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The date was the 20th of August 1998. Manchester Piccadilly railway station sat in near perfect silence. The sky was still dark and all that could be heard was the sound of mechanical clocks, a dull buzz from the lethal electrical cables dangling from above and the idle ticking and fizzing noises of trains sat in the station.

The station clocks dangled from little steel light poles; their mechanical digits clattered softly as they climbed up through time. Their omnipotent ticking giving a rhythmic, echoing pulse, emboldened by their number throughout the empty platforms. In the crescendo of a near silent thunder all 6 of their mechanical digits shifted and changed, landing with a pathetic thud at 05:00:00 hours, steadily starting the climb again.

Across the station, the assorted train ticking's and hissings that provided the melodic accompaniment to the clock's percussion came from a collection of trains that sat ready for the first departures of the day.

The most exotic of these trains sat upon Platform 6. An Intercity service formed of one of British Rail's brutalist Class 86's at the buffers with a mismatched set of passenger coaches and a luggage coach with a driving cab at the far end. This driving trailer was the youngest element of the train, only about 9 years old. It bore all the angular, sleek and aggressively modern design principles one might want from a modern railway. By contrast, the Class 86 locomotive at the other end could not say the same. It was a very large machine with a cab at each end and various small vents along its side and rivets holding it all together. Each cab had three windows facing forwards, two large ones at each side and a slightly smaller one in the center, all curvy and soft, a relic of its 1960's design. It's modifications to better suit the dot-com generation came in the form of little cables to link back to the cab at the far end and a replacement of its four-digit head code, with two bright lamps. They were spread equidistant across an outset box with an additional one beneath making the train look utterly shocked at its continued existence at all times. It, along with some of the train it was attached to, were outfitted in a garish red and black paint scheme with a few white stripes down the side and baring the insignia of the billionaire who now owned it. The locomotive sat ticking gently, the large metal arm pantograph on top touching the high voltage cable. For all the misgivings of its appearance, its bark was positively terrifying, as would be discovered in about 12 minutes time when it was due to depart.

The other train of note in the station was the one of most importance to this tale. While a mishmash of 90's, 80's, 70's and 60's locomotion was perhaps to be seen as poor showing, these were at least built for and to the needs of the network it currently operated for. The same couldn't be said for the suburban commuter trains used more extensively by the working class. A prime example of this was a Class 305 electric multiple unit sat over on the 4th platform. It was four coaches long, it's third sprouting an elderly pantograph up to the air. The sides of the train bore a mass of tiny rectangular windows and doors, about 10 doors on each side of the carriages. These doors were passenger operated, not centrally locked, so anyone could open any of these doors at any time, leaving it down to common sense alone not to do so at speed. Speaking of the cab trailers, the cabs of the train bore two large, miserable-looking windows, with a thick black stripe linking the two together. There was a small box sticking out of an otherwise curved and smooth forehead which lay abandoned and used to bare the head code just as the Class 86 of similar vintage did. A similar central headlight was included, though with the other tacked on equipment such as multiple working cables, additional lights and its drab paintwork that was years old and flaking away, it looked utterly miserable. It's looks were amended only by the quick stick-on logo of the company that had begrudgingly taken ownership of it like a misbehaving child at a wedding service. Stuck on in sticky lettering was its individual identity, that being 305 515. It sat there, hissing and buzzing in woe as its driver approached.

Alan Collins was a simple man. A badger in his mid-20's, he had spent many a year on the railways, many more prior in sticky and uncomfortable situations, usually involving knives and hard knocks with the law. But the railway was a new lease on life, one with a dignity and ethicacy to it. As he walked the length of the train to the front cab, opening the driver's door and placing his suitcase inside, the words "dignity and ethicacy" did not feel befitting of the poor old train. The cab of the Class 305 was decidedly of its time. A metal counter with paint chipping off of it, covered in analogue dials and a menagerie of leavers, buttons, switches and handles. It even bore a telephone and a tiny digital computer inside. The later was an invention from a more recent time that was retroactively fitted to the train.

Alan began to set up the train cab, turning on the lighting and heating in the coaches and the lights on the front of the train itself. He had to leave the train all together and walk back to the rear cab to check that the red taillights were on. It was at this point that that deafening howling wail emerged from the Class 86 across the station. The vents it bore hid the mass of fans used to cool its large electric motors and when the train was activated these spooled up and unleashed a demonic roar which filled the hollows of the stations vast canopy. For the unexperienced traveler, or the faint of heart, it was a horrifying racket. It was, fortunately, something Alan was experienced with by now.

