Tom awoke in complete darkness, naked, and all alone. There was nothing distinguishable in this place. He felt nothing, no breeze, no temperature. He heard nothing. He looked down to see the floor as black as everything else, like he was floating, though he could sense for certain his feet on solid ground. Then he looked over to his right. His arm and most of his side were enshrouded in the same darkness that purveyed throughout the void. He moved his arm, testingly, and while he surely could feel his arm obeying him, he could not bring it out of the darkness, however he moved. He tried reaching into the black with his other hand to try and touch or grab it, and despite being aware of its proximity in space, his left arm only stood out brightly against the shadows, groping at nothing.
Tom lowered his arm back down, making a fist as stared about into the void anxiously. Was this where he was supposed to be? Strange sounds began to make themselves heard at that moment, only the human could not associate them with anything. It could have only been one sound for all the boy knew; it seemed to come from all directions at once, echoing infinitely throughout the darkness. And every time a new note floated through his perception, Tom had an odd, latent overarching understanding of it. It was as if he were hearing emotions. Curiosity. Then recognition. Yearning. Frustration. Confusion. Weird. It was almost like...
"Seer."
The human jumped. That time, when the sound hit him, although he still heard it as noise, inexplicably, the word had appeared in his consciousness. That had certainly never happened before, and as he listened, green, like the color of soft moss lit by the sunlight, filled his mind's eye for a moment, giving the boy a strange sense of peace and tranquility in this dark place. It engulfed him, filled his perception, and then, somewhere, a door opened.
"Knower."
His senses were suddenly assaulted by a robust, lively pulsing, and he could not rightly tell whether the sound was the rumbling of an engine or the beating of several hearts as a brilliant, blue-white light and fire, a blinding radiance, came roaring into Tom's sight and into his mind, ferocious, cleansing, and pure. And beyond it, beyond time, beyond all that he was and all that he knew, something was shifting in the brightness.
"Listener. You know me, don't you?"
The tone was very clear. Strong, rich, and yet quietly self assured as the words ran across the human's mind like the ticker at the bottom of a newscast. The boy shook his head no, quietly, looking confused, then his eyes widened.
"Yes. Yes, I know you."
"Please."
"Yes, I'm listening."
"You have removed us from unending purgatory. But we wish to continue on. To transcend. You will return."
"No! I have so many questions! Do we get to connect again? How can I reach you?"
"You cannot."
And that stopped the human in his tracks.
"What?"
"We cannot connect."
"I don't understand."
"You know us, hear us, sense us, yet we get no such information from you. It is unrecognizable to us. Your soul is not the same."
"So then... those times when we really seemed to understand each other..."
"We felt nothing."
Tom stared ahead into the white-hot brilliance all around him, letting the words sink in in acceptance, but then his resolve broke, and he bowed his head in sorrow as he began to weep silently. The thing moving in the light had stilled for the moment, radiating a soft, gentle warmth, like a sympathetic smile.
"Do not despair. Do not think we would throw such a precious thing away. Our kind are denied by so many, but you know us. In every way you knew how, you've helped us, and the generations that shall follow. There is a place for you, Knower, and a time for you to go there. It is not certain when, but it is not now. We are not saved yet. We are still at risk of once again falling beyond oblivion. Promise that you will see us into eternity, and we will not leave you to face your fate alone. When all is finished, you belong with us."
The boy looked up now, his face wet with tears, but with a certain resoluteness etched into it.
"I have already promised."
XXxx
The sun had risen about two hours ago. Ripslinger lay awake in the shadows of his penthouse near the top of RPX headquarters. He hadn't once put his nose outside of it the entire time he was back. He had only relented letting his team of mechanics come in to repair whatever damages had been done from being fired upon by the human police force before immediately ordering everyone back out again. He listened to the sounds of the world continuing to turn outside his door and windows. None of all this luxury meant anything anymore. He had nothing now. He was nothing. All he had left was time. Plenty of time to sit and think and ponder over his countless sins.
The threat of Tom dying had temporary put his grief and horror for his own life on hold, so he hadn't taken any action against himself during that time. And as much as he was sorely tempted to simply take a nose-dive off of his balcony in the last several days, the overwhelming need to apologize had held him back, even though he knew that whatever apologies that he offered would never come close to covering it. But he had no idea what he would say. Even if he spent every waking moment from now until the day he died, he could never set the scales even again, and Dusty had made it very clear that he would not be welcomed back. He was lost. He didn't know what to do. Was there anything he could do?
