“I can’t really stand music when I’m studying, or the sound of people talking. When I’m reading, I’m reading. When I’m listening to music, that’s all I’m going to do. I guess I’m not a multitasker, I like to think of myself as–”

You slammed twenty-five dollars on the table. “Please take this and leave.”

He put his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Nah.”

Ugh.

“What do you want from me?”

He flexed his arm and leaned his chin on the palm of his hand. “Tell me why else you’re here.”

“To eat dinner.”

“And?”

“To study.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You want me to leave, don’t you?”

“...I have an appointment.”

“Is the appointment romantic in nature?”

“Not even a little bit. It’s purely academic, and I’d like to keep it confidential, so could you–”

Kelsey arrived holding two trays. “One large grilled chicken salad with one medium choco mint frappe, and one freshly toasted cheese and sausage eggdesal[1] with a cup of black coffee.”

“Thanks, Kels, but you didn’t have to bring it here, I would’ve gotten it.” Mark said.

She giggled, “Nah, it’s the least I could do. It’s not everyday you stay here to eat.”

“Well, I still feel bad since the place is packed.”

“It’s my pleasure. We’re not super busy right now since most of the students here just buy one drink for their whole stay.”

“You’re a doll.”

“Enjoy your meal.” She smiled at both of you and returned to her station.

He took a sip of the coffee. “Sweet girl, that one. You know, she’s a physics major–”

“How do you do that?”

His lashes flickered over the rim of the cup.

“How can you… charm people so effortlessly?”

Foamy coffee squirted through his mouth and nose and onto his sandwich. Luckily for you, you reflexively pulled your plate back just in time.

You pulled out the pack of tissue you kept in your backpack and slid it towards him.

He patted his chest and coughed into the tissues.

You folded your hands over the table and waited patiently for him to regain his bearings. Once his coughing calmed down, you asked, “Well?”

“Wow. You…wow.”

“It’s a genuine question, I think I deserve a genuine answer.” If it weren’t for your unique circumstance, you would have folded like a cheap hooker if Mark Grayson approached you the way he did after the philosophy lecture. The rest of your brain would’ve had no chances in overriding your hypothalamus. Or your loins.

“I don’t know where to begin, I–”

“Mark?”

Amber was here.

“Wow,” he breathed, attention switching from Amber to you. “You really did have a meeting.”

She looked baffled but there was no trace of anger or anything. “Why’re you here, Mark? You hate eating here.”

“I was just about to leave.” He picked up his sandwich. “See ya, girls.” And with that, he departed, leaving you alone with Amber, who was–according to past posts–his ex-girlfriend.

Amber laid her bag on the now empty chair. “Sorry for being late, I didn’t expect us to take two hours deciding on how to divide a simple report on childhood obesity.”

“It’s okay, ‘cause of you I just found my second favorite place.” The first will always be your bedroom.

Amber twiddled with her fingers as you poured the honey mustard over the salad.

“Mark didn’t, I mean, he–”

“I didn’t tell him about the tutoring,” you reassured her. “I didn’t know if you wanted people to know, I just told him it was for school.”

“Really? Thank you! But that’s not what I was going to say.” She cleared her throat. “How do you know Mark?”

“We attend the same philosophy class.”

She looked everywhere except your gaze. “This probably isn’t any of my business, but you seem like a nice person so you should know that Mark doesn’t do the girlfriend thing.”

You used your fork to toss your salad. “I see.”

“Don’t get me wrong, he isn’t evil or anything. He’s a sweet guy, it’s just that, he isn’t boyfriend material.”

You nodded. “Thanks for telling me.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Good, good. Listen, if you do want to hook up with him, that’s totally your call, I just thought I should tell you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be too busy for a boyfriend, anyway. Thanks, I really do appreciate it.”

Mark Grayson? Please. Not even in a hundred lifetimes.

[ Ding. ]

You dropped your fork.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah… yeah, my hand slipped,” you muttered, trying not to gawk at the system’s holographic screen.

[Affection: 12%. Darkening: 3%.]

Glossary: [1] eggdesal: an egg sandwich that uses pandesal, a sweet and salty bread roll. It can be served plain with just the egg (either with scrambled or over easy), or with other fillings like bacon, sausages, and/or cheese.

@weponxwrites @ratkidcalledallie @qxuanii @lilacoaks

CHAPTER 4: Just Cut Their Red Thread of Fate Series Masterlist

MASTERLIST | request rules | ask box

180 notes · View notes

qwertyprophecy · 6 months ago

Text

Mortholme Post-Mortem

The Dark Queen of Mortholme has been out for two weeks, and I've just been given an excellent excuse to write some more about its creation by a lenghty anonymous ask.

Under the cut, hindsight on the year spent making Mortholme and answers to questions about game dev, grouped under the following topics:

Time spent on development Programming Obstacles Godot Animation Pixel art Environment assets Writing Completion Release

Regarding time spent on development

Nope, I’ve got no idea anymore how long I spent on Mortholme. It took a year but during that time I worked on like two other games and whatever else. And although I started with the art, I worked on all parts simultaneously to avoid getting bored. This is what I can say:

Art took a ridiculous amount of time, but that was by choice (or compulsion, one might say). I get very excitable and particular about it. At most I was making about one or two Hero animations in a day (for a total of 8 + upgraded versions), but anything involving the Queen took multiple times longer. When I made the excecutive decision that her final form was going to have a bazillion tentacles I gave up on scheduling altogether.

Coding went quickly at the start when I was knocking out a feature after another, until it became the ultimate slow-burn hurdle at the end. Testing, bugfixing, and playing Jenga with increasingly unwieldy code kept oozing from one week to the next. For months, probably? My memory’s shot but I have a mark on my calendar on the 18th of August that says “Mortholme done”. Must’ve been some optimistic deadline before the ooze.

Writing happened in extremely productive week-long bursts followed by nothing but nitpicky editing while I focused on other stuff. Winner in the “changed most often” category, for sure.

Sound was straightforward, after finishing a new set of animations I spent a day or two to record and edit SFX for them. Music I originally scheduled two weeks for, but hubris and desire for more variants bumped it to like a month.

Regarding programming

The Hero AI is certainly the part that I spent most of my coding time on. The basic way the guaranteed dodging works is that all the Queen’s attacks send a signal to the Hero, who calculates a “danger zone” based on the type of attack and the Queen’s location. Then, if the Hero is able to dodge that particular attack (a probability based on how much it's been used & story progression), they run a function to dodge it.

Each attack has its own algorithm that produces the best safe target position to go to based on the Hero’s current position (and other necessary actions like jumping). Those algorithms needed a whole lot of testing to code counters for all the scenarios that might trip the Hero up.

The easiest or at least most fun parts for me to code are the extra bells and whistles that aren’t critical but add flair. Like in the Hero’s case, the little touches that make them seem more human: a reaction speed delay that increases over time, random motions and overcompensation that decrease as they gain focus, late-game Hero taking prioritising aggressive positiniong, a “wait for last second” function that lets the Hero calculate how long it’ll take them to move to safety and use the information to squeeze an extra attack in…

The hardest attack was the magic circle, as it introduced a problem in my code so far. The second flare can overlap with other attacks, meaning the Hero had to keep track of two danger zones at once. For a brief time I wanted to create a whole new system that would constantly update a map of all current danger zones—that would allow for any number of overlapping attacks, which would be really cool! Unfortunately it didn’t gel with my existing code, and I couldn’t figure out its multitudes of problems since, well…

Regarding obstacles

Thing is, I’m hot garbage as a programmer. My game dev’s all self-taught nonsense. So after a week of failing to get this cool system to work, I scrapped it and instead made a spaghetti code monstrosity that made magic circle run on a separate danger zone, and decided I’d make no more overlapping attacks. That’s easy; I just had to buffer the timing of the animation locks so that the Hero would always have time to move away. (I still wanted to keep the magic circle, since it’s fun for the player to try and trick the Hero with it.)

There’s my least pretty yet practical solo dev advice: if you get stuck because you can’t do something, you can certainly try to learn how to do it, but occasionally the only way to finish a project within a decade to work around those parts and let them be a bit crap.

I’m happy to use design trickery, writing and art to cover for my coding skills. Like, despite the anonymous asker’s description, the Hero’s dodging is actually far from perfect. I knew there was no way it was ever going to be, which is why I wrote special dialogue to account for a player finding an exploit that breaks the intended gameplay. (And indeed, when the game was launched, someone immediately found it!)

Regarding Godot

It’s lovely! I switched from Unity years ago and it’s so much simpler and more considerate of 2D games. The way its node system emphasises modularity has improved my coding a lot.

New users should be aware that a lot of tutorials and advice you find online may be for Godot 3. If something doesn’t work, search for what the Godot 4 equivalent is.

Regarding animation

I’m a professional animator, so my list of tips and techniques is a tad long… I’ll just give a few resource recommendations: read up on the classic 12 principles of animation (or the The Illusion of Life, if you’d like the whole book) and test each out for yourself. Not every animation needs all of these principles, but basically every time you’ll be looking at an animation and wondering how to make it better, the answer will be in paying attention to one or more of them.

Game animation is its own beast, and different genres have their own needs. I’d recommend studying animations that do what you’d like to do, frame by frame. If you’re unsure of how exactly to analyse animation for its techniques, youtube channel New Frame Plus shows an excellent example.

Oh, and film yourself some references! The Queen demanded so much pretend mace swinging that it broke my hoover.

Regarding pixel art

The pixel art style was picked for two reasons: 1. to evoke a retro game feel to emphasise the meta nature of the narrative, and 2. because it’s faster and more forgiving to animate in than any of my other options.

At the very start I was into the idea of doing a painterly style—Hollow Knight was my first soulslike—but quickly realised that I’d either have to spend hundreds of hours animating the characters, or design them in a simplistic way that I deemed too cutesy for this particular game. (Hollow Knight style, one day I’d love to emulate you…)

I don’t use a dedicated program, just Photoshop for everything like a chump. Pixel art doesn’t need anything fancy, although I’m sure specialist programs will keep it nice and simple.

Pixel art’s funny; its limitations make it dependent on symbolism, shortcuts and viewer interpretation. You could search for some tutorials on basic principles (like avoiding “jaggies” or the importance of contrast), but ultimately you’ll simply want to get a start in it to find your own confidence in it. I began dabbling years ago by asking for character requests on Tumblr and doodling them in pixels in whatever way I could think of.

Regarding environment assets

The Queen’s throne room consists of two main sprites—one background and one separate bit of the door for the Hero disappear behind—and then about fifty more for the lighting setup. There’s six different candle animations, there’s lines on the floor that need to go on top of character reflections, all the candle circles and lit objects are separated so that the candles can be extinguished asynchronously; and then there’s purple phase 2 versions of all of the above.

This is all rather dumb. There’s simpler ways in Godot to do 2D lighting with shaders and a built-in system (I use those too), but I wanted control over the exact colours so I just drew everything in Photoshop the way I wanted it. Still, it highlights how mostly you only need a single background asset and separated foreground objects; except if you need animated objects or stuff that needs to change while the game’s running, you’ll get a whole bunch more.

I wholeheartedly applaud having a go at making your own game art, even if you don’t have any art background! The potential for cohesion in all aspects of design—art, game, narrative, sound—is at the heart of why video games are such an exciting medium!

Regarding writing

Finding the voices of the Queen and the Hero was the quick part of the process. They figured that out they are almost as soon as writing started. I’d been mulling this game over in my mind for so long, I had already a specific idea in mind of what the two of them stood for, conceptually and thematically. When they started bantering, I felt like all I really had to do was to guide it along the storyline, and then polish.

What ended up taking so long was that there was too much for them to say for how short the game needed to be to not feel overstretched. Since I’d decided to go with two dialogue options on my linear story, it at least gave me twice the amount of dialogue that I got to write, but it wasn’t enough!

The first large-scale rewrite was me going over the first draft and squeezing in more interesting things for the Queen and the Hero to discuss, more branching paths and booleans. There was this whole thing where the player’s their dialogue choices over multiple conversations would lead them to about four alternate interpretations of why the Queen is the way she is. This was around the time I happened to finally play Disco Elysium, so of course I also decided to also add a ton of microreactivity (ie. small changes in dialogue that acknowledge earlier player choices) to cram in even more alternate dialogue. I spent ages tinkering with the exact nuances till I was real proud of it.

Right until the playtesters of this convoluted contraption found the story to be unclear and confusing. For some reason. So for my final rewrite, I picked out my favourite bits and cut everything else. With the extra branching gone, there was more room to improve the pacing so the core of the story could breathe. The microreactivity got to stay, at least!

A sample of old dialogue from the overcomplicated version:

Regarding completion

The question was “what kept me going to actually finish the game, since that is a point many games never even get to meet?” and it’s a great one because I forgot that’s a thing. Difficulties finishing projects, that is—I used to think it was hard, but not for many years. Maybe I’ve completed so many small-scale games already that it hardly seems that unreasonable of an expectation? (Game jams. You should do game jams.)

I honestly never had any doubt I was going to finish Mortholme. When I started in late autumn last year, I was honestly expecting the concept to be too clunky to properly function; but I wished to indulge in silliness and make it exist anyways. That vision would’ve been easy to finish, a month or two of low stakes messing around, no biggie. (Like a game jam!)

Those months ran out quickly as I had too much fun making the art to stop. It must’ve been around the time I made this recording that it occurred to me that even if the game was going to be clunky, it could still genuinely work on the back of good enough storytelling technique—not just writing, but also the animation and the Hero’s evolving behaviour during the gameplay segments which I’d been worried about. The reaction to my early blogging was also heartening. Other people could also imagine how this narrative could be interesting!

A few weeks after that I started planning out the narrative beats I wanted the dialogue to reach, and came to the conclusion that I really, really wanted it to work. Other people had to see this shit, I thought. There’s got to be freaks out there who’d love to experience this tragedy, and I’m eager to deliver.

That’s why I was fine with the project’s timeline stretching out. If attention to detail and artistry was going to make this weird little story actually come to life, then great, because that’s exactly the part of development I love doing most. Projects taking longer than expected can be frustrating, but accepting that as a common part of game dev is what allows confidence in eventual their completion regardless.

Regarding release

Dear anonymous’s questions didn’t involve post-release concerns, but it seems fitting to wrap up the post-mortem by talking about the two things about Mortholme's launch that were firsts for me, and thus I was unprepared for.

1. This was the first action game I've coded. Well, sort of—I consider Mortholme to be a story first and foremost, with gameplay so purposefully obnoxious it benefits from not being thought of as a “normal” game. Still, the action elements are there. For someone who usually sticks to making puzzle games since they’re easier to code, this was my most mechanically fragile game yet. So despite all my attempts at playtesting and failsafes, it had a whole bunch of bugs on release.

Game-breaking bugs, really obvious bugs, weird and confusing bugs. It took me over a week to fix all that was reported (and I’m only hoping they indeed are fully fixed). That feels slow; I should’ve expected it was going to break so I could’ve been faster to respond. Ah well, next time I know what I’ll be booking my post-release week for.

2. This was my first game that I let players give me money for. Sure, it’s pay-what-you-want, but for someone as allergic to business decisions as I am, it was a big step. I guess I was worried of being shown that nobody would consider my art worth financial compensation. Well, uh, that fear has gone out of the window now. I’m blown away by how kind and generous the players of Mortholme have been with their donations.

I can’t imagine it's likely to earn a living wage from pouring hundreds of hours into pay-what-you-want passion projects, but the support has me heartened to seek out a future where I could make these weird stories and a living both.

Those were the unexpected parts. The part I must admit I was expecting—but still infinitely grateful for—was that Mortholme did in fact reach them freaks who’d find it interesting. The responses, comments, analyses, fan works (there’s fic and art!! the dream!!), inspiration, and questions (like the ones prompting me to write this post-mortem) people have shared with me thanks to Mortholme… They’ve all truly been what I was hoping for back when I first gave myself emotions thinking about a mean megalomaniac and stubborn dipshit.

Thank you for reading, thank you for playing, and thank you for being around.

#so that got a bit verbose. you simply cannot give me this many salient questions and expect me otherwise tbh #the dark queen of mortholme #indie dev #game dev #dev log

200 notes · View notes

moonsaver · 1 year ago

Text

Yan!Alhaitham wears you to work.

It was easy. Finding your shampoo, soaps, scents.. practically any daily use items that you usually bought from the bazaar. He stalks you almost casually – nodding at you familiarly when you do spot him, as if seeing him for the 5th time in the same day wasn't creepy. You seem uncomfortable, but don't bother confronting him about it. Mainly either due to the fact you don't want a confrontation, or you simply aren't sure if he's stalking you in the first place.

In the shower, your scent fills the entire bathroom. He considers any free time now dedicated to thinking about you. The fabrics you wore yesterday seemed to have a few loose threads. According to the bottle of perfume he bought at the same time as yours, yours is running out. A visit to the old lady tucked away in the corner of the bustling street is probably on your weekly schedule, now. The scent of your soap clings to his skin comfortably, emanating gently in a still space. If he stood for long enough, your acquaintances might actually realise they're smelling you on him. Whether or not it's a good thing.. who knows. He doesn't care.

The tap stops, and he steps out. The droplets of water follow his feet as he walks. Your towel – or rather, a duplicate he bought. Your scented oils. Your hand cream. Your preferred ink, pens, even the bookmark you'd recently bought. All of them are assorted neatly into his drawer. All duplicates, of course. His diligent hand picks up the perfume bottle, the liquid ebbing on the glass surface as he tilts it in the sunlight. Your birthday's coming up soon. He's also recently caught wind of your favorite flowers – this time by accident. His prickly ears manage to pick up the particularly interesting conversation you had approximately 16 days ago, when you mentioned the recent Sumeru Rose body lotion you'd just bought. Although, he's not blind. He's observed the twitching of your hands towards the Lumidouce Bell scented bottle that was recently imported. You had to draw your hand back by force due to the price. Your birthday's coming up. He managed to get a look at the price after you left dejectedly with the one you were talking about.

