Chapter Text
Sometimes, 11 couldn't help but feel jealous of the human workers swarming around the factory. After all, when their workdays were over, they got to leave the drab steelworks, with its gray walls and even grayer windows, and go "home," which is apparently where people who loved them lived. They even got to see something called "the sun," which 11 certainly would have liked to see for himself if it was anything like the "giant ball of fire floating in the sky" that the workmen said it was.
As things were, however, 11 had never seen, nor was he likely to see, the sun. The steelworks in which he was imprisoned was a massive complex, and the day he'd arrived in this factory, it had been raining hard enough that not even a drop of sunlight could pierce the gray veil of the weeping clouds above. It well matched the gray livery he found himself wearing, nothing interesting or fancy; simply functional.
Thus, 11 had been given his number and his jumpsuit, and was sent to toil away, day in and day out, bringing large shipments of ore, finished steel, and everything in between wherever it needed to go. He'd be roused before dawn, long before the sun came up, assigned his work, then put away long after the sun had set. If he didn't know better (and he DID! He wasn't STUPID! Wasting time by asking questions got you in trouble, anyway; a lesson he'd learned the hard way), he would have called it a conspiracy.
Still, even if he couldn't see the sun, there was one bright spot in his life, and that was his driver (who also doubled as his stoker), Jill. Jill was a well-built woman with scars up and down her arms, a seemingly permanent scowl on her face, and deep brown eyes like bogs. Apparently, she had come to work in the steelworks during the Great War, and simply never left. It paid the bills, or so she claimed, and that seemed to be enough for her—or at least enough to put up with all of the bullshit she dealt with on a daily basis.
In fact, it had been Jill who'd walked 11 through life in the factory, giving him all of the guidance he needed. "You listen t' me, bud," she'd instructed on his first day of work. "I'm goin' t' tell ya like it is, n' anyone who tries ta give ye th' runaround? They're bad news, so stay away from 'em. They're not yer friend. Hell, nobody's got friends here; there's only people ye can stand, and truces wit' th' people ye can't." The driver had crossed her arms, her scowl deepening as she locked eyes with her engine, before coughing lightly into her sleeve. "Ye can't trust pretty words, so I'll say what I mean, n' yer gonna listen. Anyone who tries butterin' ye up or tryin'a get some'in outta ya's no good. Got it?"
"Y-yeah, I got it," 11 huffed, hoping he'd answered correctly, and this earned him a small nod from Jill, as well as a flash of a smile that the engine wasn't entirely sure he'd actually seen.
"Good, 'cause I'm not repeatin' myself. Now let's go."
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This initial lesson had ended up being one of the most fundamental, as 11 had come to find out.
He'd been parked in a corner of the steelworks, waiting for Jill to return from talking with someone, when all of a sudden, another engine pulled up. This was 14, as evidenced by the number on their cabsides, and they and their driver were looking at him rather expectantly.
"Wha... what d'ya want?" 11 asked, cursing himself for how clumsy that sounded; Jill had been crystal clear that if he wasn't tough and could assert himself, he'd be run right over by everyone else. The people and engines in this steelworks were quite adept at taking advantage of kindness, or at least, that's what she'd said, and she hadn't steered him wrong thus far.
"Oh please, 11, wontcha help me wit' my load?" his co-worker 14 asked, delicately batting their eyes at him. From their cab, Duncan could hear snickering, but his attention was quickly drawn back to the engine before him as they continued, voice trembling slightly. "Ah could really use th' help, n' yer so strong..."
"Err, well, mebbe..." 11 stammered, eyes looking every which way, somewhat caught off guard by their approach. He'd been warned not to let himself get pushed around, but their request for help seemed genuine, and he didn't have much more work for the day. It wasn't as though he'd intended to ignore Jill's warnings, but 14 really looked like they could use his assistance.
This train of thought, however, was quickly interrupted by a swift "Ohhhhh, no ye don't!" as Jill strode over, eyes blazing. Even her steps seemed to cause tremors as she tromped towards the two engines, and the barely suppressed laughter from 14's cab suddenly ceased as those fierce brown eyes turned to look their way. "Git outta here n' do yer own damn work, 14! Ye can't expect others t' pull yer weight fer ya! Now haul yer metal ass down t' the smelter's! GIT!"
"Tsk!" With a click of the tongue, 14's sweet, bright-eyed expression twisted into a disgruntled sneer, their driver steering them backwards in retreat. "You'll get what's comin' to ya, ye damn bitch!" 14 swore, their fury barely contained as it practically radiated off of them in waves. It almost gave 11 whiplash to see one of his colleagues go from being as angelic as they'd seemed to downright devilish in only a matter of moments.
