Traintober Day 5: Failure
A story about Silver Link, the heights he had risen to, and his failure to retain his worth.
From the moment he was first steamed up, Silver Link was resplendent. The product of years of progress and knowledge and experience wrapped up in a sleek, modern design with shimmering silver paintwork to match. He dazzled the onlookers fortunate enough to witness his trial run from King's Cross, and shattered the dusty old Flying Scotsman’s speed record without issue. He made LMS engines and engineers froth in rage, forced to face the reality that the LNER -no, Silver Link- was better than anything they could ever hope to achieve. The crown sat high and proud on his head even as his siblings rolled out of the works, each one as magnificent as the last. His heart swelled with pride (if not a fair amount of jealousy) when Mallard, fresh and young and eager, shook the world to its foundation when she beat Silver Link’s record.
He hadn't known it at the time, but that action had ascended her, made her immortal. The same could not be said for their other siblings, or even for himself.
New diesels purred onto the line. Long, ugly, boxy things with animal-snout like fronts and garish paintwork. How anyone could be impressed with rolling tubes, especially when The Silver Jubilees existed, was beyond him, but humans, fickle things that they were, were utterly enamoured with the shiny new things on the rails. The diesels coasted in and stole The East Coast Main Line like they had been entitled to it, grinning slimily as the A4s fell out of favor and the Silver Jubilee stopped running. They howled with laughter as Silver Link and his siblings were taken by the Reaper’s envoys.
Silver Link had been “born” in Doncaster. Most engines would have found peace in going home to die, but all he could feel was rage, burning as hotly as his firebox ever did. He- they had done everything right! Everything that was asked of them! But still- still!- something about them told their owners that they were failures, unworthy of survival or preservation.
Andrew K. McCosh cursed humanity and swore that he would return to haunt them all.
Walter K. Whigham said and felt nothing, even as the cutter’s torch ripped him to pieces.
Seagull had seen the writing on the wall, and accepted her end with dignity and grace.
Golden Fleece howled and begged and pleaded as the Reaper came for her, choking on tears she didn't have the water to produce as she manically repeated: “I don't understand! I don't understand!”
The useful parts of Silver Link were taken from him. His nameplate was removed, and he was told it would be put on some macabre display in a museum. His resplendent silver paint faded and chipped away. Rust froze his wheels and clawed its way across his boiler. The taste of corroded, ruined metal settled at the back of his mouth, thick and cloying with a malicious sweetness to it. Workmen came by with chalk and paint, branding ‘SCRAP’ into his sides with no regard for the being they were condemning.
Silver Link had thought himself resplendent, but it must have been a lie. The crown upon his head was not made of gold, but papier-mâché that crumbled to dust and blew away. At some point, although he didn't know when, he must have failed to really prove that he and most of his siblings were worthy of a long life.
He had failed, and he could only watch with mournful eyes as one by one his family was killed. The guilt ate him more than the rust and elements ever could. Silver Link closed his eyes and exhaled, sagging down on rusted gears and ruined wheels. He was a failure, and he would die as one: alone, and unremembered.
