Repairing the gash in Ripslinger's back had proved to be a tense affair. For whatever reason, try as Tom might, Dottie or any of the others could not be reached, and so Tom had to make do with being directed by a thankfully lucid Ripslinger. It was better than nothing. Ripslinger had spent enough time around mechanics, and the both of them had watched Dottie do the same type of patching and sautering on Dusty at one time or another. Only neither of them had any idea of how to use sedatives or even local anesthetics. They tried, but it seemed to be taking a lot more than they had expected would work, and after so much given with seemingly no effect, Tom became worried that the P-51 would be at risk for overdosing, so they went ahead without them. The human had been sweating, and not altogether from the heat of the torch. As patient and as cooperative as Ripslinger appeared to be as his body shook with each breath, barely able to speak through the pain, Tom could feel well enough that it was taking everything the checker-marked plane had not to turn and maul him.
By morning, Propwash Junction had been blessed with a clear, sunny day in November after several of a thick blanket of overcast. Dusty and the others had come back from Chicago, things had returned to a degree of normalcy, and Ripslinger seemed oddly in much better spirits, even better than before they had all left. There was some concern over the fresh cauterizing marks over Ripslinger's back, but they all seemed to accept their story that they'd gone hiking and Ripslinger had misjudged his proximity through a thicker swath of trees.
Tom sat cross-legged in Dusty's hangar on the orange and white plane's sleeping mat, said plane dozing behind him as he scratched and scribbled a composition that had just popped into his head to arrange properly on his laptop later. Dusty cracked an eye open, looking down at what the boy was doing before smiling playfully and giving his back a nudge with the fore of his wing. Tom, having known the former-crop duster long enough to know what he was getting at, smiled back, reaching over and tickling him in the place on his belly where his wings met, the little racer wiggling with glee.
Ripslinger watched from his spot outside in the sun, even though it barely cast any warmth this time of year. He smiled softly. There had been a marked change in him ever since that final night that he and Tom had been left alone together. His mood was much less sour than it usually was. Chipper even. The others found it quite unusual but hesitantly pleasant as he openly conversed with them. Dusty couldn't be happier. Although ignorant of the exact details, it seemed as though he should have left the human and plane alone with each other a long time ago. He was even behaving perfectly civil toward Clarice now, no lewd or spiteful jokes or anything.
Upon the sun suddenly vanishing into dark clouds, Ripslinger got up from his spot and moved back into the hangar, expecting rain. He clambered up onto his sleeping mat, slowly lowering down and starting to get settled when he heard Tom call out.
"Hey, Dusty, look!"
Both Dusty and Ripslinger lifted their noses toward the open doors of the hangar, where a soft, light snow began to fall.
"Oh, wow!" Dusty exclaimed.
The green and black plane watched as they both ran out of the hangar and stared up at the sky at the first snowfall of the season. Ripslinger settled in the rest of the way, grumbling internally. He wanted no part of this. He was staying right here. But he was mesmerized by the sight of all these soft little white things falling so steadily and silently. He'd seen snow, sure. He'd seen it dozens of times on his tours and cross-country rallies. But he and all the other racers always flew above the clouds; he had never actually witnessed the snow falling from the sky.
He got up, and slowly poked his nose out of doors to look warily upward, watching the snowflakes tumbling down. As soon as a few landed on him he darted backwards into the hangar, trying in vain to shake them off. He watched the others walking around and marveling in it. The snowfall was starting to get pretty heavy, and already visibility was beginning to narrow. Dusty stared around in wonder, just the same as he had every year he'd been living whenever the first snow would fall on Propwash Junction, and then Ripslinger tilted a bit as the little plane gathered himself up, and then pushed himself up into a little jump, trying to catch a few of the flakes in his mouth.
