show me where my armor ends, show me where my skin begins
Now Slick was truly alone in the repair shop. Wrench would probably be back soon to check on her only charge, but for now she had a few minutes to herself. It was cold, and she shivered slightly. She hated being cold- had for years. And now, alone in the shop, it brought back memories.
The six of them- Momma, Porter, Lumber, Rusty, Hydra, and her were the only ones resembling a family unit in the yard, a fact that Porter and Lumber blamed on the fact that Momma simply could not stop collecting children. They had been the first, the oldest fuel trucks sent to the yard- small, curious little things who had needed someone to look out for them. Then Rusty, possibly the last steamer constructed before manufacturers fully converted to diesel. He had been sent to the yard soon after the other two, and Momma had taken him under her wing, the only other steam train still operating in Troubadour. Hydra would come a while later- but first, there was Slick.
She was the smallest of the five- resource scarcity during your formative years would do that to you. And, out of all of Momma’s children, she was the only one who had been placed at a different yard first.
She remembered the day she had met Momma, a tiny little trainlet peering through the rusting scrap and sheet metal that served as the roof and walls to her shelter- not a shed, the other trains said she hadn’t earned that. She was too small, and simply an extra oil truck- she wasn’t worth all the trouble. So, when money at the yard ran tight and the other trainlets had left one by one, no one had bothered to look for the small little oil tanker, too young to pull her own weight. So, she had hid in the scrap heap, in a makeshift hovel that had been her hideout.
She remembered being cold- it had rained recently and the rusting metal roof was full of holes, dripping water into the enclosed space, and consequently onto her. She had been curled up in the driest spot she could find (damp, as opposed to dripping), when she had heard a laugh- a voice that she hadn’t heard before.
She had peered out of a hole in her shelter, and seen… a woman. An engine. She was decked out in ruddy earthen colors, a far cry from her own yellow and black palette. She was in conversation with one of the other engines in the yard, a big black and grey diesel, and as she threw her head back to laugh again, Slick had seen steam rise from her back.
Though Slick was too young then to understand the different types of engines, or how they worked, she understood enough to know that where there was steam, there was heat. And she was so cold, and the engine looked nice enough… maybe she’d let her sit by her for a little or something.
Her wheels acted on their own accord, and she found herself rolling towards the pair.
“Hey!”
She had been grabbed by the diesel. He lifted her by the scruff of her neck, and she dangled in the air, arms and legs scrabbling for purchase.
“Lemme go!” She had yelled, and managed to kick him hard enough that he dropped her.
She had immediately sped over to the woman, who let out an ‘oh!’ as she barreled into her legs.
“Starlight, sweetheart, you’re freezing!” Slick had been picked up then, and held close to the woman, arms around her neck. She was warm, so warm that the engine felt like fire under her frozen fingers. In the engine's arms, the heat was all-encompassing, the sort of warmth that made you drowsy and want nothing more than to drift off. She put her head on the woman’s shoulder and sighed. She didn’t know how long the woman would hold her for, but she would take what she could get.
“I apologize for her behavior, she’s been one of our more disruptive trucks lately-”
“That’s alright,” the woman soothed, and her voice buzzed through Slick, “it seems my new friend here was just trying to warm up a touch, was that it?”
Without opening her eyes, Slick nodded, trying to burrow her face into the woman’s neck.
“I was wondering where the little ones had gotten to,” the woman said conversationally, “I have several of my own back home. Do they play in the scrap piles often?”
“Not anymore,” came the diesel's reply. “She’s the only one left. We have too many cars at this station, and all the others were transferred out. We’ve been wondering where this one had gotten to.”
The woman had hummed, running a hand down Slick’s back in a comforting manner. The other engine made to take Slick from her, and Slick squeezed her arms around the woman’s neck, holding on tight. The woman seemed to pick up that something was wrong, and rolled back a few paces, still rubbing her back.
“She’s tiny.” Said the woman, almost accusatory in her observation.
“Resources are scarce.”
“She's soaked. She needs to see your repair truck.”
“It won’t be necessary.”
“Why?” The woman’s voice was hard, brokering no nonsense. The diesel shifted back and forth on his wheels.
“Word is they couldn’t find a yard for her, so she's slated to be sent to the scrapper.”
Slick didn’t know exactly what that meant, but judging by the way that the woman’s arms had tightened around her, the engine had some idea.
“I didn’t realize things had gotten so bad here.” The woman had said quietly.
“Orders are orders,” said the diesel tonelessly, “that’s just how it is.”
“I’m taking her with me,” said the woman firmly, “consider her the newest member of the Troubadour yard.”
“You can’t just-”
“I can, and have. I’ll send you adequate compensation shortly.” The woman’s voice brokered no argument.
Slick felt the woman turn away from the diesel, and she shifted in the engine's arms. What was happening?
“It’s alright sweetheart,” said the woman, sensing her confusion, “I’m just heading out onto the rails. We’re going to head home.”
Home. That sounded nice. Slick didn’t really have one of those, just her leaky metal shelter. She hummed sleepily in response.
“My name is Momma. What’s yours, kiddo?”
“Slick” she murmured, “‘cause of oil.” She’d named herself after oil slicks, the pretty colors she’d seen when her oil mixed with the rain water. Many years later, she would claim that she had named herself after oil itself, sleek and quick, but for now her name was the product of a small oil truck trying to find things that made her happy.
“Slick, that's a fine name.” Even with her eyes closed, she could hear the smile in Momma's voice. “Well, Slick, I’m very glad to have met you. Feel free to doze off if you’d like, I’ll wake you when we get back.”
Sleepy, snug, and finally warm, she drifted off on Momma's shoulder. The last thing she heard was the clack-clack-clack of skates on the rails, and the rumble of Momma's engine, which she decided was her new favorite sound, in her ears.