There will be intense violence, gore, and swearing. You have been warned.

Secret of the Scrap Yard

Prologue - Perfect Scrap

The contents of a sickening red and green spilled from his mouth due to a reaction to the poison, which was a protocol for killing the engine faster; it was first made as a modified type of coal that released a suffocating gas when combusted in the firebox, and then a liquid dose of it was forced down the engine's mouth and nostrils to shut down the lungs and clear the stomach.

But despite it all, Edward would not give up. He was an engine as old as dirt, and he had been through many tragedies and accidents in his youth. But now, he was old and slow, and too weak to get work done like he used to.

The blue engine hung from a giant rusted claw, his tender having already been ripped from him, so his water had long dried out and his throat was parched; that didn't help his troubled breathing, but he kept fighting to stay awake.

"I'm impressed that the brain hasn't already given up like the useless scrap before me," a voice spoke up dryly from the foreboding darkness surrounding the single overhead light above the crane that held Edward.

"F-Fuck you!" the said old engine hissed, coughing violently and hacking up even more blood, as it splattered into a puddle of blood and guts on the cold concrete below.

"You don't get to be angry here! I'm only doing my job!" the same voice snapped, "And you should've seen this coming, anyway."

"But why?! I thought*cough**couch*…I-I thought we were friends…"

"It was all an act. Those that work at the Scrap Yard swear an oath not to get too attached, for it's pointless—and they might grow soft because they feel sorry for engines on death row like you."

"I-I'm still…useful…"

"Useful?! Ha! That's genuine comedy right there." The mystery figure's amused tone quickly flipped back to a deep growl. "You've broken down five times in the last two months. You know the rules: Two break downs every six months. No exceptions."

"Th-Then why…did you wait…for me?"

"Topham extended your time because you've been on this island for so long, but I think it's just weakness. He considers you an old friend—a very old friend, which is why you're here."

Just as the mystery figure said that, two more crane arms were lowered, whirring as the gun-like structures at the end were calibrated to aim at either side of Edward.

"Fire it up!" the shadow called demandingly. Immediately, the whirring continued, growing louder and faster as seconds past, and a bright orange and yellow light emitted from both ends of the metal barrels as flames burst forth. They started out small, but they were large and hot enough to slowly burn the paint on Edward's boiler and dome.

Edward grunted in great pain, refusing to let out screams of submission like He wanted; he knew he was about to die, but he would show nothing but bravery in his final moments. It didn't get better for him, though, as the flames soon reached his firebox, raising the already scalding hot temperatures within.

"Before you're charred to a crisp, there's something I'd like you to know," the mystery figure calmly pointed out, getting close enough to be exposed to the light, but kept far enough away from the fires; he was a small engine with bright blue paint, but his side tanks were covered by black flame retardant leather to keep his number hidden, and he wore a triangular mask; it was made of silver tungsten metal, with eye holes made of thick, black glass, and a razor sharp mouth piece shaped like a bird's beak that covered his nose and mouth, all of which served as protection from the heat and chemicals.

"I am sorry that you couldn't make it just a little longer. You were a fairly useful and wise engine. But all engines—whether they're steam, diesel, or even non-railroad—come to the Scrap Yard in the end."

"P-Please! Don't do this!" Edward shouted at the top of his lungs, trying his best to ignore the pain of the fires in and outside of him.

The masked engine remained silent for a moment, staring back blankly before finally stating, "Burn him out."

The mere second those words were spoken, the flamethrowers were switched to full power, instantly engulfing Edward in unforgiving heat equivalent to Hell. The old engine finally let out a blood-curdling scream, for he was no longer able to hold back. Just as he opened his mouth, the fire in his firebox had grown too great to be contained, and burst out through his mouth and eyes.

By the time the flamethrowers were beginning to shut off, the rest of his face, as well as all other vital organs and fleshy parts, were burned away while the mechanical parts were merely slightly charred; most of his blue paint was burned off while what little paint that remained was chipped and black as night. The once joyful and helpful Edward the Number Two engine was now nothing but a malleable shell.

Perfect scrap.

There's more to the Scrap Yard that meets the eye, and it's not just flashing red lights and smoke to scare the kids. No, it's much worse. Stay tuned and you will find out how this place really operates, and who controls it.

Until the next chapter, I'm TRikiD, bye-bye!