The flight back to headquarters was tense. After the post-win interviews were over and they'd gotten back to the tents, Ripslinger had simply fallen as soon as he'd got his tail through the flaps, unable to stand any longer. He drooled and foamed at the mouth, gasping deep, heavy breaths that were punctuated by gagging and these odd little coughs that seemed to emanate from both his throat and exhausts simultaneously. While Ripslinger's vital signs had eventually gone down to normal limits, albeit the high side of normal, he remained quite lethargic and very weak. He was currently laid out on a sleeping mat aboard the plane, conscious but not moving save for blinking tiredly. Kenny, who had been glued to his side since his initial collapse on the track, kept one of his forks against the side of the Mustang's nose, ready to gently prod him awake should his eyes stay closed. Until they got him to Porter and were given the clear from him, Ripslinger would not be allowed to sleep. Luckily for the pittie, given Ripslinger's current condition, Kenny didn't have to fear any repercussions for the impertinence. The private plane that they'd booked was given strict instructions that the short flight home be as gentle as possible, and the skilled carrier had touched down like a feather. Kenny tucked that away for later reference, hoping to recruit this plane to be their own exclusive tourer. For now, they had a nearly five-ton P-51 to move.

"Alright, Rip, let's go. Easy now..." Kenny coached gently as his charge attempted to rise, stopping him once he eventually got to his wheels, as the racer had started panting heavily again in the effort. "Okay stop, let's take a breather before we move."

Aircraft often panted when their engines were overtaxed and/or getting a little hot, but prolonged open-mouth panting was regarded with the utmost seriousness, as the ease and swiftness in which planes could succumb to respiratory ailments was well documented. Kenny had prompted Ripslinger to lean down a bit and allow the forklift to lift his lip so that he could see his tongue and gums. Although he was no longer open-mouth panting by this point, inspection of the gums lining the sharp, interlocking rear teeth revealed them to be more of a dull, tacky blue-gray than the usual rich purple-lavender, and so Kenny waited for them to brighten up some before continuing to the Antech building's medical wing. He was uncharacteristically compliant; a very obvious sign that they were dealing with a very sick Ripslinger. Guided by his prop by Kenny, after much stopping and starting they finally made it to Porter, who had already been alerted to the P-51's condition and had already prepared a heavy rubber mat that he directed Kenny to lead him to.

"He's fine, not great of course, but fine so long as he's not moving, but the very instant he moves at all he starts turning blue," the red and blue pittie explained to Porter.

"Well at any rate this is as clear a case of overdose as can be," Porter said, "His vomiting back on the track's evacuated his tanks more or less, so at least he can't absorb any more, but there's enough still free-floating in his system to where it'll just keep re-absorbing and re-toxifying instead of excreting it. We're going to have to a full-system flush to completely clear him out, but as the additive is binding to all the oxygen he takes in, whatever he has left will go out with it, so it's going to be a very delicate balancing act to keep him anesthetized while still maintaining a high oxygen flow."

"You hear that, Rip?" Kenny asked, turning back to the prostrate plane, who didn't respond.

He lifted his nose, shifting himself a bit before falling back down, breathing heavily through his intakes. His eyes had become glazed over again as he continued to look around, pupils dilated. He acted like he couldn't see, or at the very least was hallucinating, as his eyes would occasionally focus, but on seemingly nothing.

"Yeah he's out of it. I think he's re-toxifying right now actually," said Kenny as he watched him.

"Yes, well, we better get to work then," said Porter, then they both froze as they heard Ripslinger speaking weakly.

"Isabelle... Where..."

The mechanic had checked slightly and then looked to Kenny, who only returned an unreadable stare, yet there passed an understanding between forklifts in that moment, and then Porter simply went about referencing and preparing the appropriate drugs. When his MAs brought out and assembled all the equipment, Kenny stayed at Ripslinger's nose, as the P-51 seemed to become agitated at the movement and noise, continuing his feverish muttering.

"Leave us alone... Leave us alone, I can take care of her... You're scaring her! Don't scare her!"

He suddenly tried to rise, and Kenny pulled him back down by his props.

"Hey, hey!" Kenny grunted, patting the side of his nose firmly as he held him in an effort to keep the much larger plane calm and try to break him of whatever fit he was in, but to no avail.

"Leave us alone... I can take care of her..." Ripslinger moaned again, still trying feebly to get up.

"Rip, stop- Oof! You're okay," Kenny tried to sooth, grunting a bit at a particularly strong bump from the delirious Mustang, who seemed to be oblivious to the red and blue forklift's voice.

"Hey, Porter?" Kenny called, already starting to feel a faint strain in his servos and hydraulics, "Are you guys almost set up yet? There's only so much I can do if he starts to act up more than he already is."

"Yeah we're ready, let's go ahead and get him prepped now," the heavier forklift replied, turning to his staff. "Kenny, you stay at the business end, if you please."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." the pittie muttered resignedly as he braced himself.

The other forklifts positioned themselves at Ripslinger's wings and tail, which the checker marked plane apparently did not appreciate, finally seeming to react to his immediate environment.

"No... Get... off of me!"

"Hey," Kenny grunted, having to really put his weight into it now, "You're okay Rip. We're trying to help you. We're gonna make you feel better, okay?"

"Can't do this... Can't leave her alone..."

While the group of forklifts were more or less succeeding in keeping the P-51 still, he took no heed of any of their words or gestures of comfort. Kenny could not rightly tell whether he was coming or going, but at least soon he would be well unaware of whatever state he was in. Ripslinger had flinched, trying to rear away as the anesthetic/oxygen and waste-gas hoses were hooked to his intakes and exhausts, respectively, and turned on.