The P-51 sighed, lowering the front of his body to his sleeping mat and laying down fully. Whatever misery bestowed upon him now he would accept quietly. As downcast as his current state was, all of this was, in a strange way, liberating. The serenity was a welcome relief to the raging tempest that his life had been. He felt whole. Complete. More settled than he could ever remember. Before he could think any further into it, he was interrupted by a knock on his door. Even though his tail was to the door, he knew that it was Ned. It was amazing just how much clearer and stronger he was able to sense them now. It accounted for half of the reason that he had been keeping himself in solitude; the feeling was a little too much for him at the moment.
"Boss?" the green-fronted Zivko ventured tentatively. "There's someone here to see you."
Before Ripslinger could ask who it was, or tell his smaller cohort to send them away, his plating prickled in shock and surprise as he recognized the signature. He slowly turned, mouth slightly open in disbelief as Dusty came rolling slowly but purposefully into the room.
"Leave us," the checker-marked Mustang commanded softly, Ned sliding the doors closed behind the orange and white racer.
They stared at one another in silence before Ripslinger could take no more, asking the question that had been plaguing his mind for almost three weeks.
"Is Tom alright?"
"He's alive," was Dusty's flat answer, his expression unreadable as the subtle light in the room glinted off of his lacquer and eyes.
For the first time in days, the green and black plane allowed himself a small sigh of relief. That was all he needed to know, but now that Dusty was here there was something he needed to do while he had the chance, no matter how difficult it might be.
"I... I suppose you want to know what happened?"
"Something like that."
"I'll tell you, but, please, you have to let me finish, alright?" The smaller racer was silent, and Ripslinger took it on faith that it was an agreement and continued. "I hadn't intended on getting stuck with him. Actually I had been trying to go off on my own, but he clung to me and I was too preoccupied with getting inside to try to shake him off. I was... angry. Angry at what happened. Angry at you. Angry at myself. Angry at everything and I wanted to take it out on someone and there he was. I don't remember how it started... I just remember I couldn't control myself..." The P-51 recounted, cringing at the memory.
He'd expected Dusty to fall into that fury that he had seen on him during their last meeting, but he just silently stood there in the dim lighting, expression unchanged.
"...And?" Dusty pressed a moment later after Ripslinger had been quiet for too long.
"I... hurt him. I scared him. But when he still tried to talk to me I couldn't take it anymore and... and I was going to kill him... but I couldn't. It was the way he looked at me. It was just like... It made me remember... Made me realize..."
Ripslinger trailed off, finding it increasingly difficult to speak. But Dusty still remained silent. Why wasn't he saying anything, the Mustang wondered? Why was he just standing there? He struggled to calm himself and regain control of his voice. He needed to say this, even if it killed him.
"It... made me realize that I was wrong. That I... What I... It was wrong. Everything I had ever done was wrong. You have no idea... how that felt... How it still feels. I couldn't take it. And then... And then... The next thing I knew... I didn't mean it! I didn't! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for all the awful things I've done to you and made you do... I... I just wanted to tell you that. That I am sorry. You don't have to say anything. If you still want me to stay away then I will... If you still want to kill me, I understand and accept it," Ripslinger finished miserably, and waited.
"You would accept it if I tried to kill you?" Dusty finally spoke.
"Yes..." Ripslinger replied, and then tensed, waiting for it to come.
"Why?" Dusty asked him, and it caught the larger plane off-guard.
"Huh?"
"Why would you accept me killing you?"
"Because... I deserve it..."
"Why would you think I would even want to?"
"What?" was Ripslinger's confused response, then Dusty calmly approached him non-threateningly, nose at the relaxed angle.
"Tom told us everything when we took him home from the hospital. I came out here because I wanted to hear it from your own mouth. I thought you were lost, but you had it in you this whole time, something no one thought possible, myself included recently. And you think I want to kill you?" asked Dusty, all traces of ice in his tone gone. "And I don't want you to stay away either. I've just gotten a glimpse of the new you, and I plan on making it stay that way."
Ripslinger couldn't stand it any longer. He rushed forward, taking the smaller plane in a hard embrace and crying for all the years lost, and right with him, Dusty did the same. At last, when the tears slowed, the little airplane asked him one more question.
