#and yet can rake their Hated Character across the coals without blinking an eye at the hypocrisy

[sailorstarr-chan4]

Fandom needs to relearn that you can criticize the things you love without automatically "canceling" it or making it "cringe" for continuing to like it or pulling a Cinema Sins by nitpicking arbitrary bullshit. I truly think the reason why fans are so infamously bad at criticism (both giving and receiving) is because we as a society have lost the art of nuance and critical thinking as a whole. People claim they're "criticizing" a character's poor choices, when in actuality, it's thinly veiled demonized bashing. People bend over backwards to defend a character they love who's heavily criticized for poor representation/harmful stereotypes/bad writing choices, while also being just as guilty towards characters they don't like.

That and the whole "projecting oneself onto a character/story for so long, it becomes an integral part of your personality, therefore a criticism of said thing is a direct attack of YOU." Which is false, obviously, but fandom has yet to understand that.

And frankly, there are times and places where criticism is NOT necessary as a whole. It's one thing to unpack why a story is riddled with problematic tropes, toxic behaviors that are romanticized, shitty plot devices, etc. It's another to disproportionately bicker and argue and pick apart an older story/characters, whose ultimate sin is simply being dated and not holding up with today's standards.

[joezworld]

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Next from the mind of Joe - a Sudrian tale about The Most Wonderful Time of The Year, Past and Present.

Ghosts of the Past 

Wendell the works diesel was a very happy engine most of the time, but around Christmas, he always seemed... well, quite unhappy, for lack of a better term. 

Because he lived in the Crovan’s Gate Works, which shut down for the last two weeks of December except in emergencies, most engines never saw this side of the otherwise cheerful blue diesel, and those that did assumed that it was due to him being shut up in the works over the holidays, away from his friends. 

December 24, 2019

Gordon sighed as the workmen rolled the door shut behind them. Of all the days to fail! He thought to himself with irritation. Christmas Eve! Damn that replacement fireman and his improper training! I shall miss Christmas and New Year’s!

A quiet snore behind him brought him out of his ruminations. Wendell was fast asleep behind him, lifted into the air on jackstands in one of the maintenance bays, with one of his traction motors in pieces around him. 

Gordon was surprised. Wendell had the same excitable temperament as Thomas and James, and Gordon would have assumed that the works diesel would be up until the crack of dawn, waiting for Father Christmas. To see him asleep before eight at night was out of character, to say the least. 

Although, the express engine thought as he settled in for the night, he might be onto something. 

The works were warm - almost toasty when compared to the biting December winds outside, and the excess holiday traffic had meant that all the engines on the Island were feeling exhausted by the 25th. 

Furthermore, with no other engines to keep him awake by asking inane questions about ‘what Father Christmas might bring’, Gordon might actually wake up decently rested on Christmas morning, and wouldn’t that be a miracle?

Electing to follow Wendell’s lead, Gordon shut his eyes, and quickly fell asleep. 

-

Have yourself, a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light. From now on, all our troubles will be out of sight...

Gordon stumbled back to wakefulness to the sounds of singing. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes, he looked around the works in confusion. 

It was still dark outside, and a digital time clock by the break room showed 23:38 on its face. He hadn’t been asleep for more than a few hours. 

Searching for the source of the singing, his eyes eventually landed on Wendell, who was slowly singing an old carol to himself. 

“It’s a bit early for singing, isn’t it?” He called across the room jovially - there was no need to be rude so close to Christmas. “We’ve still got half an hour!” 

Wendell started, clearly unaware that Gordon was awake. “What?” 

“It’s a bit early to be singing, Christmas isn’t for a half hour!” 

“Oh.” The diesel said morosely. “I suppose it is.” 

That was not the reaction Gordon expected.   “You suppose it is? Wendell, it’s Christmas Eve - a time for good cheer and goodwill among us all! How can you be so glum?”

“I don’t like Christmas.” The class 47 said simply. 

“What?” Gordon said with faux outrage. "What did the holiday ever do to you? Did you get coal in your stocking?”

“I have bad memories of Christmases past, okay?” Wendell snapped, sucking the levity out of the room.  

Gordon’s face fell. “My apologies.” He’d thought that the diesel was being difficult, not having an actual emotional event. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“No,” Wendell looked pained. “But staying silent hasn’t helped either.”

Without waiting for Gordon to respond, he began his story:

December 24, 1981.

They retired the Deltics at the end of ‘81. All through December and November, they’d run them ‘til they failed, then sent them off to Doncaster to be cut up. I think the ones that survived were retired in January or something - I wasn’t around to find out. 

I was waiting, at York, I think it was? - No, it was actually Doncaster, I remember now. 

Anyways, I was waiting - I’d brought in a fast goods up to this yard from London, and I was going to take a rake of old coaches that were being transferred to a new Depot to the west.

The coaches were coming in on the night express, and it was getting later and later and still the train didn’t come. The men were readying me to go out and rescue the train when it finally limped into sight. It was a Deltic, being towed along by a Class 37. The poor thing had failed halfway out of London, and they’d just hauled it along with the train, because they sent the 55s to Doncaster anyway when the end came. 

