Things had changed for Tom after the incident. All of what he thought he knew in confidence about interacting with Ripslinger had been blown out of the water. Just when the human had thought that there had been a breakthrough, that they had made a connection, Ripslinger had broken all the rules, and nearly two-hundred stitches later, Tom had found himself right back at square one.

But it was worse than that. He had thought himself special; the underlying sense of some sort of magical link that he shared with a plane that no one else could seem to get so close to, only to be proven so jarringly that there was none. His entire world seemed shaken now. Darker. Disenchanted. Even his music brought him less meaning after such a lesson, and was almost even becoming a bore. Ripslinger never even came to watch anymore. And Tom had lost so much of his nerve with such a hard wake-up call. Respectful cautiousness had now been replaced with fearful nervousness. Skipper was right. But so was Dusty.

"Please spend some time with him while we're all gone," Dusty had been saying to a very reluctant Tom before he and the rest of the gang had taken off to Chicago for a radio interview. "He really does feel bad about it you know." The skepticism radiating from the boy was palpable as the racer continued. "Please, Tom, he's very sick. You can't give up on him. It's right now that he needs friends the most. So please don't let him just be by himself the whole time, and please make sure that he eats. Maybe that's when you can take the opportunity to spend some time together." Dusty turned to make for the air strip, but paused, smiling encouragingly. "He eats better if someone sits with him."

And so here they were, Tom doing his due diligence, following Ripslinger from a safe, much wider distance than usual as the P-51 made his way across town to find a good basking spot. The weather was turning cold, quickly. Ripslinger despised cold weather, thriving in the stagnant, stifling heat of LA, and so was spending most of his waking hours lying in the sun before the Iowa winter became so that a cloudless day wouldn't take the bite out of it's bitterness.

Tom was lost in his thoughts, his mind replaying the events of the last few weeks. The attack, although even he wasn't sure that that was the right word for it. All of his efforts to get the plane to accept him, wondering where he'd gone wrong. Why he didn't see it coming. Dusty announcing that he was being called away for that interview, and that Tom would be the one to stay behind and keep an eye on the checker-marked Mustang while all the others were coming with him.

So deep in thought was he that he hadn't noticed that he'd unconsciously quickened his pace, until he saw Ripslinger suddenly start to turn back toward him mid-stride when he felt the boy come into his periphery. The human flinched and stuttered to a stop, and the huge plane immediately turned smoothly back onto his original course with hardly any transition in movement. Damn... Tom fought to steady his breathing as he slowed his pace. He really needed to get that under control. Especially now. He could not afford to have his attention wander like that around a plane like this.

Ripslinger had made such a turn himself since the incident with Tom, becoming touchy and sometimes even aggressive, especially toward Tom. The green and black P-51 looked back out of the corner of his eye to see the boy back at a preferable distance. A slight limp, hardly noticeable to human eyes, did not escape Ripslinger's attention, especially being of fighting stock and therefor naturally predatory in nature. Olive-colored eyes lingered a bit, then turned back forward as he narrowed them, giving a short blow of his engine.

Persistent little bastard... What was wrong with this kid? He remembered back when he had grabbed and threatened Clarice when he was still held captive all that time ago. He hadn't even hurt her that badly, but she had sure learned her lesson, and to Ripslinger's satisfaction had more or less stayed away from him since then. Tom had gotten much worse, and although it hadn't really been on purpose, you'd still think he would have gotten the hint, too. This kid was seriously going to fuck up his bid for getting out of here on good behavior, and now they were stuck with each other for the next few days. This was all Dusty's doing, Ripslinger was sure of it. Why else would he leave Tom here with him after what happened? He was just determined to keep him here forever, wasn't he? Guess the only thing to do now was keep the human at wing's-length... for the next six months...

Easier said than done, if Dusty had anything to say about it, apparently. The last few weeks they had managed pretty well. They were hardly ever in the same place at the same time, and never were they ever alone with each other anymore by their own choice. In fact Tom would have gladly continued leaving the P-51 to his own devices if he hadn't promised Dusty that he would try to spend time with him just while they were gone. The little racer and his friends had all done so much for him. Besides, he just said to spend time with him. He didn't specifically say he had to talk to or otherwise interact with him.