His fingers press and spritz the perfume over his clothes. The fabric must have practically shaped themselves to the drops of the perfume from how often he's sprayed it in the same place, but now his closet smells like you. Perfumes last longer than lotion, he thinks. He should just get you a different perfume, instead. The merchant sold Lumidouce perfumes, too. Your birthday's coming up. The fact repeats in his mind. Should he get you a card? No, that's not enough. He saw you recently pick up a romance book. Unfortunately for you, it's a series, and the last he's heard about it – is it has deadly cliffhangers. He'll probably gift you the next volume.

He feels a slight tug of a smile on the corner of his lips, his fingers sliding over the vast collection of books, landing on the stiff spine of a book. He's already bought it in advance. Should he sneak in a small card in there? That would be better. If he remembers correctly (which he always does); you should have half the day off on your birthday, and you plan on spending it with your friends and family. He'll give it to you before you clock out. Maybe, he thinks, if his words sift through well enough, he'll manage to squeeze himself into your guest list. So, for the time being, he thinks up certain conversation topics for today, and the next day, and so on until your birthday. By rough estimates, you'll be familiar enough with him to invite him just shy of a day or two before. The door of his room clicks as he leaves.

The Akasha had not much use to Alhaitham until he realized the significant potential it had after that Cyno-prediction system those sages crafted up. He manages to tinker in his own study enough to make a special version of you. And so far, it's 100% accurate. He can already visualise you on your way to work, and the conversation he has in mind. Your responses are crafted skillfully by the device in his head, before you even think about uttering them.

463 notes · View notes

joezworld · 25 days ago

Text

Express Engines

This one is very long, and has Formatting.™ Be aware of that.

The next week

“Oh, that reminds me,” Gordon said one night. “Samarkand, I have been meaning to commend you on your performance with the Northern Belle last week. Three minutes ahead of schedule, with a full train of Pullman coaches? Well done.”

Sam blushed, while James’s brows furrowed. “Three minutes? Her? She’s got wheels the size of pie tins!”

“And look at how well she does with them!” Caerphilly exclaimed from the other side of the shed. “If we had ten more of her the rest of us could sleep until noon.”

Sam’s blush deepend. “Guys…”

“James,” Gordon said in a faux-whisper. “You are aware that you and Samarkand have identically-sized wheels, correct?”

Aghast spluttering met this, and was ignored with some bemusement.

“I say,” Caerphilly raised an eyebrow. “How fast did you get, Sam?”

Sam now resembled a tomato, but a pleased expression worked its way across her smokebox. “Faster than I’ve ever been before, is all I’ll say.”

“Oh that’s hardly scientific, don’t you think?” Caerphilly was all smiles, but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes that Gordon and Sam both caught. (James remained clueless) “Don’t you want to know?”

“Know what?” The conversation was interrupted by Delta rumbling into the shed. “And what’s with him?” She asked as the turntable swung past James.

“... My wheels are not small!” James squeaked, red in the face and thoroughly humiliated.

“Well they’re bigger than mine, so you’ve got that going for you. Who said they were small?”

“... I-I did.”

“What? Jamie… how?”

----

The discussion waned for a while, as the other engines returned to the shed, but eventually it started back up again.

For the engines on one side of the shed, it was a perfectly normal conversation about the high-speed capabilities of themselves and the other engines.

For the engines on the other side of the shed, it was a terrifying and mind-bending experience as Gordon and Caerphilly continued to claim that the other was the better express engine.

“And you’re sure?” Delta whispered to Bear as the clock swung past 11.

“I’m not sure of anything. Am I even here? Am I real? Is this actually happening? Maybe I’m dead and this is all a test to decide if I go to heaven or not.”

“Oh don’t be dramatic.” Henry rolled his eyes, having been trying (and failing) to sleep for some time.

“Samarkand, I think you’re underselling yourself.” Gordon lectured across the room, voice echoing through the rafters. “With a minimal amount of instruction, you could substitute for Caerphilly and I with no issues.”

“Oh, without question.” Caerphilly chimed in. “And before you try and downplay that idea - just remember that this is not a two-way system. I doubt that either of us could do your work as well as you can. It’s a rare gift you have, being a jack of all trades.”

“You know Caerphilly,” Gordon pondered. “If you are that dead-set on evidence and data, we may have to take a goods turn or two, in order to see how our performance differs.”

Sam laughed out loud at that, and when the two protested, she started explaining exactly what they’d be in for.

“Maybe we’re all dead.” Henry whispered. “Have we considered that? Maybe we all were killed in a tragic accident, and none of this is actually happening.”

---

The clock ticked past Midnight.

“Didn’t Pendennis melt his firebars once? I seem to recall that anecdote floating around.”

“Oh yes, Scotsman told me all about it, once he returned from Australia. You weren’t there of course, but in those last years everyone’s state of repair was poor at best. I’m sure that with modern metallurgy there would be no issues.”

-------

1 in the morning came and went. Delta stopped being able to understand them, words blurring together into a mush of syllables.

“Well, I had thought that it was King’s Cross, but then they sent me to St. Pancras! And goodness me there’s more of them still! Euston, Waterloo, Marylebone, Fenchurch Street…”

“And here I thought Paddington was enough. How many are there now?”

“Oh my, they’ve added so many commuter lines now - or so Pip and Emma tell me. I think there’s 17 or 20!”

----

At half past one, Henry’s eye started twitching again. Bear was asleep, but muttering something about Cannon Street station in between snores.

“Speaking of Pip and Emma, I feel like they could shave a few minutes off their current timings, but at the cost of running afoul of the Limited, among other trains. Heh. As loath as I am to admit it, the express doesn’t run in a vacuum, and extra space in the pathings can work wonders for unnecessary delays.”

“You don’t think that it would be a better point to simply improve the on-time percentages of the other trains on the network?”

“Hah, wait until you take an all-stops service during the summer bank holidays. I swear the passengers will coordinate ways to delay you.”

“It was never that bad on the Great Western…”

“The Great Western was a service. We are an attraction, and the passengers act accordingly.”

---------

The two distant rings of a church bell bounced around James’s smokebox.

“You don’t think the old loco tests matter?”

“I think it’s a matter of mechanical fitness. I’ve been built and rebuilt by Crewe and Crovan’s Gate so many times that I may as well be an entirely different engine. We all are, except you - the one thing that museum did do is preserve you exactly as you had been after your last rebuild. It wouldn’t be so much a test of North Eastern versus Great Western as it would be of Crovan's Gate versus Swindon.”

“When did Crewe rebuild you?”

“Oh, Samarkand, did we wake you? I’m sorry.”

“Nah, I was only dozing, it’s fine.”

“Ah, well, I was rebuilt just before the second world war - what a boon that was for us. Sir Topham was close friends with Mr. Stanier from the LMS, and after he saw the work they did to Henry, he sent me over as well. Of course, I didn’t enjoy the process, being younger and even more prideful, but in hindsight it has served me well.”

“So hang on, wasn’t Stanier at the Great Western before?”

“He was. He was in charge of Swindon works when they built me. As a matter of fact, he was one of the first faces I ever saw.”

“So, he built you, then he re-built you, and then he taught Mr. Riddles everything he knew, and that led to… me.”

“It seems that greatness has a very distinct path through the railway system.”

“That’s a strong word for it.”

“Well, what would you call it?”

“I couldn’t say. Good engineering? Longevity?”

“Immortality?”

“Now that is a strong word for it indeed…”

----------

Two Thirty. Henry was losing his mind.

“I feel like it may come down to train composition. Any engine can make a speed record attempt with three coaches. It takes a real powerhouse to do so with six.”

“Route knowledge may also be required - after all, going fast on a downhill straight is something that anyone can do.”

“Well isn’t that sort of the-”

“OH FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” Henry finally snapped. “You’ve been going on about this for almost five hours! I want to go to sleep! If you don’t know which one of you is faster then organize a time trial or something, but do it in the morning so I can go to bed!”

There was a period of shocked silence that lasted for a few minutes, just long enough for Henry’s eyes to slam shut. The rest of the engines followed suit soon after, and the sound of snoring filled the air.

Gordon looked contemplative. “You know, a time trial might just work.”

“It could, but on what? The express and the limited change in length on a daily basis.”

“Have either of you taken the Boat Train recently..?”

---------------------

Part two: The Boat Train

The Island of Sodor was not only connected to the outside world by rail; befitting its status as an Island, Sodor was served by a plethora of ferry services, with sailings to locales as near as Barrow-In-Furness, and as far as France and Spain. The three largest ferry companies serving the island were P&O Stena Line, Irish Ferries, and the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company. The 1990s had been a very turbulent time for the ferry industry in Britain and Ireland as a whole, and ferry lines of varying sizes had been purchased and incorporated into the bigger companies. Many of these, like Sealink, B&I Line, European Ferries, and several smaller operators, had served Sodor through ferry terminals at Tidmouth, and their new owners soon found themselves having double or triple the amount of facilities they needed - even worse, not any one terminal was big enough to handle all of the consolidated traffic. As the 1990s wore on, and the new millennium dawned, competition from both the North Western Railway and the airport at Dryaw meant that the ferry companies had to move quickly.

For some, this wasn’t an issue. Irish Ferries had bought B&I, and their terminals were next door, meaning that it took very little construction to combine the two facilities. Similarly, the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company hadn’t bought anyone, and their cozy but still usable terminal on Tidmouth’s waterfront remained unchanged.

However, P&O Stena was not as lucky. Created as a joint venture of the two largest ferry companies on the Dover-Calais route, both of whom had fallen on hard times after the opening of the Channel Tunnel, it was a massive tangle of international and domestic ferry services operating under five different brand names. Formed just three years ago in 1998, the union was troubled from the start, and there were already rumblings of yet another name change; supposedly P&O wanted to buy out Stena Lines and then rename everything so as to simplify its corporate structure.

On Sodor, simplifying things was rather complicated. To start, Stena Line had previously bought most of SeaLink - the ferry division of British Rail - and so served four ex-BR routes from Wales and Ireland to the island, none of which terminated in Tidmouth:

Knapford-Dublin (Ireland)

Knapford-Belfast (N. Ireland)

Knapford-Fishguard (Wales)

Kirk Ronan-Holyhead (Wales)

Additionally, Stena Line had its own services from before it bought Sealink, which all left from Tidmouth:

Tidmouth-Cairnryan (Scotland)

Tidmouth-Cherbourg (France)

Tidmouth-Santander (Spain)

Then, on top of all of this, P&O had its own set of pre-merger services, which left mostly from Tidmouth:

Tidmouth-Troon (Scotland)

Tidmouth-Holyhead (Wales)

Tidmouth-Belfast (N. Ireland)

Tidmouth-Dublin (Ireland)

Kirk Ronan-Larne (N. Ireland)

Kirk Ronan-Fishguard (Wales)

As one might be able to tell, this web of ferry services was complex and resource intensive. Unlike Irish Ferries/B&I, the P&O and Stena terminals were nowhere near each other in Tidmouth, and even if they had been, Stena’s ex-Sealink facilities had been built cheaply in the 1970s, and were falling apart at the seams. Furthermore, having half the Stena routes in Knapford was undesirable, as P&O wanted to issue connecting tickets, allowing Scottish and Irish travelers a more direct route to France and Spain. If a new terminal was to be built, it would have to involve either the construction of an entire new ferry port, or the total closure and reconstruction of one of the existing ones. Surprisingly, P&O Stena was more than willing to spend money on an entirely new terminal if it meant everything going smoothly, but with the expansion of Tidmouth Docks well underway, no such space was available. They would have to build a new “super terminal” on the spot of one of the existing terminals, big enough to hold all the passengers for all the Tidmouth/Knapford routes under one roof.

More problems followed. The Stena Terminal was huge, but falling to bits, while the P&O terminal was scarcely big enough for the routes it already had, and was hemmed in on all sides by new industrial developments surrounding the harbour. Worse still, the extra space in Stena’s Knapford terminal was being rented by cruise ship companies, and the local council had made it very clear that this lucrative source of local income was not to be meddled with. It was therefore decided that the Stena terminal at Tidmouth would be demolished, and the new Super Terminal built in its place.

The complication then became how they would fit all of the Stena traffic into the waterfront shoebox that was the P&O terminal.

The short answer was that they didn’t.

The long answer was that the North Western Railway made a lot of money off of P&O Stena between 2000 and 2002.

The even longer answer was that while there were significant space constraints at Tidmouth, no such thing existed at the ex-Sealink Terminal in Kirk Ronan. Sealink had purposely overbuilt the place in the late 1970s, assuming that the aborted M590 motorway project would bring a six-lane superhighway right to Sodor’s eastern coast, and allow for a much smoother connection to the Irish ferry services. Of course, that never happened, and the only ferries that serve the massive facility are small ones that primarily benefit Sodor’s eastern communities.

But, in 2000, P&O Stena had an idea. They would re-route most of the Stena sailings to Kirk Ronan, and offer connection tickets to Ireland and Scotland from that point. However, due to ticketing agreements between Stena and The Isle of Man Steam Packet Company, along with some passenger’s rather fervent desire to go to the biggest city on Sodor instead of a sleepy fishing town where seagulls outnumbered people 4 to 1, there would be a connection service between the two ports using the North Western Railway.

Each morning, a seven-car train would leave Tidmouth Docks after the inbound Irish and Scottish ferries had docked, and run as an express to Kirk Ronan station, before continuing to the coach yards in Barrow as an empty stock working. Later in the day a different engine would then collect the empty coaches from Barrow, and return the train under a similar express working, now carrying passengers from the Spanish, French, and Welsh ferries.

Known on timetables as “The Kirk Ronan Boat Train”, and on advertising material as “THE P&O STENA EXPLORER”, it was technically a charter train, and stayed at the same fixed length and timing every day for the duration of the service, as P&O Stena’s internal research showed that this would be well-suited for “all but the worst-case scenarios.”

What this fixed-length, identically timed, charter train was also well suited for… was a time trial.

----

It took surprisingly little effort to convince the Fat Controller to allow this - since nobody was attempting to break a record (or act unsafely while attempting to break a record), he felt it would be little different from the normal runs, except for the inclusion of very precise timing and speed measurement equipment in the baggage compartment of the lead coach. In order for everything to be done exactly the same, the down-bound service from Kirk Ronan to Tidmouth Docks would be the only one used for the trial.

The engines were fairly excited for this - Sam was chomping at the bit for her turn, James was trying very hard (and failing) to pretend like he wasn’t interested, Delta outright said that she wanted a go, and Caerphilly was ecstatic that this was proceeding without any major fuss.

Gordon and Henry were the sole outliers - Henry thought this was idiotic, and wanted no part of it, while Gordon was mercurial about his actual feelings on the subject, saying little but being supportive of everyone.

James attempted to needle Gordon about being “worried that he’d lose his title,” and the subsequent dressing-down could have stripped the paint off a wall. Those with more than a single brain cell bouncing around their smokebox like an errant bumblebee took it to mean that Gordon was, if nothing else, willing to be a gracious loser no matter how unlikely the chances may be.

----

A few days later

The timing equipment was placed inside the baggage coach and calibrated just in time for the Thursday run of the Boat Train.

First to be rostered on the “time trial” trains was Henry, and once he remembered that this was technically his idea, he went from “annoyed” to “incensed.” “I don’t want to do this!” he complained to Caerphilly, as he collected the empty coaches from the yard in Barrow. “This is entirely for your benefit, not mine!”

“Oh, but that’s the thing!” The science museum had really rubbed off on Caerphilly. “You’re the control subject!”

“Control subject? What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re the marker that we measure against. An unmotivated subject, acting without any-”

“UNMOTIVATED?!”

“Not like that!”

But it was too late.

“Unmotivated! Is that what this is about? I’m not some layabout! Is that what you think of me?! Just you wait and see, Castle! I’ll put you and Gordon into the dirt!”

And Henry stormed away, “I’ll show them! I’ll show them!” trailing in his wake.

“... that is not at all what I meant.” Caerphilly said lamely as the coaches vanished over the bridge. “Well, there goes our control sample.”

-------

Maron Station

🎼 Raucous guitar solo 🎼

Gordon was not enjoying the stopping train duties today. The passengers seemed to be conspiring with each other today, and there was a massive group of foolish tourists standing on the platform, attempting to make sure that nobody was left on the train.

🎼 Like the last of the good ol' puffer trains 🎼

“I swear, if they do not know how to disembark from a train at the correct station, they deserve to be sent to Barrow.” The big engine grumbled, but didn’t urge the guard to hurry the process up - he knew from experience this would do the opposite.

🎼I'm the last of the soot and scum brigade🎼

The only positive to this situation was that the station’s tannoy system was playing Radio 2. Fortunately it wasn’t any of that modern nonsense with the young men singing in harmony, and while Gordon wasn’t entirely fond of groups like the Kinks, this song was perhaps best viewed as a guilty pleasure.

🎼And all this peaceful living is drivin' me insane 🎼

As the song entered the last few lines, a whistle sounded in the distance, and Henry came into view. His face was red, his cloud of steam was laid flat against his boiler, and he rocked from side to side under force of his own connecting rods.

With seven coaches behind him, he roared through the station at what seemed to be just under the speed of sound, whistling like a banshee as he went.

🎼 I'm the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains 🎼

And then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he’d gone. The song hadn’t even ended, and the marker lamps were already disappearing into the distance. All that was left of its passage was a few windblown newspapers flying off the platform.

“What was that?” Yelped Gordon’s driver.

“That,” Gordon remarked. “Is Caerphilly not getting her control sample for the time trial.”

🎼 I'm the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains… 🎼

---

The timetable put the boat train’s run at 1 hour and 2 minutes. Due to traffic on the Kirk Ronan branch line, Kellsthorpe Road station, and the junction leading to the harbour, the time trials only covered the section of the route on the main line - that is, from the junction at Kellsthorpe Road station to the tunnel between Tidmouth and Knapford. This portion of the journey was timetabled at 41 minutes, and Gordon and Caerphilly thought that it would be possible to shave up to five minutes off that time while still obeying the speed limits.