And they just dumped the train there on a bay platform - backed the consist in so the 37 could be taken off, and then just left it there. 

“That’s terrible,” Gordon said. “To be left like that. Especially on Christmas Eve.”

Oh yes. And it managed to get worse: it was so late by the time that they got in that my crew had gone home! So I was just left there on a siding until boxing day, right across from the Deltic - who had blocked in my coaches too! 

And,

and,

And she doesn’t say a word for almost the entire day after her crew left her. She said goodbye to them, wished them a Merry Christmas - which I am still shocked by to this day - that she was able to do that without crying, and then said nothing all night or the next day - Christmas day. 

Wendell paused to collect himself. Gordon noticed, but didn’t say anything about the tears beading up in the diesel engine’s eyes.

She was totally silent, until maybe a bit after eleven that night? Probably right about what time it is now, actually. And, there was a family, who was walking home from some party - and they had a radio on as they were walking by the station, and all you could hear in the bleak, snow-covered station was the Sinatra version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. 

And then, the Deltic - who hasn’t said a word to me all day, just slowly opens her eyes and says “I love that song”, and then just closes her eyes again. 

*sniff*

The next day, my driver had me pull the Deltic to the out of use line before we took the coaches. 

I pushed her in between three rows of her sisters and brothers, all covered with snow and ready to be cut up, and then backed away. Just before I’m out of sight, she opens her eyes, and starts singing that damn song to me. 

it

It

*sniff*

It echoed through the yard, and I could hear it until we left. I think a few of the other Deltics started too. 

They had beautiful singing voices.  

-

2019

“It wasn’t your fault, Wendell.” Gordon wished that he could offer more comfort than that. 

“I know.” Wendell said after a moment. “That’s not why I hate this time of year.”

Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Then what is?”

“It’s that I could have done more.” Wendell said, tears streaming silently down his face. “We - we were running late as it is - my engine was cold and wouldn’t turn over. My second man and the signalman just wanted me to take the Deltic with me so I wouldn’t miss my path - and then stick her on the back of the next goods train to Doncaster when I got to wherever I was going.”

He paused, his voice thick with guilt. “But, I had just spent two days next to this - this- this living corpse, and I didn’t want to be that close to her for that long. And I didn’t know any better - I was fourteen years old at that point - BR could do no wrong in my eyes, and if they wanted me to shunt that engine to the out of use lines, then shunt her I would. So when my driver said that my second man was daft, and the signalman was dafter - I - i - I didn’t argue.” 

“Wendell -” Gordon began. 

“I’m not finished.” The diesel cut him off. “Don’t offer me sympathy just yet.”

He continued. “And I didn’t want her with me, because I didn’t know where I was going! It was some obscure coach depot that I’d never heard of before - what kind of a name is Tidmouth, anyways?.” 

The penny dropped in Gordon’s mind. “You didn’t come to Sodor in January of ‘82, did you?” 

“December 31, 1981.” Wendell said sadly. “I came here on an empty stock move and got asked to stay forever, because The Fat Controller thought I looked like a useful engine. Imagine what he would have done if I’d dragged a wounded Deltic along with me?”

He would have kept the both of you and told BR to go hang. Gordon didn’t need to vocalize that thought - he could see in Wendell’s eyes that he was thinking the same thing. 

There was a small *chime* from the digital clock on the wall - it’s red numerals now read 00:00. 

“Would you look at that,” Said Wendell bitterly. “Happy Christmas, Gordon. Did you ask Father Christmas for anything?”

“Not this year, no.”

“Maybe it’s for the best - he never gives me anything either.”

“What do you ask for?”

“The chance to do it all over again. To agree with my second man and the signalman.”

“Wendell, as crass as this may sound, but perhaps you need to move-”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Wendell looked pained. “For most of the year, my troubles are miles away, and my heart is light.

But for right now Gordon, please don’t ask me to have myself a merry little Christmas night.” With that, the Works Diesel closed his eyes and fell asleep. 

Gordon - more than a little stunned by the night’s developments, took quite a bit longer to fall asleep - the digits on the clock reading 02:10 before he began to nod off. 

His last thoughts before he finally went to sleep were directed at Father Christmas: 

I don’t know if you’re real, and I don’t know if you can do what the children claim that you can - but please help Wendell.

-------

December 26, 1981

55 010 was barely conscious. There didn’t seem much point to it now - she’d meet her end whether she was awake or asleep, wouldn’t she? 

The 47 had shoved her into the sidings between Ballymoss and Highlander, but they were long gone mentally. A few of her family had been able to join in the singing, but most were nothing more than cold, dead metal. 

She supposed that she might have had a name once, but she'd forgotten it - BR had taken away everything else, so it was only fair that she got to take something as well. 

The yard was silent for a few hours, until an engine approached from the end of the line. It looked like the same 47.

