Rated PG-13 for Graphic Violence and Language

Flight. That all-encompassing freedom. The release. An escape. A young aircraft taking flight after many weeks spent on the ground, exercising and strengthening their engines, getting used to the function of their control surfaces and hopping, will experience what a great many creatures, including humans, who despite their all their achievements and endeavors will never be able to fully comprehend. The world tumbling away and shrinking into a surreal pretend toyland underneath you, the feeling of the wind and the air currents under your wings supporting you. And then when you get there, high into the clouds, you find yourself in another world separate from the one you've always known. Alien, and yet you are assaulted with the sense that it belonged to you. That you were made for it, and it was up here waiting for you all along. Your sanctuary.

All this was a mere trifle to a young Ripslinger. Fifteen years old, and just freshly broken out of the orphanage where he had spent the last seven years of his life after the great tragedy of the Border to Border Rally of the West that lead to the deaths of nearly his entire family. He flew on in the dead of night, completely unaware of the momentousness of his own first flight. His mind was elsewhere, as it had been ever since his sister, Isabelle, had been taken from him. All of his energies and thought processes had been focused on anything and everything that would aid him in his goal of getting back the last thing he knew he had of the life he'd lived before. If he had been cognizant of any of it at the time, he still would only have regarded it as just one more thing that had been stolen from him. And it was something that he would never get back.

The young blue and red P-51 panted hard. He hadn't been airborne for very long, but for him it was still somewhat early for him to be doing any flying at his age. As much as he had watched other planes fly, whether in real life or video, scrutinizing and retaining every detail, he'd had little time to put any of it into any real practice, and even though he would have aged out of the system in another year, where his engine would have been more ready to take on the strain, he couldn't stand to wait any longer. He had to find Isabelle. Where was she now, he had wondered? How far from each other were they after so many years? What if she were being treated badly, wherever she had ended up? Suppose she had even escaped, as he had, and was hiding somewhere, in need of his help? He had to find her!

But in order to do that, he must go back to the last place he wanted to be right now, and as his family's home came into view, Ripslinger's anxiety mounted. The compound was now his, technically, but he would not be living in it. Closer and closer he flew, and as he did so he found himself plunged into that strange state of mind which from time to time visits all creatures, although for the young Mustang much more frequently than most will experience, even in childhood, when our immediate surroundings take on the aspect of a distant fantasy. We wonder who we are, the very sounds about us seem unreal, and for a time, until it passes, it appears strange and arbitrary to find ourselves in this physical body, in this particular place, under this singular sky. And then before he knew it, Ripslinger was suddenly taxiing off the landing strip to the front doors.

It was a sorry state away from the palace-like grandeur it used to have before falling into disrepair. His father had had it built the moment that he and his mother had been told that there would be four in the litter, a large litter for P-51s. The gardens were unkempt and had died away into weeds and most of the windows and doors were boarded. Funny. It seemed so much bigger when he was small. Taking a moment to examine the boarded up main entrance, he gripped them in his teeth and easily ripped them away. Once inside, Ripslinger wandered through the main hangar, the darkness lit only by the moon outside, taking note of the thick cobwebs and dust that coated everything. The place looked as if it hadn't been touched since his family had last left it. Good. It should still be here.

There was an odd echo as the blue and red plane made his way through toward the study, a deep, hollow sort of ambiance. Then he stopped. He was just about to pass the playroom. Hesitantly, Ripslinger peered inside. There were still toys here and there, left out. He stared for a moment, then sucked in a quiet gasp, his eyes going wide as a flash of his young self rough-housing with his brothers popped though his sight, disappearing the next time he blinked. He shook himself, then continued on his way.

Tall, grand bookshelves lined one wall of the study. Ripslinger poked around in them, trying to remember the spot where it was. He found it. A section of books that were not books, that when pulled away revealed a hidden compartment. Yes. It was still there. Thirty-two hundred dollars. Not enough for what he needed, but enough to get him started on the road to earning real money to get it. Enough to get into air racing, which was really the only way he knew how to make money. He was as yet too young to race on any American circuits. Seventeen was the absolute youngest planes were allowed to start competing, and most still wouldn't start until entering their twenties. He would have to head even further south, out of the country, where air racing was less regulated so that he could train and gain experience until he could legally race in the U.S..