Tom walked out with Ripslinger until the plane found the next suitable spot to lie around until the sun moved further across the sky, at which point he would get up and move accordingly; the boy had never seen him move quite this much. He sat with him in silence for a bit, then left back for Dottie's hangar. Tom could hardly stand to be around the checker-marked Mustang anymore. Ever since the attack that wasn't really an attack, the little wisps of feelings of frantic hope, indecision, and turmoil were now simply radiating off of Ripslinger. So much so that Tom would start to feel an ache begin to settle in through his body, becoming nauseated and light headed with too much exposure. And there was more now. Underlying urges. A sort of creeping, malevolent curiosity. You know what they say about getting one's first taste of blood.

The thought just seemed to gain more conviction upon nightfall on that first day. Tom was sitting in a chair out in front of Dottie's hangar, boredly riffling through his iPhone when he looked up to see Ripslinger passing by, heading out to his usual spot on the cliff where he liked to stargaze. He noticed Tom, and then slowed, slightly turning toward the human. The green and black plane just stared at him, an odd expression about his features. A sort of assured, patient consideration. And the longer he stared, teal and olive eyes looking straight into each other, the more unsettled Tom became by it. He could have sworn there was even just a ghost of a smile on his face; it was difficult to tell by moonlight alone. The boy fought to hold steady and not betray himself despite wanting to cry inside at just how small and utterly helpless he felt now since Ripslinger had snapped that day and grabbed and held him by the leg. It was power and swiftness like he had never experienced in his life. And now here the blasted plane was, big as a bus and staring at him as if to rub it in that he'd finally gotten to him.

Tom didn't get much sleep that first night. He finally gave it up just when dawn was making its appearance over Propwash Junction. He got up, throwing a heavier jacket on and sliding open the doors to the hangar, peering out into the morning chill. The sun exploding over the horizon bathed the environment in gold. It was so clear and beautiful. And then Tom checked upon looking over at Dusty's hangar, seeing the doors open part-way before a long, green nose poked out. Since when the hell was he ever up this early? The P-51 was almost nothing more than a silhouette in the early morning light as he gazed out across the town, and after a few moments, turned and went back inside. Curious, the human strode across to Dusty's hangar. Perhaps he was hungry already?

The door hadn't been closed all the way, but the boy had only to look through the two foot gap to see Ripslinger in the middle of dragging one of his tractor tires over onto his sleeping mat. As soon as Tom's face appeared, the huge plane hiss-snarled, turning an indignant glare on him. Tom looked into the Mustang's angry, yet soulless eyes, a low growl reverberating through the air in the hangar. And Tom could feel himself begin to shake as he felt it. The feelings of tension. The ripples and quakes of his Soul chasing its tail in distress and helplessness as two different urges raged against each other, the host acting out his fear and frustration in the only way he knew how. Tom slowly shut the door and walked away.

This had to stop, he thought scoldingly to himself during his morning jog through town. What was he getting so worked up about? Yes the feelings were there, but had Ripslinger acted on them? No. Just as Tom was doggedly keeping his promise to Dusty, fighting through his own reservations, by all accounts Ripslinger was keeping his too. Why not give it another chance? And he wasn't going to let Ripslinger have his way by letting him scare him off. Dusty was right. What Ripslinger needed right now was friends, and right now, Tom was all he was gonna get.

Later that afternoon, as Ripslinger leaned heavily against his favorite tree, which was becoming permanently bent under repeated stress of his now nearly five tons of weight, in his favorite spot with his favorite view of the runway, Tom approached with steady, confident purpose. The checker-marked racer saw him coming, and the human watched him start to lower his nose, narrowing his eyes and raising his control surfaces as a familiar rumble began to roll up from his engine. The boy brushed it off, walking right up to the thirty-four foot long plane, stopping just five feet from his nose.

Ripslinger stubbornly refused to budge, but neither did Tom. His engine just thrummed up louder, but to his disgrace, the human still did not back off like he was expecting. In fact he only started to walk forward again for some reason. Ripslinger was now visibly confused, almost seeming at a loss as such behavior that usually made everyone else go away wasn't working. His engine barked out a harsh rev as he made like he was going to charge the boy, but Tom only stopped, not even backing away or looking anything other than completely composed even as the ground shook beneath him at the P-51's impact.