Henry’s run was actually over the timetable, at 1 hour and 5 minutes. However, this was due to meeting another train on the Kirk Ronan branch, and his time between Kellsthorpe and Knapford was a much more impressive 38 minutes. The train recorded an average speed of 83 miles an hour down the main line, and the top speed was recorded near Cronk station - a whopping 101.34 miles per hour.

“And you thought this was idiotic…” Gordon teased that night in the sheds, as the other engines raised a fuss.

“I still think it’s idiotic.” Henry said with a hidden smile. “I just happen to be an idiot.”

------------------

Henry’s run sent shockwaves up and down the main line. Aside from scientific-minded passengers with stopwatches (and the odd railway inspector who needed a specific result), nobody had ever bothered to collect detailed data on train speeds before. Gordon had always been “the fastest and the best” based purely off of his ability to, well, be faster, even if nobody knew what faster was. Learning that Henry, who was slightly smaller and ever-so less powerful than Gordon, cracked 100 miles an hour in a fit of pique suddenly made everyone else on the Island wonder exactly what they were capable of.

The Barrow stationmaster was the official “keeper” of the sign-up sheet for the time trials, and over the next few days he watched in amazement as the list of engines got longer and longer…

----

The next day

Up next was… well, it was supposed to be Gordon, but James had kicked up such a fuss that the big engine eventually relented - it was far easier to let James have this small victory than deal with a week’s worth of whinging, pleading, and wheedling.

Of course, karma was not willing to let James off easy. Leaving the yard in Barrow with the coaches, he was delayed - ironically enough - by a different ferry boat sailing into Barrow harbour. The bridge had some difficulty locking into place afterwards, and Henry saw (and heard) James impatiently yelling at the fitters as they banged on the locking mechanism with sledgehammers.

“It only took twenty minutes to fix it,” he said to Gordon when they met at Knapford some time later. “But you’d think they’d held him three hours!”

“Yes, well, I suppose better him than me.” Gordon’s amusement was confined to a slight upturn of his lips. “I do hope that his tardiness doesn’t interfere with the results, though. I would hate for him to have to do this again.”

“I didn’t think he’d be that late?” Henry said. “The train sits there for an hour before leaving.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Gordon said. “But I must note that there are more than a few ferries at the harbour waiting somewhat impatiently for their guaranteed connection.”

“So he hasn’t come through then?” Henry was aghast and on the verge of laughter at the same time. “How?”

“I’ll tell you how!” Bear rolled into the station with a container train, a smile stretching across his face. “Simon’s train came off in the Rolf’s Castle passing loop. James was there for an hour! I could hear him yelling from the junction!”

Henry and Gordon were big engines, but not big enough that they were above laughing at James’ misfortune. “Oh heavens,” Gordon chuckled. “Perhaps next time he should take the schedule as intended!”

“Oh, I feel bad for Delta, she’s going to have to calm him down all night!” Henry chortled, sending misshapen smoke rings into the sky.

Just then, the signal for the down fast line dropped to clear. “Oh goodness, I bet this is him. Should we be supportive?”

The three engines looked at each other for a second, and then burst out laughing again. The guffaws continued as James rattled through the station, face as red as his boiler.

That night, James refused to talk about it with anyone, and as predicted, Delta was up half the night soothing his ego. Gordon and Henry (and to a lesser extent, Bear) were predictably unhelpful.

The next morning, Delta was entirely too tired to do anything, and proved this by accidentally backing through a set of buffers and ending up in the station car park. She wasn’t badly damaged, but she still needed to be looked over by the mechanical staff (and spoken to by the Fat Controller), and so didn’t take the Boat Train that day.

Nobody was quite sure who would end up taking the train, and so it was quite a surprise when a triumphant Wendell rolled into the coach yards a few hours later. “I think I’ve done it!” he crowed. “Certainly the fastest I’ve ever gone, but I think I may have beaten the class record!”

And he had.

That night the shed foreman put up a corkboard, and pinned up all the times so far.

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

--------

The next day, Delta was up for the train. (The Fat Controller had been surprisingly understanding about the whole situation - after all, her driver could have stopped her well before the buffers.)

“Doesn’t your class have a speed limiter?” the lead coach asked as the train pulled out of the yard.

“I did!” Delta said brightly as the train clattered across the bridge.

“Whatever does that mean?” the coach said quietly, before she was bumped by one of her fellows.

“You nit!” The coach behind her sniffed. “You think the works is going to care about a speed limiter?”

There was a work crew on the lineside by Killdane, clearing weeds and vegetation, and they took a number of steps back to be clear of passing trains.

Even at that distance, the wind from Delta’s passage was so great that two men fell over and tumbled down the embankment. The foreman turned to look, and felt a thock! against his hard hat as a rock kicked up by the train’s passage bounced off his head!

The train flew down the line towards Maron. A swarm of insects was hovering over the warm rails, and the train plowed through them at speed.

“It sounds like we’re being shot at!” the second man yelped, as pings and clacks echoed through the cab.

“It’s only bees!” the driver said, activating the windscreen wipers to clear the gunk.

“If those are bees then I need to tell my exterminator to get an anti-aircraft gun!”

---

At Wellsworth Station, the train was so early that the signalman had assumed he’d have a few minutes to use the loo. He had to run back to his box and set the signals with his trousers undone and his belt flying in the breeze!

----

Marina recoiled as the train pulled into the docks. “Do I even want to know what happened to you?”

Delta, who was covered from buffers to roof with bug splats, dust, and dirt, didn’t say anything. The fact that she was smiling like an idiot was more than enough.

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ DELTA | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

------------

The next day

“Shall I wish you the best of Western Luck?” Caerphilly ventured hesitantly. She really hadn’t spent any time with Bear alone, and the ramifications of what Truro had done to him loomed large even still.

“I think you’re about sixteen years too late for that,” the Hymek chuckled. “But I’ll take it in spirit.”

“Ah, yes, well… it’s only-”

He continued to laugh, cutting her off. “I understand completely. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and all. You should talk to Duck about that sometime… he’d understand.”

“Ah, yes, well… he and I have-” Caerphilly continued to trip over her own words.

“Oh please don’t be awkward around me.” Unlike Caerphilly, Bear was relaxing more and more as the conversation went. “You’re a co-worker now, we have to work together, so consider everything that’s done as done.”

His gaze became conspiratorial. “And, any engine that threatens to feed City of Truro his own boiler tubes is a friend of mine.”

“You heard about that?!” Caerphilly let out a shocked bark of laughter.

“I hear many things about him. For example, did you know that he was deported from the Netherlands for being a miserable toerag?”

“No!”

“Oh yes! He’ll never talk about it, but that’s why he came back so quickly from that continental excursion tour…”

They kept talking until it was time for the two engines to collect their coaches. Despite Bear’s… complicated history with the Great Western, the two engines’ shared upbringing soon led to an impenetrable string of “Western-isms” that was capable of repelling even Bloomer, who eyed them with suspicion from the other side of the shed.

“So, any thoughts on this before you head off? Any crucial information I should know about?” Now that she was thinking about the speed trials, Caerphilly really, really, really could not turn off Science Museum Docent Voice even if she wanted to. (She didn’t)

“Yes, actually,” Bear smiled as something occurred to him. “You went into the museum before I was built, didn’t you?”

“Yes?” This was worrying from a data-collection standpoint. Don’t let the books on diesels be wrong again… Just let him be mechanically normal!

“The works tried a lot of things to get my engine to work the way they wanted it to. Eventually they just replaced it with one that was better. One from a Western.” He looked simultaneously smug and predatory at that. It was a good look on him.

“A Western… like Fusilier at the museum?”

The predatory smile was incredibly good-natured, but it was still distressing to watch it grow even larger. “Exactly like Fuse. He’s certainly not using them.”

Whatever Caerphilly was going to say next was stopped in its tracks by Bear’s signal raising to a clear aspect. With a loud mechanical rumble, Bear’s engine revved to the redline, and the empty train powered out of the station and over the bridge faster than Caerphilly ever would have expected.

“I don’t know why I’m even bothering with this anymore,” Caerphilly said to nobody in particular. “The data will be so corrupted that I’m going to be the control sample.”

There was a distant horn blast, as Bear cleared the crossings near Vicarstown station. For him to have gone that far that quickly… I hope Henry knows how lucky he is.

--------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ DELTA | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR | 1:01 | 36:12 | 86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

------------

The next day was Sunday, and the express didn’t run to the mainland. Usually, Pip and Emma spent the downtime getting essential work done, but a power outage in Crovan’s Gate town meant that the facility was running mostly off of backup generators. This left Pip and Emma at somewhat of a loose end.

About three hours later, the staff in the diesel shed had decided that a pair of diesels looking at them like lost puppies had gone on for long enough, and went to find them something to do.

An hour after that, and they were being coupled up to the coaches for the Boat Train. Caerphilly saw them go by as she stopped at Crovan’s Gate station. “I’m getting so much data that I don’t need,” she said to no-one in particular. “What on earth am I going to do with it?”

---------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH DELTA | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR | 1:01 | 36:12 | 86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

-------

Monday morning rolled around, and no-one was more surprised than Gordon to find BoCo heading a stopper train into Barrow station around noon. “BoCo? Has someone failed?”

“Not at all,” BoCo replied. “I’m just doing someone a favour.”

“And who might that be?” The only one lazy enough to suggest such a thing was James, and considering that going to Barrow meant an opportunity to wheedle his way onto another Boat Train turn, it seemed highly unlikely that he’d pass on the chance.

“Me,” BoCo said firmly. “I’m doing this for me.” He said it with such firm resolution that Gordon found that he had no response to give.

BoCo spent the next half hour in the shed, deep in thought, or perhaps meditation. Gordon had an inkling of what was going on, and did his best to shoo Bloomer away.

Sure enough, when the time came, BoCo was on the point of the Boat Train, and was staring at the signal with deep intensity.

“Are you sure that this is… a favour?” Gordon asked hesitantly, backing down onto the Limited.

“It’s something like that.” BoCo never took his eyes off the signal.

“Do you think that you’re… ready for this?”

“I don’t care if I’m not.”

“BoCo… what is this about?”

The diesel finally looked away from the signal bridge, and Gordon was struck by the expression on his face. It was both one of youthful determination, and aged resignation. Vitality and fragility. Contentment and loss. Fear and calm. It was like looking back into the late 1960s, as the world fell apart.

“I’m the last Condor, and I need to know if I can still fly.”

The signal rose, and BoCo was bathed in the green light as he departed. Gordon sounded his whistle as the coaches rolled out of sight. “Good luck, my friend…”

-------------

---------

The next morning, Gordon took the up-bound Boat Train to Kirk Ronan. While the passengers boarded at the docks in Tidmouth, he noticed a strange sight and sound - James was cursing and yelling like an engine twice his size as he bashed and bumped lines of container cars and fish vans around. “You don’t get Marina today! You get me! You know what that means? ORDER!”

Gordon wisely decided not to get involved, but wondered where Marina was all the way to Kirk Ronan, and then wondered some more as he took the empty coaches to Barrow.

When he got to the yard, everything became clear. Marina was asleep in the middle of the yard, still connected to the now-empty fish vans from the Flying Kipper. She slowly woke up as he shunted the coaches next to her. “G’morning.”

“Afternoon, more like it.” Gordon raised an eyebrow.

“Has it been that long?” She yawned. “Don’t think I’ve slept in like that in years.”

“James seems set on waging war with the trucks down at the harbor.” Gordon held the eyebrow where it was.

“It’s fine, he and Delta both owe me favors.”

“Whatever for?”

“... I don’t think you want to know. I barely want to know.”

“...” Gordon didn’t know how to respond to that, and elected to change the subject. “I don’t recall you showing any interest in these trials.”

“Well,” she said, engine kicking over as she began to wake up fully. “I remember when BoCo’s class was new, and while I never met any of them at the time, I remember hearing all the reasons why I was better than them, not least of which was that they were type 2s, and I was a type 3.”

She paused for a moment, remembering something. “Then, thirty years later, I came here and I met him, and that odd-looking type 2 proceeded to best me in every conceivable way there was. And I asked him how, and all he did was laugh and say that the works here were just that good. At first I thought that maybe they had fixed him, made him whole, but later, I began to realize that they made him… more.”

Her eyes sparkled in the midday sun. Gordon began to wonder if he needed to have longer and more regular conversations with the diesels.

She continued. “And then, a few years later, the works called for me, and they called for him at the same time. They told me that they were going to “improve me.” And while I was being taken apart, I saw them take him apart.” Her eyes flashed, and Gordon began to wonder if maybe this trial was having effects on engines in ways he didn’t know about.

“He’s not a type 2, not anymore,” She said with reverence. “Just like I’m not a type 3. Now I’m more, and I need to know how much more I am.”

With a fine-tuned roar of exhaust, she powered away to the diesel pumps, leaving Gordon feeling overwhelmed, yet contemplative.

-------------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH DELTA | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR | 1:01 | 36:12 | 86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH MARINA | 1:06 | 37:11 | 85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO | 1:02 | 36:22 | 86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

-----------

The next day, everything was quiet. Gordon and Caerphilly had both assumed that Sam would be taking her turn at the boat train today, and had strategically placed themselves on the line to offer encouragement. For Caerphilly, this meant moving a line of empty china clay trucks from the works to the clay pits at Brendam, a job that would involve spending lots of time in sidings letting more important trains go by. For Gordon…

“Have you ever done this before?” In a complete reversal of his demeanour just a few days ago, BoCo was chipper and all smiles, although this may have had something to do with watching Gordon shunt the pick-up goods.

“Yes, rarely, and I would like to keep it that way,” Gordon huffed. The trucks had known exactly how uncommon of an occurrence this was, and were reveling in the opportunity to cause trouble for “the big cheese,” as they’d taken to calling him. Even worse, there had been some sort of dispute between the usual express crews and the crews from Cargo Operations, and the end result meant that he had three men far more used to express passenger trains making an absolute hash of things on his footplate. They were twenty minutes late and they hadn’t even reached the hill yet.

“Well, think of it as a way to broaden your horizons!”

“Yes, Caerphilly said something very similar.”

“Oh good! Great minds think alike!”

“Let me tell you the same thing I told her.” Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “It would be in your best interest to broaden the number of ways you can keep your mouth shut.”

“Uh huh.”

Gordon’s eyes narrowed further, and he grumbled something about bilgewater drinking Westerners and their diesel-swilling compatriots…

Later

Caerphilly was in yet another passing loop near Killdane station, and was waiting patiently for the boat train to come by.

Presently, she heard Sam’s whistle in the distance, and perked up. She looked towards the signals, and found them all at Danger. “What?” she said to no-one. “Where is she?”

A moment later, she found out when Sam came steaming into the station from the other direction with a container train. Confusion writ large across Caerphilly’s face, and it was quickly mirrored by the big decapod. “Why do you and Gordon look so surprised to see me?”

“Weren’t you taking the boat train today?”

“No? I’m taking it over the weekend. I’ve been out on the Little Western, shifting ballast all morning.” She took notice of the line of clay “hoods” behind Caerphilly. “And Gordon had to take the pick-up goods because of that… were you two waiting for me?”

“Merely to offer support-”

“Oh my god!” Sam’s whistle was shrill, and she blushed deeply. “That’s so kind of both of you. You didn’t need to do that!”

“Yes, I did,” Caerphilly started, and then caught herself. “But apparently I didn’t. If you didn’t take the express, then who did?”

As if by divine provenance, a whistle sounded in the distance, just as the signal above - one of the newest color-light models that the P-Way gang were very excited to have - changed to green.

Both engines turned all of their attention to the east. “He can’t be.” Sam said, voice full of disbelief.

“He’s an antique.” Caerphilly wished she was facing the other direction. She needed to see what sort of mania was gripping this fool.

“The works here are good, but they can’t be that good, can they?”

“We’ll see when they have to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

The whistle sounded again, and a great cacophony of chuffing and puffing made further conversation impossible. The train appeared over the horizon trailing a huge plume of smoke and steam, engine whistling fit to burst. It stormed over the high-speed turnouts connecting the down slow and the down fast lines, and vanished into the distance as quickly as it had come.

“I stand corrected.” Caerphilly said as the smoke wafted away. “He’s suicidal.”

----------

“Don’t you have to be inside the box?” Gordon sniffed at the Wellsworth signalman.

“Eh, the points are set,” the man said, taking a long slow drag on a cigarette. “Won’t take a second to bell them through once they’ve gone.”

“I hope to one day live my life with the lackadaisical grace that you live yours,” Gordon said pointedly.

The signalman took no notice. “Besides, this train, I have to see up close.”

“It’s only Samarkand,” Gordon harrumphed. “Wait until I go in for overhaul and you’ll be seeing her on the express somewhat frequently.”

The signalman turned and raised an eyebrow in Gordon’s direction. He said nothing, but Gordon felt like he was missing something deeply important. “What? What is it?”

There was a distant whistle, and his confusion turned to annoyance. “That’s not the boat train, you buffoon! That’s Edward! What kind of a signalman are you?”

The signalman didn’t say anything, and pulled a small camera out of his pocket.

Edward’s whistle sounded again less than two minutes later, presumably for the distant signal, and it took Gordon several all-too-short seconds to realize that any train stopping at Wellsworth wouldn’t have been able to go from Maron to the Wellsworth distant in that short of a time.

“No…”

From behind him, deep in the yard, there was a tidal wave of swearing as BoCo did the same math and came to the same conclusion.

Edward’s whistle sounded a third time, for the foot crossing near the station, and then the train was hurtling past. Edward was red in the face and working hard enough to turn his smoke sooty black, but his wheels were turning so fast that his con-rods were a blur. The coaches stretched behind him, seeming impossibly large against his small tender. The train streaked through the station at lightning speed, and roared away towards Crosby with all the noise and circumstance of a proper express.

Dead silence fell over the station as the lamps of the train receded around the corner. Gordon and BoCo were in shock. The passengers waiting for the next train (most of whom knew Edward personally) were clutching their pearls, their chests, their heads, each other, or the nearest lamp post. The stationmaster had been in the middle of a phone call, and the handset fell from his limp grasp, dangling on the cord. In the signal box, the signalman had clearly not been expecting Edward to be going that fast, and was a little rattled by it; he tried to throw open the door to the box, and the handle came off in his hand as he did. In the deafening silence, Gordon had a thought. I think that Caerphilly should really be studying what the time trials are doing to us, rather than what we are actually accomplishing.