As he tucked the cash away, something glinted in the moonlight, catching his attention. Curious, he went over to see what it was, and paused, staring. It was a bejeweled charm bracelet, meant to be worn around the inside of the landing gear. A delicate silver chain going from a thin plate encrusted with a diamond and sapphire on each side, an inscription reading "Per aspera ad astra".

It was Isabelle's. It was her present for their last birthday. He found it odd that it was still here; after receiving it she never went anywhere without it. He had been of the mind that it had been left and destroyed in the hotel fire, but now that he thought about it, he didn't remember seeing it while they were away over the course of the rally. He picked it up, the chain hanging gently and glittering from his teeth.

Ripslinger was about to turn back and leave the room when something else made him stop. It was the big portrait of his parents, taken shortly after they had Bonded when they found out that his mother was carrying his litter. He had always liked this picture. They looked so happy. But then he checked when this time he looked upon it, they weren't smiling. They were looking directly at him, almost like they were there in the study with him. His mother and father were silent, mute, as their body language exuded fearful nervousness, looking down upon him pleadingly with worried eyes. He shut his own tightly and turned away, unable to look at them anymore. Please... I don't know what else to do!

As the tears that he furiously tried to hold back squeezed from his eyes, the bitter sense of all that he had lost came pouring over Ripslinger, tightening in a sharp-edged spiral, diminishing him, paring away his vitality and memories, his very thoughts and all those inward recesses in which he had thought to hide. He stood still, feeling himself reduced to a tiny, hard point which must at all costs be kept safe, which must not be destroyed, or his sister would truly be lost; just as the last drop of the remains of a rainstorm disappears into the ground.

And in that instant a great flame of abandonment crackled up in the thorny tangle of Ripslinger's mind. He could be done with anyone's care for a while. He, too, could be burdened with no name, no past, no future; with no regret, no memory, no loss; no fear but caution, no longing but hunger and arousal, no misery but bodily pain. No part of himself need be exposed except his awareness of the present and even that gone in an instant like the flash of a lightning strike. He was going to find his sister. And when he had her, he would get out of the racing business, for it and any success he had was no more than a means to that end. He would take them away and keep himself and her safe and hidden where no one would harm them ever again. And they would be happy.

XXxx

Two years later...

XXxx

Venice, California, 2003. The Southern California Aerobatics Conference, or as many people simply called it, SoCal. It was one of the largest Sport and Formula specialties in the world, and racers, teams, suppliers, and syndicates alike came from all over to race and advertise. A good place for one wanting to get noticed, as it was a good place for recruiters looking for new talent.

And so it was for the Antin brothers, Roy and Sid, of Antech Air Racing Inc., an older organization among racing teams. Antech had once been a quite successful company, but with the growing popularity of air racing at each year that passed, it was becoming harder and harder to find new racers before they were snatched up by up-and-coming racing teams, as everyone and their brother seemed to want a piece of a business that kept getting more and more lucrative. Too late had they decided that it might not be that bad of an idea to recruit more racers, as their last and most successful racer that they'd had, a Corvus 540 by the name of Asteroid, was still only one plane. He had of course retired before they could acquire anyone, leaving Antech scrambling to get back in on the action.

With the board breathing at their bumpers, the two Lexus LS400s searched hard for their new star. The perfect plane to bring them out of the doldrums and into relevancy again. As insurance, they had brought Kenny Doosan with them, the head of the recruiting department, with a real eye for sizing up a plane with. And they were not the only ones. There were at least a dozen other racing outfits out for the same purpose, and Antech always seemed one length behind them. Practically every prospective they approached seemed to already be spoken for. Until Kenny seemed flinch and shiver as a chill went over his frame. About to continue, something made the forklift turn. Realizing that he was no longer with them, Roy and Sid reversed and turned back to see their recruiter stopped dead and staring hard at a rather large plane with an even larger crowd gathered around him.