The others, Dottie, Chug, Sparky, and Skipper, had gathered and were watching in amusement as Dusty made another awkward little hop, the snowflakes disappearing into nothing the instant they hit his tongue. He did this two more times, Ripslinger looking on in barely hooded bewilderment, before Tom decided to join in, jumping up to try to catch his own snowflakes. This caused a sort of chain-reaction among the group, as Chug, then Dottie and Sparky, enthusiastically, albeit with no more grace than Dusty, started up jumping and hopping. Then Skipper, causing an almighty shake with his nearly six tons of bulk coming back down on the ground as he tried his luck. Before Ripslinger even knew it, he had ventured out from the shelter of the hanger, and hesitantly, attempted a little hop of his own, and it would not be his last. The atmosphere was truly infectious with everyone hopping and jumping and leaping into the air, the thickness of the falling snow giving the environment a slow, washed out effect and making them look like ghosts bobbing and floating, laughing as the ground shook beneath them in a mini-earthquake, Ripslinger jumping with more and more vigor until all were well and tired out.
By morning, the sun was shining once more, and what snow had settled on the ground had melted, the temperature still not being quite low enough for it to stick. Dusty, to his surprise, had awoken to Ripslinger already awake and licking him tenderly over his back and canopy. The smaller plane smiled, giving a small chuckle at the slightly uncharacteristic but pleasant gesture, nuzzling up against the P-51 before getting off of the sleeping mat. He stretched, working out the lovely ache in his frame from what had been quite a night before. Ripslinger surprised him again by following him out into the morning chill, and so Dusty decided to simply take a stroll around town with him in favor of his usual morning flight. Ripslinger was not a morning person and never was he up before the younger plane. They were making their way back around the hangars, talking about everything that had happened since the Mustang was brought to Propwash Junction, paying special attention to all of his improvements.
"So what do you think now, Rip?" Dusty was saying, "Your year is going to be up pretty soon. The farm-life isn't too bad, is it?"
"It has it's perks," the green and black plane replied, casting a suggestive glance back at the younger racer. "Yes. I suppose I've done pretty well for myself here, all things considered. And yet... To think... how easy things used to be before. So much simpler."
"What? Rip?"
Ripslinger suddenly stopped. He was a little ways ahead of him, facing forward. He let out a soft, wistful chuckle.
"I'm sorry, Dusty. I can't go back. Just one bad day... That's all it would take. I don't have a choice. There's only one way that I'm ever going to get out of here..." and at that, he finally turned toward Dusty, a disturbing smile on his face, "...and you're going to help me..."
And the little airplane's face fell in fear and confusion as he watched what light that had been slowly returning to the checker-marked P-51's eyes over the course of his stay with them drain out of them completely as he spoke those last words, before he lunged forward, jaws agape.
Skipper was slowly waking up, sitting outside his hangar and appreciating the early morning fall sun. He looked over in satisfaction at the town as it got it's day started. But then suddenly, with a shock of surprise, he cast aside his tranquility and became fully alert, for over a short distance away, on the other side of the hangars, came the ugly sounds of planes fighting. Low-pitched snarling and high squealing and screeching of engines. A savage, bitter encounter, full of hatred, and desperation too. He turned and sped off in the direction of the noise. Coming out from among the hangars, he saw at once what was going on, immediately beset upon by the sight of Ripslinger and Dusty, rearing up into the crooks of each others' wings. They bit and snapped angrily at whatever they could get a hold of, and naturally, being so much smaller, Dusty was quickly becoming overwhelmed, despite obviously having a good deal of fight in him. By the time that Skipper had made his appearance, Ripslinger had pushed Dusty over and had wrestled him to the ground. Once pinned, Dusty spotted Skipper, and the distress in his expression heightened at the look of murder on the Corsair's face.
"Skipper! No! He's trying to– Skipper, wait!" he shouted desperately.
But his Bonded Companion was deaf to his pleading, his engine growling as he gathered himself up to charge.
"Skipper, stop!"