-----------------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH DELTA | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR | 1:01 | 36:12 | 86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH MARINA | 1:06 | 37:11 | 85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO | 1:02 | 36:22 | 86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH EDWARD | 1:05 | 38:55 | 80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

-----------

The Next Day

The noise that had started when Edward backed into the shed that evening didn’t stop until the morning, and everyone was slightly bleary come sunrise. As such, nobody really paid attention to the engines rostered on Barrow-bound trains until almost noon, when Henry (who had taken the morning boat train to Kirk Ronan) returned with empty fish vans from the Flying Kipper.

“Well if it’s not you,” he said to a perplexed Gordon. “And if Caerphilly just left, who is it?”

----

“Lassie, I don’t know who you are, but I know that you definitely don’t belong here,” Bloomer said slowly, trying and failing to comprehend what was going on.

The crowd of men in “CROVAN’S GATE TMD” jumpsuits on the platform glared at him. “Would you shush?” the foreman asked, before turning back to the thick bundle of cables connecting the engine to the first coach. “This is a perfectly legitimate maintenance procedure! We have to have a shakedown run.”

“On a train with passengers? While she’s hooked up to a load of AA batteries like a child’s toy?”

“It’s not batteries!” The men snapped as one.

“Well then what is it then? Magic? Because that’s an electric locomotive, and you’ve got no wires!” Bloomer scoffed.

“Actually, it’s a diesel generator,” the electric engine said. Her name was Abbey, and she was looking around the mainland terminal like she’d never been there before. It was entirely possible she hadn’t been. “They’re very excited to see if this could work long term.”

“Lassie,” Bloomer said slowly. “No disrespect, but I think an electric motor hooked up to a diesel generator has already been invented. They call it the diesel locomotive.”

Abbey laughed. “I know, but wouldn’t you agree to something daft if it meant getting the chance to do something incredible?”

“To be honest with ya, the last time I agreed to anything daft I got locked in a shed for what felt like a hundred years, so no.”

She laughed again, and kept lightly needling Bloomer over his lack of an “adventurer’s spirit” until the men declared her fit to move. The generator, which had been mounted inside an old baggage car, clattered to life, and Bloomer watched with no small amount of amazement as an electric train moved (not at all) silently out of the yard.

At Kirk Ronan, a few passengers boarding the train seemed to understand what was missing from their train, and the departure was delayed a few minutes as they got photos of Abbey with no wires above her, the diesel engine shoehorned into the baggage coach, or the thick bundles of wires that were attached to Abbey’s pantograph.

Simon, one of the engines who worked the Kirk Ronan branch, looked on with bemusement. “I can’t blame them. That is the strangest looking diesel I have ever seen.”

----

At Killdane, James was stopped at the platforms with a passenger train, and tried to figure out why all the electric engines were lined up on electrified platforms.

“You’ll see,” Dane, one of the electrics, said in a suspiciously calm tone. “Just wait until Abbey gets here.”

That had been several minutes ago, and James was now thoroughly worried about what was going to happen when Abbey got there.

A horn sounded in the distance, and James was promptly deafened by all the engines honking theirs loudly in response. Worse yet, they didn’t stop honking, so he couldn’t ask them what in blazes they were doing.

Then, a train appeared in the distance. It got bigger very quickly, and James suddenly had an out-of-body experience as he watched an electric engine zip past on the wrong side of the station from the electric line!

------

Caerphilly was at Maron when the lights of the boat train appeared over the curve of the next hill. The engine honked gaily at her as it passed with a woosh and a roar, and then the train vanished over the crest of Gordon’s hill.

“... Did I just get passed by an electric train??!”

-------

At Crosby station, Gordon was waiting for parcels to be unloaded from the mail train. He was distracted by the stationmaster asking him a question, and so only paid partial attention to the boat train passing by with a cheerful “Hi Gordon!”

“Yes, hello Ab-bb-ab-Abbey…?” Gordon trailed to a stop mid-word as his mind caught up with what he’d just seen.

-------

Sam and Marina were chatting idly at the docks as the boat train rolled in. Both engines trailed off to a stop and looked at Abbey as she pulled up next to the P&O terminal.

“So, what you were saying about us being made… more?” Sam said slowly. “I get it now.”

“And this island does grant immortality.” Marina blinked quickly. “We’ve all drunk from the fountain of youth…”

--------

Later that evening, Abbey was at the big station being connected to a short goods train bound for the works. The trucks had no idea what was going on, and were too scared to cause trouble. Across the station, the Fat Controller exited his office. He made it about halfway down the platform before doing first a double, then a triple-take at the sight of an electric engine under the station canopy. He turned, as if to walk over and investigate the matter, made it about ten steps in that direction, and then seemingly thought better of it, and turned back the way he’d come.

----------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH ABBEY?? | 0:59 | 30:59 | 102.98 MPH | 111.68 MPH DELTA | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR | 1:01 | 36:12 | 86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH MARINA | 1:06 | 37:11 | 85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO | 1:02 | 36:22 | 86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH EDWARD | 1:05 | 38:55 | 80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

----------------

The next day… again

Finally the weekend came, and it was Sam’s turn on the boat train. Gordon and Caerphilly were optimistic, and spent most of the night before giving her pointers on various parts of the route. Sam started out as somewhat “normal” about the whole affair, but as the time got closer, she started to feel a tickle of anxiety down in the bottom of her boiler.

Henry, of all engines, was the one to offer reassurances, and the two engines spent quite a while in Barrow yard talking amongst themselves. At the end of it, Sam was feeling rather upbeat and optimistic.

On the flip side of this, Siobhan and Wilma were experiencing the dual sensations of “looming dread” and “deep regret.” They had assumed that, as Cargo Ops crew, they wouldn’t be anywhere near the speed trial runs; however, after several main line crew members called in sick (For once it was legitimate - there was a rather virulent strain of Norovirus running through Barrow at the moment) the crew assigned for Sam’s time trial were Rupert and Clancy. Once Sam found that out, she refused to go anywhere, and Will and Siobhan were rousted from the crew rest area with minimal explanation and less preparation.

“How fast does she wanna go?” Will asked hesitantly, as the train rolled out of Barrow.

“Well,” Siobhan muttered, looking down Sam’s long boiler towards the tracks ahead. “Passenger trains are allowed up to 110 on most of the line, sooooo…”

Will took a moment to be absolutely stunned, before she quickly crossed herself and resumed shoveling. “Father, son, holy spirit, what the fuck am I doing?!”

---------

The train got off to a good start out of Kirk Ronan, and made excellent time to the junction at Kellsthorpe Road. A lot of the time trial trains had to wait here for cross traffic to clear, but fortunately for Sam (and unfortunately for Will and Siobhan) there was a green signal all the way to the down fast line, and Sam sprinted up the line with a 50 mile an hour running start.

Will was stoking the fire constantly, pouring every last ounce of skill into feeding Sam’s fiery heart as the floor of the cab rocked underneath her. It was much smoother than she’d expected, the floor acting more like a ship rocking in the swells than the bucking bronco she’d been dreading.

“This is a lot more normal,” she shouted across the cab to Siobhan as she took a break to check the water glasses. The cab may have been steady, but the wind was at near hurricane strength, and both women were wearing protective earplugs. “I was expecting worse. How fast’re we going?”

Siobhan didn’t bother responding, and instead pointed towards something on her side of the cab. Will made her way across, and found Siobhan’s gloved hand pointing at the digital speedometer tucked into a nest of pipes and wiring.

What Will said next was lost in the roar of the wind as the train neared Killdane station, but the speedometer was clear: The train was doing 109 miles an hour on an uphill grade.

-------

Once again, James was at the Killdane platforms as the boat train drew near. This time, he was with the Limited on the up fast line, and the engine on the boat train was mercifully a steam engine, not some bizarre electric.

He blew his whistle in support as Samarkand drew closer, and was rewarded for this with a gale-force wind that buffeted him from seemingly all directions. Rocks and dirt thrown up by the train’s passage bounced off of him, scoring and marking his shiny red paint. On the platform, several passengers dove to the ground as Sam’s passage caused the concrete platforms to vibrate like a distant earthquake. Loose paper and rubbish swirled around the platforms like a tornado.

Then, as suddenly as she’d arrived, Sam was gone, whistling into the distance. James and his passengers tried to adjust to the sudden quiet.

They did not succeed.

-----

Gordon and Caerphilly had felt quite clever in timing their stopping services to meet at Cronk.

“It is her turn today, isn’t it?” Gordon murmured. “And we won’t be witnessing Ivor the engine, or Skarloey, or something else equally improbable?”

“Oh hush!” Caerphilly grinned. “I can hear her coming.”

They could hear her whistle sound, a long, delirious shout of joy as the train cleared Killdane. Gordon raised an eyebrow - he knew what an engine needed to be going through in order to produce that sound.

“You’ll need to be quick if you wish to inspect her technique,” he said sagely. “She’s moving quickly.”

Caerphilly was facing the other direction, towards Killdane, and whistled softly. “You’re right. Bloody Nora, she’s coming on quick!”

Before either of them could say anything else, the helicopter-like sound of a steam engine at full chat drowned out all other sound. Sam and the boat train screamed around the corner from Killdane in a flurry of noise, dust, and steam. Her whistle sounded again, shrill and barely coherent, as she saw the two of them.

As the train passed, Gordon had the experience of being buzzed by a low-flying airliner; Caerphilly felt like she’d been hit by a bomb, complete with the dust and debris.

The train was gone into the distance before either of them could speak again, and they stared slightly agog at the cloud it left in its wake.

“Now,” Caerphilly said slowly, spitting dust and rocks as she spoke. “I know that this isn’t a competition, or at least we didn’t mean it as one, but… we are going to have to step up our game if we want to beat that.”

Gordon had to agree.

-----

This time, the Wellsworth signalman was in his box when the train thundered through, but Will peered out of the cab window just long enough to see the man staring slack-jawed at the train as it whipped through the station at triple-digit speeds, a half-eaten sandwich falling from his mouth.

-----

The train slowed slightly as it passed Crosby station. Knapford wasn’t far off, and after that was the restricting signals to let them into the dock. Its speed was now merely fast instead of the relativistic velocities it had been achieving earlier in the run.

“Oi!” Will called across the cab. Now that the speed was firmly in the high double digits, speech was intelligible again. “We need water! I’m dropping the scoop!”

“Now?” Siobhan called back. “We’re almost there!”

“We won’t get there unless we fill the tender! I don’t wanna get caught short!” Will was insistent, and dropped the scoop regardless of what Siobhan really wanted.

---

On the slow line, Percy was making his way up the line towards Crosby with a short train of vans for the goods platform. He saw Samarkand - that new goods engine, who was absolutely gargantuan - racing towards him. Oh great, just what we need. Another big engine who wants to be some big important passenger engine because of course she fuc- wait what’s that.

That was a plume of water appearing from underneath the big engine’s tender.

Percy had just enough time to realize that he was puffing over the Crosby water troughs before:

SPLASH “Acksbughifhsithtjighngthhtgtbbbthblughsaaachkkk!”

---------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH ABBEY?? | 0:59 | 30:59 | 102.98 MPH | 111.68 MPH SAMARKAND | 0:59 | 33:11 | 95.61 MPH | 110.09 MPH DELTA | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR | 1:01 | 36:12 | 86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH MARINA | 1:06 | 37:11 | 85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO | 1:02 | 36:22 | 86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH EDWARD | 1:05 | 38:55 | 80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

----------------------

The next day - for the penultimate time.

Considering the lunatic heights this time trial had reached, everyone else was thrilled that Caerphilly was finally on the boat train. Among other things, it meant that the trials were almost at an end, but more importantly, it meant that the “big ones” were finally going up against the clock.

The main line crews, who were scandalized to have been so so thoroughly trounced by Sam, Will, Siobhan, and by extension the rest of Cargo Ops, had fought amongst each other for the “honor” of manning Caerphilly’s footplate. The big engine thought it bemusing that they were so eager, and couldn’t quite keep a straight face when the two men (not Clancy and Rupert) who eventually emerged from the station bore scrapes, cuts, and a very noticeable black eye.

“I didn’t think you actually meant fisticuffs!” she squeaked, trying to keep the cackling at bay.

On the next platform, Siobhan was on James’ footplate with a van train, and didn’t even look up. “Ah tell ya,” she said to James. “Cargo Ops was the smartest fuckin’ decision Ah have made in years. Certainly is smarter than bashing someone’s face in to get a good driving spot on the express.”

“Didn’t you take the express last week? With Caerphilly?” James asked as Caerphilly’s crew scowled at her and then each other before sullenly clambering into the cab.

“Like ah said.” Siobhan oozed smugness at near-Gordon levels. “Smartest thing ah have done in years.”

------

Despite a small, petty voice in the back of her mind suggesting that she should slow down the train to upset her crew, Caerphilly found the prospect of letting herself fly down the line to be exhilarating, and was straining against her own brakes as the passengers boarded in Kirk Ronan.

“Easy there,” the driver said as the guard waved his flag. “We’ve got to wait for the signal!”

“You’ll have to keep an eye on her,” the fireman said, attempting to sound knowledgeable. “She’s liable to run away from you.”

The driver nodded in agreement, and got a firm hold on the controls as the signal - a GNR style model that “somersaulted” to vertical - flipped upwards to a clear aspect. He was ready for whatever this engine could throw at him.

Caerphilly proceeded to rip the throttle and reverser out of his hands anyways, and set off with a flurry of wheelslip and black smoke.

Gwen, the small tank engine who worked in the Kirk Ronan dockyard, watched the train leave. “Those idiots have no idea what they’re up against, do they?” she said to herself as Caerphilly’s driver tried and mostly failed to reign in his engine.

-------

Donald and Douglas were working on a slow goods train to the mainland. It wasn’t the pick up goods, but it still made a few stops between Arlesburgh and Barrow, one of which was Killdane. Douglas was working in the yard, collecting a line of aluminum trucks while Donald worked the motorail terminal. Located a few hundred feet away from the station itself, the motorail terminal served the Sodor Motorail passenger services, as well as goods trains that dropped off shipments of new cars bound for dealers and customers across the island.

The main line was elevated above the electric line and the yard on an embankment, and so Douglas didn’t see the boat train pass so much as he heard it - a shrill whistle sounding, followed by the deafening roar of a steam engine at full throttle, and then the coaches whooshing by. He paid it little mind, and once he’d collected the trucks he needed, he puffed up the embankment to the motorail terminal.

“Ach, for land’s sake! Wha’s happened ‘ere!” he gasped.

Donald’s tender was laying astride the rails, the cartic wagon behind him bent almost completely in half. Scattered around him were a half dozen Ford sedans, upside down or sideways, smashed half flat. As an explanation, Donald yelled something in Scots that was almost untranslatable to English. Roughly paraphrased, he said: “That stupid great cruise missile scared the living bejesus out of me!”

---------

Caerphilly flew down the line, at speeds she was not properly able to comprehend. The experience of it though, that was something she understood just fine. Her motion was fluid, the individual cranks and rods whirring away at speeds faster than they had ever been designed for. The feeling of it was indescribable, and she found herself hoping against hope that every signal would be green from here to eternity - so that she could keep going on like this forever.

Inside the cab, her crew were having a very different experience. The cab was noisy, bouncy, loud, and hotter than some furnaces. The draft from the firebox was so great that opening the firebox door would suck the coal off the shovel, and threatened to take the shovel with it. By the time they cleared Cronk station, the fireman had developed blisters on his hands from holding it tightly. His gloves were already starting to wear thin. At one point the firebox door stuck open, and the driver watched in morbid fascination as a loose lump of coal bounced out of the tender, onto the footplate, and was promptly sucked across the cab and into the inferno. Both men were sweating through their clothes, but they worried that removing them would only end with the garments being unintentionally fed into Caerphilly’s ravenous fire.

Whistling for the Maron signal box was perhaps the greatest indication of the dichotomy between engine and crew. The driver pulled the whistle lever for a short blast - just long enough to acknowledge their presence. Caerphilly held the whistle open until they stormed over the crest of the hill. The sound was jubilant, triumphant, ecstatic - a sign that the engine was experiencing the closest thing to heaven one could on the mortal plane.

To the crew, the sound of the whistle was a demonic howl that clawed away at their waning sanity. As the train crested the hill they went light in their boots, and for a moment both men would have sworn that the sound was not that of an engine, but that of Satan’s chariot.

In a macabre bit of efficiency, her heaven was their hell. Both were ongoing as the train raced towards Wellsworth.

--------

By this stage, BoCo was ready and willing to accept anything occurring when the boat train went through Wellsworth. Even still, it was somewhat embarrassing to see the signalman make a fool of himself yet again. This time, the daft idiot had fallen prey to the smell of freshly baked apple turnovers in the station cafe, and was trying to wave off a curious bee that was trying to inspect the man’s sticky, sugar-coated fingers.

With a cry of frustration (or perhaps fear, maybe the man didn’t like bees), the bee was swatted from the air just as Caerphilly’s whistle shrieked for the crossing outside the station. The signalman hurried into the box, and would have managed to actually be in position for when the train passed by if he hadn’t caught his shirt tail on the edge of the lever frame. With a ripping sound and a thump, the shirt gave way and the man fell to the floor, just in time for the Boat Train to hurtle through at near-relativistic speeds.

After the train had passed, BoCo had to bite back a bark of laughter as the now shirtless man peeled himself off the floor and belled the train through to the next signal box.

-------

At Knapford, a very bored Thomas was attempting to needle Gordon in an attempt to amuse himself. “And so Percy smelled like the water trough the rest of the day, which I must say isn’t quite as bad as ditch water, but…”

He trailed off when Gordon failed to respond. The big engine wasn’t even paying attention, instead staring down the line towards the next station, and Thomas scowled at the perceived slight. He began thinking of something that might get under Gordon’s paintwork when a whistle sounded in the distance.

