The Fat Controller, also know as Sir Topham Hatt turned to his portly assistant. "Mr. Perkins, the coal report."
Mr. Perkins adjusted his spectacles nervously. "Sir. The main stockpiles at Tidmouth and Barrow—er, the former Barrow connection—are currently at sixty percent capacity. The local mines at Ffarquhar can sustain us for a time, but their output is designed for local traffic, not the entire railway."
"And the water?" the Fat Controller asked sharply.
"The reservoirs are full, Sir. But... the water in the rivers this morning tastes... sweet. Like nectar. We are currently testing it to see if it is suitable for boilers. We wouldn't want the engines to prime, or worse."
The Fat Controller thought for a moment before puffing out his chest in his usual decisive manner. "Very well! We shall proceed as if this were a particularly severe winter—rationing coal, reducing non-essential services, and prioritizing freight deliveries of food and livestock feed. Mr. Perkins, please arrange for Molly and Rosie to begin running milk trains from the dairy farms immediately. The Sodor Search And Rescue Team will scout out the other areas around the island and Percy will handle the mail as usual—though goodness knows where letters might go now!"
Meanwhile, down at the sheds, Duck was trying to explain the situation to Oliver and the Scottish twins in his usual practical way. "It's quite simple, really," he chuffed. "The island has been moved like a giant misplaced parcel. Now we must deliver ourselves back to the proper address—Great Western efficiency, you see!" But Donald just snorted steam in disbelief. "Ach, yer talkin' blethers! Islands dinnae jump tracks like a runaway brake van!"
Up at Ffarquhar Quarry, Mavis, Fergus, BoCo, Bill, and Ben were trying to make sense of the purple sky. "This is most irregular," Mavis huffed. "Quarries don't just move! Someone's been very careless!" Bill and Ben giggled nervously, their twin whistles echoing oddly in the strange air. "Maybe we're in a dream!" one piped. "Or maybe you're the dream!" hissed the other, making BoCo roll his eyes while chuckling at the twins antics.
"Still we must do it right!" Fergus pronounced loudly as he always did.
Meanwhile, in Great Waterton, Flora and Stanley the Silver Engine stood very still indeed. Their drivers had climbed down to inspect the strange new landscape—rolling hills that shimmered like wet paint, trees with bark that twisted in spirals, and flowers that pulsed faintly in the twilight. "This is most improper," Stanley muttered, his polished silver flanks reflecting the alien sky. "Engines should not be seeing such things. It isn't right."
But what about the narrow gauge engines? High up in the mountains and hillsides, mostly away from the coastline and the more obvious changes, Skarloey and Rheneas had been hard at work pulling slate trucks when the sky turned purple. "I say, Rheneas," puffed Skarloey, his old boiler wheezing slightly from the effort, "does the air smell... sharper to you?" Rheneas gave a thoughtful chuff before replying, "Aye, and the rails feel... different. Like they're humming." The little engines exchanged a glance—one that said, quite clearly, that this was Not Railway Regulation.
But it wasn't just them, Peter Sam, Sir Handel, Rusty, Duncan, Luke, Bertram, Fearless Freddie, and Mighty Mac of the Skarloey Railway were all gathered at the sheds, trying to make sense of the situation. "Well, this is a fine kettle of fish!" Duncan grumbled, his pistons puffing irritably. "One moment we're pulling slate trucks like proper engines, the next we're parked in some fairy tale!" Sir Handel snorted steam. "At least we're still on rails! Imagine if we'd woken up in a field like some common tractor!"
Meanwhile, at Ulfstead Castle, Duke, Millie, Stephen, Neil, and Glynn stood beneath the violet sky, watching as the castle's old stones seemed to shimmer like fish scales. "I say," Stephen the Rocket puffed importantly, "this reminds me of the Great Exhibition of 1851! Very modern, very scientific!" But Glynn the coffee-pot engine wasn't convinced. "Ohhh, I don't like it," he groaned, his old boiler wheezing nervously. "Castles shouldn't float! Even for a moment! It's not respectable!"
But enough of engines reactions, back to Molly and Rosie. Molly and Rosie were both stationed at Knapford ready to pull their milk trains. Molly sighed. "Oh, this is dreadful! What if the milk curdles under this strange sky?" Rosie, ever the optimist, gave a cheerful whistle. "Then we'll deliver cheese! The dairy cows won't stop producing just because the sky turned purple."
When Farmer McColl's prize dairy herd refused to step hoof outside the barn that morning, it caused quite a kerfuffle—but Rosie, being a brightful engine, simply suggested they collect the milk churns directly from the dairy door. "There's always a way," she puffed proudly.
