#anyway this mfr has never had a fried egg. a fate worse than death

[r0b0t1me]

*thinking about casey jones jr so hard i get lightheaded* how are we feeling tonight fellas? are we normal? are w-

The morning comes sluggishly, quietly, as if the earth itself had woken up from a bad dream. Casey's arms, free of gauze and gloves, move against soft pillows. His hair tousled, his mouth dry, he notices the weightlessness of his own body; floating alone in a calm ocean of warm cloth. He prays for morning drills to wait just a minute longer.

Ten go by, his eyes flit open, he's still coddled and he doesn't understand. He moves, bracing his body against an elbow, and never had Casey felt so tired. Everyone was waiting for him, weren't they? Had Master Leonardo let him sleep in? Casey would never let him hear the end of it. His reverie is broken by a noise, foreign voices, muffled and distant.

That's when his eyes finally move around the room, a repurposed subway car, the only light filtering in through cloth covered windows.

There's a scent in the air, it's- It reminds him of- It's kind of like- sort of- it's-

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know it at all.

Casey falls back into bed with a newfound weight. Memories lurch forward from his clouded mind, ashes in the air, Leonardo's proud smile, a city so foreign yet so fond, interrogations and keys, fighting in the streets, his forehead pressed against cool metal. The embrace of his tired young master, not even an inch taller than him, thanking him over and over.

Tears rush from Casey's eyes, sudden and blinding. He doesn't know if they're from the loss or the exhaustion or the victory or the loneliness or the calm. All he knows is he can hear the quiet laughter of five familiar strangers, that the earth is saved, and the smell in the air is making his stomach cry out.

One step at a time Case, his master's voice chimes in his head as his feet touch the floor, his hands fumbling around a nearby pole to keep his shaking knees steady. He heads out the door, following the sounds and the scents of the new world, one step closer to the future he now barrels towards.

He rounds the corner to a kitchen, full of voices, of warm fresh foods he doesn’t know, of bruised and tired faces who beam and beckon him to join in.

Welcome home, Casey Jones.