He stared longingly as the Class 86 slid elegantly into the sunrise from out of the cab window, its red taillights puncturing through the darkness, but otherwise the train sunk into the black. With a small shake of his head, Alan retained his baring's, getting himself comfortable in the chair and checking the signal at the end of his platform. The only really vast commotion that the old 305 made was when the brakes were released and the compressor which powered them thundered into life with a very mechanical battering sound and force which shook the carriage of which it was attached.

It was at this point when Alan found himself receiving a knock at his window. He looked over and saw the train's guard, a young squirrel, waving at him. Alan got up and walked to the cab door and slid down the window. "Y'aight Paul? Got up early this one didn't ya?" Alan smirked.

"Aye." The squirrel grumbled. "Hubby's not pleased."

Alan shook his head "Does he still think the early morning shifts are the dodgy ones?"

"Yep. He keeps having nightmares of me getting beat up on these things." Paul added, looking down the train to keep track of the time and any passengers boarding.

"My wife demanded I get a proper job 'cause I kept coming home from work with funny powders and knife wounds." Alan laughed. "You'll do fine."

"Well how 'bout you stroll 'round and tell him to his face?" Paul grunted.

There was a long pause, the pair both reluctant to look each other in the eye.

"You will. Trust me." The badger assured him.

The squirrel made no attempt to fill the silence.

"We're about ready to leave." Paul said at last, swinging open the passenger door nearest to the cab and picking up the whistle from around his neck. Once the last stragglers had climbed aboard, he blew the whistle and stepped into the train, closing the door behind him and tugging the window down. He'd stick his head out to observe nobody tried to board while Alan pulled out of the station. At 5:25 in the morning, such a procedure was mercifully easier than at rush hour due to the small crowds.

As the train left Manchester station, it clattered and porpoised in an ungainly fashion over the points and trackway, it's aged motors not making near the menacing roar of the grander train.

The service was bound for Hadfield and Glossop, the only remaining part of the historic Woodhead electric railway, previously constructed between Manchester and Sheffield. In the early 1980's, the track past Hadfield was ripped up and trains such as Alan and Paul's 305 were some of the only trains that used this route.

Between Manchester and Hadfield sat a variety of stations. Guide Bridge was the most-well used, a significant interchange for passengers hoping to travel through the Pennines to the north and was a fairly well populated part of the Greater Manchester area in and of itself. On the other hand, it was also home to stations such as Flowery Field. This was the newest station on the line, constructed long after the bulk of the Woodhead was closed. It was made cheaply of wood and was unstaffed, unlike Guide Bridge and Piccadilly and was situated across a small bridge.

As the badger eased the train into the station, he noticed that there were more people than he'd expected, about 6 people at about 6AM was a significant increase over its usual numbers. It was quickly in the back of his mind, and with Paul's whistle from the pantograph coach's guard compartment, Alan pulled the train out of the station and prepared to head for Newton, the next stop on the line.

It was at this point that Alan heard the door between the passenger cabin and the cab open. He fought his instincts to turn away from the track, though when he felt a knife pressed to his throat, this didn't seem like an option anymore.

"Shhhh. Keep driving." came the voice of the knife's wielder.

Alan remained silent, heart pounding and maintaining eye contact permanently with the track and his speedometer. He'd really hoped these kinds of days were behind him.

There was a loud ringing sound which caused the attacker to panic for a second, quickly silenced by Alan, on instinct more than anything. "What in the fuck was that?" The knifeman asked.

"Forces me to pay attention." Alan explained. "If I don't press the button, the train comes to a stop and they have to come and tow it."

The knife pressed more firmly against his gullet, though the attacker didn't seem to dispute what Alan had said. "Don't try any funny stuff. Get us to Hadfield and you get to live."

As the train entered Newton station, the blade started to relax from the throat and its owner dropped down out of sight.

Alan brought the train to the stop in the station. "I have to do the stops or they'll know." He added, aware he was being glared at across the cabin. If the authorities were aware of what was happening, there was no reason why the attackers wouldn't just kill him. Trying to give them the best outcome was his best chance at survival.

Paul climbed out of the guard's cabin and onto the platform at Newton, observing a few people get out, nobody getting aboard, then giving the whistle and climbing back inside. As the 305 started to trundle into motion, the otter began to make his way through the train, moving to the rear carriage first and starting to check tickets. The plan was to get from back to front before the train crossed the Dinting Viaduct. As he moved through pantograph coach, he noticed one of the locks on the passenger doors seemed to have given up and the door was wobbling loose. He alerted those in the carriage and continued towards the rear coach, totally oblivious to what was happening in the front.