There was a deafening thunder as both war birds' engines roared in fury before they each charged for one another, but at the last moment, Ripslinger turned, exposing his side to the Corsair.
"DON'T SKIPPER!"
But Skipper did not deviate his course, slamming into the Mustang's side and biting him over the back right behind his canopy, driving him roughly into the ground. And at first, Ripslinger appeared to just lay there, making no attempt to defend himself, but after a few moments, Skipper beginning to jerk in a side-to-side motion, he suddenly surged up from the asphalt. Skipper doggedly hung on, but Ripslinger was eventually able to shake him off, and the Corsair was barely able to get clear as he aimed a savage bite right for his face. Skipper rammed him again, trying to get under him and flip the green and black plane onto his back, but Ripslinger could not be upturned, and could move much quicker on the ground than the older plane could. It wasn't long before Ripslinger, dodging another charge, span around, heaving himself up over the Navy plane's back and sinking his teeth in where Skipper had tried to land a lethal blow earlier, and the noise he made, defiant screams of agony melding in with the roaring of his engine, froze all the fluids in Dusty's lines.
Dusty leaped onto Ripslinger, biting his face and wings as hard as he could, tugging and yanking with all his might to pull the P-51 off of his mentor, but he seemed oblivious to the little plane's efforts. Normally the two of them would have no problem subduing the grand champion racer, but with Ripslinger now at full weight and strength, it was looking to be an impossible endeavor.
At last, Skipper was able to dislodge himself from the grip of Ripslinger's jaws. He turned slightly, dealing two good slaps with his broad wing before he felt the third pass through the air as Ripslinger darted back out of the way, and the old war bird collapsed, gasping for breath in pain and exhaustion as hydraulic fluid ran all down his back and sides. Before Ripslinger could take advantage and finish the job, he was yanked back again by Dusty, and he rounded on him, putting the orange and white plane on the defensive. By now, the others had been alerted to what was happening and were all standing helplessly as Dusty was once again pinned. Ripslinger had his jaws gripped in his back, but the smaller aircraft was not to be counted out as he'd sunk his teeth into Ripslinger's right landing gear, and he was not letting go. Chug revved his engine, preparing to charge, but was stopped as Dusty released his hold, yelling almost shrilly.
"Chug, don't you dare!"
He didn't want any of the others to get hurt. Not on his account. This was all his fault. Every single incident that had happened, when it came right down to it, was all his doing. All for thinking that this crazed abomination was ever capable of redemption. He felt Ripslinger release him, but he didn't let him go, moving up to settle his weight over him.
"Yes, that's it," the checker-marked Mustang sighed pleasantly, "Let's all just take a breather for a sec, shall we?"
"Ripslinger! You treacherous..." Dusty was almost too angry to speak. "Why? First you act like you're going to force Skipper and I to kill you, then you turn on us and try to kill us instead! After all we've done for you? Why are you doing this?"
"Oh, what a cliché question," Ripslinger scoffed, "Well you know what they say, Crophopper. The end justifies the means." Dusty stared back at him, eyelids turned down and mouth a thin line in incredulous vexation as the larger plane spoke. "That's why there's no problem with hating. Or killing. Or anything, really. They're all just means. Nothing else. I just want to be free. Free from all of it. That's not much is it? I'm broken Dusty..." Ripslinger said, smiling sadly, "Can't you see now? I'll never be able to lead a normal life. Think of it this way, you wouldn't just be doing me a favor. Think of all the hurt you'll prevent."
At this point he calmly shifted his weight off of Dusty, the little racer hobbling back up and backing away from him, breathing hard but steadily as he and Ripslinger stared each other down. The P-51 had that sinister smirk on his face that Dusty had come to know and hate early on, waiting for his response. He always seemed to have some ulterior motive in that slimy mind of his. Apart from being put of out of his misery, what else was he really trying to gain from this? He took a breath.