That's right; you just try to run me off. Not anymore, pal. Tom thought as he continued forward again, Ripslinger looking absolutely beside himself as he calmly sat right down beside him. Not knowing what else to do, the green and black plane just simply sat there, looking a little dumbfounded. At first, Tom did nothing either. Just sat and nonchalantly looked out down the runway, and over at the town, like they'd been doing this all their lives. It was when Tom had reached out to pat the side of his nose that Ripslinger had finally had enough, but only reacted so far as to rear back and away from the human. The Mustang spared him a weary glance before making his way back to town, and Tom let him go, getting up to go lean against Ripslinger's tree himself, smiling in relief. Success! Now who's breaking the rules? the boy thought smugly.

Tom was in such a good mood for the rest of the day that he felt well enough to work on some music. He'd been working on this anthem for ages. It was getting later into the evening when Dusty had radioed to check in and see how things were going.

"Oh he's fine," Tom was saying into the receiver. "Yeah, he's been eating pretty well. Yep, it's getting pretty chilly over here. How's the weather in Chicago?"

"It is colder than a snowmobile's you-know-what out here," Dusty said as a blizzard raged outside the hotel hangar.

"What? It snows here too."

"No, you don't understand, this is like, in your face cold," Dusty maintained. "I'll be glad to be back home. I'll never complain about how cold it is ever again, unless I'm like in Antarctica or something."

The next day just happened to turn up overcast and quite cold. Threatening to snow but just not quite getting there. And despite being in a sour mood due to the weather, Ripslinger did not become stand-offish or object to Tom spending most of the day with him. They still did not speak to one another, just taking in and studying various cues and signals when the other wasn't looking. As they sat together, finishing up lunch, Ripslinger was oddly calm, almost his normal self. Normal for him at least as he looked around at all the other planes and other vehicles going about their business and listening to the noises of the town. His engine gave a soft, idle chuff, and Tom smiled. It was still the most positive noise he'd ever heard the plane make. He got the Mustang's attention before tossing what was left of the bagel he'd been eating. Tom didn't even flinch when the concussion from his teeth snapping together as he caught it popped through his rib cage.

Ripslinger had even allowed Tom to come out with him during his nightly stargazing, but the human had quickly noticed that it wasn't exactly stargazing. Tom sat, leaning back on the palms of his hands to the right and slightly behind the checker-marked P-51. He stared at Ripslinger's back, the big plane with his nose pointed upward, almost perfectly still.

What are you looking at? the boy thought as the green and black mustang continued to stare upward, almost looking more like he were anxiously searching for something than just idly observing the constellations. But what? Tom watched as Ripslinger dropped his nose back down level, staring straight ahead, thinking maybe. Then he slowly tilted his nose further down, looking down over the edge of the cliff, expression turning softly bitter. Tom's brows quirked a bit in concern and sympathy even though he didn't know what it was for, and turned his own eyes skyward.

For all intents and purposes, this was the exact same sky that he was used to back in the world he had come from. The same sky that he had looked upon that night a year ago. He had been fighting with his parents again. Typical stupid shit; they just never seemed to really see eye to eye. He had ran outside to escape the tense air in his house, and soon found himself in the garage. He climbed into his father's classic Mustang convertible, falling asleep. And when he woke, still in the front seat, everything was gone. His parents, his house, his neighborhood. He was in a completely different place, but yet he was still in the same place. During the year that he'd spent wandering, working himself from place to place, he'd learned that he wasn't the only human to come here, and there were many others that had arrived many, many years before he had.

So then what of his parents? Where were they? He had neither seen nor heard from them the entire time he'd been here. Were they searching for him too? Or were they those that had ended up coming over way before him? What if they had grown old and died already then? What if they'd never arrived at all? Tom had lost so much. His family, his friends, all of his future plans had been blown into oblivion along with his original reality. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook it off. Then he looked back over at Ripslinger to find the plane staring at him. And the young human nearly checked; it was so odd. It was the softest expression that Tom had ever seen from the grand champion racer. Soft, but yet still as unreadable as ever. They both continued to stare at one another, and then slowly turned their eyes skyward once more.