"That's it, Rip. Here comes the oxygen. There you go, breathe deep," Kenny coached, rubbing a tine against the side of Ripslinger's nose.

He appeared to actually calm down somewhat, his body relaxing and his breaths coming in less frantic with the introduction of the oxygen. However, it was not to last. While precautions had been taken to keep the oxygen output as low as possible to provide adequate saturation without agitating his condition, it was still enough for the residual additive remaining in his system to re-ignite with. Lulled into a false sense of security when Ripslinger had seemed to succumb, they were all figuratively, and some of them literally, thrown for a loop when he'd suddenly surged up, thrashing and struggling. The forklifts that had been knocked away had immediately dove back in, practically leaping atop the plane, and even Porter had joined in, as by the time they had Ripslinger under control again, he had already ripped out a few of the hoses and nearly knocked over the anesthesia machine.

"Get off me! Leave her alone! You'll kill her!" Ripslinger roared as he struggled. "No! You can't take her! You'll kill her! YOU'LL KILL HER!"

"Easy, Ripslinger! Easy, Son!" Porter called over all the crashing and snarling, shouting to his assistants, "The straps! Tie him down!"

"Rip, calm down, it's okay! It's me! It's me, Kenny!" shouted the forklift, trying in vain to break the plane from his hallucinations, but once Ripslinger caught sight of the straps, angry panic became full-blown hysteria.

"No! No, not again! Get off me!" he shrieked, eyes wild in utter terror and desperation, "No, don't take me to the back room! Don't put me in the dark! Please! Not the dark! Let me go!"

As more and more straps were fastened down over his wings, tail, and fuselage, he began to cry. Kenny could not recall the word "please" ever being uttered from Ripslinger's mouth, and he held him tighter, pressing the side of his face against him, stroking and shushing as the Mustang continuing to wail his protests in anguish.

"Nooooo..." the blue and red plane moaned sorrowfully as he felt the prick of a faster-acting sedative being introduced to his system, his frame trembling as he began to sob.

Once Ripslinger was finally fully anesthetized, the rest of the procedure was completely uneventful, apart from one small incident where he had briefly woken as they were performing the orogastric portion of the lavage. Alerted by him squirming lethargically, they had hurriedly reduced the oxygen content of the gas as he started to bite down on the tough, heavy tubing down his throat after gagging when he'd tried to swallow. Simultaneous drainage and infusion of vital fluids was continued until they ran out clean. The procedure completed, Ripslinger was gently lifted onto a flatbed trailer, anesthesia machine in tow, and pulled to his penthouse where he would be allowed to recover. Oxygen was raised and gas lowered in increments until he was disconnected from the gas and just on straight oxygen until that, too, was disconnected a few hours later. Kenny remained at his nose when the hoses were removed, Ripslinger gasping a bit at the light jostle before slowly lowering back down, glazed over eyes closing after a moment. The forklift frowned in great pity, saddened to see such a plane in the state he was in. He continued to rub him with a tine while Porter spoke to Sid and Roy.

"Please tell me we didn't just end his career," Roy sighed.

"End his career?" Porter scoffed, "You damn near killed him."

"Chrysler..." Sid breathed as Porter continued.

"There's evidence of expansion in several components of his engine; it should go back down given enough rest, but he was in serious danger of engine failure, and let's just hope to God that that the apparent hallucinations earlier were due to the additives and not because his brain got cooked."

"Well, if there's a bright side to all of this, at least it happened with the last race of the season," said Sid, "He'll have the next five months to recover before he starts training for next season."

"Good, because I'm ordering him grounded for three of them. He must not run his engine for any reason until I clear him. I'll be back in a few days to check on him. I'm not exactly expecting him to be up and around by then; he's had a pretty bad time, he'll likely be sleeping this off for a while. After that I want him in the shop for scans and diagnostics at two, six, and eight weeks post-incident, by which time, hopefully, he'll be cleared to start flying again."

"Right," Roy agreed, "Do we have any idea what caused this? I mean we know it was the SuperNova, but you're putting this into the category of an overdose; we only gave him the appropriate dose for his model, age, and weight."

"Well all the records he's broken in one season, his first, to boot, speak for themselves; he's no average Mustang," Porter explained to softly muttered "Yeses" and "Rights" from the two Sedans. "He preforms at such a high level already, what may be an appropriate dose for anyone else will be too much for him. I'd suggest the next time cut the dose in half. Maybe even less."

"There won't be a next time," said Roy, "He's by far the best plane we've ever had; we aren't even going to take the risk to make the same mistake again. That was too close."

"Very good then," Porter said, smiling wryly. 'Scared straight, huh?'

"Right, well, we've got a lot of talking to do with the Board about all this," said Sid, turning to Kenny, "Stay with him."

"Yes, sir," Kenny replied, not looking away from the unconscious P-51.

XXxx

It was deathly quiet here. And so still but for the mist that lazed about through the thick fog that turned everything a blue-gray. Ripslinger wandered through it, unable to see past the dense murk all around him. No matter how far we went, he never ran into anything. Nothing but more and more fog and the mist that would billow intermittently. Then he stopped, every now and then, carrying in and out of the lethargic breeze, he could hear noises. An odd, low, buzzing hum. He looked around as the noise seemed to grow louder, and became punctuated with breathy, rattling growls, and hot, heavy hissing. He obviously was not alone, but he had no idea where to run; the sounds seemed to come from all directions at once. Then he turned around to go back the way he'd come, and then stuttered to a stop, his breath catching in his throat as he nearly ran into a large plane. The noises had not ceased, but they were not coming from this plane, and yet Ripslinger shrank back all the same. His father was standing before him in the haze, staring down at his son with a discontented frown that Ripslinger himself had been honing to perfection.