"I'm not going to kill you. Nor is Skipper or any of us," he looked at the green and black racer, his demeanor solid and measured. "But don't think this is over. Once we've all been looked after, we'll figure out what's to be done with you now."
Ripslinger's expression did not waver, and he was oddly very cooperative and docile while Dottie went about fixing and patching up the various bite wounds and other damage that Dusty and Skipper had inflicted. It was a very tense and nerve-wracking time. The omnipresent tension had it's hooks in everyone. Not a word was said and they avoided making any excessive or sudden movements as Skipper and then Dusty had taken their turn under the little blue forklift's tines. The unspoken question hovering over them all now was who was going snap first; Dusty, or Ripslinger?
A bitterly cold wind was picking up as Dusty sat still for Dottie, face still tweaked a bit in sullen anger as he thought about what was to be done. He felt so lost. Everything had been going so well, and now he was sucker-punched. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Dottie suddenly speak up out of nowhere.
"I feel sorry for Ripslinger," she said at length.
Dusty was quiet for a time, demeanor softening a bit as he stared ahead.
"...Me too..." he said softly. "I'm really sorry. I wasn't really thinking when I decided to make Ripslinger stay here. I wasn't thinking about what it would do to us. Ripslinger was right. He was always right. He'd been warning me and telling me all this whole time, and I never listened. I didn't want to listen..."
"Look, Dusty..." Dottie began as she put the final touches on the wound in his back. "It took a lot of courage and compassion to do what you tried to do with Ripslinger. To work with someone who obviously has some very deep, underlying issues, although we didn't really have any idea of how deep when we started. It was all just too much, too soon, for him to be able to handle and properly process with the state that his mind is in. It's not like you meant for any of this to happen." Dusty was silent as he looked out at the ever darkening sky as the wind whipped at the trees. "Well. Whatever you end up doing. We'll all be right behind you like we've always been."
After being released, the others were outside the garage waiting for him. Ripslinger was not among them. They all just spent the rest of the day sort of milling around aimlessly. They were watching the fields down below them get tilled down for the winter when they were all taken unawares by a sudden, very heavy snowstorm. The sun setting had reduced visibility down to nothing. Not that any of them could keep their eyes open for any reasonable amount of time with the sting of the icy snow flying into their faces. They all struggled to stay together, but the powerful gusts of wind and snowblindness kept tripping them up, as if determined to force them to separate and wander off lost to die alone in the elements.
And this was what Tom thought was going to become of him. He had gotten separated from the others, and for all he knew was probably going in the wrong direction. He tried calling out to them, but couldn't even hear his own voice over the howling of the winds. It was only out of pure luck that his questing hands had finally come across someone's tail-fin, and he held on for all he was worth, allowing himself to be led wherever, knowing that in all likelihood they were lost too, but at least he wasn't alone anymore. A few minutes later, even though it had felt like an eternity, the winds around them had stopped and the snow and slush under them turned to concrete. They had made it to a hangar.
There they stood in darkness for some time, Tom coughing hoarsely at the freezing sleet that had burned his nose and throat as he breathed while they were still outside. He shook the snow off his clothes, and the rattling and shuffling from his company told him that they were doing the same. Tom walked, still coughing here and there, toward the sound, and came into contact with someone's flank.
"Are you okay?" Tom asked, "Who is this? Is it you Dusty?"
"I'm not Dusty," Ripslinger's voice echoed in the empty darkness, chilling Tom to his core. "I doubt that you're thrilled to be trapped in here with a monster, but spare me the hysterics please."
"I wasn't going to," Tom replied, sounding somewhat hurt as he recovered himself and got himself into a calm, focused mindset that he used to interact with Ripslinger. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"... Thank you..." Tom attempted, "I probably would have gotten lost and died out there if you hadn't led me here."