It was a racing P-51. A fine one at that, even though it was obvious that he was quite young; his intakes were only just beginning to flare. But even more striking, apart from his size for a male Mustang at such an age, was the fact that he had contra-rotating propellers. It was a rare genetic mutation that would pop up from time to time in certain models, P-51s being one of them, and as much as they could be problematic could more often than not be a real boon to a racing airplane. The two sedans looked him over from a distance. He certainly was dressed for the part, they thought, noticing his red, checker-marked underside, and obviously knew his way around a crowd from how he seemed to have them hanging on his every word. The aircraft in the mix in particular seemed to have an odd air of disturbance and confusion among them, but were also curious and no less compellingly captivated, as a rabbit watches a dancing weasel. Surely this plane must already be with another racing conglomerate, even though it was odd that he should be here anyway, normally you wouldn't see any Unlimited racers at SoCal. But just then as the three vehicles were about to move on, the blue and red P-51 said the magic words.

"Out of twenty-four outs, I have never not finished a race or even come in second. So who among you knows somebody who wants to know what it's like to really win?" the stranger crowed, then his gaze shifted over at the Antin brothers, with Kenny following behind, approaching him. "There is no plane that can defeat me."

"We do," shouted Roy, the deep green Lexus.

The plane regarded the three of them with scrutiny as they made their way before his nose. His presence was overwhelming. He seemed to take up so much space in how he held himself, but Roy and Cid kept their cool. How would it look, especially to this plane, to be shown up by someone so much their junior?

"May we have a word with you?" asked Sid, his lacquer being a deep, dark blue.

XXxx

Kenny, ever the picture of professionalism, hung back as his superiors spoke to the Mustang in a more out of the way location of the competition. His name was Ripslinger. He thought that the name sounded familiar somehow, but brushed it off. Kenny was unsure of this plane. Nothing about him was rubbing him in a good way. His disinterest. His air of boredom. His eyes. They just seemed so empty, yet had a certain keenness about them that was unsettling. As he spoke to his bosses, the plane blinked, and as his eyes opened, olive-colored orbs had shifted over lazily to land on the black and red forklift as he continued speaking. Something was wrong with this plane. Everything in him told him so, but Kenny held firm, determined not to let this plane know that he was cowed, even though he knew that the P-51 knew better.

"Twenty-four straight wins in Tijuana, huh?" Roy was saying, "It certainly sounds impressive, but even if they could be verified, none of those wins will count here in the States. Who was your trainer? And why aren't you numbered?"

"Never had either," was Ripslinger's short answer.

"Really now? Did you just spring up out of a hole in the ground?" asked Sid, a wry smile on the midnight blue Lexus' face.

"I'm self-taught. And as for my registration, it's a story that I won't bore you with and has nothing to do with what we're doing here," the red and blue Mustang replied coolly. "You and I both know that."

Roy and Sid each flashed each other knowing smirks while Kenny hid his growing trepidation. This plane was learning them as fast as they were trying to learn him. He knew he had this in the bag and they would give him whatever he wanted before he would even have to show them what he could do.

"Now..." Ripslinger continued, "I know what I can do for you. The real question is, what can you offer me? What confidence should I have in a corporation who's CEOs run their own errands?"

Now at this the Antin brothers laughed. They laughed! Here this plane was insulting them and practically telling them how to do their jobs, and they were laughing. They were simply too enamored with his boldness and aloof, candid demeanor. Maybe Sid had something when he had joked if the plane had sprung out of the ground, thought Kenny. This devil had his teeth in them and was not letting go, and for all the pittie could tell, they were glad for it. Roy chuckled.

"Now, now. We haven't even been given a demonstration of your great talents. Why don't we go somewhere more appropriate and show us what you can do before we start discussing any particulars."