In just a second, Caerphilly Castle thundered out of the tunnel that led to Crosby, wreathed in an angelic cloud of smoke and steam. Smiling broadly, she whistled long and loud as the train raced through the station and disappeared from sight.

Thomas’ eye glinted at the sudden opportunity, and he whistled softly. “Wow, I can see why the Fat Controller chose her to be the new Express.”

Gordon didn’t respond, but in a way that made Thomas hopeful of a reaction.

Finally, after a few seconds: “Indeed. There is only one other engine on this island I would choose to be my successor.” Gordon was calm and collected, and once the guard’s whistle blew, he steamed away in a regal cloud of steam.

A bewildered Thomas watched him go.

------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH CAERPHILLY | 1:00 | 32:71 | 97.22 MPH | 115.16 MPH ABBEY?? | 0:59 | 30:59 | 102.98 MPH | 111.68 MPH SAMARKAND | 0:59 | 33:11 | 95.61 MPH | 110.09 MPH DELTA | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR | 1:01 | 36:12 | 86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH MARINA | 1:06 | 37:11 | 85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO | 1:02 | 36:22 | 86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH EDWARD | 1:05 | 38:55 | 80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

----------

The next day - for the last time

The morning brought an overcast gloom that worsened as the day went on. By the time Gordon backed down on the coaches at Barrow yard, stationmaster Burton was carrying around an umbrella. He strode down to the train, skillfully avoiding the damp patches of earth that threatened to soil his wingtip shoes, and handed a document up to Gordon’s driver.

“Heads up, you two,” the driver said after donning his reading glasses. “There’s a change in schedule. We’re leaving 20 minutes early from Kirk Ronan.”

“Twenty minutes early?” Gordon was befuddled. “What on earth could they have done that for?”

“Track work on the main line, it looks like. They want to get us and the Express through before they close off anything.”

Gordon grumbled something about the passengers complaining, but said nothing else. Meanwhile, the driver turned to the fireman. “Any complaints from you, Rupert?”

Rupert, still sporting a bruised cheek from yesterday, tried and failed to look imperious. “Not at all, Daniel.”

Daniel (please, his friends call him Dan) rolled his eyes. “Are we going to have a problem with anything else?”

“I don’t see why we should,” Rupert scoffed. “After all, it wasn’t you who put Clancy in hos-”

“We’re not going to talk about that during work hours, alright?” Dan cut him off. “I believe the Fat Controller said much more to you lot yesterday.”

Gordon heard all of this and rolled his eyes. I wonder if those funny automated trains on the Docklands Light Railway are interested in giving lessons on driving oneself…

----

The rain started about an hour later, as the train stood at Kirk Ronan. Inside the cab, Rupert and Dan looked upwards with dismay. “Just our luck,” Daniel muttered. “Wet rails and slick running in the middle of a damned time trial.”

Rupert snorted dismissively.

“What? What’s that noise supposed to mean?”

“I suppose it means that you should use the skills you supposedly have, then?” Rupert sniffed. “Two children in a freight engine beat three quarters of the damned railway down the Killdane straight on dry rails, so two men of our calibre should be able to achieve the same in these conditions just fine.”

Dan glared. “I feel like discounting Siobhan like that is really a-”

“Children in a freight engine.” Rupert said with a serious look in his eye. “Nothing more. We are gods compared to them.”

“Your speeches leave much to be desired, fireman.” Gordon rumbled. “If any of us is a god, it would be me, so perhaps you should allow someone else to take charge of this endeavour.”

He waited a beat, just long enough for Rupert’s face to twist into an ugly scowl. “Unless you would like to inform both Daniel and myself that you happen to have over one hundred and seven years of experience working on express passenger trains, at which point we will happily cede control to you.”

To his credit, Rupert took the tongue lashing like a man, and didn’t throw a tantrum, but he also didn’t say a word for the rest of the time they spent in the station.

Dan managed to keep his petty smile hidden throughout this time, although he gave Gordon’s throttle lever an affectionate pat when Rupert’s back was turned.

-------

Like Caerphilly and Sam’s runs, the signal at the main line junction was clear, the four-aspect colour-light model going from two yellows to a single green as they approached it. The AWS gave a cheerful all-clear chime and Dan opened the throttle fully. Given free reign, Gordon responded with a will, charging forwards towards the down fast line.

Before they’d even cleared the signal, still moving at a relatively slow pace, there was a shrill whistle from Kellsthorpe Road station, and Caerphilly streaked out of the rain-slicked gloom with the midday express. The train was already at a fast clip, and it roared past, running opposite-main on the up fast line.

Gordon’s wheels spun for a moment as the last coaches of the express streaked by, before digging in. Like a greyhound out of the gate, Gordon powered forward, each turn of his 7-foot drivers adding speed at a fantastic rate.

Despite the reduced visibility from the rain, the tail lamp of the express never faded away. Gordon was quickly catching up to the train, reaching over one hundred miles an hour within minutes of entering the main line.

Caerphilly wasn’t lazing around, and the express coaches passed by slowly as Gordon’s acceleration began to trail off. The speedometer needle was practically dancing around in its housing, but Dan could just make out an indicated one hundred ten on the dial as the two trains leaned into the curve that marked the ⅜ point of the Kellsthorpe-Killdane section of the main line.

Gordon was just about level with Caerphilly’s tender, and sounded a long blast of his whistle. Caerphilly’s drivers spun frantically for a half-second, while her crew almost jumped out of their skin at the noise.

“Funny running into you here!” Gordon shouted. “Lovely weather we’re having!”

“What are you doing?!” Caerphilly yelped. “You’re not due for another 20 minutes!”

“Perhaps I’m just that much faster than everyone else!” Gordon was full of mirth, and was only now starting to show that he was getting winded.

“Including me?” Caerphilly was momentarily the picture of innocence.

“Especially you!” Gordon was still accelerating, and was a few buffer-lengths ahead at this point. The speedometer needle was bouncing so much that Dan couldn’t read it.

“Well then!” The innocence turned into a strange combination of sincerity and deviousness. “Let’s see how fast you can go!”

Caerphilly whistled, long and loud, and began pulling ahead of Gordon, inch by inch.

Gordon responded with a burst of acceleration that would have made Nigel Gresley faint.

“Oh god!” Rupert shouted over the wind and the noise from two sets of valve gear whirring away. “She’s goading him on!”

------

The rain was an intense downpour across most of the island, and many passengers had retreated inside station waiting rooms. The rain had also delayed the planned track work, with many of the P-way gang retreating inside their warm vans and Land Rovers to wait out the storm.

This meant that very few people were on the platforms at Killdane, Cronk, and Maron stations as the two trains roared by with the intensity of a hurricane. Some even mistook the noise as a thunderstorm. At Cronk station, a group of tourists from the American midwest made a spectacle of themselves as they started yelling about there being a tornado.

-----

Possibly the best view of the two trains was the signalman at Maron. Sitting in his small brick signal box near the top of Gordon’s hill, he saw both trains emerge from the rain like spectres. They screamed towards him, trailing clouds of smoke and mist that stretched for hundreds of feet. His box’s territory was small - literally Maron station and nothing else - so by the time he’d sent the bells acknowledging that the trains were in section, he had to bell them out just as quickly.

For once, the layabout running the Wellsworth box was on the ball and in his box, and the bells chimed with his acceptance of two down-bound fast trains into his section.

The lamps of the express rocked and rolled over the hill, and then both trains were gone.

The signalman wanted to ruminate on the sight he’d just witnessed, but the railway waits for no-one, and within seconds of him logging the two trains’ passage, the Cronk signalman was ringing him. Slow goods train, down-bound.

He rang the bell to accept it. The railway kept on running, even as the express and the boat train remained fresh in his memory.

---------------

Gordon and Caerphilly were having the times of their lives as the two trains screamed down the hill towards Wellsworth.

“Feeling tired yet, old iron?” Caerphilly teased.

“Tired? Never!” Gordon declared with some bombastic flair. “This is the standard pace for all express engines. Or did you not know that?”

Caerphilly’s response was an enthusiastic whistle as the two trains passed the Wellsworth distant signals at speed. “This pace is perfect for me!”

At the speeds they were going, a mile was flying by every 35-40 seconds, and a single casual tease could fill a signal block. Gordon opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat as the sudden feeling of something being very wrong filled him.

“What? What’s the matter?” Caerphilly saw his face fall, and the teasing stopped in its tracks.

“Something’s wrong-” Gordon started, before all the breath left him.

The two trains were rounding the corner separating the hill and Wellsworth station. Time seemed to slow down, and Gordon could see multiple things happening in slow motion.

First, he saw Edward at the platforms, colour draining from the old engine’s face.

Next, he saw the Wellsworth home signal, located in the center of the platforms, dropping to red.

Then, he heard the AWS alarm start to scream a signal warning.

In the corner of his vision, he saw the Wellsworth signalman staring out of the windows of the signal box in abject horror.

And finally, he saw BoCo, slowly pulling onto the down fast line with the midday Suddery-Tidmouth service.

Time stopped, and became meaningless as Gordon, Dan, and the AWS all acted on their base instincts at the same time. The train brakes came on hard, and Gordon threw every ounce of steam he had into his pistons. The reverser - a massive steel screw that had to be turned a dozen times to change from forward to reverse - spun wildly in the opposite direction before Dan could even reach for it. It slammed into the stops in full reverse, and Gordon’s wheels began to spin wildly in the other direction, even as momentum and the wet rails continued to push him forwards, towards the rear coach of the train. The train screeched through the station, past the signals, and Dan heaved on the whistle, letting Gordon’s yell of terror be broadcast for thousands of feet.

BoCo had no idea that anything was wrong until shouting and yelling broke out behind him. His driver began to advance the throttle slowly. Then, in a matter of seconds, Edward bellowed “RUN BOCO!” at the top of his voice, the coaches started screaming, and Caerphilly rocketed by with a shriek of “What are you doing!?!.

The throttle was ripped from his driver’s hand and slammed into the forward stop, exhaust poured from his vents, and the train lurched forwards just as Gordon’s whistle began blowing behind them with all the urgency of the horns that heralded the apocalypse.

Inside Gordon’s cab, there was a sudden shout of “save yourself!” as the speed dropped below forty miles an hour, and Dan turned to see Rupert fling himself out of the cab like a professional gymnast. He managed to clear the rails of the slow line, but landed hard and tumbled to a stop in a puddle, at least one arm pointing the wrong way. Dan didn’t have time to be shocked, and instead braced himself as best he could, holding on for dear life.

Gordon shut his eyes.

BoCo willed himself to go faster.

The sounds of screeching metal got louder and louder.

And then everything stopped.

---

Gordon couldn’t hear anything but his own heaving breaths, and he opened one eye to see that he’d come to a stop on top of a level crossing some three thousand feet beyond the platforms at Wellsworth. BoCo’s train was racing away into the distance, and further beyond was the glinting lamps of Caerphilly’s express.

Behind him, the coaches were babbling incoherently to each other, which presumably meant they were okay.

“Daniel, Rupert? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but Rupert jumped!” Dan was already clambering down the ladder. “He’s… oooh that’s not good. Stay right here!” he sprinted off down the line to check on the fallen fireman.

“Are you alright?” a small, shaking voice said next to him. “What happened? That was so close…”

Gordon looked, and there at the gates was Bertie the bus, shaking on his suspension like a leaf.

“I…” Gordon had to stop and think about the questions. “I don’t know.”

----------------

Later

Gordon was shunted into the engine shed at Wellsworth for examination. A few hours later, a very pale BoCo joined him.

“I’m telling you,” the diesel said in shaky tones. “The signal was green. It wasn’t even a semaphore - they replaced it last month. It was a colour light and it was green.”

“I believe you,” Gordon said quietly. “But the distant was up, and the AWS did not sound a warning.”

BoCo looked at him. “Then how did this happen?”

“I don’t know…” Gordon didn’t like how haunted he sounded.

-----

A few hours after that, the Fat Controller came to see them, followed by a number of men in windbreakers and polo shirts marked with “HMRI” and “HSE”. They examined Gordon and BoCo closely, took a great many notes, asked a few questions, and took the AWS boxes from both engines. Occasionally a man from the railway would come in, escorted by one of the HMRI men, and examine something, or offer an opinion. It took several hours for them to be satisfied, and it was nearly midnight by the time the last of them left.

The Fat Controller had stayed during the entire time, sitting quietly on a chair in the corner. Once the last polo-shirted man had departed, the Fat Controller stood up and faced the two engines.

“Sir,” Gordon said immediately, all thoughts of propriety forgotten. “What happened?”

The Fat Controller looked exhausted. “We don’t have the specifics yet, but it appears that at some point after your train cleared the AWS magnet for the distant signal, the signalman was somehow able to change the points and signals, and allow BoCo access to the main line.” He took a deep breath, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Whether this was due to incompetence, malfunction, mistake, or… malice, we don’t know. We likely won’t know for some time, maybe months, or even a year.”

BoCo made a noise. “I can’t… I mean, this is - I should have-”

“Absolutely not.” The Fat Controller thundered. “We may not know what did occur, but we certainly do know what did not, and that was any rule-breaking on either of your parts. The blame is entirely on the signaling system, and by extension, the railway.”

“Sir-” BoCo and Gordon both tried to say something, but the Fat Controller held up his hand.

“No. Even if this was an act of pure malice on the part of the signalman, it should have been impossible for him to do so. Something failed today, whether it was our training regimen, a safety interlock, or some other thing, and we will find out what it was so it can never happen again.”

BoCo was cowed into silence, but Gordon still had one question. “Was… was anyone hurt, sir?”

The Fat Controller exhaled deeply, and relaxed his posture slightly. “Only a few passengers who happened to be standing up at the time. They mostly had cuts and bruises. One man has a concussion from falling down. The only substantial injuries were to your crew, Gordon; Rupert, your fireman, took quite a nasty fall when he jumped from the footplate. He’s in hospital in serious condition, but the doctors say he should make a full recovery by winter.”

“Very good, sir,” Gordon couldn’t help but feel guilty.

“However, Gordon,” The Fat Controller kept going. “The most injured party in this whole affair… is you.”

“Me?” Gordon was shocked. He did hurt all over, but he had assumed it was normal wear and stress, not an actual injury…

“Oh yes,” The Fat Controller was serious. “I might not be the mechanical engineer my grandfather was, but even a lay person would agree that your connecting rods are not supposed to look like that.”

“My connecting rods..?” Gordon was suddenly very aware that maybe he wasn’t supposed to feel the way he was.

“Oh yes,” The Fat Controller continued. “Not to mention the flat spots on every wheel you have, the damage to both your cylinders, and your motion - on both sides, may I add. I could go on, but I will summarize: You are going to the works in the morning, and your overhaul is starting early.”

“S-sir?”

“It makes no sense to fix all this for a few months of service before your boiler ticket expires.” The Fat Controller was becoming slightly more animated, walking back and forth, trying to stretch out his legs after the long sit in the chair.

“O-of course, sir.” Gordon felt slightly overwhelmed. Not only did all of… this happen, but he was supposedly free of blame, and getting overhauled immediately?

“I know that this may be a lot to deal with all at once, Gordon, but you prevented a ghastly accident from occurring.” The Fat Controller at once became still, and looked the big engine in the eyes. “People likely would have died if not for your quick action. This is the least that we can do for you.”

“Yes sir,” Gordon said quietly, a lump forming in his throat. “Of course sir. Thank you, sir.”

The Fat Controller made his way to the door. “I have to leave you both now. Have a pleasant night.”

“You as well, sir.” BoCo and Gordon chorused out of habit as the door shut behind him.

The Fat Controller’s footsteps made it a few feet away, before stopping and returning to the building. “Ah yes, one other thing.” He said through the re-opened door. “I must congratulate you, Gordon.”

“Sir? On what?”

There was the barest hint of a smile on the Fat Controller’s lips. “Well, you obviously did not complete your time trial, but we were able to analyze the raw speed data.” A pause followed, with a small amount of glee coloring his face. “Aside from Pip and Emma, you remain the fastest engine on this Island. Well done.”

----------------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH GORDON | DNF | DNF | DNF | 121.63 MPH CAERPHILLY | 1:00 | 32:71 | 97.22 MPH | 115.16 MPH ABBEY?? | 0:59 | 30:59 | 102.98 MPH | 111.68 MPH SAMARKAND | 0:59 | 33:11 | 95.61 MPH | 110.09 MPH DELTA | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR | 1:01 | 36:12 | 86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH MARINA | 1:06 | 37:11 | 85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO | 1:02 | 36:22 | 86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH EDWARD | 1:05 | 38:55 | 80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH | 97.29 MPH

#ttte #sodor #sodor shenangians #fic #sentient vehicle headcanon #if you made it this far #congrats #you deserve a t shirt or something #I survived the NWR time trials and all I got was this lousy shirt

61 notes · View notes

wonysugar · 10 months ago

Text

self indulgent drabble because 1. writer’s block is truly eating my ass and 2. i just got struck with an idea as i heard an audio and i need to get it out of my system before i lose my motivation.. AND WHAT BETTER WAY TO DO THAT THAN WITH BELLEEE?!?

cw!! cheating(??) just to be safe, fem!reader is dating someone that’s amab! mentions of threesomes, lots, lots of dick mentions and dick sucking, if you don’t like dick at all this isn’t for you i’m really sorry</3

psst, by the way, p/n stands for partner name!

you and your partner have an amazing relationship, and an even better sex life, that much was obvious. although you both were content, you couldn’t help but feel the desire to improve your technique in certain.. aspects, of your love-making, mainly in terms of oral sex.

google was definitely not helping, and you were a bit too embarrassed to go and ask your significant other on feedback after having sex with them (despite how normal that actually is, contrary to popular belief.)

so, naturally, receiving your friend annabelle in your apartment a few days after having scheduled a, in her wise words, ‘important meeting’ wasn’t at all a surprise for you, especially since you made sure that p/n wasn’t at home at that time.

