CB hadn't been in many crashes himself. He had caused many crashes, yes, but he usually disconnected long before the consequences of his actions reached him. And the crashes that he had been in, because of course, it would look suspicious he escaped all of them, were minor and usually he left them with nothing more than a few dents.
But the crash that he, Greaseball, and Electra were just involved in? It was bad.
They were a mangled wreck, creeping from the scene of the crash like a trio of wounded animals, groaning and wincing as they pulled and twisted at their wounds.
As they, trapped together like an impossibly tangled mess, slowly exited the tunnel with Greaseball and Electra arguing over his head, CB could hear the sounds of other trains gathering around them - probably gathering to see the karma and payback that the three "cheaters" had received. Sparks kept flying and smoke billowed up from where their frames were intertwined and tangled, wires were pulled loose and snapped, and panels were cracked and bent. Whistles and horns croaked and beeped pitifully, and for once CB's brakes really were broken, his wheels skittering along the track as the trio jerked and stuttered along, CB hanging uselessly between the two larger engines that continued to try to pull away from each other instead of working together.
His couplers felt as if they had almost been ripped off by the crash, and CB was almost certain that if he looked at them he would see the imprint of fingerprints crushed into the steel from how hard Greaseball had grabbed them during their crash. Electra and Greaseball had tugged him back and forth like a pair of rabid dogs fighting over a chew toy, and he had been unable to escape the upcoming crash as the two engines paid more attention to their bickering over the track.
The two had been more interested in cheating and fighting than just racing, and look at where that had gotten them.
"I can't hear no more..." CB murmured, raising a hand to rub at his ear which was painfully ringing, he couldn't even hear himself speak. Greaseball turned to look down at him, his mouth moving, but CB couldn't decipher the words from the rest of the static and ringing that he was hearing, "I can't hear nothing!"
Greaseball turned to Electra and said something, CB could tell the two were bickering even without being able to hear them, and then the diesel and electric engines set to work untangling themselves. CB relented to just hanging down between them, his shaking legs barely holding his weight as showers of sparks cascaded down around his broken frame. As they finally separated, broken bits and pieces fell off and liquid (diesel fuel and oil, dark and staining as it fell in streams across their metal) trickled down their forms as wounds were ripped open, CB groaned in pain. He felt as if he had been pulled apart and put through a blender - at least ten times. His frame ached and stung, and he was most certainly severely broken. CB, almost immediately after pulling away from the diesel and electric engines, began to fall over - only being stopped by the two engines quickly grabbing him and pulling him to his feet.
"Let's get ready to rumble!" Greaseball shouted, obviously still set on continuing despite his condition. Electra pulled his arms away from CB to cross them across his chest with an unimpressed look. As Greaseball let go of him, taking away his support, CB collapsed to the ground. Similar thuds came from behind him as Greaseball and Electra followed him, their legs finally giving out as the effects of the crash finally caught up to them. CB slammed face-first into the hard gravel that lined the track, rocks poking his frame uncomfortably and working their way into small gaps and cracks. Oil leaked out onto the rocks, reflecting the yellow-orange of sparks fluttering off his battered and bruised form.
CB didn't think he'd be getting up any time soon.
He tilted his head so his nose wasn't being crushed into the ground, and blankly stared at the pieces of metal and wood that littered the ground around him. The classic red paint, slightly chipped and weathered with age, was easily identifiable as pieces from CB. Pieces of himself - pieces of himself that were, notably, not attached to himself at the moment - were littered around the track, a rather gruesome scene.
"CB?" as Greaseball tentatively spoke his name, the diesel engine having climbed back to his feet alongside Electra, the caboose found that he couldn't force himself to move, it felt as if his wheels had been locked, as if his gears were jammed. He couldn't force himself to talk, as if his throat was clogged by the oil that was leaking from his form, as if his mouth was unable to open due to his missing pieces.
The coaches and freight crept closer, surrounding CB as he remained still on the ground. CB didn't see Rusty or Pearl, but he also could only see so much of the crowd from his viewpoint from the ground.
"He doesn't look so good," it was Dinah that crouched beside him, throwing a dirty look at Electra and Greaseball who were standing sheepishly to the side, "he's not as strong as you engines, and that was a bad wreck."
He wasn't weak...
"I've survived lots of wrecks..." CB murmured, but he couldn't deny that this one left him in bad shape.
"CB, how many fingers am I holding up?" Dinah held one of her hands forward, and CB grimaced as he tried to count the coach's wavering digits that wobbled and swayed, making it appear as if she had three or four hands as her shape wobbled and blurred.
"...six?" he guessed, closing his eyes for a brief moment to escape the black dots that were filling his vision, squinting against the lights of the gathered trains as he opened his eyes again. Dinah gave him a worried look at his answer and opened her mouth to speak, but CB heard none of it as he promptly passed out, slipping into the blissful unawareness of unconsciousness.
Perhaps that had been one crash too many for the mischievous caboose.