"Dad?"

The other P-51 did not not respond, only continuing to stare back at him, although his gaze did soften somewhat.

"Dad, what are you doing here? Am I dead?"

"No, but you are destroying yourself all the same," his father answered.

"What? Racing?" Ripslinger stammered, "I wasn't- this was a mistake. I won't be taking any risks like that again. I can't..."

"But you are, Rip," Slingblade pressed.

"I don't understand," said Ripslinger, "This only happened because of that crap they made me take before the race. Until now I've never had a single problem."

"Yes. I know. It's one thing to race hard, and you've been racing beautifully, son," the older P-51 continued, smiling gently before his eyes hardened back up into icy blue jewels, "But when it's just a means to an end... This obsession, your apathetic ruthlessness. You are forsaking who you are, who you were supposed to be, for this darkness instead, and the power it brings."

"But..." Ripslinger gulped, shrinking down a bit and lowering his control surfaces under his father's stare, "... I need it... It's the only thing that's keeping me alive. Giving me strength. Without it... I might... I can't let that happen. Isabelle needs me."

"Isabelle does not need to see her brother corrupted into something even worse than the creature that you turned into the last time she saw you," Slingblade angrily snarled down at his son, who only cowered down further in grief at the memory, his sister's shrieks and pleading ringing in his ears, "Feeding into these feelings does not give you strength. This anger, this greed, this callousness, does not serve you. The more you turn to this demon to get what you want, the more you give it strength, and you will serve it. Soon, there will only be a demon in that frame of yours, if you give in much more."

Ripslinger took in shallow, shaking breaths. At this moment, in the mist and the murk, he took in his father's words, and unlike any advice or suggestion that anyone had given him since this whole racing mess had started, they had been able to break through to the soft-spoken, fair, and level headed young P-51 that still remained. Where there had been no question before, now he was finally able to doubt. However, while that part of him was able to grasp those words and realize they meant, that wavering, groaning hum thrummed back up and buzzed ever louder through his thoughts. His mind replayed everything in cinematic detail, his entire path from the time he and Isabelle had been separated, and in that same moment, he saw the future, the end result for which all that careful preparation and energy had gone into, and he pushed the doubts away from him.

"I don't have time to sit here and listen to this nonsense," said Ripslinger, his tone and expression becoming steely as he rose back up. "Who are you to suddenly break in and try to lecture me when it's you who put me in this position in the first place?"

"What?" his father breathed incredulously before growling, "You know god damn well that my death was not an accident!"

"Yes!" snarled Ripslinger, matching his father's glare, "A trap that you flew right into because they knew that you just couldn't resist being the egotistical show-off that you were, and so of course everybody bought it! Imagine having to sit in an orphanage watching the news hearing over and over people saying, 'We knew he'd bite it one day!'... Now, no one talks about us. No one even remembers us..."

"Oh, my son... I'm so sorry..." Slingblade said softly, closing his eyes and bowing his nose in sorrow, "I'm so very sorry... I never wanted this..."

"Well," was Ripslinger's stony response, "I didn't either. You raced your way and you destroyed us. Now I'm going to race my way and I'm going to save what's left."

At that, Ripslinger turned away from his father, leaving him behind as he continued on through the fog.

"Ripslinger," Slingblade called after him, making to follow him, but could only go so far, yelling out in stern desperation, "Ripslinger!"

But his son kept going, neither slowing, nor looking anywhere but straight ahead until the mist stirred up and swallowed him completely.

XXxx

Three days came and went, Porter coming up from his lair, as everyone called it, to recheck Ripslinger's status. He was still out, as the mechanic already predicted, but seemed satisfied with where his vitals were at, and so took his leave. Anxious days passed as Ripslinger had yet to regain consciousness, although Kenny was in no real rush to wake him. This was the first time that he'd ever seen the plane so peaceful. No restless stirring. No yelping or moaning. Just quiet comfort of silent, all-encompassing darkness. He for one was inclined to let him sleep. There were few times where the forklift was ever not in the room with him, even sleeping in it, keeping a tine on him so that any movement would wake him. Then one day, nearly two weeks later, slipping out to confer with Sid and Roy on this or that, he'd come back in and almost jumped when Ripslinger was suddenly sitting up on his sleeping mat.

Kenny froze, seemingly in shock at the sight when the last time he saw the Mustang he was still out cold. However, Ripslinger took no notice of him. He only continued to stare blankly out of the large glass doors that opened out onto the balcony. Recovering from his bemusement, the red and blue pittie slowly approached him.

"Ripslinger?"

The plane still did not respond right away, looking down at the floor after a moment, then finally turning toward Kenny, looking slightly dazed himself.

"How are you feeling?" the forklift asked quietly, coming closer.

Ripslinger looked back down at the floor for a few seconds.

"Like I've been hit by a train," he answered somewhat hoarsely.

"I'll get you something to drink," Kenny said, starting to turn away, but Ripslinger stopped him.

"Kenny, don't leave," he suddenly blurted out, before saying more quietly, "Stay with me. Come here."

Kenny did as he was told, and Ripslinger lay back down as he came and settled down beside him. Plane and forklift sat next to one another in silence for a time, Kenny staring over at his charge, and Ripslinger staring ahead with unfocused eyes.

"Do you know what happened?" Kenny asked after several minutes.