“hii!” belle stepped foot into your home as soon as you opened the door, immediately giving you a warm hug, thankful you even called her in here in the first place.

after politely offering her a cup of water and a bowl of snacks as thanks, she quickly got to work.

“alright, you were too nervous to explain it through text, so go ahead. what are the specifics here?” she asked, comically very serious about this whole thing.

you sighed, feeling the embarrassment leaving with each breath you exhaled, “it’s just— i think i have a problem when it comes to… you know.. my gag reflex, and all.”

“ah, i see..” she hummed, “‘problem’ is definitely a strong word though, no? oral sex isn’t a requirement, you know that better than anyone else, considering you’ve been with your partner for a while with no issues. i’m assuming you just want to learn to get them more riled up, huh?”

you stared, almost innocently, then nodded at the words.

“have you ever sucked dick before?” she continued, speaking as if this were a real professional appointment.

she chuckled upon seeing you reluctantly shake your head, “don’t worry sweetheart, by the time that we’re done, you’ll be able to take cock better than any porn star has.”

reaching for her large, seemingly filled-up backpack you had noticed her holding whilst walking in before digging into it. after a few seconds of anticipation, you saw your friend pull out a medium sized dildo, a slightly longer one and a much larger and more girthy than the previous ones.

“y-you brought stuff!?”

noticing how your blood rushed to your now fully covered face, she giggled, “of course i brought stuff y/n, i don’t think you realize how serious i’m actually taking this.” proceeding to pull out one more interesting looking item, “come on, you asked me for help, right? no need to get embarrassed now, girl.”

so you listened, and watched as she finished up preparing the materials, placing them in a line.

“alright, listen up.” she zipped the bag closed, threw it somewhere on the couch you two were sat on and sat up straight, motioning for you to do the same, and pointed to the first thing, “this is throat relaxant spray, like the name suggests, it relaxes your throat and your gag reflex, making it easier. now, i don’t really use it considering my gag reflex is practically non-existent,” you nodded at her words, your eyes fixed on said spray.

“but i did bring it thinking you’d maybe wanna start off slow just to be safe? maybe get used to the feeling of it in your mouth before going in raw and everything, but it’s honestly all up to you and what you wanna do.”

several minutes of her overexplaining the reasoning behind bringing each sanitized and differently sized dildo later, you eventually chose the format you found most similar to your partner’s and decided to opt out of the relaxant spray, much to annabelle’s pleasant surprise.

it didn’t take long before she stuck the phallic object to your wall and instructed you to suck on it the same way you would any other day. “don’t be nervous, i’m here to help.” she said, and that was somehow enough to put you at ease.

you began to do what you were told, fully aware that her attention was set on you, and you only. your lips wrapped around the head, you sucked and left gentle kisses whilst she watched you work your magic on the dildo. you heard occasional hums from beside you as you kept your mouth around the same area of the dick.

“you’re doing good, but, aren’t you spending a little bit too much time on the head?” she placed, making you pull away from the object before you, “i know you’ll gag, but try to give some attention to the entirety of the dick. here, let me show you.”

she scooted towards you, and you simply stared at her, “oh— we’re using the same.. dildo?”

“..yeah? it’s just a little spit.” her lips formed a smirk, “just watch me, okay?”

you nodded and sat there, watching her demonstrate her blowjob technique and feeling yourself get… weirdly turned on by the sight, instead of feeling ‘taught’, in a sense. the way she slowly worked her way up from kissing and licking the head to fitting the entire shaft into her mouth, almost effortlessly, got you thinking about how she’d give your partner head, guiding you on how to pleasure them further than you usually do— alright let’s not get ridiculous, you internally scolded yourself, leave the dirty fantasies for later, when you aren’t trying to learn from her.

“see how i did that? you can’t just focus on the head forever, that’s why i like to slightly pump the shaft with my hand whenever i’m not throating.”

“honestly just sounds like you’re just trying to brag, at this point.” you joked, faking an annoyed expression. that earned a laugh from her.

then, after a constant cycle that consisted of her explaining things and you doing them, annabelle had taken the dildo off of the wall whilst wearing a mischievous expression on her face. “now, let’s kick things up a notch; get on your knees.”

your eyebrows furrowed and eyes widened ever so slightly at her words, you stuttered, “excuse… excuse me?—“

“i said, get on your knees.”

and despite getting no further explanations, you still, for some unknown reason, did exactly as you were told. now sitting on the ground facing the sofa, you waited for further instructions.

“you need to get immersed.” she paused, then held up the dildo, “so, i’ll hold it for you and thrust it into your mouth while you suck it, alright? i won’t go fast or anything, so don’t worry about that.”

and of course, you obliged.

upon her signal, you immediately applied everything that she’s been teaching you throughout this entire session onto your technique, fueled by her occasional praise.

“remember to use your tongue, y/n.” she reminded, thrusting the cock in and out of your mouth, slowly, watching you as if she could feel it.

“suck the tip and—“ you bobbed your head down onto the shaft, taking in as much length as you could without gagging. “—work your way down, that’s it baby, slowly.”

oh man, that pet name definitely elicited a reaction from you that you did not expect; you felt butterflies in your stomach, almost certain that a pool was growing in between your legs.

she definitely noticed it, too. how could she miss it when you’re looking up at her like she was the one you were sucking off?

“awe, you’re getting excited, aren’t you?” she bit her lip as she tucked your hair behind your ear, “such an eager girl, suck on it baby.”

she let out quiet, airy moans as you worked your magic, in hopes to get you more and more immersed, and while it did, it also did nothing but get you riled up to a great extent. hell, you were practically drooling onto her— the cock at that point. “look at you, not even a few hours in and you’re already doing so good. mmh, you look so pretty taking it, too.”

that went on for a while, and what she didn’t tell you was that that dildo in particular, was an ejaculating one, you found that out by yourself later on.

needless to say, you felt especially different when you eventually walked her out of your apartment an hour later, and she couldn’t help but notice how still visibly embarrassed you were from that weirdly intimate interaction, but she found it amusing, endearing, almost.

“next time, you’ll invite p/n to tag along, won’t you?”

#smut #kpop gg #female reader #kiss of life smut #belle kiss of life smut #annabelle shim #belle x female reader #annabelle shim x female reader #shim hyewon x female reader #shim hyewon smut #kiof belle smut #kiof belle x female reader

191 notes · View notes

billythesimp · 11 months ago

Note

Hellooo! I've seen your work and i was really amazed by your work. It's just pure mwah 🤌🏻❤️

I thought you were close on request before, so when i see it finally open i was in joy like fr. (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠) I have few but im gonna slow with you since im sure you also busy.

So mine is Wise (you can add any other characters) x reader (prefer fem but gn is also okay). “when he saw someone else start to flirt with you (and he is jealous).”

If not, feel free to skip this request. I completely understand. Have a nice day and make sure take care of yourself (⁠/⁠^⁠-⁠^)/❤️

How do I write a Jealous Character... Oki here I go then.

[Proceeds to then stare at the screen for another 10 minutes trying to write a jealous character]

I think he came out more overprotective then anything ;-;

Who's This Dear?

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎…

Sorry for disappearing for a bit, decided to take a break and figure out a schedule that wouldn't give me writers block oh so quickly! Also another note, I promise I'm not just a Wise account, people just love this goof! Me included!

Wise x fem!reader

𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡…⋙

tw: OOC / Use of [Name] instead of Y/N

✦ Usually customers were not a big problem at Random Play, with the experience he had gained from being a store manager leading to him adapting to the more tougher requests and issues it came with. He keeps a calm face and offers solutions to many people's problems. And a lot of the time, they are satisfied with his care that regulars swear that Belle and Wise are some of the efficient and caring managers there are. They never get mad or yell, the handle almost every interaction with care and patience. Because of that, Wise prides himself in having gained that reputation on Sixth Street.

✦ What he also has pride in is what a wonderful girlfriend he has working alongside them. Almost everyone they work with or know on the street know of Wise’s Girlfriend. While she may only work part time during the week, she’s made an effort in getting to know Wise’s connections and making friendly conversation with their fellow vendors on the street. Every time Wise sees her chatting up with their regulars or laughing with someone like General Chops or Master Tin, he can’t help but have his heart swell in joy that they really are such a great person and that everyone approves of them already. Really, Wise believes he scored with this one, the amount of times Belle has joked about them getting married may happen sooner rather than later.

▿

That being said, it’s during one of the shop’s working hours that it happened. He decided to take inventory of what stock they had around the store, [Name] incharge of manning the counter as Bangboo 18 needed a well-deserved recharge. But as he was shelving some recordings, he heard the angelic laughter of his love that left him wondering just what they could have been laughing at. Peeking out the slot of the staff door, he watched as some random man leaned on the counter. He held a smug look on his face as she only waved him off, a pleasant yet confused smile on their face leaving a growing pit to form in his stomach.

‘Who the hell is he?’

Wise straightened up his jacket before walking outside to see what they had been talking about. “Oh come now, don’t be so modest. After all, a pretty face like yours surely is what keeps this business going. Why not take a break, how about we get some lunch together after your break- eh?”

“Oh hey babe, how’s the counter treating ya?” Wise saddled up to the counter with his hand hovering over the small of their back, watching as they relaxed at his touch. “Oh- Wise! It’s been good, um. Do you know if we have this movie in stock by chance? I couldn’t find it on the system…” She tucked a hair behind her ear, smiling before letting him slide in and take a look on their small tablet holding all their movies listed in rented/overdue/in-house. The man before stepped back as he did this, slowly getting nervous.

“Ah- yeah, I looked around and couldn’t find it. Hehe…”

“Hmm, oh [Name], you’re due for your break. I can watch things from here.” She perks up at this, smiling before asking him about sharing lunch together again. “I’m down for sandwiches- OH we could get to 141 and grab some snacks. I’ll go now actually!” With that, she entered the staff only only to return after with her purse and kissing him goodbye, waving to the stranger and wishing him luck with his movie search.

“Hmm, sorry sir, Looks like what you’re looking for isn’t here. Could I recommend anything else for you? Perhaps something that isn’t already someone else’s property?” Wise sneers at the stranger, a kind-hearted look plastered onto his face despite the dark tone in his voice that only left the man to shiver at his work.

“Um, looks like it's not here… I’ll be going then.”

“Oh, please do.” With a wave, Wise’s closed eye smile turned into a deathly glare as he left and walked the opposite way from where [Name] had gone. Once he figured that he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon, he let out a sigh of relief and slumped down. The one time he leaves his girlfriend alone and someone already tries to make a move on them.

“Well that was a sight, huh?”

Belle entered from the backdoor, playfully teasing her brother as he reeled back in shock out of her sudden timing, all the while Eous runs up to his second parent and leaves comforting pats on his legs. “What happened with [Name]? I thought she was watching the front for me?” Wise sighs before muttering out a small explanation, embarrassed as he never lost his cool like this before. Other than the time Belle got lost in a Hollow, he's never overreacted to this extent. He’s only glad that it was Belle and not [Name] who entered, he wouldn’t know how she’d react if she realized he was jealous and became protective of them.

“Way to show who’s the boss around here. Man, I kinda wish I could have seen it.”

“Master, I have full access to the store camera’s and save every recording for the next 30 days until removal. I can pull it up on the H.D.D System for you.” Before Wise could refuse, Belle is already running into the Staff room to save the recording before it was too late.

“Wise! I’m back! And I got your favorites!”

The bell rang as [Name]’s cheering caught his attention while they held up two small bags filled with various candies and snacks. He could only smile, approaching them and pulling them into a tight hug. “Thanks love, I really appreciate it. Now how about we watch a movie in my room for a while, huh?”

He is only grateful that he has such a loving and thoughtful girlfriend by his side.

#zenless zone zero #zzz #zonelist #headcanons #wise #wise zzz #wise x reader #fem!reader #established relationship

158 notes · View notes

b33zlebubz · 1 year ago

Text

RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER ONE - school, life, and a punch to the face TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC) MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

If hell is real, you’re pretty sure you’re dead.

Time drags on; seconds feeling more like hours and hours feeling like an eternity—punctuated only by the shriek of the occasional bell. It’s a familiar limbo you’ve grown to tune out in favor of your daydreaming, interrupted only by the end of a period or the sound of your name being called from across the room. Your pencil taps idly against the desk with the beat of your heel against the floor. Untied shoelaces pull taught under your feet when you shift to lean forwards, squinting at the equations scribbled across the whiteboard by a wrinkled, dark hand. Numbers and letters swirl together.

Mrs. Hall. An elderly, frail, equally as tired woman—worn down by decades of bullshit brought on by stubborn, unmotivated students much like the kids behind you, whispering and snickering in a way that made your eye twitch with deep irritation. Still, you’re not much better, your mind lost in thought staring at rain that pounds against the ground of upstate Texas until the sound of your name stirs you from the depths of your own brain. When you look up, confused, Mrs. Hall stares back at you with an expecting stare—and a few students are turned around to stare at you.

You’re also pretty sure if hell is real—it's the American Public School System.

“Uh…”

“The three X’s in number five,” Mrs. Hall taps the equation on the board with the marker. “On the homework.”

“Right. Sorry,” your tired eyes flicker down to the chicken scratch on the paper in front of you, scanning the crumpled paper for the answer you hastily scribbled down earlier that day. “Three, square root of two, and negative one?”

“Incorrect.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, scratching at your neck as you try and fail not to notice when one of the boys behind you stops whispering mid-sentence and stares daggers into the back of your neck. Shit. Fuck.

That’s the last time you do someone else’s algebra homework. Math, in all its forms, was your academic Achilles heel.

The rest of fourth period escapes you. After what feels like a lifetime and a half of talking and scribbling on your paper, the bell rings out across the classroom. Like Pavlov’s dogs—the students instinctually rush to life—shoving chairs and throwing backpacks over their shoulders, eager to get on with the day.

You're quick to sweep your things into your backpack and high-tail it towards the door of the classroom before a certain boy behind you can notice you've left already.

Mrs. Hall says your first name again. You stop in your tracks, not missing how your fellow student sends you an angry look as he strides past to leave—crumpling the homework you did for him the night before to add to the effect. He must be telepathic, because you swear you can hear his voice without him even saying anything.

"You're dead."

Your feet shuffle towards the door, "can't talk, gonna be late—"

"I'll write you a pass."

"I have lunch next, though."

"No you don't." Mrs. Hall scoffs, shooting you an unamused look from over her rectangular glasses. "You think I don't know your schedule by now?"

You awkwardly shift your weight from one foot to the next, "worth a try."

"Sit," she gestures beside her.

You hesitate, almost arguing further, but you sigh instead. Getting lectured actually sounded much better than whatever hell waited for you out in the hallway the second you walked outside. You let your backpack fall from your shoulders as you drag it over with you to collapse into the chair beside your teacher's desk. Your eyes flicker up to where her frail hands card through some papers.

"You graduate in two months, dear." She reminds you, as if you haven't been scratching the tallied days into a spare notebook like you're on death row. "Your test scores are average but all the homework seems to be…lacking. If you even do it at all."

Average. A word that's been thrown around a lot regarding your name, which you intended to stick with. Average meant nobody would stick their nose in your business—that you could blend in with the crowd and avoid any and all weird glances and low whispers. You made the mistake of showing off once, to snap back at your dickhead classmate; only to end up doing his bidding for the rest of the semester.

You figure Mrs. Hall won't take very well to being told that the reason you aren't completing your homework is because you're too busy doing Ben Davis's under the threat that he won't smash your face against the lockers again. Broken noses are a special level of hell, but it still isn't as low as the torture that is highschool.

"Maybe I joined some sports," you quip sarcastically. "Don't have as much time as I used to."

She only deadpans at you.

You stare innocently back at her. If you play dumb enough, maybe she'll finally give up.

"I'm not attacking you. Just worried. If you need some extra time because—" she lowers her voice and the bracelets around her tiny wrist jingle as she waves it about, "---because of your family life, or anything…I'm willing to give it to you."

Your brow lowers, annoyance beginning to nip at your nerves as you sit up a little straighter.

Pity. You've long grown tired of it. You weren't some fragile orphan—no. You were an adult who, in two months, would finally be free from the clutches of your frustrated social worker and the slew of whatever excited, naive couples the system dumped you on. People have been tip-toeing around you your whole life, and it never fails to make your fists clench.

"My grades are average, you said," you say, stern—poking the score on one of your tests with a pointer finger. "I don't need help."

"I don't doubt you don't need help, sweetheart. But you're a smart kid. Really smart, if you put the effort in. I'm just saying if you ever need any extra—"

"I'm fine. If you really wanna help, you won't make me late to my next class."

Mrs. Hall seems to freeze, stunned at the bite her otherwise quiet student seems to bear. The clock ticks above your head, the rain pitters against the window outside and, for a moment, shame floods your senses; but it fades as the seconds pass and that concerned look on her face deepens.

You're the first to look away, picking up your pack and turning for the door. "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Hall."

"Wait."

You stop, tossing your head back with a sigh. "What?"

"Tie your shoes, sweetheart," she says, her voice kind as she turns away to tap your stack of tests on the desk. "You'll trip walking around like that."

You only frown and duck out the door.

The rest of the school day passes in a familiar haze. You space out throughout two of your classes, goof off for the rest, and get your shit handed to you the second school is out. Ben takes the time to lecture you as well after he levels you in one punch—and you sit rubbing your jaw, bored, as he goes on and on about how you did that shit on purpose and next time, you're fucking dead.

He needed a perfect score to pass the class. In a low moment of pain, you promised it to him despite the fact that your algebra skills had much to be desired. Still, with a little bit of extra effort—you managed to make it through most of the second semester without a black eye.

You're the one that always bleeds; but a part of you finds it funny how he always finds a way to talk himself into angry tears, storming off somewhere distant while kids scramble to get out of his way to avoid the same fate as you.

And, as always, you pick yourself up, wipe the blood from your face onto the sleeve of your jacket—and walk away.

Because that's all you can do.

The rain settles deep in your clothes as you make your way home, music loud in your earbuds. It's silent and gray, as it has been all week, and your thoughts are mere static as you drag your feet back to your front doorstep. Your bed is calling for you after such a shitty day and the bruise forming on your left eye is just making the blankets seem all the more welcoming.