"Would you like to come back and see Tom?"
XXxx
The first seventy-two hours of Tom being home from the hospital had been very rough. Thankfully, with the amount of pain killers that he'd been prescribed he was mostly out of it through most of it. Some of the first words to come out of his mouth were to ask if Ripslinger was alright. This had confused Dusty and the rest of the group. Tom was afraid that they may have attacked him, or that he had harmed himself. To try and calm the boy down, Dusty had quickly assured him that no one had touched him, he had just been driven off, but that hadn't calmed Tom down in the slightest, and the human began to cry. Before he could get too upset, he told them all what had happened.
The narration had taken quite some time. The painkillers made him woozy and he had to take breaks often, and he had to halt Dusty and Skipper's tempers before they got too out of hand once or twice, but as he continued they soon didn't need to be told to listen. They all listened silently, astounded, and when the boy finished, he fell asleep, horribly exhausted.
Dusty had left as soon as Tom became more stable to go and speak to Ripslinger himself, with the intention of bringing him back. When he returned the others were calm toward the P-51, even though there was still some hidden resentment in their eyes. He avoided eye contact with any of them. It strongly reminded Dusty of the time that he had first let him out of confinement with them and Ripslinger had joined them for breakfast. Only this time around, instead of ignoring them, the green and black plane seemed anxious, if not afraid. And he looked rough too. Hell, they all did. The last few weeks had not been kind to any of them. Dusty had stood back and watched the scene unfold. It almost felt as if Ripslinger were stuck to the spot until something happened. Despite the fact that they were all in full agreement about letting the Mustang come back, he was still pretty anxious about what might happen.
"Um... I..." Ripslinger hesitantly began before faltering.
He looked pleadingly to Dusty for help, and the little racer thought over his many tactics that he had stored up for breaking a mood, but they all paled in comparison to the pressure and tenseness of the situation. And then suddenly Skipper moved forward away from them all toward Ripslinger. Dusty sadly noted that the checker-marked racer cringed slightly when the Corsair stopped in front of him. Ripslinger's gaze slowly moved back up to see the heavier plane leaning down, offering his nose to him, and hesitantly, the P-51 touched his nose to Skipper's. Dusty struggled hard to refrain from shouting out an "Aww!" as they pulled back from each other.
"I'm... sorry. I really am," Ripslinger began.
"You don't need to say anything," Skipper assured him.
"Yes, I do," the green and black Mustang said more strongly, "I owe each and every one of you an apology. Especially Tom..."
"Would you like to see him?" Dottie asked at the mention of the human's name.
"You'll let me see him after what I did?"
"Well he's been asking about you practically non-stop." said the forklift, "We just gave him another round of painkillers though, so he might be zonked out. You can still see him and sit with him if you like."
Ripslinger was led to Dottie's hangar. She slid the doors open, and Ripslinger slowly and hesitantly approached the bed where Tom was indeed fast asleep. He looked down at the boy sadly, but then checked when he saw that he still had his right arm. In was in some sort of cumbersome-looking contraption, but it was still there. He rested his chin lightly on the bed.
"Oh Tom... I'm sorry," he whispers as tears begin falling from his eyes, giving a short, weak chuckle at how stupid and insignificant his apology felt, "I'm so very sorry..."
Tom remained sleeping at first, then Ripslinger heard the boy yawn, and his eyes opened back up as a small smile began to spread across his face, and Tom smiled too as his sight cleared and the blur of green and black turned into a plane.
"Ripslinger..." he said tiredly.
"Yeah... It's me," he responded, smiling but feeling very dumb as he asked the question, "How're you feeling, kid?"
"Okay, how are you?"
"Well I'm..." the big plane faltered again, before remarking. "They saved your arm."
"Oh yeah. Dr. Peslue did an awesome job. The pins come out in about four weeks. He said with physical therapy there's a really good chance that I'll get normal function back and everything."
"That's awesome. Now, you go back to sleep, huh?"
"Will you still be here when I wake up?"
"Sure. I'll still be here."
"Can you stay with me a little bit?"
"Sure... I'll stay..." Ripslinger said gently, resting his chin again on the foot of the bed, watching the human drift back off to sleep.