The sun was beginning to set now as they arrived on the oval course, a light, warm breeze tickling over their plating.

"Just a few standard Unlimited class laps around the field, please," Sid was saying.

"How many do you want me to do?" asked the P-51.

"Enough for us to make a proper, informed decision," answered Roy.

Ripslinger nodded, and then prepared for his take-off. Engine roaring to life and fire as puffs of white smoke emanated from his exhausts, Roy and Sid looked at one another happily. Up he flew, flying around and lining himself up for the starting approach as the two cars and the forklift down below each got their stop watches at the ready.

"Engine sounds wonderful," the deep blue car remarked.

As he flew down and crossed the starting point, they all started their watches. Digital numbers flickering, neither vehicle hardly blinked as they all observed the Mustang's flight and movement in the air. He could stand to tighten things up a little, but otherwise very nice. He completed his first lap. Clicking their stopwatches, they looked for the numbers to appear in the top display as the count in the main display started over. [1]Min [4.0]Sec. Very nice.

"Beautiful," Roy murmured as Ripslinger roared overhead, sounding like a comet with a Corvette attached to it.

Around and around the P-51 flew, altitude no more than sixty feet coming around the far turn as he dove and knife-edged. The three on the ground were so entranced that only after the third lap did they notice something extraordinary. [1]Min [2.6]Sec... [1]Min [0.0]Sec... [0]Min [58.8]Sec...

"Impossible..." Kenny whispered.

"Alright, call him in," said Sid.

As the group drove down to the landing strip they all could not stop gaping at the times.

"Good grief..." Roy was saying.

"You're telling me," the midnight blue Lexus rejoined, "I think this is it fellas; we've found our plane."

"No doubt about it," agreed Roy, "He's got the perfect personality for what we need, the perfect physical type. This is the one we've been waiting for."

"I don't know..." Kenny ventured, knowing it was fruitless, but still willing to try his damnedest to sway his CEOs. "This will be the first time we've ever kept an Unlimited racer. You do realize how much a plane like him will cost to maintain?"

"I don't care about that," Roy said, "After that performance, I have no doubts that he will more than pay for himself."

"But what about his size?" the pittie tried again, "He's already as big as most Mustangs will be as adults, and he still has a few more years of growth and a lot of weight coming to him. He may get too heavy to race efficiently."

"And his engine will also grow with him, it's no matter," Sid countered.

"But he's got no papers," Kenny pointed out, starting to despair, "Not even so much as a pedigree. It's not going to matter how fast he can fly, they'll never let him race."

Both brother's laughed at this as Ripslinger touched down aways away from them as they drove up to meet him.

"Those will be easy enough to forge," smirked Sid. "I'm telling you, this is the one. The answer to all our prayers. This is the plane that's going to put us back in the spotlight like Antech has never been before. You saw what he just did. Imagine what he'll be like when he's properly trained, or hell his ability when he's fully matured?"

Ripslinger rolled to a stop in front of them, cool and collected as he stared them down with a steely gaze, hardly even a pant to his breaths after his efforts.

"He will be unstoppable..."

XXxx

Later that night, back in the hotel in the conference room team Antech were drawing up the paperwork as Ripslinger received a full health diagnostic from their chief mechanic. The blue and red plane stood still for the heavy but kind-looking forklift as he did his physical on him, only stiffening and curling his lip when it came down to opening up the panels of his cowling and taking a few pokes around his engine.

"Now, now..." the mechanic had said firmly but softly, "It's alright. I'm not gonna try anything funny, I'm just taking a look. There you go."

While the pittie wrote up his report, Ripslinger went over with the Antin brothers to get started on the tedious task of going through his paperwork and discussing policies and terms. Kenny was surprised at how much control they were allowing this plane to have. Over hiring, merchandise, marketing, among other things. They might as well just hand him the company while they were at it. And those were only what he wanted changed about what already was; he had his list of demands too.

"Date of birth?" Roy was rattling off.

"April twenty, nineteen eighty-six," said Ripslinger.