You barely notice how your door is already unlocked when you enter.

Inside, the house is just as silent and empty as the rest of your street. Rain drips to the floor in a steady rhythm as you pad across the living room of the house, dropping your backpack to the floor. Muscle memory leads you to the bathroom—where things are, as usual, spotless.

You've seen plenty of bad homes and residencies during your time in the system. Most of them blurred together in a long string of things you wished to forget; either by the caretakers' fault or your own. This house, though, was high on your list of favorites. Your folks were never around, and if they were, they were asleep. When you weren't working; you usually had the house to yourself.

"Fuck," You breathe, prodding at the swelling flesh around your eye. You run some water over it and the irritation dulls slightly as dried blood turns the water pink. Excuses run rampant through your mind as you scramble for a way to explain the injury---because you're pretty sure they won't believe you if you said you tripped again.

That's when you catch movement from your doorway. Shuffling.

You whip around just as the movement disappears, and suddenly the quiet house turns eerily silent. Your eyes lock on the doorway as the sink continues to run and water continues to drip from your clothes.

Nothing.

You turn the sink off.

Your brow furrows, eyes locked on the cracked door of your bathroom as your hand grabs hold of the first weapon you can get your hands on—a shower curtain rod. One foot after the other, you peak around the corner.

Again, nothing.

Out of some itch of paranoia—or just completely on coincidence—you happen to turn your head to the wall next to you. Instead of an empty corridor like you expected, you're met with a face.

A face that immediately lunges at you the second your eyes widen.

You stumble to the side with a yell just for the individual to grab your arm, and the curtain rod falls to the floor with a clatter. You struggle as he yanks you to the side and around the corner and, before you have the chance to react, cold metal is pressed to your back.

"Don't fuckin' move," a voice hisses in your ear, and you stiffen.

You wheeze, struggling against his hold, "who–"

"Your gardian fucking angel," he sneers, shifting to clap a hand over your mouth. You thrash again—but it's useless. The gun presses painfully into your side. "I said don't move."

A thump echoes through the room, and suddenly you see why.

You fight to keep your breathing under control as you stay firm against your captor's geared chest, still as a statue. Your heart slams against your ribs and your ears as you listen to each heavy footstep against the floor, and your eyes widen whenever a second soldier creeps down your hallway. Standard camo and green clothes shuffling as he walks.

You catch the long muzzle of a rifle over the soldier's shoulder, and suddenly you find yourself leaning into the gun pressed into your back. The hand on your mouth tightens, silently shifting you away from the door.

The shifting of gear and the click of the rifle echo in the silent house as your nails dig into the skin of your captor's wrist. You watch a muscle in his stubbled jaw twitch near your face as the sound of your first name echoes through the hall, sing-song and taunting.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Think. Think. Think.

“If y’know what’s best for ya’…” A thick Scottish accent taunts from down the hall as he nudges the curtain rod with his foot, causing it to scrape against the wood floors. “You’ll quit puttin’ up a fight and show yourself.”

You glance over to meet your captor’s gaze. A flicker of anger crosses his eyes, nose wrinkling into a scowl. He has a scar across his cheek.

Then, suddenly, he shifts, pulling you further away from the doorway. His grip on your shoulder is deathly tight as it digs into your clothes. He lifts his finger from the trigger of his gun only to bring it to his lips in a silent command to stay quiet, stay with me.

Panic burns bright and all-encompassing through your veins. For whatever reason—all your body will let you do is shake and listen.

He ducks around the corner, pulling you with him. You have to force your feet to move.

The Scottish soldier stops just at the end of the hall, hulking frame and what must be at least thirty pounds of gear making him a jarring sight against the flowered wallpaper of your foster home. He must have an earpiece of some kind; because you hear him whisper every so often as he sweeps the hallways.

"They're here," he mutters. "Little fuck's just good at hiding."

It's tiny and muffled, but in the deathly silence of the house you can make out two voices in his earpiece that reply to him. One female, the other male. You can't decipher what they say but their responses make him growl in frustration.

"C'mon, we don't got all day…"

Tense, your captor shoves you along to another room. He signals something down the hall, where you spot more movement in the house. More soldiers—these ones dressed in similar, dark garb to the man who still presses a gun to your side. They have bigger weapons, concealing helmets.

Startled, you trip over your shoelaces.

Your captor scrambles to grab you before you clatter to the floor. He curses just as the Scottish soldier whips around, gun pointed and ready.

There's a solid two seconds of complete silence. Your gaze meets with the Scott and his eyes widen. Then, he spots the other man with a gun pointed at you.

That's when all hell breaks loose.

You scramble to your feet and bolt. The Scott is the first to grab you, and he's met with teeth deep in his arm. He yells out as you kick free, gagging on the metallic substance that floods your mouth.

There's shouting. Movement. Gunfire lights up your house with noise and lights as you wipe your mouth, stumble, and fly down the stairs in a blind dash for your front door.

Instead, you run directly into something solid—Landing you flat on your ass. Again.

Panting, panicking, your eyes rake up dark figure; past two giant boots, a geared chest, and hands that clench a rifle in their grip to meet a masked face and bored eyes. You scramble backwards against the wall with a yelp. The sound of yelling, gunfire, and heavy footsteps flood the rest of the house as the masked man's eyes widen at you. You stare at each other; you, sizing him up and him, confused.

"Graves?!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

"Commander! We lost the kid!"

"Does anyone have a visual??"

"L.T.!"

The skull-faced man finally leaps into action at the sound of what must be his rank—because he's suddenly moving faster than you can realize more soldiers are flooding around the corner. In a flurry of practiced movement, he grabs them.

You yell out as he knees one of the men and shoots the other. Blood splatters across the walls and your clothes. Then, he fires twice more at the soldier unconscious on the ground—and the house goes quiet other than your pounding heartbeat.

The towering man before you shifts, and the floorboards creak under his feet. He rolls his shoulders and let's out a breath as he stands, slowly, up to his full height. He turns, and the same blood that splatters across the walls runs in tiny rivulets across the skull of his mask. His voice thick and low when he speaks.

"You broken?"

Your shaking hands lower from your ears as your eyes then rake across the corpses at his feet, but it's no use. Through the ringing in your ears, your racing mind is unable to put together what he says for a few minutes. It's even more impossible to tear your eyes away from the blood splattered against the patterned wallpaper.

You swallow and shake your head.

"Good." Nonchalant, he lowers his gun and shouts down the hall.

"Johnny, you with me?"

"Over here, L.T.," grunts the Scottish voice from down the hall. "That little shit Graves—"

"Let 'em go. We'll deal with 'em later. We got what we needed."

Johnny curses in response, but mutters a begrudging "copy" as he saunters over—nursing the clear bite mark in his arm.

Then, the Lieutenant's eyes shift in your direction. His hand twitches, almost reaching out to you, and you pull your legs closer to your chest against the wall. Blood soaks your untied laces. You clamp a hand over your mouth as you will your breathing to settle. It doesn't.

He freezes. Then, to your relief, he turns away and presses a finger to his ear.

"Bravo 0-7 to Actual; five shadows have been compromised on the property. Looks like the Shadows got the word the same time we did. Could be others, too. Things got bloody, but…" The lieutenant's eyes meet yours again as he speaks. Through the bloodied skull mask, his gaze holds a calm resolve that's probably supposed to be comforting, but it only makes your skin prickle.

"...we got the kid."

It's quiet, but you can hear static before someone speaks on the other end of the communication device.

"Copy that, Bravo. We'll clean up the mess," A female voice replies. "Bring 'em home safe, boys."

"Roger that."

#kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty x reader #call of duty reader insert #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john price x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader

403 notes · View notes

vivencyglobal · 6 months ago

Text

Streamline School Schedules with Web-Based Bell Solutions

Discover the future of school time management with our cutting-edge Web-Based School Bell Solutions. This innovative system allows seamless scheduling and management of school bells via a cloud-based platform. Easily customize bell schedules, integrate with PA systems, and access remote control capabilities. Enhance punctuality, reduce manual errors, and ensure smooth daily operations with a user-friendly interface accessible on any internet-enabled device. Perfect for modern educational institutions aiming to optimize efficiency and embrace smart technology.

#Web-based school bell #School bell solutions #Online bell system #Digital school bell #Smart school bell #Bell scheduling software #Cloud-based school bell #Automated bell system #School time management #Web bell system

0 notes

raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 months ago

Note

Good morning, Trein-sensei. Can you explain how your time as a Noble Bell College student was? Here is a box of vichyssoise and a hair brush for Lucius. Have a good day.

I know that Trein says he met his wife at NBC, but I don't think that confirms he's a student there? 🤔 (Cuz he could have been visiting from another school or something!) Just because we don't have clarification, I'm going to treat this as though Trein was asked about the school itself rather than his time at it.

A Storied Past.

You slid into the seat across from him, setting your lunch tray down. All your favorites from the cafeteria buffet were plated along with a carton of your drink of choice. The best time of the school day was here: Trein's story time.

The older gentleman dipped his spoon into the bowl of vichyssoise you had provided. It was so thick, so creamy, that it entirely coated his implement and stuck there, refusing to dribble. The odor was strong--potatoes, leeks, onions, and a medley of fresh herbs. He closed his thin, papery lips around the fragrant spoonful and swallowed, nodding with satisfaction.

(Beside him, Lucius pawed at the hairbrush's bristles. After classes finished for the day, Trein had promised to thoroughly groom his familiar.)

"Noble Bell College is a school much smaller in scale than our Night Raven College. However, the quality of the education it provides is by no means lacking," Trein explained--the start of a very long lecture, you suspected. "Following in the footsteps of the Righteous Judge, Noble Bell has mandatory courses in theology, law, and ethics. Graduates are to have integrity, good judgment, and, above all else, are willing to ask questions of even commonly regarded truths. There are extracurriculars unique to Noble Bell as well... Hand Bell Club, Choir Club, and more.

"The student population is not large enough to justify several dormitories or the implementation of dorm leaders. Instead, Noble Bell has a student council. In addition to governance, they also serve as the go-between for students and staff, relaying any issues from peers and working with administration to resolve those issues. It is a very different system than Night Raven, but it has proven quite efficient for their needs.

"It is not only the student council with their share of duties to fulfill. Every student is expected to participate in the daily ritual of cleaning the campus. There is a rotating schedule, with students assuming new chores each day. Even the gargoyles at the top of the bell tower are carefully tended to. Many students engage in charity and volunteer work too—Noble Bell is very involved in its local community.”

“Wow, the culture of NBC sounds so different from NRC,” you marveled. “Every arcane academy has its own quirks!”

“Indeed.” Trein went for another sip of soup. “Perhaps someday you will have the opportunity to visit more of them. There are a number of institutions beyond Night Raven College, and many insights to glean from each of them. Why, Royal Sword Academy is just on the other end of Sage’s Island.”

Your heart fluttered with newfound excitement.

“You really think the headmaster would let me go over there?”

“I don’t see why not. We instructors should encourage our students’ curiosity, not stifle it—and it seems to me that you’ve plenty of curiosity to spare.”

“Mrrrow.”

Trein’s eyes flicked to his familiar. “You see? Lucius agrees. You have potential as a scholar. Noble Bell College would have happily welcomed you among its ranks.”

#disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland #Mozus Trein #Lucius #Reader #self insert #sing sweet nightingale #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #glorious masquerade spoilers

52 notes · View notes

gallifreyinstituteforlearning · 2 months ago

Text

📢 ANNOUNCEMENT: System Outage Resolved

We're pleased to report that the system outage at the Gallifrey Institute for Learning has been resolved! Our tech team has restored normal operations across campus.

🛠️ Tech Team Debrief

After extensive investigation, the outage was traced to the following probable root causes:

A rogue toaster attempting to overwrite mainframe authority protocols with a toast-based operating system ("CrumbOS 4.2").

A minor wormhole in the janitorial supply closet.

Something to do with Oxgawoa.

All issues have been resolved:

🍜 Food Machines: Now correctly dispensing Gallifreyan cuisine again.

🔔 Cloister Bell: Back to emergency-only chimes. If you still hear it every 42 seconds, please check for paradox leakage.

🌀 Transmat System: Now delivering people to intended locations. Please report if you find yourself in prehistoric Skaro.

🎨 Lighting Controls: Colour palette has been reset.

🖥️ Archive Terminals: Fully operational. Gallifreyan cat memes have been archived.

Daily posts will resume shortly. Thank you for your patience during this minor infrastructure collapse! We now return to our regularly scheduled temporal programming.

Announcements by GIL

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features: ⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

#doctor who #dr who #dw eu #gallifrey #GIL #gallifrey institute for learning #GIL: Announcements #whoniverse #GIL: Internal

26 notes · View notes

thisapplepielife · 1 year ago

Text

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles December challenge.

Crumb Together

Prompt Day 27: Coffee Shop AU | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Modern AU, Meet-Cute, Platonic Stobin, Coffee Shop/Bakery AU, Fluff, Steve POV

Steve is carefully filling the bakery case. He's been here since three a.m., and it's still a half-hour until opening, but at least he's on time and not behind schedule for once.

"Hey dingus, do we need more muffins?" Robin hollers, banging through the double-doors from the back to the front.

"No, I have enough, thanks so much," he snaps. He's snippy this morning, pretty mad she ever talked him into this whole coffee shop scheme. Sure, they're retail pros, but small business owners? He should have said no fucking way. But she was excited, and he wanted her to be happy. That’s always his downfall.

He's definitely re-thinking that now that they’ve completely lost their social lives by keeping these insane working and sleeping schedules. They only see each other, which isn't the worst thing in the world, other than the fact that he doesn't know the last time he's touched boobies. Or dick. He's not picky.

He needs to get laid, and he can’t do that stuck inside this coffee shop slash bakery hell with his best friend.

He's about to turn and sass her, when someone taps on the front door and he jumps, throwing a chocolate muffin up into the air, fumbling it around, before finally regaining control.

He didn't drop it, but it looks a little worse for wear. He can't sell it like this.

Well, fuck.

If he was a hired hand, he'd ignore the annoying tapper until the official opening time. Which is twenty-nine minutes from now. But as the owner, he puts down his tray and walks towards the door. They could use the paying customer, even if they’ve shown up way too early, like a rude asshole.

He looks, but he can't see anyone out there in the dark. Maybe he should ignore it.

He doesn't, instead he unlocks the door, and there's a guy standing there.

"Hey, nice catch," the guy says, smiling.

Steve forces a smile in return, "How can I help you?"

"I know you're not open yet, but I saw you in there juggling the muffins, and I'm on my way out of town and really need a cup of coffee. My coffee maker decided this was the morning to croak," he says, slashing his whole hand across his neck, making a throat-slitting motion.

He's rambling, like Robin.

Steve finds it a little cuter on him, than he does when Robin does it at this ungodly hour.

Steve sighs, and opens the door wider to let him inside, "You just want black coffee?"

"Please," the guy says.

"I'll have to brew it. It'll just take a minute."

"Thank you, you're a lifesaver," he says, and Steve can see that he's looking at Steve's chest, looking for a name tag. But Steve's not wearing one. Because as the owner, he finally doesn't have to.

Robin is booting up the point-of-sale system, "Black coffee?" she repeats.

The guy nods.

"For?"

"Eddie," the guy answers.

"Good thing you asked him, I'd never know who to hand it to," Steve snarks at Robin, starting the coffee machine.

Eddie laughs.

Robin doesn't.

When it's done, Steve places the cup on the counter, and Robin immediately picks it up and writes Eddie's name on it.

Which, that's stupid. They all know it's Eddie's coffee. Then, Robin sacks up the slightly banged up muffin and hands it to Eddie.

"You scared him and caused him to squish it. So, it's yours. On the house!" she says, far too chipper for this time of morning.

"Thanks, I'll try to drop by and scare him more often," Eddie says, reading his name on his cup, grinning. Then Eddie slides a ten dollar bill across the counter, waving off his change.

As soon as the bell on the door jangles, signaling Eddie's departure, Robin turns and slaps Steve on the arm.

"What the hell? That cute boy wanted to flirt, and you totally dropped the ball, dingus!"

Steve scrunches up his forehead, "Huh?"

Robin just shakes her head, annoyed, and heads back towards the kitchen.

Is Steve so rusty that he missed flirting? Goddamnit.

Steve has just turned the front door lock, and flipped the sign to closed, when he hears his cell phone ringing somewhere in the distance. He follows the sound, and when he picks it up, it's a number he doesn't recognize. Great. More telemarketer bullshit.

He goes to swipe the decline button, when Robin shouts, "You better get that!"

He looks back at his phone and cautiously accepts the call, not knowing what the hell she's done now.

"Hello?"

"Is this Steve? From the coffee shop?"

"Yeah, this is Steve," Steve says, suspicious. He has no idea who he's talking to.

"Good, good. This is Eddie. From this morning. The coffee jerk that made you open early."

"Oh, uh, okay. Um…"

"How did I get this number?" Eddie asks, laughing.

"Yeah, that was what I was thinking," Steve admits.

"Well, somehow it ended up written on my coffee cup this morning, with your name and a time to call."

Steve shakes his head, Robin is such an asshole, but Steve smiles.

"Well, I'm not sure how that happened," Steve says, teasing back. Flirting.

"Big mystery," Eddie teases, "but since I've got you on the phone, would you like to grab dinner or drinks. Coffee?"

"No coffee," Steve laughs, "but yes. To the other two, for sure. But be forewarned, I eat really early. Like an old person. Early bird specials are my jam. And I go to bed by nine. Eight-thirty if I can get away with it. I gotta be here by three to get ready to open this place."

He's learned to get that info out of the way, early.

"Well, that sounds perfect. I get up at four to get to my jobsite. I'm in construction," Eddie says.

Steve smiles, it's been a while since anyone has understood his schedule.