After they'd both had enough of the stars and past what-ifs, Ripslinger had followed Tom back to Dottie's hangar, where the human was currently at his desk on his laptop, flipping through and editing some recordings he'd made playing his instruments. The plane lay calmly some ways behind him, watching. Tom almost jumped when he spoke.

"What were you thinking about earlier?" Ripslinger asked at length.

He wanted to know? But Tom Told him. About the kind of life he'd had before coming to this side of the sky. What he had been expecting of it before being transported. His aimless wandering, working and playing his way from town to city.

"My parents; I don't know where they are," Tom was saying. "I don't know if they're out there somewhere looking for me, I don't even know whether they still live or not."

"Hmm," was as far as Ripslinger acknowledged his plight, and the human was actually getting quite annoyed at his similar, one-word responses and seemingly indifferent attitude toward what he had asked to hear. Visibly irked, Tom continued.

"And that's the part that really bother's me the most. Not knowing. And probably never finding out."

"That's sad," Ripslinger commented, not exactly sounding as sincere as Tom would have liked. "Happens to the best of us, you know?"

That did it.

"And what would you know about loss, huh?" Tom snapped at the plane. "You've had people kissing your ass and handing everything to you since you were born! How the hell would you know what that possibly feels like in your self-centered, egotistical, god-forsaken -"

Tom, too caught up to hear the low, building rumble of Ripslinger's engine during his tirade, was cut off as a rage-filled scream blended and transitioned into a roar that thundered in his ears, and soon all he could hear was a high-pitched ringing as he dove to the side to avoid the P-51's charge. The desk and everything on it exploded as Ripslinger's jaws met it instead.

Tom barely had time to think, Fuck! Fuck! Weeks of work! before he was under attack again. The human's hearing began to slowly come back as he dodged the second charge and stayed by the enraged airplane's side, moving with him as Ripslinger turned his way and that to try to get to him. Ducking under the Mustang's belly, he darted out between his landing gear and bolted for the Fill N Fly, hearing the snarling of Ripslinger's engine almost right on his neck. Tom could only think of the lengths and lengths of heavy chain bundled up in the rafters of the garage. It would slow the plane down, at the least.

He's going to be on me in about two seconds! he shrieked wildly in his mind, running with everything he had in him. Part of the chain was hanging down from the ceiling, and Tom leapt with all his might and grabbed it, swinging in mid-air as he used his whole body weight to try to pull it down. And just as Ripslinger's jaws opened wide before making a final lunge, which would have surely been successful, he was halted jarringly and knocked to the ground by the tremendous weight of the many lengths of chain crashing down on him. It didn't keep him down for long, and in no time he was back up, growling and starting to shrug the chains off of him, but the very instant that the clinking and rattling registered in his hearing, he froze, eyes growing wide as a look of horror and recollection crossed his face.

Then another roar exploded from Ripslinger's engine. Only this time it was a sound of abject panic and terror. He struggled, twisting and turning and bucking, trying to rid himself of the chains, but a lot of them were still tangled up and attached to the rafters, and it only resulted in getting himself more ensnared the more effort he put into it. Tom was honestly surprised that he hadn't brought down the whole garage, or at least woken up the whole town. But that surprise was quickly replaced with vengeful anger.

I've got you now, motherfucker! Tom ducked by the struggling P-51 and grabbed a crowbar from the work bench. Let's see how you like it! The boy moved in front of Ripslinger, raising the crowbar, preparing to strike and cause as much damage as possible, the hook pointing downward. But the plane was oblivious to him and his intentions. His mind was gone. He was in some other place as he continued his pitiful roars and cries of anguish, tears beginning to stream down his fuselage.

Tom began to feel his prior fury start to ebb, his expression weakening even as he brandished the crowbar a little higher, trying to steel himself back up again. By now, Ripslinger was almost completely immobile, still struggling feebly as he wept, his engine letting out one last short, rather weak, squeaking cry. The crowbar started to shake in Tom's grip as his face finally fell into questioning sympathy. Then it scrunched back up as he angrily threw it away from him, flinging it through the air and hearing it go pinging away off the asphalt.