"I don't remember much," replied Ripslinger. "I remember taking off... and being in the winner's circle. Apart from that..."

Kenny nodded, and there was more silence. Hesitantly, he reached out, just gently laying the flat of a tine against the side of Ripslinger's nose, and Ripslinger moved, shuffling closer to him. The most microscopic of smiles flitted across the forklift's face before frowning in thought.

"Who is Isabelle?" he asked in an innocuous tone, but Ripslinger did not answer, continuing to just stare off into space. "You really are him, aren't you?" Kenny continued, and now his voice had a more serious edge to it. "The son of Slingblade the Boomslang who was supposed to have died with the family in the fire."

Ripslinger was silent for a few moments more before he finally spoke.

"If you tell Sid and Roy, I'll kill you. And then I'll kill them."

Kenny nodded, expression soft as he turned his gaze ahead with Ripslinger's, giving the checker-marked P-51 a few pats that imparted an unspoken, solemn promise.

Two more weeks rest eventually saw Ripslinger back on his landing gear, so to speak. While he was able-framed enough to move around if he'd wanted, he rarely did, as per the norm when there wasn't training to be done or a race was imminent. Racing planes were very zero-to-sixty creatures for the most part, that wasn't unusual. Their default, couch potato-state when not racing was a widely known stereotype, but Ripslinger took those characteristics to new extremes. Before, Kenny had thought that he'd never seen a plane sleep so much. While his nights were rather restless, he knew, he didn't seem to have such problems sleeping during the day. Now, since his jarring epiphany, Kenny had a much better understanding of the Mustang's bizarre behavior. He could understand, now, Ripslinger's desire to be less aware of the passage of time, and the forklift was moved to deep loyalty, almost feeling bound to this plane even. Whatever his goals were in subjecting himself to this cut-throat circus that was air racing, after what it did to him, Kenny's fate now belonged to Ripslinger.

Ripslinger seemed aware of the change in their relationship as well, as he'd had Kenny now officially promoted and given the title of Crew Chief, and he never went anywhere without him. He acknowledged and even spoke to him more. No one, no matter who they were, could get private meetings with Ripslinger alone; either Kenny was permitted to be in the room, or there would be no meeting. More often than not, you couldn't even see Ripslinger anymore without talking to Kenny first. He was his own personal informant and mediator, an extra pair of eyes and ears. Answers were rarely ever immediate either. Ripslinger often consulted with Kenny in private first. Sometimes he took his advice, most of the time he did whatever he was going to do anyway, but that fact that he even considered Kenny's advice at all was quite a change.

Great care was taken when it was time to get Ripslinger in shape for the upcoming racing season. Porter had actually come outside to supervise. At first he was only allowed to taxi. Satisfied, the mechanic then cleared him for short cruising flights for the next two weeks before he could begin normal training. For all intents and purposes, Ripslinger had made a full recovery, and by the time opening day approached on May 1st, he was performing with his usual vigor.

This season would be very different. With Ripslinger's last win, he was now eligible to compete in championship races where he could earn points toward different titles. Now that he was here, Ripslinger was determined to claim the title of Champion by the end of the season, which meant that he would need to best no less than two rivals in three individual races within a total of fifteen wins. Which would be easier said than done. He wouldn't be racing against novices anymore, he would be racing against other seasoned racers. Veterans, established Champions. The average racer normally took two or three seasons to get to this point in their career; Ripslinger would be by far the youngest plane in these heats, racing against planes that were fully mature.

"Guess I need to put some effort into it now," he said as his pit crew bustled around him in his tent the day of his first race of the season.

"Want some SuperNova?" Kenny deadpanned.

"Hmm," the Mustang smiled wryly as eyed his competition, who eyed him back with barely hooded disdain.

Who was this upstart who thought he could race with the big boys? To the ones who were already titled, it was a waste of their time and effort to be racing a kid like him, and the ones who weren't would not get any points for beating someone who had yet to hold rank. 'Let's see if they'll still be sneering when I get first pole', Ripslinger thought haughtily.

They weren't. They were all glaring sideways at him as they were lined up and given the go ahead to start their engines. If this nobody placed anywhere on the field, let alone first, it would be all the greater the insult to their pride, and they were snorting irritably as they were all champing at the bit to get this race started and teach this fledgling a lesson.

His biggest problems in this field were a Hawker Sea Fury named September Thunder, a son of the legendary September Fury, and two other Mustangs named Little Logic and Slammer II. Both Thunder and Logic already had Champion titles, with the former holding an additional Pylon Racer title, and if Slammer were to win this race, it would be the last Major he needed to gain the Champion title for himself.

The stakes were high, and right off the bat Ripslinger was overtaken and impeded by September Thunder and Little Logic. Forced to the outside, he found himself locked in the tight tangle of the main group when he'd tried to fight back up with them. Begrudgingly, he eased up, letting them pass. It was the only way he was going to get out of it, and, picking his way up through the field, soon found himself back with the leaders as they all came around the far turn. He lead only briefly before Thunder and Logic once again surged ahead, leaving him stuck in third place for the next few laps. Deciding it was time to give it that effort that he'd joked about in the pits, he steered carefully between the two leaders and burst back into the lead. As they came thundering down the final stretch, September Thunder and Little Logic both finally faltered while Ripslinger drove on tirelessly, taking the race by only a length and a half from the fast-closing Slammer II. He had completely upset all of the top contenders in the field, significantly boosting his rank in doing so, and earned his first point all in one fell swoop.