"So, dinner? Four-thirty or five?" Eddie asks, and Steve laughs.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! ☕

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

#steddieholidaydrabbles #coffee shop au #bakery au #modern au #meet cute #steddie #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #steve harrington #robin buckley #platonic stobin #stranger things #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddieholidaydrabbles

220 notes · View notes

solarswonderland · 2 months ago

Text

HAVEN: CHAPTER 17

prev | masterlist | next

A whole year.

A whole year of peace. No monsters. No mind-controlling shadow creatures. No near-death experiences.

Hawkins felt normal again—well, as normal as Hawkins could ever be.

It was the summer of '85, and everything seemed to have fallen into place. Nancy, Jonathan, and Julie had just wrapped up their junior year. Steve, meanwhile, had officially graduated, although "barely" was the best way to describe it. He somehow managed to scrape by, and while he wasn't college-bound, he had landed a job at Scoops Ahoy—an ice cream shop in the brand-new Starcourt Mall. If nothing else, at least he looked ridiculous(ly cute) in his little sailor uniform, which Julie took every opportunity to tease him about.

Nancy and Jonathan were spending their summer working as interns at The Hawkins Post. Nancy was determined to prove herself as a real journalist, even if her assignments mainly consisted of making coffee. Jonathan, on the other hand, had landed a gig as a photographer, and while he wasn't exactly the office socialite, at least he got to do something he liked.

Julie had been working at Family Video for nearly two years, so her summer job remained the same. She didn't mind—it was easy, it paid decently, and she could make her own schedule. Plus, she had direct access to an endless supply of movies, which was a pretty good deal.

Everything was... nice. Normal.

Dustin had been away at summer camp for a month, which meant Steve had been moping around like a lost puppy. He would never admit it, but Julie knew he missed the little guy. Without Dustin, Steve was stuck with only Robin—his sarcastic, fast-talking, entirely-too-smart-for-her-own-good coworker—who was arguably even meaner to him than Julie was. It was great.

Julie went to Scoops Ahoy every day after her shift at Family Video, partly because she loved to mess with Steve, but mostly because Robin had quickly become one of her favourite people. She vaguely knew of her from school, but they had never really talked before. Now, after a few weeks of hanging out at the ice cream shop, she was convinced she liked Robin more than Steve himself.

It was a good year. A peaceful year.

And Julie hoped it would stay that way.

Hopefully.

Julie strolled into Scoops Ahoy, launching her backpack onto a table nearby.

Robin, slouched against the counter, barely glanced up. "Oh, look. It's Steve's emotional support gremlin."

Julie smirked. "Oh, look. It's Steve's biggest hater."

Robin scoffed. "That's offensive. I'm, like, his second biggest hater at best."

Julie leaned on the counter. "Oh yeah? Who's first?"

Robin grinned. "Steve."

Steve sighed. "Wow. Love the support system I have here."

Julie patted his arm. "Hey, at least you're in the top five of my favourite people."

Steve gave her a flat look. "I swear to God, if I'm number five—"

Julie grinned. "You barely made the cut."

Robin smirked. "Oof. Rough, Harrington."

Steve rolled his eyes and grabbed a tub of ice cream. "You know, I actually work here, unlike some people who just loiter around and insult me."

Julie placed a hand on her chest. "Wow. Steve Harrington? Working? Someone alert the press."

Robin smirked. "Nah, he mostly just stands around pretending to work while I do all the actual labour."

Steve shot her an unimpressed look as he grabbed an empty ice cream tub. "Wow. Love the teamwork here."

Julie grinned. "I mean... she's not wrong."

Steve sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Whatever. I'm going to the back to refill this."

As he disappeared through the door, Julie and Robin exchanged smirks.

Not even a minute later, in ran Lucas, Mike, Will, and Max.

Julie barely had time to react before Mike rushed up to the counter and slammed his hand against the little bell.

Robin arched a brow. "Hey, dingus. Your children are here."

A second later, the small window connecting the back to the front swung open, and Steve poked his head out, looking exhausted.

"Again? Seriously?" he groaned.

Mike, just to be a little shit, pressed the bell again.

"Can we go in the back?" Lucas asked.

"No," Steve said flatly.

Mike pressed the bell again.

Steve sighed again.

Robin, looking entirely too entertained, leaned in toward Julie. "I give it five more seconds before he caves."

Julie smirked. "Three, actually."

Sure enough, Steve groaned in defeat and waved them toward the door. "Fine. But if anybody finds out about this—"

"We're dead," the kids chorused before running past him.

Steve shook his head and returned to the counter, where Julie was smirking at him.

"They still using you to watch movies illegally?" she asked.

Steve grumbled. "Still? It's like I'm running an underground cinema for nerds."

Robin patted his shoulder. "Hey, at least they're keeping you in business."

"I don't get paid for this!" Steve shot back.

Just as he was scooping ice cream for another customer, the lights suddenly flickered—then cut out entirely.

The entire mall went dark.

"...The hell?" Steve muttered.

He walked up to the light switch and flicked it up and down. Nothing.

Robin folded her arms. "That's not gonna work, dingus."

"Oh really?" Steve muttered, flipping it again.

Robin looked unimpressed. "Yeah. Really."

Steve, still flipping the switch rapidly, muttered, "Maybe if I just—"

"Steve."

"Hold on—"

He slammed the switch down one more time—

—and suddenly, the lights flickered back on.

Steve turned to Robin with a smug grin. "Let there be light."

Julie, watching from the counter, snorted. "Wow. God himself."

Robin just shook her head. "Miraculous."

Steve pointed at her. "Exactly." Then, turning back to Julie, he asked, "You sticking around?"

Julie shook her head. "Nah, I'm heading home."

Steve gave a mock pout. "Aw, leaving me for once?"

Julie rolled her eyes. "Miracles happen."

Steve scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. Get outta here."

Julie was in the middle of eating her pancakes when Jonathan burst into the living room, muttering to himself about being late.

He had a lipstick stain on his cheek.

Jonathan had snuck Nancy into the house the previous night, fully expecting to be discreet about it. What he didn't know, however, was that everyone in the house already knew.

It wasn't hard to figure out. The creaking floorboards, the hushed giggles, the sound of the front door unlocking at an ungodly hour—none of it was subtle. Julie had heard it. Will had heard it. Even Joyce had peeked out of her room at one point, sighed, and gone back to bed.

So when Jonathan came stumbling into the living room the next morning, frantically buttoning his shirt and sporting a very obvious lipstick stain on his cheek, it wasn't exactly a mystery.

Julie, already halfway through her pancakes, exchanged a look with Will before taking a slow, exaggerated sip of her orange juice.

Joyce, raising an eyebrow, reached out to wipe it off, but Jonathan dodged her hand and rushed toward the door.

Will, deadpan, watched him leave.

"Gross."

Julie smirked, stabbing her pancake with a fork. "You'll understand when you fall in love, trust me."

Will shot back, "Yeah, like how you're in love with Steve?"

Julie nearly choked on her pancake.

She quickly recovered. "That's not—"

Will smirked. "You love him."

Julie narrowed her eyes. "Say that again and I'll put syrup in your hair."

Will, undeterred, grinned. "Steve Harrington is your boyfriend—"

Julie launched a napkin at him.

Will yelped, dodging it with a laugh. "See? Denial!"

Julie groaned. "You suck."

Will grinned. "Love you too."

Julie had barely stepped into Scoops Ahoy when she heard Robin's voice, smug and victorious.

"Another one bites the dust."

Julie raised an eyebrow as she walked up to the counter, watching as Robin grabbed a marker and dramatically slashed yet another tally mark under the "You Suck" category on the whiteboard.

"You are zero for six, Popeye," Robin announced, clicking the marker close.

Julie smirked, amused but also very confused. "Okay, what is this?"

Steve sighed, "Robin's keeping track of my "failed" attempts at flirting."

Robin leaned forward. "Failed confirmed attempts."

Julie let out a short laugh. "Wait, six?"

Steve groaned. "Yeah, I can count."

"You know that means you suck, right?" Robin teased.

Steve deadpanned. "Yep. I can read too."

Robin gasped. "Since when?"

Julie chuckled as Steve rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "What happened?" she asked.

Robin smirked. "Oh, just your best friend here trying to woo a customer and getting completely annihilated in the process."

Julie felt her smile falter just slightly, but she quickly masked it with a teasing tone. "Wow. Steve Harrington striking out? Never thought I'd see the day."

Her tone was playful, but deep down, it stung. She hated how much it still got to her—watching Steve chase after girl after girl, failing over and over, while she stood on the sidelines pretending not to care. But maybe it was for the best. The last thing she needed was to admit to herself how much she hated the way she loved her best friend.

Steve groaned dramatically, throwing a scooper into the sink. "It's this stupid hat, I swear. It's ruining my whole thing."

Julie tilted her head. "And what exactly is your thing?"

Steve gestured to himself like the answer was obvious. "You know. The hair. The charm. The irresistible Harrington effect."

Julie hummed, "I don't know...I think the hat kinda adds to the effect."

Steve scoffed, crossing his arms. "Oh, yeah? Since when?"

Julie leaned forward slightly, teasing. "Since right now."

Steve opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly his brain short-circuited because—was she flirting with him? No. No, that couldn't be right. Julie Byers never flirts with anybody. They teased, they joked, but—flirting? With him out of all people?

Instead of saying something smooth (or even remotely coherent), he blurted out, "Well, maybe you just have bad taste."

Julie's smirk widened. "Uh-huh. And yet you are still desperately trying to impress me with your failing attempts at seduction."

Steve blinked. "I—wait, what?"

Robin leaned on the counter. "Damn, dingus, she's got you there."

Steve groaned, rubbing his temples. "Okay, first of all, you two suck."

Robin grinned. "Scoreboard says otherwise."

Julie just rolled her eyes playfully. "Relax, Harrington. I'm just saying—it's not the hat that's the problem."

"Excuse me?"

Robin nodded. "She's got a point."

Steve turned to Julie. "So what, then? Am I just destined to be single forever?"

Julie shrugged. "I mean, maybe you just suck at flirting."

Steve scoffed. "Okay, rude."

Robin leaned on the counter. "I know it's a crazy idea, but have you ever considered telling the truth?"

Steve raised an eyebrow. "You mean the truth? Like, 'Hey, I couldn't even get into Tech, and now my douchebag dad is trying to teach me a lesson by making me get a job, and I make three bucks an hour, and I have no future?'" He said the last part with sarcasm, but Julie caught the hint of real hurt behind his voice.

Julie knew how much it had crushed Steve when he hadn't gotten into Tech. She still remembered the night he had found out—how he had shown up at her house with a six-pack, clearly upset, mumbling something about how his dad was right about him and how he was just another rich kid failure.

She had spent the whole night distracting him, playing dumb card games, making him watch The Goonies for the hundredth time, and even dramatically reenacting the entire Rocky montage to get him to laugh.

At one point, she stood on her coffee table, pretending to hold a microphone. "Steve Harrington, I present to you—The Award for Most Dramatic Man-Child of the Year!"

And he had laughed.

That was the thing about Steve—he thought he had no future, but to Julie, he was already so much more than he gave himself credit for.

But she never told him that.

Instead, she just smirked now and said, "To be fair, you make three-fifty an hour."

Steve huffed. "Oh, thanks, that totally makes me feel so much better."

Robin snickered before suddenly looking up. "Hey, twelve o'clock."

Steve turned around, and Julie followed his gaze just in time to see a redheaded girl with curly hair walk in with a friend.

Steve muttered, "Shit, shit—" and straightened his posture.

Julie and Robin exchanged a knowing look.

"You know what?" Steve suddenly said, turning back to them.

Before either of them could react, he grabbed his Scoops Ahoy hat and tossed it off—except he definitely didn't mean for it to hit Julie square in the face.

Julie blinked. "What the hell, Harrington?"

Steve barely even noticed. "Screw company policy."

Robin deadpanned. "Wow, you're a whole changed man."

Julie, still holding the hat. "Can I sue for workplace assault?"

Robin nodded. "I'll testify."

Steve rolled his eyes before turning back to the girl. "Ahoy, ladies!"

Julie and Robin immediately had to turn away to keep from laughing. Even the girl Steve was talking to looked vaguely terrified.

"Didn't see you there! Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavour with me? I'll be your captain—I'm Steve Harrington."

The girl blinked. "...Oh no."

Her friend snorted, and Julie and Robin exchanged looks.

Julie, whispering: "Ocean of flavour?"

Robin, whispering back: "He's drowning, actually."

Julie, smirking: "I think it's too late to save him."

Steve, oblivious, continued. "Can I get you guys a little taste of Cherries Jubilee? No? Anybody? Banana Boat? Four spoons? Share it in the booth? It's hot out there—"

The girls had already backed away slowly and were halfway out the shop before Steve could even finish.

Julie and Robin burst out laughing.

Robin wordlessly grabbed the marker and added yet another tally mark under "You Suck".

Steve turned back just in time to see it. "Come on!"

Julie leaned against the counter, grinning. "I mean, I think 'oh no' is a fantastic response to being hit on."

Steve groaned, rubbing his face. "You guys suck."

Julie smirked. "Yeah? Well, the scoreboard says otherwise."

Robin patted his shoulder. "Look on the bright side, dingus. At least Julie thinks your hat is cute."

Julie blinked.

Steve's eyes go wide, "I—w-what? No, I mean—shut up, Robin!"

Robin smirked but said nothing.

Julie, pretending so hard like her heart wasn't doing stupid things, grabbed her bag. "Alright, losers, I'm heading home."

Steve scoffed. "Wow, no faith in me at all?"

Julie smirked as she walked backward toward. "Nope."

Steve narrowed his eyes playfully. "You love me."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Try not to crash and burn too hard without me, Harrington."

Steve scoffed. "Please. I'm a pro."

Julie snorted. "Yeah, a real pro at making girls rethink their life choices."

Robin bit back a laugh as Steve glared. "Wow, real nice, Jules."

Julie smiled, "You love me."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

She smiled at Robin and him before heading home.

Steve watched her go.

He watched her go for half a second too long.

Robin noticed.

She glanced at the scoreboard, then at Steve, then at the door Julie had just walked through.

Huh.

Interesting.

She didn't say anything. Not yet.

But she added another tally under You Suck anyway.

Julie was curled up in bed that night, flipping through a magazine when her phone rang. She glanced at the clock—

11:47 PM.

With a frown, she reached for the receiver.

"If this isn't a life-or-death situation, I'm hanging up," she said, only half-serious.

"Wow. No hello? No Steve, my dearest friend, how are you?" came the familiar voice on the other end.

Julie sighed, shaking her head. "Harrington, do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said, voice slightly muffled. "But you'll forgive me because I'm good looking as fuck."

Julie scoffed. "That's debatable. What do you want?"

There was a slight pause before he responded, "Couldn't sleep."

Julie's brows furrowed. He didn't sound upset, but there was something softer about his tone, less playful than usual.

"So you decided to bother me?" she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

"Obviously," Steve said. "If I'm gonna be miserable, might as well drag you down with me."

Julie snorted. "Wow. You're so thoughtful."

"I try."

A comfortable silence settled for a moment before Steve spoke again. "What were you doing before I called?"

"Reading a magazine," Julie replied. "You interrupted my very important research on which '80s movie heartthrob I'm most compatible with."

Steve gasped. "Oh, well, my deepest apologies. I hope you got someone good. Preferably someone with great hair."

Julie flipped through the pages and found the quiz. "Let's see... I got Tom Cruise."

Steve made a sound of protest. "Tom Cruise? You'd dump me for Tom Cruise?"

Julie laughed. "I hate to break it to you, Harrington, but you were never in the running."

"Unbelievable," Steve muttered. "You have no taste."

"Says the guy who flirted with a girl using the phrase 'ocean of flavour.'"

Steve groaned. "You have to stop bringing that up."

Julie grinned. "You're right, I should let it go. But I won't."

"You're the worst."

Julie rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. "Alright, since you're apparently suffering from a sudden case of insomnia, what do you want to talk about?"

They fell into easy conversation, drifting from topic to topic without thinking too much about it. Julie told him about a lady at Family Video who argued with her for twenty minutes over late fees. He complained about how Robin spent the rest of the shift making fun of him because he doesn't have "ice-cream scooping hands", how he was pretty sure she enjoyed his suffering a little too much for his liking.

They argued over which movie had the most ridiculous plot, debated whether The Breakfast Club was overrated or not (Julie was right, obviously), and spent a solid five minutes making fun of Jonathan's taste in music.

"I love the guy, but if I have to listen to one more depressing indie song in his car, I'm gonna launch myself out the window," Julie said.

Steve sighed. "Y'know, if you ever get sick of Family Video, you could always come work at Scoops Ahoy."

Julie scoffed. "And wear that ridiculous uniform? No thanks."

"I look good in it," Steve defended. "You, on the other hand..."

"Excuse me, I'd rock that sailor hat."

Steve snorted. "Oh yeah? Prove it."

Julie smirked. "Maybe I will."

It was stupid how easy this was. How they could go from playful insults to genuine laughter in seconds, how talking to him felt like the most natural thing in the world. Julie felt herself relaxing, sinking into the sound of his voice, the warmth of his stupid jokes, the way he made her feel like she could stay on the phone forever.

She didn't realise how late it had gotten until she yawned.

"Tired?" Steve asked, his voice softer now.

"A little," she admitted.

"Alright, alright, I'll let you go." A beat. "But, uh... thanks, Jules."

"For what?"

Steve hesitated. "Just... for being here, I guess."

Julie swallowed. "Always, Harrington."

They said their goodnights, and Julie hung up, staring at the ceiling for a moment, letting out a long breath.

Then—

"You are so in love with him," Will's voice came from the doorway.

Julie nearly jumped out of her skin. "Jesus Christ—"

She turned to see Will, Jonathan, and her mother standing in the hallway, all smirking at her.

"Were you all eavesdropping?!" she hissed.

Jonathan crossed her arms. "Hard not to, when you're giggling like a lovesick teenager."

Julie grabbed the closest thing to her—a pillow—and chucked it at him.

"I hate this family," she grumbled, burying her face in her hands.

Joyce patted her head softly. "Sure you do, honey."

Julie groaned as they giggled their way back down the hall.

Maybe she really was screwed.

21 notes · View notes