Ripslinger didn't answer him. The human tensed up slightly as he heard him move, shuffling and scraping as if he were looking for something. The movements stopped and suddenly light flooded the room. Tom hissed and squeezed his eyes shut. As they adjusted he saw that they were in the big hangar on the other side of the runway. The one that Ripslinger was held captive in when he had first been rescued and brought to Propwash Junction all that time ago. The cage had been dismantled, the barred walls lying in a pile in the corner, but the sleeping mat and sheets and covers were still there. Ripslinger gave Tom an unreadable look before he moved over and laid down on it, his front lifted and looking at the boy expectantly.
"Do you think the others found shelter alright too?" Tom said as he calmly walked over to the opposite wall and sat down against it. "Is there any way we can go and find out for sure?"
"By all means, if you want to freeze to death, than go on ahead," Ripslinger said coldly.
He was right, Tom had to admit. It wasn't as if he were dressed for the beach, but to go out in a blizzard where you can't tell which way is up would be risking death. But still... the boy was uncomfortable being trapped here with the P-51 after what had happened earlier. The calm, measured state of being he'd developed during his time spent alone with Ripslinger was quickly being eroded away as he began to realize exactly how small he was.
"How long do you think the storm will last?" Tom asked, still trying to keep his head in the game after a few minutes of tense silence.
"How am I supposed to know?" Ripslinger snapped at him, Tom managing to stifle down a jump, "It could last anywhere from an hour to all night and into the next day. We shouldn't even be out here anyway!"
"I'm sorry..." Tom said quietly.
"Sorry? And why are you sorry?" the Mustang sneered. "It's my fault that we're out here. My fault that I saved those two idiots from being pulled in by the Cutters! It's all my fuckin' fault! But I'm supposed to just take it and live out the rest of my life in this god-forsaken backwater hell-hole just to tickle Dust's fancy. I'm just supposed to die here, but I'm not dying for you fools!"
Ripslinger had stood up in the middle of his tirade, his voice taking on a roaring pitch, and Tom was beginning to become truly frightened, getting to his own feet.
"Please calm down Ripslinger..." Tom appeased, his tone even despite his fear. "I know you saved them, and I'm sure they're truly grateful for it. I wish it hadn't ended with you getting captured too. I'm sorry."
He had to keep his head. It could mean life or death. He couldn't lose it, especially when the huge plane had come right up to him, sticking his nose almost right in his face.
"And now that the deal is broken..." he whispered darkly, "Dusty's going to try and lock me up again. Try. I will not be trapped and helpless again. Never."
"Rip, you have to calm down," Tom pressed, "I'm sure if you two talk, you can work things out. I'm sorry that you got hurt and I'm sorry for-"
"Stop apologizing!" Ripslinger shouted, and with a sharp, sideways snap of his body, he struck the boy, knocking him to the ground.
Scared and in pain, Tom quickly picked himself up and tried to run, but Ripslinger caught him by his left arm and held it in his mouth.
"Let go!" Tom demanded, getting very close to panic although his expression was angry, but he didn't dare try to struggle and risk actual injury to his arm, "Let go of me!"
But Ripslinger easily dragged him back to the wall, pinning the human against it with his nose cone.
"Why are you trying to run, Tom?" Ripslinger asked, his tone sadistic, the boy's fear fueling his rage, "I thought you cared about me. That you wanted to see me get better. That's what you keep telling me. What's with the change of heart?"
"Rip, you're hurting me! Please stop this!" Tom commanded, kicking at him desperately to no effect, "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you're one of them. You say you care, but look at you now. You'd kill me if you had the means. You were all on the verge of turning on me earlier today. Emotional ties mean nothing in the face of death. I knew you were all alike! How could I ever let myself believe otherwise? I was so stupid..."
"Ripslinger, stop it! Please let me go!"
"If I let you go you'll only run outside where you'll freeze to death. You're only here because you thought I was Dusty. Why run to him? Why not stay here with me?" Ripslinger asked, looking hurt as he pressed into Tom to make him answer, but the boy was in too much of a panic to speak now. He kicked and clawed at the checker-marked plane, but he refused to release him. "You would actually choose death over staying with me? What's wrong with me? Why not love me too?"