As soon as word spread and footage was released of his win, no one was sneering anymore. He'd more than proved himself with that first race, and within three more had gained enough rank where he was now officially on the leaderboards, winning his first major with the fourth. Interviews for television, magazines, and various tabloids, along with requests for appearances and promotions had increased ten-fold, and Ripslinger was eating it up. The more he played ball and posed nice and pretty for the cameras, the more the cash flooded in. On top of his earnings from racing, soon there was more than enough to secretly allocate a healthy sum of it to gather a team of the best private investigators he could find. After they were briefed on their objective and released, Ripslinger released an inward sigh. He would have his answers soon enough. For now, he thought, why not relax a bit and let himself enjoy the benefits of his celebrity in the interim? However, there was a slight problem.

Although he'd been getting countless invites from the clubs all long Sunset Boulevard to bring in traffic, he hated going to clubs with a passion. They were dark, crowded, noisy, stuffy, and most of the alcohol was complete swill compared to what he had on his own shelves in his penthouse. Most of the time he just went if only to get Sid and Roy off his back for a little while; he simply couldn't understand what all the fuss was about, they were terrible places to try to enjoy some company. After all, that was the whole reason that they wanted him to go out anyway. They wanted the publicity, to keep his name on everyone's tongues, and, to hopefully find a mate among the throngs of girls throwing themselves at his landing gear.

For a while, they were hoping that one of the female racers would catch his eye, as futurity rules when racers who were on different teams were expecting stated that the team of the father automatically had first dibs on any resulting young. How wonderful would that be, for their empire to turn into a dynasty? Unfortunately, while there had been plenty of calls from publicists wanting to arrange meetings, Ripslinger had refused all of them, and after so many races ran with him showing absolutely no interest, now Sid and Roy were just praying for him to get together with any girl. They could still race the offspring in the Sporting class at least, and while the pots for those races weren't nearly as lucrative as in the Unlimited class, it was better than nothing as opposed to him retiring a bachelor and having to set out yet again for a new racer the way things seemed to be going. However, now that the last objective in finding his sister was complete, Ripslinger had one less thing to focus on, and he had to admit to himself, he was lonely for some intimacy. It was Kenny that had worked out the compromise that he would go to the clubs himself to seek out and bring back a suitable candidate for their melancholy charge, which Sid and Roy reluctantly accepted since they themselves had noticed him sagging in the saddle a bit during his races. Not enough to lose, but he certainly hadn't been breaking any records.

"Fine. Just make sure whoever you bring back is a racing model, if not another P-51," Roy had grumbled.

The first girl was brought up, a foxy, confident little Nemesis NXT. Very sharp with matte midnight blue livery and sparkling blue eyes, Sid and Roy were quite pleased and thought it a good match. Ripslinger, for his part, seemed happy enough when presented with her, and she had stayed until the wee hours of the morning. However, they could not be sure whether the encounter led to any mating, as this was the one time that he'd booted Kenny out of the penthouse. She may have looked a bit ragged around the edges, but she did leave with a smile on her face. Ripslinger had spoke nothing of it, but the night had apparently just whet his appetite. Every night following he'd ask for new girls to be brought up to him. He'd wine and dine them. They'd lounge by the pool, and he'd lethargically let them push him around as they played in and out of the water, handling the girls' shenanigans like a boss. For all intents and purposes he did genuinely seem enamored with them, but then, the very instant after he'd had them in bed, to Sid and Roy's consternation, he would lose interest. Night after night, girl after girl, he never got enough, and it was apparent considering that each one would leave more worn out than the one before her.

One night, thinking that it was over as he hadn't heard anything in a while, Kenny had opened the doors to the penthouse, and was greeted by the sight of the Lancair Legacy, completely obtunded, smoking from her cowling and bleeding a significant amount of hydraulic fluid from several wounds over her back and wings. Eyes wild and glassy, she gasped like a fish for breath while Ripslinger paced nearby, agitated and emitting unusual sounds from his engine, that Kenny could only describe as possibly distress, although he was still in an obvious state of high arousal.

At this point something had to be done before someone ended up dead. Sid and Roy's solution was to have Kenny bring back two girls in the hopes that with the P-51's attentions divided between the two, they might fare better. Unfortunately, the night had ended with much the same result, so the next time they brought up three girls. While they had still ended up pretty well worn out, at least no one was outright mauled.

But why stop there? Wherever they traveled as the racing season progressed, there was never any shortage of takers, and his races were clearly benefiting, so Kenny reluctantly continued to gather up the ladies at Sid and Roy's behest, four and five at a time, for Ripslinger's pleasure and delight. Kenny had despised the way they encouraged this behavior. It was seriously no good for Ripslinger and certainly not for any of the planes they brought to him, which despite how he lavished them with all his riches beforehand, he continued to cast aside after achieving the final act. His contradictive insatiability and apathy confused everyone to no end. Kenny had scolded him once at a party that Antech had thrown when the team was home for a mid-season break. The music boomed and the alcohol flowed as the space to move around without bumping into three other people rapidly shrunk.

"Good Chrysler, Rip, you think you invited enough girls?" the forklift griped as they sat with their drinks off to the side, "All the hottest planes in LA must be up here."

"And I'll have fucked every one of them by the time this party's over," Ripslinger affirmed, not taking his appraising eyes off the crowd."

"Fuck's sake..." muttered Kenny as he shook his front, taking a sip. "You've already had more babes than Henry the VIII."

"Is that a problem?" Ripslinger asked, finally turning to look at his pittie.

"It would be if you weren't a plane," Kenny said, mentally shuddering at the thought of being overrun with thousands of Ripslingers as the checker-marked Mustang chuckled.