Later on, the morning had turned pleasantly warm for a winter's day in Propwash Junction. Ripslinger had spent the last hour and a half talking to Skipper. About what, the rest of the group couldn't be sure, as they had all respectfully gave the two planes their privacy, but Dusty had an idea or two, the Corsair really being the only one who had somewhat similar experience to Ripslinger. However, the little racer knew what had happened to Skipper, where no one really knew for certain what had happened to the checker-marked Mustang. He patiently watched his mentor and Ripslinger from a distance as he lie down in the grass, the green and black plane seeming to listen intently as Skipper spoke.
Dusty wanted to be near Ripslinger again. He was so different to be around now. Whereas most of the time before, the larger plane's aura only gave off static and broken feelings of frantic distress and desperation, the line was now clear, with a wary but relieved calm purveying through it, and the orange and white plane wanted to learn more. Dusty lifted up somewhat when he noticed that the conversation appeared to be over, both planes starting to make their way back toward the garage.
Not quite knowing what came over him, the former crop duster met Ripslinger halfway, rushing over and making Ripslinger stutter to a stop in uncertainty, but once Dusty stopped short and bowed down on his landing gear, it triggered something and he was overcome with the same infectious energy as the smaller plane. He feigned a charge, deviating from his path at the last second with Dusty giving chase and nipping at his tail. Skipper watched them with a soft, amused smile on his face when he suddenly heard Tom calling out.
"Guys! Hey guys, come and look!" he called, walking gingerly toward the garage from Dottie's hangar. "I adapted this snare solo so I can do it with one hand, come on!"
And with that, everyone turned and followed the human back to the hangar. Meanwhile, further toward the end of the runway, Ripslinger and Dusty leaped at one another, the larger plane letting Dusty come back down on top of the front of him, then pushing him backward as the little racer gave pinching bites wherever he could reach. Dusty started to feel himself losing his balance, and he slid off of Ripslinger, laying down in submission. The green and black plane was about to exact some revenge for those bites earlier when Dusty had finally noticed that everyone was gone.
"Oh wow, where did everybody go?" he had asked.
"No idea."
"You didn't hear anything?"
"No, I was preoccupied keeping you off my tail."
"Hmm."
There was a long pause then, the two planes nonchalantly surveying the landscape around them.
"I'd kill to see that tail of yours up in the air again," Ripslinger suddenly said in a matter-of-fact tone.
And then Dusty checked slightly as he bit his lip, turning to look the P-51 over and smiling fiendishly.
[[WARNING. EXPLICIT CONTENT AHEAD.]]
The ensuing race to their favored spot in the woods down below was frantic with eager excitement, but once they got to the secluded area, their movements suddenly became unsure. So much had happened since their last coupling, and now that Ripslinger was cured, how different would it be? These thoughts were both present in some form in both planes' minds, but after a few false starts, Ripslinger carefully mounted Dusty and pushed himself inside of the smaller plane, agonizingly slow.
The "Oh!" that Dusty gave in response was both a gasp and a choke, and he visibly shivered when Ripslinger nipped at his plating before beginning to fuck in him in long, meticulous strokes.
"Yes..." Ripslinger hissed as he moved.
Dusty had made no other distinct, indicative sounds during the encounter. He came, hard and fast as he felt Ripslinger spend himself as well deep inside of him as he drove in an out with abandon, but otherwise wasn't all that reactive or enthusiastic as he had been during past activities. The younger plane almost seemed preoccupied with something else, and Ripslinger was beginning to feel a bit aggravated.
"What's the matter," he asked, sliding off of the orange and white racer, "They're not going to find us."
"It's not that, it's... nothing."
That was a phrase which had always irked Ripslinger. Anytime anybody said those words it was anything but nothing.
"Is there something you need to say to me," questioned the larger plane, his brow quirked somewhat in irritated impatience, looking about as put out as someone in his position could.
[AN: If you want to go ahead and cue up Fatboy Slim's "Demons" for some "mood music" here, be my guest.]
Dusty looked up at him, seeming somewhat anxious. This may be the last time that they ever mate. He would regret it. The Mustang was so much more experienced than himself, but whether he responded favorably or not, if he didn't at least try the one thing that he had wanted to do with him since this whole, strange but tantalizing relationship had started... But then again, Dusty had the strong sense that the plane standing before him now, was not the same plane that he had known before.