"You're forcing this Rip... This isn't you, I know it isn't," Tom pleaded, staring with desperate but determined eyes straight into the cold, olive-colored eyes of the P-51, "I know you're scared, but-"
Pressing forward harder, Ripslinger cut the human off, crushing him into the wall behind him.
"Do I look scared to you?" he asked, his tone and expression icy, all mean-spirited humor gone. "Because it looks to me like you're the frightened one. As well you should be. I'm going to kill you... I'm going to get out of here... and no one is is going to stand in my way..."
Just before Tom blacked out, Ripslinger grabbed him by the arm again and threw him away from himself where he skidded and crumpled to the ground. Tom lay there, shaking and crying. He heard Ripslinger's engine come roaring to life, revving up menacingly. So this was how it was going to end... After everything he'd been through... Killed by the very plane that they had all tried so hard to help. And yet, for all his cruelty and evidence that he may be beyond any help, the human still could not bring himself to hate him. Despite what Ripslinger said, he did deeply care for him.
The boy looked up to see the Mustang's spinning propeller blades leveled at him and the stare of the plane behind them, so cold and lifeless that he couldn't even see his own reflection in his eyes. Tom figured that he'd see that cliched life flashing before his eyes phenomenon, or be offering a silent farewell to all the friends that he only got to spend a precious short time with, but no. All he saw was Ripslinger standing before him, massive and imposing, and the only thing that came to mind was a soft, sorrowful, why? He closed his eyes, wondering if he would feel anything, and waited... And waited... Slowly, the human looked up at the green and black plane, wondering why he hadn't struck. He was still pointed at him, poised, but he was shaking.
That look... That look that the human had just given him... Ripslinger had seen it before. That single, despairing, incredulous, terrified look that he had just seen in Tom's eyes was not the first time he'd ever encountered such a look. He had seen it many, many years ago, on himself.
For a moment some old, flickering, here-and-gone feeling stirred in Ripslinger's memory; the sense of some easy-going, kindly time, long gone, forgotten, and lost. A vague melody floated through his mind, only he couldn't remember the words or who had taught them to him. And then suddenly he reared back, gasping as his eyes went wide with horror and anguish as his senses were overcome by flames licking all up along his body and the sound of screaming, and the hot, choking acridity of smoke and the stench of burning metal and wires.
The grand champion racer saw himself there, hunkered down into his landing gear and cowering. He had been so much smaller back then, and happy and innocent. All he himself remembered thinking was why? Why was this happening? What had he done wrong? What could he have done to make things turn out differently? That was the look that he had, that Tom was wearing now. And that was only the beginning of the perpetual nightmare that his life would become in the years following. He would go on to have that look cross his face a few more times before finally losing himself completely. How... How could he? How could he ever, ever, ever be the source of causing someone so much pain and misery as to make that exact expression?
Oh god... What have I done?
"Tom?" Ripslinger's voice squeaked out like a puppy's whimper, his propellers slowly rotating to a stop. He moved closer to the boy, but he cringed away. "Please don't..." the checker-marked plane begged, dropping down in his landing gear, his flaps lowering. Startled by the reaction and not knowing what Ripslinger might do next, Tom only jerked further away. "I'm not going to... I didn't mean..." He faltered, rendered speechless by everything washing over him. The realization. All the decisions he'd made... Some of them very bad... What he'd allowed himself to become. He had become the very same monsters that had ripped his life away, robbed him of everything he held dear, and put him on the path of damnation that he'd thought naively would get it all back. "I'm sorry!" he sobbed out, backing into the wall and shrinking in on himself. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he cried out desperately, over and over, like some repentant mantra that would turn back time if he believed enough.
"...Ripslinger?" Tom called to him softly, but the concern in his voice only made the P-51 more upset, tears spilling forth in earnest.