The stops at the next two stations, Godley and Hattersley went off almost without a hitch for Alan, the attacker in the cab moving to threaten him with the knife again once the train had left each station, then ducking back down as they approached another. Though the tension and impatience began to grow.

During this, Alan had managed to steal a glance at his attacker, a male raccoon clad in a large black jumper.

As they left Hattersley, the door behind them opened again.

Alan's silent prayer that it was Paul was brief and fruitless.

"What the fuck's takin' so long?" was a bark from one of the other attackers. "If we don't get to Hadfield by 7, we'll be done for."

"Shut it, we'll make it through soon." The raccoon grumbled. "Won't we?" He glares back to Alan.

The badger gulped. "Just Broadbottom and Dinting and then we're there." He sighed.

The raccoon pondered for a moment. "Don't stop at Broadbottom." He ordered shortly. "Or I'll kill you and take over this train from you."

Alan shook his head in disbelief. "They... they'll know something's wrong if I don't stop." He protested near breathlessly.

"Don't care." The raccoon smirked, a smirk cutting its way across his muzzle. "We're close enough, you leave this fucker wide open until Dinting, then start braking and we'll slide neatly into Hadfield. You'll get to see your family again and I won't have to wash blood out of my fur."

The raccoon laughed as Alan begrudgingly set about what he was told. "You didn't really think I was just ducking out of the way not to get caught, did you? I've worked out how this thing works, I could quite easily drive this train if you give me any funny shit, it's just easier for me if I get you to do that work for me."

The train approached Broadbottom station. Alan's training told him to reach for the brake leaver, though he put his paw underneath the desk to stop himself. He could see someone waiting on the platform, reasonably close to the edge of it.

Alan reached for the train horn with a growl, the train giving a rafter-shaking two-tone guttural bark before clattering and battering through the tiny station.

Paul became aware of the alteration to the stopping procedure when he was swung violently across the cabin into one of the passenger doors, it unhinging and swinging open to the bare wind, the squirrel grabbing hard at the baggage racks and haling himself back inboard, the door slamming behind him. But in the force of yanking himself back aboard, he cut open his right paw. He fell on the floor of the carriage, cradling his bloodied hand as he tried to regain composure. The few passengers started to argue and bicker, but Paul eventually gained awareness and stood up, reaching for the emergency stop chord, grabbing it. Inadvertently and on instinct, he did so with his wounded-but-dominant hand. Yanking hard to trigger the emergency brakes, he wailed out in agony as the small chain dug into the cuts on his paw.

The emergency brake system activated to a sound akin to a canon firing as all of the vacuum brake pressure was dumped as violently as possible, followed by long sound of air being sucked into the pipes, mashing the brakes on at full force.

This force hurled the unprepared raccoon battering into the empty co-driver's seat, knocking him underneath the little table. Alan had expected something of the sort and had managed to brace himself a little bit better, but still hit the driving table with his gut enough to wind him.

The train screeched to a halt atop the Dinting viaduct, constructed over the Glossop Brook.

Alan climbed from behind the decks, coughing and hacking from the impact to the table. "You thought I was alone on this train?" He grunted as the raccoon stirred underneath the second man's table. The door to the driver's compartment burst open once more and one of the henchmen entered, a skunk with a crowbar. He swung for Alan, who ducked, headbutting him in the gut and knocking him against the co-driver's seat. The badger ran to the door between the driving compartment and the rest of the carriage. Two of the other assailants, a wolf and a bat were just standing up from being thrown to the ground by the break force, the badger swiftly kicking each in the throat and stumbling past them. Two more, a fox and a large bull were stumbling up the train. They were inadvertently cut off when Paul appeared, still favouring his injury heavily. The squirrel stopped dead in his tracks, going white in terror and was elbowed in the gut for his troubles. He was shoved back into the pantograph coach, Alan quickly realizing he couldn't necessarily count on Paul to help. He followed them in, grabbing the back of the wolf's head and slamming it full force into one of the metal parcel racks, knocking him out cold.

Soon, the combatants assembled, Paul clutching his bleeding hand stopping the passengers in the third and fourth coaches from entering, the bull realizing he was without backup, Alan looking around for some kind of weapon and the skunk and raccoon roused from their injuries making their way through from the first coach behind the badger.