Once the duo had left, Jill rounded on 11, who stared up at her with disbelieving eyes, as though he hadn't quite finished parsing what had just happened. "Ye DAFT engine!" his driver screamed, her eyes wide and teeth bared as she stared daggers at her engine. "YE DON'T LET OTHERS TAKE ADVANTAGE O' YE!" Suddenly, her yelling was interrupted by a loud, hacking cough that caused her entire body to shake, and the driver shook her head rapidly as if to clear her mind before looking back at 11 with a grim expression. "That hunk o' rust woulda done whatever they had ta do t' make ye do their work an' run ye down instead. Ye gotta think o' yerself, 11! Ye can't trust anybody!"
"Even you?"
The question was soft, yet tremulous with emotion. Wide, dark eyes met bogs of brown, and all of Jill's ire seemed to seep out of her, leaving her with only a bone-deep exhaustion. "Aye, well... Ah guess ye can trust me. Heaven knows Ah keep havin' t' look out fer ya like m'own bairn, or sommat." Yet, despite her resigned tone, Jill's lips had curved up into a smile more gentle than 11 had ever seen before; even her eyes seemed to smile along. "Now, let's get our work done, yeah? We may not have much t' go, but it's still gotta get done."
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Cough! Cough! The sound of hacking and wheezing coming from Duncan's cab hadn't ceased for some time, and the longer it went on, the more the engine couldn't help but worry. "Jill?" he asked quietly, trying not to let his emotions show for fear that the others might think something was strange. "Are ye... are ye alright?"
"Haaah... jus'... jus' lemme rest, 11. We have some time 'afore we need t' get our next load. Ah jus'... need a breather."
"Oh. Um... alright." With that, 11 settled in where he was, eyes drifting around the rest of the factory. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to them, thankfully, but he still didn't want to chance being ambushed.
"Hey, 11..." came a weak voice from his cab, and the engine had to strain to hear. "Didja know... that I was married once?"
"Married?" 11 echoed, uncertainty in his voice. "Ye had... a family?"
"Not a family," Jill corrected wearily. "Jus' a husband. We wanted a family, but th' war called, and... never brought 'im back."
"Oh..." 11 wasn't quite sure what to say; it was rather hard for him to grasp just what Jill was feeling, but the genuine sadness in her voice told him that whoever her husband was, he was someone she'd trusted. "Um... Ah'm sorry."
"Mmm." Jill murmured, but said no more. All around them, the sounds of the steelworks continued to echo; engines taking their loads, workers feeding ore into vast machines, inspectors looking over clipboards overstuffed with forms and reports. However, in this moment, 11 and Jill had a pocket of time and space all to themselves, invisible to the steelworks' uncaring eye.
Finally, Jill spoke once more. "My husband n' I... we always said that if we 'ad a li'l boy, we'd name 'im Duncan, fer me faither. An' if we had a girl, she'd be Eilidh, fer ma Nana. Ah ne'er had bairns o' m'own, but at some point, Ah started thinkin' o' ya as me own. Started thinkin' o' ye as Duncan."
11 could hardly breathe, dread and gratitude warring for dominance in his heart. Jill... Jill was giving him a name. Duncan. Duncan. The more he tasted the name on his tongue, the more he liked it.
"Duncan..." Jill murmured, her voice now weaker than he'd ever heard it, and the engine forced his attention away from the joy of his new name to refocus on his driver. "There's just three more things Ah gotta tell ye, so listen close."
"Jill, what—"
"Ah said listen, Duncan."
"..."
"...There's a good lad. Now, first, if there's somethin' ye want, then ye gotta fight fer it. Nothin's free in this world, n' ye only get whatcha want when ye push fer it n' fight tooth n' nail. Er... funnel n' buffer. Whatever."
"Two," her weary voice continued, not even giving Duncan the chance to interrupt. "Ye can't let others disrespect ya. Know where ye stand, n' what yer worth. Don't let others use ye t' save themselves."
Duncan didn't speak, but simply bit his lip, listening closely and willing himself to act like everything was fine. However, he must not have been doing a good job of it, because other engines and drivers were starting to notice, eying him like vultures who saw their next meal. Vaguely, he was aware of some kind of liquid splashing on the floor of his cab.
