Tom woke suddenly, in pitch darkness, to realize that he was alone on the sleeping mat in Dusty's hangar. He looked around, and spotted Ripslinger creeping warily across the floor toward the open hangar doors. The boy sat up, and was about to ask him what he was doing when something in the P-51's movement and breathing made him hold himself motionless, tense and waiting. A moment later Tom became aware of some strange aura. A reek of indecipherable intention and emotion. The human sat as still as a spider, letting the fluid ribbons of sentiment flow around him, almost able to visualize the way they would bend and caress around everything in the environment, himself included, thinning before they would finally break apart and flow on their way. He struggled to gleen any information he could from them, as his mind felt scrambled like radio interference. They were not angry feelings, nor exactly dangerous feelings, but none the less insidious.

Were they coming from Ripslinger? No. This was something different. Unmistakably the aura of an aircraft's Soul being thrown out, seeking and calling out to others of its kind, but still unlike anything Tom had ever felt from Dusty, or Skipper, or even Ripslinger. And he was afraid. He saw nothing out in the darkness past the doors of the hangar, but Ripslinger stood there between the boy and the outside, eyes sharp and focused, completely lucid with all signs of illness gone.

"You're not supposed to be here," he finally spoke, his voice strong and commanding. "If you try to get past me, I'll kill you."

Tom squinted, trying desperately to see who or what Ripslinger was addressing. For all intents and purposes, there was nothing out there, but the young human dared not move. Whatever it was, it was obviously a foe, judging by the green and black plane's behavior, and suddenly the Mustang let out a harsh, threatening rev that then thrummed back up into a roar, and Tom watched him leap out into the night. At that point, the he jumped up from his position, running to the doorframe and watching as Ripslinger grappled with the darkness, biting and ripping into it.

Tom's brain was having a very difficult time in comprehending what he was looking at, that odd, alien aura seeming to jumble his perceptions all out of order. Just a massive shape in the darkness, much, much larger than Ripslinger, moving and dodging with an unnatural grace. Sharp fins and wingtips. Impossible to tell if it were coming or going, as it's dull, black skin reflected no light. Then he yelled in shock and horror as a large gash suddenly opened up across Ripslinger's back and left side, checking the checker-marked plane hard as he reared up to try to deal another blow and sending him crashing to the ground, writhing in pain.

"Leave!" Ripslinger shouted, and the word was half spoken, half light, movement, and aura in Tom's mind as a hot heavy pulse moved through him, and then everything went still.

The dark creature leaned down on it's landing gear to where the P-51 lay, breathing hard, and appeared to stroke his cheek gently with the needle-point of it's nose, before abruptly swinging it's long, thin body around, and in a blast of hellfire and shrieking engines, disappeared into the black of night.

The danger gone, Tom approached Ripslinger cautiously. His frame shook as hydraulic fluid ran in rivulets down the side of his body, staining the ground underneath him. The human observed the wound as he drew near, being unable to make heads or tails of what caused it just by looking. He put a soft hand against the side of Ripslinger's nose.

"What was that?" the boy could not help asking the injured aircraft.

Ripslinger blinked and tried to move, his frame shifting slowly on the ground as he tried to push himself up onto his landing gear.

"I'm never... getting back..." he managed before making a strangled noise in his throat and shuddering in pain.

` "Back where?" Tom asked, patting him.

He could see the plane's sanity slipping again. Could see him falling back into the haze. Ripslinger's eyes searched futilely for something that was not there.

"Home..." the P-51 got out.

"You can't go home? Why? What does that mean?" Tom pressed, trying to hold Ripslinger's gaze. "Ripslinger?"

But it was too late; the racer ceased moving, his eyes staring straight ahead, as if considering things in another world.