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Rusty made his way quickly down the track, mind occupied by a million things.
This was a common state to find the young steam train in only a few weeks away from the big race. It was a hectic time and he was busy helping Control make sure everything was taken care of. Racing champions were such divas, throwing tantrums if they didn't get there way even if some of their requests were frankly ridiculous. Thankfully, Control was as much in favor of malicious complacence as Rusty. It gave the two of them something to laugh about so they didn't go crazy. Like that time Turnov had demanded a Jacuzzi be installed in his suite.
Never mind that train's didn't use Jacuzzis. Cause . . . you know? What happens to metal when it gets exposed water? A.k.a the reason for Rusty's name.
Oh, but no! They were idiots who misunderstood! He wanted an oil Jacuzzi!
Rusty snickered to himself as he remembered the look on the Russian engine's face when he had found a large deep fat fryer in his room. The engine had nearly blown a gasket in rage.
Thankfully Control had had his back and quickly defused the situation. They had even laughed over it together afterwards.
Control usually had his back.
But this year Rusty wanted to strangle him.
If only the coaches hadn't decided to join in on the entitled diva-ness.
Rusty sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before shaking his head and refocusing on the track in front of him. Apparently it was Ashley and Buffy's anniversary and they couldn't possibly race without some form of compensation. It most certainly was not their anniversary. Their anniversary was in six months. But they were constantly threatening not to attend and then promising to do so then pulling out again.
Then there was Carrie and the new sleeper. The two new coaches had seemed rather sweet at first but now they were constantly demanding and complaining and calling Control to fix every little thing. Which he then sent Rusty to take care of. On top of his normal increased duties. And then would berate Rusty for not finishing things.
He knew Control was at his wit's end but Rusty was only one train!
On top of all that Greaseball and his gang were being their usual extra jerky selves like they always were when the big race drew near. Though thankfully Dinah was distracting them. He had just about kissed the dining car when she'd offered to keep the diesel's off his back, he'd been so grateful. Not having the diesel engines hounding every moment had been a blessing, though there was a few who still made time to seek him out. He suspected they had some kind of mental condition that made it necessary to bully him otherwise they'd implode.
“Hey, smog breath!”
Here came Exhibit A.
Rusty took a deep breath, steeling himself and rallying his composure, before slowing down and turning to face the approaching diesel. “Crank.” he greeted, keeping his voice calm and professional. “What can I do for you?”
“You can remember your place, Runt.” the big, burly diesel snarled, tone one of offended superiority.
Rusty raised his eyebrows, unimpressed as the larger engine cracked the knuckles of his fists, unmoved by the silent threat. “My place? You'll have to be clearer. Exactly what overambitious breach of etiquette are you accusing me of?”
The diesel blinked blankly at him for a moment then scowled, eyes narrowing in rage. “You think you're so smart with your big words, you're nothing but scum. A bug under Greaseball's shoe!”
Rusty's eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw in annoyance. “Just tell me what it is I'm supposed to have done, Crank. I'm busy with an errand from Control.”
“Watch your lip, smart-ass!” Crank snapped, pointing a finger at him in warning “I've been hearing some rumors about your corroded ass. What's this about you racing in the big event?” The diesel demanded then sneered mockingly. “A weak little runt like you wouldn't even make it over the starting line. You'd be left choking on Greaseball's dust.”
Rusty lifted his chin, eyes flashing at the insult. “You'd know a lot about choking on his dust, wouldn't you?” he snapped back. “Tell me, how many races have you won again? Two? In the last five years?”
Crank growled, baring his teeth in outrage. “You watch you tongue or I'll cut it out, you upstart little toaster!” the diesel snarled, shaking his fist in the steam train's face in warning.
Toaster? Seriously? It seemed the diesel had ran out of good insults because that was just lame. “Just leave me alone, I have work to do.” Rusty huffed, done with this whole stupid confrontation. He moved to skate past the diesel but Crank stepped into his path.