He had hurt him. Threatened to kill him. And still he cared. He didn't deserve such a beautiful thing. Such compassion. It was wasted on a soulless beast like himself.
"What have I done?!" he wailed, feeling himself dying inside as a sharp, horrid ache billowed up in the heart of him, clutching at him.
"Ripslinger..." and he felt someone's soft, warm hands gently take him by his forward prop and pull his nose into their shoulder. "Shhh..." Tom tried to sooth him, rubbing the side of his nose.
"I'm so sorry... I'm sorry... I didn't want to be... I was just trying to... I was afraid... A coward... I'm a monster."
"No. No you're not..." Tom began, but Ripslinger cut him off.
"I am! I'm a... W-why are you doing this?" The Mustang pushed the boy away from him. "Hate me... You should h-hate me! Please hate me!" he cried out, unable to fight the growing hysterics brought on by the horrors of his life. Of what he had done. He remembered every act of indifference or cruelty that he had ever done or ordered all the way up to that moment and it tore at him. "Oh god, it huuurrts!"
The sharp ache had soon turned into a white-hot point of pain that flared up in his core. Then, slowly, the point began to move, a searing agony, gradually, relentlessly traveling and spreading through him, taking the P-51's breath away even as he cried out. Tom witnessed as Ripslinger stumbled forward, shaking and wobbling in his landing gear, his expression desperate as a viscous, shiny black liquid began pouring and leaking from his mouth like a faucet. He gagged, gasping and panting, and Tom began to slowly back away as he felt himself assaulted by outside emotions as he never had before. Only there was something extra with it this time. Something that was vaguely familiar. Soft, rustling, unintelligible whispers that quickly grew in volume, becoming a frantic, frightened whining and crying.
The boy let out a retching cry as he clutched either side of his head, his back bumping against the wall before he slid down it, curling into a fetal position as he felt his skull might split. Then the screams started. High, shrill, disembodied screams and wails of abject anguish, and Tom remembered where he'd experienced this horror before as his entire body, all the way down to his bones, was wracked with pain. Only this time, instead of singing, Ripslinger was screaming.
The human fought hard, breathing deeply and evenly, every ounce of him determined to keep himself from fainting as the green and black plane thrashed and writhed on the other side of the room. He shouted, twisting and tossing in his agony, sending inky black goo splattering to the ground in thin, wispy threads and droplets. His eyes were shut tight, rear teeth visualized as his voice blended in with the tortured roaring of his engine. But then, letting out one last, drawn out, agonized scream, his eyes opened, and their panicked depths shone with such brightness, life, and vibrancy that they almost appeared to glow, and Tom looked on in shocked astonishment from his incapacitated position on the ground, hands still grasping at his head.
Then everything suddenly died down. The haunting, disjointed screaming and wailing quieted back down into that eerie whining, and Ripslinger stood, low and shaking on his landing gear as his breaths came in harsh, keening pants. Tom was breathing hard himself as his body tried to recover after the pressure of being bombarded with such raw emotion, having nothing to act as a receptacle to filter and process it, was lifted somewhat. The boy's hands released his head, his fingers remaining to hover next to either temple as his eyes distantly crawled up to the unstable P-51. He had to go to him. Despite the danger, he had to keep Ripslinger's mind here and now. It was obvious that something crucial had happened. Traumatic, yes, but all the same crucial. Momentous. But Tom had the distinct feeling that Ripslinger's awareness was currently hanging by a thread; he could not allow him to slip back away.
"Ahh... Oh, god... it hurts so bad..." the green and black plane whimpered. "Why does it hurt?"
"Shh, shhh..." Tom soothed, trembling as his legs felt like lead as he stood and began to cautiously make his way across the room to Ripslinger. "It's okay..."
"Make it stop. Make it go away. I remember... I remember it all..."
