Paper Planes

XL

"One thing you can't hide - is when you're crippled inside."
—John Lennon

|•|•|•|

If you had to choose, who could you live without? Michelle Napier or Ember DeLoughrey?

202 Faxcol Drive. Ten hours.

The paper slipped between Joker's grasp, fluttering elegantly to the tile floor as every last breath escaped his lungs.

"Orders, boss?" Horton gulped, swallowing the bile in his throat as he envisioned Michelle and Ember, terrified and trapped by some random fucker.

"FUCK!" Joker exploded, prompting Horton to jump ever-so-slightly in shock as the painted-face man claimed a nearby glass, thrusting it towards the cabinet as it shattered into a million tiny shards.

"FUCK!" Joker repeated, taking the flimsy map of Gotham that had been discarded onto the corner of the counter between his fingers. He took the material between his thumbs, tearing it in half with ease as he shredded the paper into tiny pieces, profanities escaping his lips the entire duration.

Horton watched wide-eyed as Joker literally stomped around the kitchen like a child throwing a temper tantrum. Implausible plans fell from Joker's quivering lips, before being disregarded and replaced with another possible plan of action.

"This fucker is going to wish they were never even born." Joker hissed, curling his fingers into tight fists at his sides. Extreme rage boiled through his veins, his teeth poking painful holes in the skin of his bottom lip as he aggressively bit down.

"Joker," Horton cooed, the palm of his hand meeting the madman's shoulder as he clamped down. Joker trembled riotously beneath his hold, brunette gaze meeting a sea of blue. "Breathe. We're going to find them."

Joker begrudgingly shoved Horton's hand off his shoulder, colorant-tinted digits lacing in his virescent curls. Several strands of profanities continued to escape his parted lips, his pulse quickening as Ember's dead figure bombarded his mind.

"Faxcol drive is-uh, what, thirty minutes away?" The madman mumbled, darting towards the disheveled map that lay in pieces on the tile floor.

Horton viewed the Joker's shivering physique, ungloved fingers curling around the limp shards of the map of Gotham as Joker struggled to rearrange the picture on the tile. He sat in a crouched position, knees held up against his chest as his broad shoulders lay dramatically hunched.

Unfortunately, the precise location of Ember and Michelle on the map had been irrevocably destroyed during Joker's momentary rage. Ironically, Faxcol Drive had been split directly down the middle.

"The fucking Narrows." Joker snipped, palms swiping across the softened paper as they glided across the floor into separate piles.

"I'll get the guns ready." Horton swiftly replied, turning on his heel as he darted in the direction of the supply closet. The relatively tiny storage room held a fair amount of weapons, including Joker's personal favorite—his bazooka.

The clown sat defeated on the floor, slumped against the island counter as he struggled to push away the horrifying visuals of Ember being raped and murdered.