The bull turned and lept on Alan, the badger distracted by a swing from the skunk's crowbar. The badger was battered against the left side passenger doors which stand firm, then flung across to the right side, smacking into the ill-fitting door Paul had discovered before. Said door snapped clean off, flying over the side of the viaduct and fell gracefully the 119 feet to the ground bellow.

The badger's back was ruined by the launch across the train. He tried to stand up but bolts of pain vice through him. He snarled in agony and tumbled back to the floor.

"Pick him up!" The bull yelled to the skunk.

"No!" Paul cries, staggering forth, but is stopped at knife-point by the raccoon.

"Oh no, you're going to watch this. A little taster for your future." He grinned. "You'll look good with some mud, some grass mixed into your bloody corpse, won't you?"

The skunk lifted Alan up, the badger raising his head to look dead in the eyes of the bull.

With all his remaining might, as the bull charged at him, Alan pulled free of the skunk and dropped to the floor, causing the bull to collide with the skunk instead. The bull was going too fast to stop himself and the force of the charge sent both men flying out of the train, the skunk's back slammed against the bridge and the bull's head smacked the concrete side, snapping off his horns. The bull's heels swung over his head, pulling him over the side of the bridge. The skunk reached out to try and save him, but the only thing that saved the skunk's life was how his fingers slipped through the bull's own. The skunk's wounded body went completely limp against the bridge side as he watched the bull plummet powerlessly to his death.

The raccoon panicked, dropping the knife and running over to the corner of the carriage, Alan's convulsing body lying on the floor, tears of pain dripping from his face.

The raccoon spun around in shock, stood in the doorway where the bull had just gone, seeing Paul before him.

"I'll be honest, I think you'll look a lot better covered in mud than I will." Paul smirked. He delivered a kick to the raccoon's gut, throwing him out of the train coach, his back slamming and breaking against the bridge wall, head toppling over heels. He screamed and clawed violently at the steel bridge, but nothing could save him. As he continued to wail, he made the long, long fall to the ground.

The skunk managed to pull his head clear of the bridge precipice so he wouldn't have to watch a second man die before his eyes. He dropped the crowbar and held up his hands, pleading for his life as police finally arrived on the scene.

Alan remained on the floor, twitching with agony as Paul leaned down to help him lie flat on his back, then holding his hand tightly, this time in the one that wasn't bleeding out. "How bad is it?" The squirrel panted.

Alan looked up at Paul. "Not good. But I've had worse." He grumbled, before coughing hard, Paul twitching in case he started to choke. "Hehe... little kung-fu master, aren't you?" The badger smirked.

The squirrel shook his head. "It was nothing." He muttered under his breath.

Before Alan could reply, the paramedics make it to the train. They put Alan onto a stretcher and eased him out of the train carriage. Paul followed them down to Dinting station, getting his hand plastered up, then joining Alan in the ambulance.

"God what's Richard going to say? Can't hide this one from him, I'll be on the fuckin' news..." Paul grumbled.

"That you're a hero?" Alan offered.

"Pfft..." Paul scoffed, shaking his head. "Kicking a guy to his death off of a train does not a hero make. A murderer perhaps."

The badger grunted. "If he didn't want to die maybe he shouldn't have fucking pointed knives at people, then should he?".

Within the hour, Alan was transferred into a hospital bed, Paul being allowed to stay with him for a few hours.

The pair sat in silence together, Paul's adrenaline only just starting to subside.

The silence was interrupted when the door swung open and a very muscular otter entered the room, "Paul! You're safe! Oh gods what on earth happened to you?" He cried, grabbing the squirrel in a tight hug, Paul grunted a tad as his body was still somewhat beat up, though not to the extent that Alan's was.

"Well, robbers tried to hijack train and I..." The squirrel explained, his gaze moving to Alan's, then back to his spouse's. "I saved Alan's life." He explained at last.

The otter looked from the squirrel to the badger, who grinned and nodded. "Sure did." The badger confirmed.

Richard looked between the pair, before he started to cry and buried his face into his husband's shoulder. "You're a hero. My big hero~" The otter uttered at last.

Paul stammered again, looking back over at Alan as he was hugged once more.

The doctors arrived again to discharge Paul, with Richard leaving the room first at the doctor's request while the process was finalized.

"I told you to trust me." Alan smirked.

The squirrel blushed and rubbed the back of his head "It didn't work out last time." Paul laughed.

"Yeah well... a broken clock's right twice a day, ain't it?" Alan smirked.

The End.