“Where you running off to, Shortstack? Gonna go cry to Poppa?” the diesel mocked.
“Oh, will you just go away!” Rust exclaimed, fed up “The only racing you've ever done in to be first in line to kiss Greaseball's ass, you've got no right to criticize me. Get lost, you overgrown tincan!” he snapped in frustration.
Crank's eyes widened in shock at the outburst then his features twisted in anger. “Why you little-!” the diesel shouted in outrage and kicked out suddenly, hooking his foot around Rusty's ankle as the steam engine pushed pass him and pulling sharply.
Rusty didn't have time to react to the attack. His feet were swept out from under him and he grunted in pain as he fell forward onto the ground, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.
He cried out in pain as a booted foot slammed into his side, the force of the blow rolling him onto his back. A heavy weight dropped onto his hips and Rusty yelped as strong hands grabbed him by his chest plate, pinning him to the ground.
His eyes widened in terror as hands wrapped around his neck and squeezed. His hands flew to the diesel's wrist, fingers scrambling and skittering over the polished plating covering the joint. He kicked wildly as the pressure increased, body twisting and bucking wildly in a desperate attempt to escape. Panic rose up as he struggled to breathe, clawing at the back of his mind and screaming like a trapped animal. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes as he gasped frantically, inarticulate with fear.
The hand on his chest plate pulled, lifting his chest off the ground and slamming him back into the dirt. Something inside Rusty snapped and he felt an arid burn bubble up in his throat. He coughed weakly and sputtered, something tickling his esophagus and bubbling up past his lips. His eyes widened as a cloud of thick gray smoke puffed up in front of his face. A cold shiver of terror ran down his spine, confusion coiling in his gut.
It . . . it wasn't supposed to come out of there!
The grip around his throat tightened and black spots danced before his eyes, chest burning as his lungs screamed for air. Rusty tightened his grip on Crank's wrists and the last of his strength into trying to pull the diesel off. His arms jerked, pain shooting through his shoulders from the force of the action. Crank's arms didn't even twitch, his hold on the steam train's neck unmovable.
Rusty could feel his movements slowing, his vision fading to black around the edges. He tugged weakly at the big diesel's arm, body trembling as smoke leaked from his slack mouth.
'Let me go!' he begged mentally, silently sobbing 'Let me go, please! I don't want to die like this!'
He felt his hand flop to the ground in a vague sort of disconnected way, feeling his body go limp as his vision faded to a pinprick.
His body was lifted off the ground by his neck then was tossed back into the dirt. Rusty's arms flopped limply with the impact, practically unconscious even though his eyes were open. Weak coughing shook him, choking on the steam that continued to rise from his mouth.
Crank rose to his feet kicked him in the side again. “That will teach you to be such a smart-ass.” He growled and spun on his heel, skating off down the track.
Flat-top made his way down the track, making his way towards the depot.
It was the last haul before the big race and the brick car had been quite excited to be going. It was a huge responsibility and the brick car was honored that Control had assigned him for this particular trip.
They'd be back before the big race, thankfully. Hopefully he wouldn't be late.
He rounded a corner and startled, doing a double take.
Wait, what was that?
He frowned, slowing slightly as he stared at the a figure laying in the dirt further up the track. It looked like a train. Which was worrying.
Rolling closer, Flat-top gasped in recognition and rushed forward. “Rusty!” he fell to his knees beside the body of the young steam train, staring in horror. Dark purple bruises encircled Rusty's neck and smoke leaked from between his slack lips.
Starlight above, who could have done this?
Nervously and praying frantically under his breath, the brick car pressed his ear to Rusty's chest.
His shoulders slumped in relief as he heard a heart beat, it was weak but it was there. He was still alive!
He scooped Rusty up in his arms and raced down the track in the direction of the freight yard as fast as he could go. Oh, what he wouldn't give to be a strong diesel engine right about now!
“Hold on, Rusty! Hold on!” he begged the insensate steam train, tightening his grip protectively. “Just hold on. You're gonna be alright. I promise.”