"Third," Jill gasped breathlessly, "cherish th' ones who're good t' ye. Ye may find that there're some good people er engines out there; ones ye can trust, like me. Ones who'll try t' do good by ye. If ye do find one, n' if they've yer best interests at heart, then hold 'em close n' listen to 'em good.
"That's... that's all."
More wet coughs sounded from his cab, and by this point, Duncan couldn't hold back his alarm. "DOCTOR!" he called, the panic in his voice and eyes clear to all assembled. "We—we need a doctor! Right now!!"
However, only silence greeted him. The assembled engines and their drivers stared over at him for a few moments before going back to their tasks, all wearing masks of indifference in a macabre masquerade. "H-Hello?!" Duncan shouted, anger and desperation filling him as he tried making eye contact with someone, anyone, but every single other person simply looked away, with the greatest reaction coming from 14, who shot him a smug smile before heading off to continue their work.
Duncan felt like he was a hair's breadth from exploding, practically hyperventilating as his eyes darted around, seeking help. Finally, the door opened to admit the Foreman, who was staring down disinterestedly at his papers, and Duncan took advantage of his arrival to call out in his direction. "Foreman! Sir! It's Jill; she needs a doctor! Hurry!"
Duncan's plea was passionate, but it may as well have fallen upon deaf ears as the Foreman rolled his eyes and strolled over, clearly not inclined to move with any sort of urgency. "What's all this, then?" he drawled as he finally approached, meeting Duncan's gaze with utter disinterest. "Why'd ye... oh."
This dispassionate response had come from seeing the slumped body of Jill laying awkwardly in Duncan's cab, dark stains dotting the floor. The scene would have, should have, inspired some kind of response in anyone with a human heart, but alas, the only one here was the Foreman, who'd likely given up his ages ago.
"Fine. I'll get her t' th' doctor. Let's go, 11." With that, the Foreman stepped into Duncan's cab, pushed aside Jill's body, and took to the controls, navigating Duncan out of the factory and into the afternoon air.
Once again, it was raining.
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25 years later, the steelworks' No. 11 had come to be known as the one to avoid. If left well enough alone, he would do his work without fuss, but if you talked to him, he would blast you with profanity until you fled. Furthermore, he didn't respect anybody, least of all his drivers. In fact, most of his drivers tended to quit after only 6 months on the job.
It was this attitude that led to the Foreman, accompanied by a well-dressed gentleman in a bowler hat, walking over to him one day. The stranger glanced at him this way and that, as though appraising him, and Duncan sneered in response. "And this is the one for sale?" the well-dressed man asked in an even keel, causing the Foreman to nod in response.
"That's right. E's a 'ard worker, but we don't 'ave room fer 'im anymore. Ah'll give ye a good price fer 'im, so..."
However, the Foreman trailed off as the stranger approached, looking Duncan in the eyes. "Do you have a name?" he asked, voice soft, and Duncan felt his scowl recede, albeit slightly.
"We don't give names t' our engines—" the Foreman began, only to be cut off by the engine's quick reply.
"'S Duncan. M' name's Duncan, n' I won't take no nicknames."
The straightforward reply seemed to shock the Foreman, but the guest seemed unperturbed.
"Duncan, is it?" the stranger hummed thoughtfully. "Tell me, would you like to leave here and come work on my railway? We could really use a powerful engine like you."
Immediately, the engine squinted in suspicion. "What's th' catch?"
At this, the guest blinked, clearly not expecting such a question. "Catch? There's no catch. Just that we have plenty of work that needs doing, and we need another engine. You'll be coming with me to Sodor, and working on the Skarloey Railway. It's a lovely line, really, with beautiful mountains and hills, and—"
"Is there sun?" Duncan interrupted, his unflinching gaze meeting that of the stranger's. "If Ah go wit' ye, can Ah see th' sun?"
There was another pause from the stranger, and then, a smile. It was the kind of smile that Duncan hadn't seen for 25 years, and even then, only on those strange, rare occasions. Yet, here it was now, on the face of this odd, kindly stranger. "Yes, every day."
Duncan's eyes fluttered shut as he considered the offer, and his mind couldn't help but think back to Jill and all that she'd taught him.
His driver would have wanted him to take this deal, of that he was sure. After all, this man's eyes were honest.
"...Alright," the (former) No. 11 agreed at last. "Ah'll go wit' ye. When d' we leave?"
"Tomorrow," beamed his new owner, as he turned to the Foreman to get everything prepared.
The very next day, Duncan was being steamed up and escorted out, his new owner actually being the one to drive him, and for the first time, as if congratulating him on his new beginning, Duncan set eyes on the sun at last.