"Where were you born?"

"At home, in Chino."

"Alright. Name of Sire and Dam."

"Slingblade," the P-51 answered, "...and my mother was Glory."

The whole room seemed to go silent in that moment as both Lexus' checked and stared. Kenny turned around. That's why the name sounded familiar.

"Something wrong?" Ripslinger asked stiffly.

"Uh... No..." Roy hesitated, before continuing down the line, "Ancestry?"

Once all the paperwork had been finished, Ripslinger was over eating a good meal offered and prepared by Antech staff, Kenny and the Antin brothers huddled together out of ear shot.

"That's impossible," Sid was saying, "The entire family died in a freak hotel fire years ago. There were no survivors."

Roy took a look back over at the feasting plane, shaking his front slightly.

"There is a lot of resemblance. And he's the right age. I'd have to see pictures to be absolutely sure."

"Right," said Sid, "It's odd though, to my knowledge there are very few pictures of Slingblade the Boomslang or Glory in the archives, and barely any of their offspring. All that's really left is their legacy."

"It would certainly account for his ability. Who else's kid would be able to do what he does? If he is who he says he is then that kind of legacy could be ours. We've potentially hit the jackpot here."

"I'd say we should keep it under wraps though, for the time being," Sid conceded, "At least until he really proves himself, which I have no doubts that he will. It's one thing to have a new upstart plane come blowing out of the gates, but if we go spouting off about this and we're wrong, we're cooked."

"Agreed," said Roy. "Porter, what do you think."

The forklift mechanic was just coming up with his files on Ripslinger's diagnostic.

"He's a bit undernourished, but that shouldn't be difficult to correct. Other than that he's in very good shape," reported Porter, "His engine is like nothing I've ever seen. I was expecting there to be modifications after what you described to me, but as far as I can tell, that is indeed the engine he was born with."

"Oh really?" Roy said with interest, "Do tell."

"It's quite robust, even for a racing P-51, every single component of it. It functions normally at higher levels that would be stressful to other planes of his kind. Definitely explains his stamina and acceleration."

"Very good, thank you Porter."

The forklift nodded and took his leave. The two cars turned to Kenny now.

"And how about you?" asked Sid, "What does our head recruiter think of our new star?"

"I don't like it," the black and red forklift came right out and said, to the surprised confusion of his bosses. "Something just doesn't seem right about this plane. He comes out of nowhere, no verifiable history, no number..."

"We've already discussed all that," Roy interrupted. "All we're really worried about is his ability to do what we need him to do. Can he do it?"

"Well if it were a question of his capabilities then..."

"Can he do it?" Sid repeated, firmer.

Kenny sighed.

"...Yes..." he replied reluctantly. "I just... have this feeling..."

"Then there's nothing more to discuss," Roy concluded. "Look, you've been pretty resistant to this thing right from the get-go. Tell you what, if you're so worried about him, why don't we just make you his handler? You've been due for a promotion for a while; that should be a pretty big step for you."

Kenny tried extremely hard to hold his expression. The statement was a jail-sentence. A funeral march. This was the absolute last thing that he wanted to happen out of this whole thing. This day could not possibly get any worse.

XXxx

Ripslinger went back to his own hotel. The Antin brothers had told him that the contracts would be ready in the morning, and that his new home at their headquarters in West Los Angeles would be ready to receive him by then. He was glad that this would be the last night spent in a hotel. He hated them now, and would forever lament that no one could seem to build one where the penthouses were on the first floor. It was past eleven now, and although the air was rather warm, the chill coming off the ocean would send shivers crawling across the blue and red Mustang's plating. As he taxied down the empty streets under the dim, flickering street lamps he stopped suddenly, feeling a cold lassitude come over him. He swayed on his landing gear as the environment all around him seemed to take on a surreal aspect of itself, as if layered over. Someone was singing, giving Ripslinger a disorienting sense of jamais vu. He felt himself floating in a void, his landing gear and wings numb and tingling as his breathing became erratic over the sense of dark shadowy creatures leering from the alleyways.