Truly if the plane wasn't sleeping or racing, he was fucking, and he'd determined to fuck himself straight into near paralysis in a euphoric stupor every chance he got. As long as it wasn't affecting his performance in the air, which miraculously it wasn't, Sid and Roy were all too happy to let him carry on. Kenny was also begrudgingly in agreement, although not for the same reason. Whatever kept Ripslinger distracted from the fact that it had been two months without any word from the PI team on Isabelle. While it was his order that he not be disturbed unless it was them telling him that she was found, Kenny could tell that it was wearing on him.

Two weeks later they were back on the road for the second half of the season. Ripslinger's second major was yet another for the history books, but it would pale in comparison to the finale of the Unlimited racing season, the War Thunder Conference. It was the premier race for Unlimited air racing, with the highest stakes, and the biggest pot. Most planes had to train for years to win enough races during a single season to get invited here. If Ripslinger were to win this race, not only would it be the last major he needed to be given his Championship title, but he would break the record as the youngest plane to be given a Champion title, as well as the youngest plane ever to compete in the War Thunder Conference, and the youngest plane to win. He had two rivals in this heat, a Yak-11 named Volgyr, and another P-51 named Thresher. Ripslinger wasn't worried about them, however. Who he genuinely was worried about was yet another P-51 who he would be competing with. Caesar the King.

Caesar the King was a sitting Grand Champion, a racing veteran whose only defeat in his entire career had been by Ripslinger's own father, breaking his streak and robbing him of the record for it. Like Ripslinger, he was large for a P-51, and though he was much older, was still blisteringly fast and powerful, and so he was not at all about to underestimate this plane. Likewise, Caesar was not about to underestimate him. He had been on the entire air racing world's radar for a long while now, and after he'd seen footage of one of his races, he had been watching this Number 13 very carefully. The younger P-51 looked up as the older plane approached him.

"Caesar the King," Ripslinger acknowledged, "What an honor it is."

Caesar was silent for at time, simply staring him down with intense consideration before finally speaking.

"Can you see them, boy," he said, motioning to their competitors in their pits, "You and I both know that they are nothing; it is only I that you will be racing against. But you were defeated even before you began, pretending to be someone else. Your façade will slow you down now. I'll beat you at last."

"Hmm," Ripslinger frowned haughtily, "I'll see you on the track then."

He turned to leave, taxiing a short ways before Caesar called out again.

"I know you."

Ripslinger stopped dead, then slowly turned to the side, eyeing the veteran racer suspiciously.

"I knew you as soon as I watched one of your races," Caesar began to elaborate, "Ever since then there has not been a single movement of yours in the air that has not given you away. Your power, your explosive speed, your ability to twist and turn around, under, or over your opponents with no more than a flick of your control surfaces, are unmistakable."

"What are you talking about," Ripslinger asked with narrowed eyes.

"I guess it comes as no surprise that you'd have the gumption to mock me. You know very well what I'm talking about. You think I wouldn't remember every detail of the only defeat I ever suffered in my entire career?" Caesar growled as his engine rumbled. "But that's why no one else is able to compete with you, because none of them know what I know. You may have everyone else fooled with this charade, but as of this race, your time in the limelight is done."

"Well," replied Ripslinger curtly, "I suppose I should prepare myself."

"You had better," Caesar said darkly, "As the son of Slingblade the Boomslang, I hope you will not disappoint me."

Ripslinger watched him leave, glaring. 'You'd better watch what you wish for, old-timer, or you might just get it.'

As it turned out, for the first time in his racing career, Ripslinger did not get first pole, Caesar the King did, but when they were released to the field, Volgyr ended up outbreaking the both of them. Quickly crossing over into the inside position, he took the lead, but only held it for roughly twenty seconds before Casesar began to cut in halfway down the backstretch, gradually pulling level with him before taking the lead for himself. Ripslinger was right on their tails, with all three planes racing away far ahead of the pack. Then, as Volgyr increased his altitude for the far turn in an attempt to do a power dive to regain the lead, Ripslinger took the chance to dive down himself underneath him and over the head of Caesar, taking the lead by over one hundred sixty-five feet. Greatly outpaced, Voldyr could not keep up his speed, and from that point on, the race was down to Caesar and Ripslinger. The crowds below roared and agonized as the two Mustangs exchanged the lead from one another at every turn. To them, it could have been anyone's race, but in the air, despite his performance, Caesar was struggling.

He knew now, that he would not be able to keep this pace. He almost knew at just how hard he had to fight to get back up with Ripslinger after he'd passed him the first time. But he could not allow himself to be beaten. Not when this plane's father had defeated him all those years ago and broke his winning streak. He wasn't even supposed to be alive! While even he had to admit that he had reacted in shock and even sorrow at the tragedy, he had taken it bitterly as well. He had never gotten his chance at a rematch after that first loss. For all the indignation, this was the closest that he was going to get at this point. Despite the heat and increasing pain in his engine, he throttled on, and at his absolute limit, was now wing-to-wing with Ripslinger. For an instant, he had actually managed to inch ahead, but then, as they approached the last turn, he began to fall back. Out of the corner of his eye, Ripslinger saw Caesar's his nose suddenly pitch up. It was over. Eyes rolling back, his mouth opened wide as his lips pulled back over his teeth, and the veteran's tongue lolled as black smoke began to pour from his exhausts and cowling, face awash in wide-eyed agony and desperation. Indifferent, Ripslinger continued to power ahead, winning the race by over four lengths despite Caesar flying his fastest time.