"I'm so sorry, Ripslinger... I'm so sorry for you. Shh... I know it hurts..."
"Please make it stop..."
"I want to help you, Rip," Tom persisted, having made his way halfway across the space between them, "We all do. You are our friend, and we love you. I love you. Let us help you, please..."
"No..." Ripslinger said thickly, raising his nose at an odd angle and beginning to back away toward his wall with wild and wary eyes locked on Tom. "S-stay away... I don't deserve it... I don't deserve love..."
"Please don't talk like that Rip," Tom urged, stopping in his progress but spreading his hands wide, imploringly, "It'll be okay..."
"You don't understand... It can never be okay... I remember... I can never..."
Ripslinger's tail hit the wall behind him, and he hunkered down into his landing gear, the light that had returned to his eyes dimming a bit as they went out of focus. He became inert then, almost as if paralyzed, but the faint little voices in the air continued their fretful, sorrowful cries and whimpers.
"Rip?"
The checker-marked racer didn't respond. Didn't blink his empty eyes. Tom made to continue forward, but was stopped again, watching the drool and black sludge as it dripped from Ripslinger's mouth, slicked across his teeth as he began speaking.
"Why? ...Why was I the one left alone? ...Why couldn't I have died too? …I never wanted to hurt anyone... But I had to... She was all I had left... and they took her from me..."
A sick shudder went through Tom's body, afraid of what he might hear next, feeling the ache and nausea return as a fresh wave of sentiment washed over him, the whining starting to pitch up in volume again as Ripslinger suddenly stood up from his position, looking utterly deranged as his self-awareness continued to slip.
"That's when I had to kill them... while they were dragging her away... I ripped into their bodies and tore them to pieces... right in front of her... She saw everything... She cried... Told me to stop... But they made me do it..."
Tom was losing him. Ripslinger's eyes had taken on a wild, desperate expression as he continued to speak, and he seemed to grow less and less conscious of the human's presence and continually shifted his body to and fro, as if trying to listen to some sound that was only audible to himself. The boy's heart was breaking over the green and black plane's words, not knowing how much more he'd be able to stand. He had to put a stop to this. He had to get to Ripslinger. If he could just touch him, yank him back into reality as he had those few nights ago. He just had to.
"That was the last thing she saw of me... She never would have wanted that... but I did it anyway... and then... later... I did it again... and again..." and at this, Ripslinger began to cry, tears streaming from his eyes, "I can't go back now... I never meant for any of it... I did what I had to... They made me do it... I had to survive... I had to find her... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Isabelle... They made me do it! I didn't want to hurt anyone... But they were gonna kill me! I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to become this!" and then his engine fired up in a whirlwind in all his mania and despair, before screaming, "THEY MADE ME DO IT!"
The feeling of his propeller blades striking something is what jarred him out of his dysphoric state, eyes going wide as his spinning blades came to a dead stop, a bright, red liquid dripping off the ends of them.
Tom was standing right before his nose, slightly to the left, and human and plane just stared at one another in shock for a long, heart-breaking moment before Tom slowly, fearfully looked down at his right side.
His arm was mangled almost beyond recognition, and four great, deep gashes were sliced down his side, warm blood rapidly blooming and soaking into his clothes. Then their eyes met again before Tom collapsed, falling forward onto Ripslinger's nose as the plane caught him, lowering himself and the boy carefully the rest of the way to the ground, olive-colored eyes wide in near-hysteria and horror.
Tom looked up at him, too terrified himself to even cry as he clutched at the P-51's prop blades, holding on to him for all he was worth. Ripslinger struggled to speak, to apologize, to say anything, feeling utterly helpless. Trapped in the hangar with a blizzard raging outside, there was nothing that he could do for the human except to try and comfort him as best he could. Tom soon slipped into unconsciousness, and all the tears and tortured, strangled cries that had been withheld in the effort to keep the boy calm finally escaped, swallowed up in the darkness of the gales.
