Casey Jones (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jonesiseverywhere) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hfm_logs2015-07-22 07:04 am
jonesiseverywhere) wrote in hfm_logs2015-07-22 07:04 am
[Open] Aiming for an Early Check Out
Warnings: Food thrown around with nary a thought as to who it might hit
Location: Hospital and street below
Characters: Casey Jones and you
When: 4-5 days after the Carnival fight
Summary: Casey is in the hospital, and extremely bored.
Two nurses were talking outside Casey's room and all he could pick out was "doesn't sleep" and "won't even relax." They were probably also talking about how he was magic and could make fire with his mind and how cool it was. Probably. They must not have wanted to let on how awesome they thought he was to his face which was good because otherwise it'd be kind of miserable being sporadically attended to by sulky doctors and grouchy nurses and Casey kind of had enough to be miserable about.
They'd taken the TV from him, for one thing. Apparently trying to fetch the remote by using a baseball bat for an extended reach was "a good way to break it" and got the privilege taken away. Meaning there wasn't much to do but write in his journal or sleep, and Casey was kind of sick of both. Sure, Casey had done a LOT of sleeping the two days or so. He'd practically passed out on Greg's back and hadn't woken up until they'd had time to dress him in a hospital gown, get him into a bed, get his leg into a brace (fracture rather than break, thank goodness), and leave a lousy cold hospital lunch which he'd eaten two bites of and lost his appetite, but now Casey was back to his usual self (i.e. five hours of sleep a night.)
He'd covered his journal in doodles of shadow monsters, drill sargents in full suits of armor, city skylines, and him and Greg fighting a giant shadow horse with eight eyes and spiky hooves. He'd made Greg look significantly more heroic than he did, with long flowing hair (and not balding) covered in spiny vines and flanked by monstrous venus fly traps. That were on fire. Courtesy of Casey's drawing of himself, considerably more muscular than Casey himself and holding flaming hockey sticks crossed over his head.
Yeah, that would've been cool if it had happened. But Casey's interest had worn off, and now he didn't have much to do but reflect on what was going on which he hated anyway, but especially now because he couldn't approach the situation in a way that didn't make him feel homesick and lonely.
Normally he could expect after-school visits from April and late night visits from the turtles, and he really missed the company. He'd been here on his own for at least the two days he wasn't asleep. He couldn't shake the thought that they should be fighting with him. He'd apparently been chosen to fight this war, which made sense to him. He'd always known he was meant for something greater, but his friends had fought along side him since the beginning, and maybe he felt just...a little lost without them. He'd already been through a year of having no real friends, and that was enough for him.
He had to stop this train of thought somehow, which was good because that was about when a particularly surly nurse came in with lunch, slapping the tray down on the bed. Casey had already picked a fight with her about eating that slop and she'd made it very clear that he wasn't going to get the papers for his release until everything on the tray -the chicken sandwich, the peas, the mashed potatoes and the jello- was gone.
Which didn't necessarily mean he had to eat it...
He set the tray on the side table, grabbed his crutches, and hobbled over to the window. He needed some air, determined to make the smell make him queasy. His room was up sort of high, and across the way was a trashcan with the lid propped up on it, concave side out, almost like a target. Probably somebody taking the trash out. Casey positioned himself leaning against the wall, and grabbed the spoon and a handful of peas.
He could probably hit the dead center if he positioned his little spoon catapult just right. And if somebody was walking by, well, who could care about getting hit with a pea? They might care if he started flinging the mashed potatoes, but that was for later...
Location: Hospital and street below
Characters: Casey Jones and you
When: 4-5 days after the Carnival fight
Summary: Casey is in the hospital, and extremely bored.
Two nurses were talking outside Casey's room and all he could pick out was "doesn't sleep" and "won't even relax." They were probably also talking about how he was magic and could make fire with his mind and how cool it was. Probably. They must not have wanted to let on how awesome they thought he was to his face which was good because otherwise it'd be kind of miserable being sporadically attended to by sulky doctors and grouchy nurses and Casey kind of had enough to be miserable about.
They'd taken the TV from him, for one thing. Apparently trying to fetch the remote by using a baseball bat for an extended reach was "a good way to break it" and got the privilege taken away. Meaning there wasn't much to do but write in his journal or sleep, and Casey was kind of sick of both. Sure, Casey had done a LOT of sleeping the two days or so. He'd practically passed out on Greg's back and hadn't woken up until they'd had time to dress him in a hospital gown, get him into a bed, get his leg into a brace (fracture rather than break, thank goodness), and leave a lousy cold hospital lunch which he'd eaten two bites of and lost his appetite, but now Casey was back to his usual self (i.e. five hours of sleep a night.)
He'd covered his journal in doodles of shadow monsters, drill sargents in full suits of armor, city skylines, and him and Greg fighting a giant shadow horse with eight eyes and spiky hooves. He'd made Greg look significantly more heroic than he did, with long flowing hair (and not balding) covered in spiny vines and flanked by monstrous venus fly traps. That were on fire. Courtesy of Casey's drawing of himself, considerably more muscular than Casey himself and holding flaming hockey sticks crossed over his head.
Yeah, that would've been cool if it had happened. But Casey's interest had worn off, and now he didn't have much to do but reflect on what was going on which he hated anyway, but especially now because he couldn't approach the situation in a way that didn't make him feel homesick and lonely.
Normally he could expect after-school visits from April and late night visits from the turtles, and he really missed the company. He'd been here on his own for at least the two days he wasn't asleep. He couldn't shake the thought that they should be fighting with him. He'd apparently been chosen to fight this war, which made sense to him. He'd always known he was meant for something greater, but his friends had fought along side him since the beginning, and maybe he felt just...a little lost without them. He'd already been through a year of having no real friends, and that was enough for him.
He had to stop this train of thought somehow, which was good because that was about when a particularly surly nurse came in with lunch, slapping the tray down on the bed. Casey had already picked a fight with her about eating that slop and she'd made it very clear that he wasn't going to get the papers for his release until everything on the tray -the chicken sandwich, the peas, the mashed potatoes and the jello- was gone.
Which didn't necessarily mean he had to eat it...
He set the tray on the side table, grabbed his crutches, and hobbled over to the window. He needed some air, determined to make the smell make him queasy. His room was up sort of high, and across the way was a trashcan with the lid propped up on it, concave side out, almost like a target. Probably somebody taking the trash out. Casey positioned himself leaning against the wall, and grabbed the spoon and a handful of peas.
He could probably hit the dead center if he positioned his little spoon catapult just right. And if somebody was walking by, well, who could care about getting hit with a pea? They might care if he started flinging the mashed potatoes, but that was for later...