He did it. He had won. As of right now, as far as he was concerned, he was officially a Champion, and because he had won every race he flew for the season, he had also earned the title of Unlimited Pylon Racer as well as the award for Rookie of the Year. Ripslinger stood in the winner's circle, cameras flashing and confetti flying thick as a blizzard, casting a cool glance over at the runway, where Caesar was currently collapsed, surrounded by medical personnel, moaning and writhing. As he was accepting his titles and his cup and bouquet and obscenely large check, along a gold pin in the shape of a Browning 50-Cal to commemorate winning the War Thunder Conference, Kenny approached him. The PI team were back, and the lead investigator wanted to speak with him. He swallowed, feeling his tanks sink as anxiety bloomed in his belly. He had no idea what news he was about to hear. He had specifically told them that they were only to come back when she was found, but was she alive? The team were waiting for him when he returned to the Antech tents. The team leader, a black Mercedes-AMG GT, approached him.

"Mr. Ripslinger," he greeted, demeanor as sharp and icy as ever.

"Well?" the Mustang said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, "Have you found her? Did you find Isabelle?"

"The short answer is no," answered the Mercedes, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone.

"What?" Ripslinger said incredulously, his apprehension quickly turning to anger, "I thought I made it very clear that I didn't want to see your faces again unless you had found her!"

"It's not that we didn't find her, Mr. Ripslinger," the investigator, responded, not the slightest bit fazed, "It's that we can't find her."

Ripslinger was quiet for a moment as he processed what was just said.

"Explain that," he demanded.

"We were able to track her movements from the start of the timeline you gave us. She was fostered out of the last group home she was in after six months but no one ever committed. She bounced around from placement to placement. Her last foster home had her the longest, even keeping her after she had aged out. However, that's where the trail starts to weaken."

"And so?" pressed Ripslinger.

"By this time she was almost on the other side of the country as she'd moved from home to home," the Mercedes continued, "As far as we can tell, she left her last foster home on her own, went south, with her last whereabouts being in Tennessee. After that, the trail goes dead. Despite our best efforts, we were unable to find out anything more. She's just disappeared."

"They obviously weren't your best efforts," Ripslinger growled, "You never said anything about her being dead, just that the trail went dead. If there's a chance that she's still alive, why aren't you still looking for her?"

"Yes, that is true," admitted the PI calmly, "We have not found any evidence that she is in fact deceased. However, there's more evidence to suggest that may be the case than not."

"And what evidence is that?"

"For one, it's highly unlikely that it's just a coincidence that the last foster parents she had were both murdered," the sedan said bluntly, Ripslinger checking slightly at the information, "And besides, if she were alive, don't you think that she would have gone through the same pains that you have to try to find her, and that she would have found you by now?"

The P-51 stared down at the car for a few moments, absorbing his words, and finding absolutely no shift in his continence, or question of his logic, he sighed through his exhausts, sinking in to his landing gear as he shut his eyes. There was a nearly imperceptible softening of the Mercedes' expression, the silence between them soft as snow.

"I am sorry," he said, "Believe me when I say that we truly have done everything that we could to find your sister."

"You may go," was Ripslinger's only response, to which the Mercedes nodded, his partners taking their leave after him.

The blue and red Mustang was silent for the whole trip back. Kenny didn't know what had transpired between him and the PI team, but he didn't need to know. He fought down a shiver as he sat next to his charge. It was clear from the aura put off by the plane's twisted Soul that the mission had been a failure. He lay down on his sleeping mat aboard the plane, staring straight ahead, barely blinking as his Soul thrummed and wavered in a slowly but ever-increasing ambient, groaning hum that hissed and stewed. Nevertheless, a great party was awaiting them at his homecoming to celebrate another flawless season in which he was crowned Champion.

"Ripslinger!" Sid called as the team were exiting the plane, "Welcome home! Let's see that certificate!"

Kenny pulled it out to show the two Sedans, who were grinning from blinker to blinker.

"Look at that," Roy marveled, "Ch. Ripslinger UPR. How does that feel?"

"Wonderful," replied the Mustang, putting on his usual face without missing a beat, "It is good to be home though. The public's waiting, I assume?"

"Oh they certainly are. Everybody's been waiting for their hero to return," said Roy, "However, we've got a little present for you first."

"Oh?" Ripslinger said, not entirely feigning curiosity.

"Of course," replied Sid, "Seeing as how you'll be racing as a Champion from now on, we thought that a brand new paint job was in order. We think you'll be happy with what we came up with for you."

"Ah," said Ripslinger, looking almost bemused, "Well, let's get to it then."

Waiting for them down in Porter's lair was the heavy forklift himself, and standing next to him was a small, plain, unassuming Honda Civic LX. He was completely white apart from a strip of tough, thick plastic running laterally down each of his flanks. He was a younger car, just a few years older than Ripslinger, and he looked up at the plane with soft but unwavering deep brown eyes.

"This is the artist?" Ripslinger asked, raising a skeptical brow at Sid and Roy while the smaller car remained silent.

"Don't let Fry Boy's plain commonness fool you, this guy here is the best in the industry," Roy assured him, "He's studied and apprenticed under the old masters and his own work is exemplary. This is the car that's painted the likes of Bull Run, Riff Raff, the Queen of Thorns, I could go on."

Ripslinger now re-appraised this little Honda before him, who seemed to unabashedly appraise him right back with that quietly innocuous stare.

"Alright, let's get this over with," said, Ripslinger.

"Thank you, Sir," Fry Boy finally spoke, his voice a warm, firm tenor. "This way, please."