Then as suddenly as it came on it was over. Color and darkness seeped back into his surroundings, and the figures were no longer there. Ripslinger understood that the seizure had passed; until next time he was free. Free to lie in darkness and solitude and dwell unceasingly on all the things that still needed to fall into place in his quest to find and reunite with his sister. But what if his fits and visions were to increase? Perhaps even possess him altogether, so that... He started suddenly from where he was standing. The singing had not stopped. And this time there was no doubt where he recognized the whimsical, care-free melody.

"Isabelle?"

Was it not over? Was it just in his head? Nearly mad with indecision, he began to chase it anyway. It echoed and tumbled about the streets and buildings, never seeming to get any closer. The environment began to morph and become crisp again. In his blind, desperate pursuit he hadn't even noticed that he'd gone rushing into a recreational park, at least until he was checked hard before diving through a crop of thick bushes as a nose was thrust out at him, the front of an unfamiliar plane snarling and growling.

Ripslinger, finally coming out of his dementia, began to slowly back away, but then suddenly the sound of many other large things moving around him made him turn and look. Other planes were appearing out of the darkness and fog, and not one of them looked friendly. Most were a good deal smaller than himself, sport planes, apart from two Yak 11s, but he was surrounded, and they were all wearing sleeves so that he couldn't see their numbers. As the pack of planes had him cornered, another plane, a Hawker Sea Fury, larger than him, approached.

"Thought you could hide from us forever, didn't you?" his lightly gruff voice sounded. "Smart move, only appearing in gatherings for other classes. But not smart enough."

"Who are you?" Ripslinger demanded, his posture defensive but firm.

"Just a group of planes making sure that the score stays even. You would have done better to stay in that orphanage as long as you could."

"What?" Now Ripslinger lost face, frightened and confused, he repeated again, still trying to keep the fear out of his voice, "Who are you?"

"Not that it would have really mattered," the Hawker purred to the growling engines all around them, "You'll never escape us..."

The group of hostile planes advanced, and Ripslinger's fear quickly melted into offensive aggression, control surfaces raising as he bristled and moved forward in challenge. Not the reaction they were expecting, the smaller planes faltered a bit. Two of them steeled back up and moved to attack, but the cornered P-51 spotted them and snarled, the planes shying away, engines squealing shrilly as Ripslinger feigned a charge. As all the growling and revving reached a fever pitch, their leader, growing impatient, pushed them on.

"Get him!" he growled.

Despite their leader's urging, only one of the planes shot forward. Ripslinger reversed out of the range of the snapping teeth, coming back forward and around in an instant to sink his own crushingly into their back before shaking them savagely. His cohorts watched in horror as the plane screamed in agony, scattering as he was thrown at their landing gear, hydraulic fluid pouring over the grass from the terrible rend in his back as he convulsed and trembled, moaning piteously. Ripslinger let loose a ferocious roar from his engine, contra-rotating propellers spinning into a threatening blur as he prepared for more.

"Don't just stand there, kill him!" roared the incredulous Sea Fury.

At this point both Yak 11s leaped forward. As Ripslinger tangled with the two smaller warbirds, the rest of the pack closed in. Outnumbered twenty to one, the blue and red plane reared and span to and fro, jaws snapping and striking out with his wings. His propeller blades were getting torn up in his desperate attempts to keep them from going for his landing gear, which the smaller planes were relentlessly targeting. The watered-down red hydraulic fluid spurted and splattered all over the grass beneath him as he was torn into, screaming through the furious roaring of his engine as he was inevitably overwhelmed and brought down. Then suddenly they stopped, moving aside and clearing a path as the Hawker Sea Fury moved forward to where Ripslinger lay, bleeding heavily and still struggling to rise.

"Pity. I'd have expected more from the son of Slingblade the Boomslang," his voice slithered.

"Fuck you!" Ripslinger spat, sending red-tinged spittle in the leader's direction, "Tell me who are now!"