He kicked at the ground, both angry at his soft lack of conviction and angry of his own assumptive insensitivity. He was wrong. He was dead wrong, illiciting that kind of response, and felt horrible. What kind of person was he that he had never identified the signs and only realized now after such a poignant response to the chains covering him that something very bad had happened to this plane at some point?

After some thought, scanning around the garage, he found a heavy pair of bolt cutters, and took them and started nipping his way through the chains to free the trembling Mustang. At first, Ripslinger didn't move, his awareness still elsewhere, but once most of the main lengths of chain that were binding him were cut away, he took up struggling again. Tom backed away as he shook and tossed the remaining chains from his body with a harsh, anxious flutter of his engine before bolting back for Dusty's hangar. Tom followed, quietly standing in the door frame, the green and black racer having shoveled all the sheets and covers and cushions over him, shaking violently as quiet sobs wracked through his frame. The boy walked forward, this time falling back to his previous tactics of slow and steady in this instance, almost seeming zen-like as he dropped all accounts of his own feelings as he focused hard. Ripslinger needed calm and confidence right now.

"Rip?"

No response.

"Ripslinger."

Gently, Tom tugged the blankets from the shivering plane, uncovering his face. As his eyes opened, Ripslinger sprang back, rearing up and snarling in fear as if he didn't recognize the human standing in front of him.

"No, wait," Tom boldly jumped up without a second thought, grabbing one of his propeller blades and firmly pulling the huge plane's nose back down. "It's me," he said, not letting go of the blade while bringing his other hand up and placing it against the side of Ripslinger's nose, rubbing gently.

The contact and gentle, but assured, tug on a part of him that was sensitive seemed to break him of whatever spell he was still under, and the checker-marked racer looked around in a confused manner.

"Tom..." But he only seemed to become more agitated. "Dusty..." he fretted, "Where's Dusty?"

"Dusty's in Chicago right now," Tom spoke evenly, staring Ripslinger innocuously straight in the eyes. "He won't be back until tomorrow."

Scanning the hangar again, the huge plane broke back down in tears, squeaking in his throat and wriggling a bit as he felt his plating crawl with the lingering feeling of the chains, eyes squeezed shut. His Soul rippled, skipped, and shrank in on itself, and Tom was breaking into a cold sweat at the feeling of such raw, unfiltered emotions crashing against him like the ocean against the land. But Tom fought through it, embracing the huge plane around his nose as best as he could, moving his hand down to softly scratch Ripslinger's chin.

"I'm sorry, Ripslinger..."

The words were bigger than just for what he had said earlier that had upset him so. It was an all-encompassing apology. Sorry for snapping at him. Sorry for the chains. Sorry for whatever it was that had happened to make this plane the way he was. And Tom felt Ripslinger lift the front of his body off the sleeping mat, but not to get away from him. To allow him better access to keep scratching his chin.

Later, Tom sat quietly with his legs drawn up in front of him, his back against Ripslinger's right flank behind his wing. The P-51 had long since stopped crying, but was still hyperventilating a bit, eyes wild and barely blinking as he stared straight ahead.

"Tom?"

The boy turned and looked up at the plane at the sound of his voice, which was thin and drawn.

"Please don't fall asleep."

"Okay. I'll stay awake."

"Don't let me fall asleep. Please don't let me fall asleep."

Tom still hadn't taken his gaze from Ripslinger's face, studying it with soft teal eyes.

"Okay," he said softy.

And now this was it. This was really it. But Tom wasn't going to celebrate. Not even on the inside. He was past that now. It was more than admiration, wanting to be this plane's friend. Wanting Ripslinger to accept him. In all his years struggling, coming up with ever imaginative ways to find and keep his focus on any one thing and not let his mind wander in two-hundred different directions, he knew now that he did in fact have it in him. This plane gave it to him. More than it looked like he was actually taking it away. It was Tom's turn now. To be brave. To be confident. To really show his maturity up and give it all back.