This car knew planes. He somehow knew Ripslinger even though this was the first time ever interacting with him. Kenny was thoroughly impressed. Ripslinger had had a special hood put on him and filters applied to his intakes and over his exhausts to protect his eyes and keep him from breathing in the fumes from the paints and lacquer. He was very professional and spoke little except to let Ripslinger know where he was and what he was doing and to tell him to lean or tilt a certain way, and Ripslinger was uncommonly obedient. Of course, the only other time he was this compliant had been when he was near death. Kenny sighed softly in sorrow. He had been skeptical himself, although he'd never let the P-51 know it, that Isabelle was still alive, but yet, he couldn't help but have some hope. So much was his pity and loyalty to this plane. As for Ripslinger himself, he sat quietly while Fry Boy went about his work, barely feeling anything that was done to him.

He was thinking. About everything that had transpired over the last eleven years. About everything he'd had to endure as he bided his time in the orphanage. About everything that he'd put himself through as an air racer. All his wins and trophies and sponsorships and titles. It was all for her sake. Just so that he could find her, and he'd failed. And he hadn't just failed, she was likely already dead before he'd even got started. All the torment and pain and anguish and risks he took were all for absolutely fucking nothing! He was all alone. He'd been alone this whole time. He began to shake, feeling himself go weak in his landing gear as he began to hyperventilate.

"Sir?"

Fry Boy's soft, clear voice had stuttered him out of it, reminding him of where he was before he could sink any deeper. The call was not in annoyance, to tell him to keep still lest he compromise the work being done, but of quiet concern. Taking a deep breath through his intakes, he released it through his mouth with a slight shudder.

"Continue."

The rest of the job went on in silence. Thanks to the wonders of technology, work like this that normally took days could be done in a matter of hours, seven in this case. Base body colors were always done rather quickly, where the bulk of the time spent were on the accents and stenciling for the more elaborate jobs, as this apparently was. Ripslinger only sat in a daze, his mind racing, as it had been for over a decade, and yet he was so numb. His mind had been hell-bent on only three things for so long. He tried to think over the overriding directive of survival, racing, and finding his sister, but couldn't. He had clung to these objectives so hard, that they had simply become encapsulated into his psyche behind steel walls that blocked out all other things. His mind could not associate with anything outside those walls. There was nothing beyond them anymore. In the meantime, Fry Boy had finished his work, and was appraising it with that same gentle innocuousness instead of the usual smugness that others in his line of work would, then he turned when Sid and Roy entered the shop again.

"You look fabulous!" Sid exclaimed, "Absolutely glorious! Wonderful work, Fry Boy!"

"Yes, you really have outdone yourself this time," added Roy, "You got everything down to the tiniest detail."

"Well that's what I'm contracted for," said Fry Boy, nodding curtly, "Thank you, sirs. And here's to next season."

"Yes," Roy agreed, "And thank you!"

"Well Ripslinger," called Sid, "You ready to see the new you?"

When he didn't answer, the two cars led him over to a huge mirror so that he could survey Fry Boy's handiwork for himself, and when the took the hood off, Ripslinger went wide eyed and rigid as he sucked a short, sharp gasp through his intakes. He'd nearly fainted while his brain struggled to compute what he was looking at, as it appeared that he had suddenly come face to face with his father again. Was this real? Was he looking at a ghost? Or was this another hallucination? His father looked just as shocked to see his son as he stared back, and then Ripslinger noticed that the eyes were the wrong color, and his jaw dropped as he moved closer to the mirror, turning slightly. It was exactly the same. A toxic green front and wingtips clashed jarringly with glossy black wings and tail, and checker marks that draped over his back, with intricate flames adorning his intakes. Only, it wasn't SLINGBLADE that was stenciled boldly onto his flanks, it was RIPSLINGER. He looked toward the right down at the end of his wing. It was the number 13, not 52. It was him. Ripslinger gulped. It was him...

"You're speechless I see," Roy chuckled, "What did we tell you? Was he the best, or was he the best? Come on. Your public awaits, as you said. Let's go show the world our new Champion!"

Ripslinger continued staring at himself in the mirror for a few moments. His hollow bemusement almost came across as boredom, the way it showed on his face. He saw his whole life laid out before him now. He'd already seen it when he was a child watching his father, lived it, for the last few years, and on the inside, he was screaming. Screaming in horror, grief, and rage. As he indeed had been since he had been robbed of everything he knew or would have otherwise experienced. Ever since that other part of him emerged and pushed it down so that he would not lose his wits. So that he would survive. So that could find his sister. But she was gone, and with her, the plane that he originally was, and would have been. Beaten down and buried by the ruthless indifference that had insured his survival for the last eleven years. Compassion and morality were simply weaknesses that he wouldn't have been able to afford. What else was he to do if he were to save his sister? Allow himself to break and become some pathetic, cracked-up mental case? Be a good boy and play by the rules and wait his turn while she suffered? And now that she was gone, was he just supposed throw it all away? The penthouse, the pool, the money, the girls, the power that he had nearly killed himself for? Like hell! He had invested over a decade of hydraulic fluid, oil, and tears to get where he was, and now, it was all he had.

Lead out onto the stage to the immense noise of the crowd, he held his nose high. As the ceaseless flashing of the cameras of the multitude of tabloids and news organizations popped all around him, he let loose a thunderous roar from his engine, contra-rotating props spinning into a blur as white smoke blew from his exhausts, the next day's magazines and news articles capturing the spectacle with the headline, "The Boomslang Lives On!"


Well there it is. While some monsters are born, others are also created.