--

Wendell was having the dream again. He was back in the dead lines at Doncaster, rolling among the silent locomotives like a spectre. He knew where he would eventually end up, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it - right in front of 55 010. 

If he was lucky, she wouldn’t start singing again. 

If he wasn’t, well, Gordon had already seen him cry once tonight. 

He rolled over the points at the end of the siding, his wheels screeching against the old rails as he trundled down the long line of dead Deltics - somehow there had been two long rows with an empty line in the middle - perfect for a long and heart-wrenching approach to a diesel that he’d condemned to death.

The engine’s eyes opened slightly as he drew near. 

“Weren’t you just here?” She said dreamily.

“Probably.” He whispered - she’d never spoken to him before. 

“Why have you come back?” Her voice drove into him like a cutter’s torch. That she didn’t even seem accusatory made it all the worse. 

“Because I’m sorry.” He said, voice barely audible. 

“Whatever for?” 

“For putting you here.” He didn’t stop rolling until his buffers were fractions of an inch away from hers. 

“You didn’t do that. I failed. I know why I’m here.”

“But I did. I could have taken you - taken you away from here. To Sodor. They would have saved you.” He was openly sobbing now.

The Deltic had opened her eyes fully, and was looking at him not with anger, hatred, or even pity, but instead downright bafflement. “What do you mean ‘would have’? I’m not going anywhere.”

Wendell tried to explain - to tell her that she was a figment of his imagination, that she should hate him, or be angry, or something...Anything...

But instead he broke down crying, his sobs echoing across the works yard. 

-

010 stared at the 47 in total confusion. Nothing about the last few minutes made any sense, least of all the grief(?)-stricken engine in front of her. 

At a total loss for what to do, she remembered something that Alycidon would do when someone in the shed needed to be calmed down. 

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Alycidon might have used Vera Lynn, but had always stressed that the emotion of the song was more important than the lyrics. 010 sang the song low and slow like a lullaby - cribbed from seeing hundreds of mothers calming their babies on station platforms. Each verse took much longer than normal, but it was very soothing. 

Let your heart be light

The 47 began mumbling the lyrics of the songs through his tears

From now on, all our troubles will be out of sight

Neither engine noticed the sparkling white mist pooling around their wheels

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

The 47 stopped openly weeping, but kept singing with his eyes shut.

Make the yule-tide gay

The sparkling mist was now encircling both engines completely. 

From now on, our troubles will be miles away...

The mist covered both engines entirely. As the word ‘away’ faded in the wind, the mist dissipated. Neither engine remained. 

Silence fell over Doncaster once more. 

-----

December 25, 2019

Here were are as in olden days

Gordon awoke to more singing. He mentally groaned and cracked an eye open, assuming that Wendell would once again need a friendly ear in the middle of the night. 

Happy golden days of yore

Sunlight was streaming in through the windows. Perhaps Wendell had managed to sleep through the night. 

Faithful friends who are dear to us

Gordon’s other eye slammed open as he realized that the singer was female. 

“Gather near to us onc-What on earth?!” The singer abruptly stopped singing. 

Gordon looked around wildly for the source of the voice, his eyes practically spinning around in their sockets before landing on -

on-

on- a Deltic. 

A Deltic who had been singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. 

“Excuse me,” he said in what he hoped was a calm tone. “But who are you?”

The Deltic opened her mouth to speak, and was cut off by Wendell, who had opened both of his eyes, realized that he was back in the works, discovered who was in the works with him, and began screaming so loudly that he fell off of the jack stands and crashed to the floor. 

The resulting clamour brought the Works’ security officer, who saw the engine that hadn’t been there last night, and called The Fat Controller. 

--

Stephen Hatt was experiencing many different emotions, most of them at the same time. 

The baffling appearance of previously-scrapped Deltic in his works - in factory fresh condition no less! - with no sign of how she got there, was not how he wanted to spend Christmas morning. 

Even more baffling was the story that Wendell, Gordon and the Deltic told him - none of which made any sense whatsoever. 

“Maybe it’s a Christmas Miracle?” His wife suggested over the phone. 

“Yes, and maybe I’m secretly the Easter Bunny.” He said back to her. “I’m not looking forward to finding out who this engine belongs to.”

“You can do that after Christmas dinner, dear.” Helen said in a tone that meant there would be repercussions if he wasn’t home ASAP. 

Hanging up the phone, he took another look towards the Deltic. Something was wrapped around its buffer...

Upon closer inspection, it was revealed to be an elegant piece of red silk, tied into a bow, and a note. 

The note was done on heavy, cream coloured paper, and the text seemed to have been done with an old fashioned dip pen. 

Dear Wendell,

I apologize for the late delivery of your present, but I hope you understand that some presents require more work than others. Hopefully this will ease your slumber. 

Santa Claus. 

Stephen goggled at the note for a moment, before reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone so he could take a picture. His fingers didn’t close around his phone, instead grasping a small round object. 

Pulling it out of his pocket, he was shocked to see that he was holding a small, but beautifully decorated Easter Egg.