Meanwhile, Thomas had been sent to investigate the edge of the island where the Vicarstown Bridge once connected to the mainland more closely after Gordon's near accident there. His driver clutched the brake lever tightly as they rolled toward the shimmering void where solid ground should be. "Bust my buffers!" Thomas gasped, his pistons freezing mid-stroke. The bridge didn't end—it simply stopped existing, the final sleepers laying there before the thick blue forest began.
Now, dear readers, you must understand that bridges are not supposed to end with no other track on another land with blue grass. This was like discovering your entire railway map had been scribbled out with purple crayon. Poor Thomas was Quite Perplexed Indeed.
"I wonder what is out there?" Thomas whispered to himself, to his driver and fireman, or to us somehow, nobody will ever know.
"Who's to say Thomas, who's to say..." His fireman murmured, staring into the blue-tinged woods where the tracks vanished. The trees seemed to lean inward, their branches twisting like old railway signals frozen mid-swing. Just then, a sound like a thousand whistles blowing at once echoed from the forest, making Thomas' boiler rattle. "Oh my wheels and couplings!" he gasped, instinctively reversing several feet.
The Sodor Search and Rescue Center was bustling even more than usual, Harold and Captain were already out beyond Sodor in the air and the sky above.
Harold the Helicopter hovered nervously above the blue-tinged treetops further inland, his rotor blades stirring the strangely perfumed air. "I say, Captain!" he called down to the lifeboat bobbing in what used to be the Irish Sea. "The water's gone all... glittery!" Captain the Lifeboat looked up from the waters, which was spinning wildly. "Blow me down!" he exclaimed. "This isn't any sea I've sailed before!"
"I'm going further inland Captain, see if there's a way for you to follow me there somehow!" Harold called down as he spun his rotors faster, rising above the treetops. But as he flew forward, the strangest thing happened—his compass began spinning wildly, and the trees below seemed to stretch and twist like taffy. "Oh dear, oh dear!" Harold stammered. "This is most irregular!"
Down at the docks, Cranky the crane groaned as he surveyed the shimmering, unfamiliar waters. "Well, this is a fine mess, now there's no big boats for me to unload!" he grumbled. "I didn't spend forty years learning cargo schedules just to stare at fish that blink!" But even as he complained, his hook trembled slightly—for the fish in question were indeed blinking back at him with enormous, pupil-less silver eyes.
"And I don't have long lines of troublesome tucks to deliver!" Murdoch grumbled as he clanked along the slightly bumpy tracks near Brendam Docks. His driver had insisted they scout the perimeter, but the big and mighty engine was feeling quite cross Indeed about the whole affair.
How could he, Porter, and Salty be the really useful engines of Brendam Docks if there were no ships left to unload? Murdoch's mighty wheels clanked indignantly against the rails as he puffed past the empty harbor, his driver leaning out to peer at the odd, glowing jellyfish now bobbing where fishing boats should be. "Disgraceful!" Murdoch huffed. "This is no proper port at all!"
Poor Murdoch.
Meanwhile, up at Knapford Station, Gordon had been given the important task of pulling the first exploratory train beyond the railway's usual borders. His blue paint gleamed under the violet sky as he waited at the platform, his buffers quivering with indignation. "This is most improper," he huffed. "Express engines do not pull 'exploratory trains.' We have schedules to keep!"
But the Fat Controller had been firm, and now Gordon's coaches were filled not with passengers, but with scientists, surveyors, and one very nervous vicar. "Express indeed," Gordon muttered darkly as a man with a butterfly net climbed aboard. "Next they'll have me pulling a circus!" His fireman patted his buffer reassuringly. "At least you're not shunting trucks like Henry," he whispered. This did little to soothe Gordon's wounded pride.
Meanwhile, down at the docks, Salty was telling wild tales to the shunting engines. "Arr, this be the work of Davy Jones himself!" he croaked, his pistons puffing dramatically. "One minute ye're unloadin' cod, next minute ye're starin' at fish what wink back!" Porter trembled so hard his buffers clattered. "But Sodor engines don't belong in fairy stories!" he called out, trying to sound as calm as he always did. "Unless," Salty said darkly, "the fairy stories belong to us now."
Up at Ffarquhar, Mavis was having no nonsense from the purple sky. "Quarry rules still apply!" she huffed, pushing a line of trucks toward the crusher. But when the granite came out shimmering like crushed rainbows, even her practical wheels hesitated. Bill and Ben giggled nervously as Derek almost joined in with them.
"Maybe we're crushing magic now!" one twin chirped. "Or maybe you're the magic!" hissed the other, making BoCo roll his eyes so hard his three front windows jiggled.
"You need to listen to Mavis and do it right you two!" Fergus boomed over the twins' squabbling, his deep whistle echoing across the quarry. But even as he scolded them, his driver stared at the crushed granite piling up—each fragment slowly begining to glow ever so faintly, as if lit from within. "Well then," the man muttered, "that's not exactly limestone anymore..."