Room 9, Saturday Morning
Joker's body might have been in bed, but his mind was anything but. The sheets were damp and clammy, and he twitched, occasionally crying out.
The world was on fire. Around him was nothing but sky. Somewhere below was a thick jungle, but he couldn't see it through the flames.
Before that, a bombing run. He'd hit his target -- he was sure of that. Bandits? Rebels? They were threatening the precious bananas, and probably backed by the Krauts. Or maybe they were honest farmers accidentally targeted, and only firing because he'd fired first. Did it really matter? One of them got a lucky shot in.
The world was on fire. It was impossible to keep his plane level, impossible to keep it in the air, and yet he did.
Afterwards, faces black as sin, speaking French. A hospital near Port-au-Prince.
The world was on fire. His stomach lurched. Below him, the jungle began rushing up towards him.
Between, crawling through the jungle, the pain in his legs almost impossible to bear.
The world was on fire. Leaves and branches clawed at his wings, tangled in his propeller, scratched his fuselage.
Later, a ceremony. A medal. And then Fandom, on his own.
The world was on fire. He'd stopped moving. He'd survived. He couldn't see anything through the smoke and flames. He climbed out of the cockpit. Any landing you could walk away from...
The ground was still 50 yards away.
Joker screamed himself awake. He lay there, panting frantically, illuminated only by a thin shaft of light from the window that fell across his eyes. His gaze shifted to his crutches, propped conspicuously against the wall next to his bed, and he sighed.
[Open for the roomie or anyone else!]
The world was on fire. Around him was nothing but sky. Somewhere below was a thick jungle, but he couldn't see it through the flames.
Before that, a bombing run. He'd hit his target -- he was sure of that. Bandits? Rebels? They were threatening the precious bananas, and probably backed by the Krauts. Or maybe they were honest farmers accidentally targeted, and only firing because he'd fired first. Did it really matter? One of them got a lucky shot in.
The world was on fire. It was impossible to keep his plane level, impossible to keep it in the air, and yet he did.
Afterwards, faces black as sin, speaking French. A hospital near Port-au-Prince.
The world was on fire. His stomach lurched. Below him, the jungle began rushing up towards him.
Between, crawling through the jungle, the pain in his legs almost impossible to bear.
The world was on fire. Leaves and branches clawed at his wings, tangled in his propeller, scratched his fuselage.
Later, a ceremony. A medal. And then Fandom, on his own.
The world was on fire. He'd stopped moving. He'd survived. He couldn't see anything through the smoke and flames. He climbed out of the cockpit. Any landing you could walk away from...
The ground was still 50 yards away.
Joker screamed himself awake. He lay there, panting frantically, illuminated only by a thin shaft of light from the window that fell across his eyes. His gaze shifted to his crutches, propped conspicuously against the wall next to his bed, and he sighed.
[Open for the roomie or anyone else!]