"I'll ask the questions! You're in no position to threaten me. Now, you are going to tell me where your sister is, and I'll gladly ease your suffering."

Ripslinger growled lowly.

"I'm not telling you slag..."

"Have it your way then. We'll find her eventually. You can't protect her forever," the fellow warbird whispered before his nose, his voice turning sickeningly cruel as Ripslinger's face fell in sorrow and despair at his next words, "You never could..."

Looking to his underlings, they began their final advance, but just as they were about to finish him, one of them, one of the Yak 11s, shouted in surprise. They all looked to their comrade to see him being dragged backward into the darkness and mist, face desperate in terror as he screamed. He disappeared, the screams suddenly turning more shrill before being cut off. The silence was deafening as all planes stared wide-eyed into the night. Then suddenly a colossal, black shape sprang out of the darkness among them.

Ripslinger watched as the apparition darted hither and thither with an unnatural grace for its size, snapping and biting methodically at the tiny planes dashing blindly around it in panic. One by one, it was catching them, grabbing them it it's jaws and with a quick bite snuffing out their life. He could barely make out the long, thin, angular shape in the dark, it's piercing red eyes glowing with an odd light that gave no light as it's engines idled and coughed shimmering embers.

No... That's not possible! The Blackbirds are extinct! were the thoughts running through Ripslinger's mind, witnessing the carnage as he finally struggled to his landing gear. It had caught the other Yak 11, jaws in his back as it dragged him back closer before ripping the hapless plane open, tearing out fluid-coated parts and wires and other innards hanging from it's maw. The Hawker Sea Fury, gaping at the spectacle, frozen in shock and fear was an easy target as the demon jet advanced upon him, and in desperation met it half-way, teeth bared and engine snarling.

"Come back! Come back, you cowards!" his raging screams could be heard as the remaining planes retreated completely, "Come back and help me kill this thing!"

With a quick snap of it's body, the creature finished him off. Ripslinger watched as it tipped it's nose back up, shaking some of the hydraulic fluid away that now covered and dripped glistening from nearly the whole front of it's frame. Then it turned it's attention to the wounded, shaking, terrified P-51. As the nightmare began moving toward him, he began to cry, tears mixing in with the sickly red fluid that smeared his own body. This was it. It was coming for him now. He was going to die. He shut his eyes tight, more tears squeezing out of them. He'd failed her.

I'm sorry, Isabelle...

The monster nearly upon him, his faculties could stand no more and he fainted, collapsing to the ground from fear, exhaustion, and fluid loss, as if to save himself from what was surely going to be a gruesome death. The black creature looked down upon him through no less fierce but soft eyes as it stopped just in front of him. It gave an odd, low trilling sound and chuffed softly. Then it lowered the front of its body down to Ripslinger's, and extending it's tongue, slowly licked away the hydraulic fluid and tears from his cheek. Nestling down closer with the much smaller, unconscious plane, it continued licking over the rest of him, gently and tenderly cleaning the fluids from his wounds.

The next morning, Ripslinger sprang awake in bed in his hotel room. Sobbing for breath, he scrabbled upward, checking himself. There were no wounds. No dents. He went over in front of the large, mirrored closet. Nothing. It was like they never were, though he could surely feel exactly where all had been. Confused and disoriented, he jumped as the radio crackled up with Roy's voice. Later, at Antech's headquarters, Ripslinger stood with the Antin brothers signing contracts. He'd had a few more items to add to his terms that he'd just thought of.

"I want to meet with your design team immediately to discuss a few things, namely the construction of a new type of propeller blade," Kenny could hear him saying as he stood at the far end of the room, fresh lacquer gleaming blue and red off of his frame, "And now, about your current security standards..."

Well here it is. The first part in a short series for my next project. Things will be revealed here that weren't already in If You Tame Me, so hopefully if you can stand the horrible depressiveness of this whole story, it will make a lot more sense as to why Ripslinger is the way he is when you see him in the film and in If You Tame Me. Poor Kenny...