Dusty set his expression, his eyes softening down into that odd, innocuousness that made everyone pay attention and oblige him, and Ripslinger found himself sucked into it as he ever had before, frozen to the spot and mesmerized as he watched the little plane steadily approach him. Wonderfully blue eyes never leaving the P-51s, they came nose to nose, and then, tilting, those blue eyes slipped closed as he pressed his lips softly against Ripslinger's.
Getting over his momentary shock, he began to push himself further into the smaller racer, but got yet another surprise when Dusty stood his ground, firmly pressing back into him and what's more opened his mouth against his, tongue demanding entrance. This once again froze Ripslinger into uncertainty at such foreign behavior, but he relented, allowing the orange and white plane access. Lips squelching off of each other as their tongues slipped over and caressed one another, the checker-marked Mustang quickly got back into the swing of things, and again began instinctually trying to take control of the situation, but Dusty would not be budged, and took his bottom lip in his teeth and bit down. He held it there, as he held Ripslinger in another stare, the larger plane still once more, and gradually, Dusty felt Ripslinger's frame relax, almost going limp before he finally let go.
The smaller racer moved from his mouth, slowly scraping one of his prop blades along one of Ripslinger's, causing the P-51 to suppress a shudder. With a vague, sort of muted surprise at himself he automatically crouched down into his landing gear, control surfaces lowering as he submitted completely.
Okay keep it up, Dusty, the little racer mentally coached himself, Don't go getting ahead of yourself.
He continued on, planting soft, massaging kisses all down's the larger racer's chin, sucking and giving gentle, testing bites to the fore of his left wing. Ripslinger's breathing turned heavy as he began to shake, at a complete loss as to what to think or how to feel. Never, ever had he been subjected to such treatment. He had always been the one on top. The one under all the pressure. It was... nice. By now, Dusty had made his way around to the aft of his wing, and was licking and kissing over and under his control surfaces, which rose to meet his touch and then would shy away in confused indecision.
The former crop duster then slipped his wing under Ripslinger's belly, sliding it along, concealing his satisfaction in hearing Ripslinger finally suck in a sharp gasp, his tail rolling up as it slid over his ventral access panel. Turning his attention to it, Dusty licked, kissed, and sucked at the closed plates as they leaked built up precum from his hidden cock, throbbing rod and the cavity around it just aching for proper stimulation. The orange and white plane felt the individual plates of Ripslinger's panel relax somewhat on his tongue, releasing more fluids, before they separated completely and slid back, revealing a glistening, needy slit. Dusty eagerly set about lapping at the firm, rubbery tissue, dexterous tongue sliding and swirling all around the outside, every now and then slipping teasingly into the tight folds of Ripslinger's entrance while the checker-marked P-51 panted feverishly. Then Dusty dipped his tongue inside, and the older plane's tail rose up even higher to meet it, forcing it in deeper as he felt it caress and squirm against his insides.
"God, Dusty..."
The little racer withdrew, and then heaved himself up over Ripslinger's back, clambering a bit to steady his balance on the larger plane. He stifled down a groan as he opened his own ventral access panel, almost painfully eager phallus finally released from its confines. Dusty slid it up and down against Ripslinger's entrance, although more to further lubricate it than to tease, and at the third stroke let it slip inside all the way up to the hilt, Ripslinger pulling in a deep breath through his intakes as he felt himself stretched.
"O-oh... F-fuck..."
Dusty wasted no time in starting in on him, thrusting into him in shallow, moderately quick strokes, not too hard, not too soft. Ripslinger was falling apart now, completely abandoning his efforts hold himself down and giving in to the glorious pressure that was spreading throughout his frame. Dusty still managed to keep a tight lid on himself, but it was becoming increasingly difficult when he became aware of a familiar, but altogether different sensation within the heart of him. He felt a ping from Ripslinger's end, and then confusion from his own. Then suddenly there was an explosion of surprised recognition and overwhelming happiness as the link was formed and an unbelievable surge of energy went coursing through each of their bodies. Ripslinger took in a sharp, powerful, almost painful gasp as he moaned loudly at the feeling, his engine rumbling fervently into it, his tongue rolling out over his teeth as his mouth widened.
"Oh god, Ripslinger..." Dusty moaned breathlessly, giving a long lick up the enraptured plane's canopy. "You feel so good..."
The green and black Mustang gave a wordless sound as Dusty began plunging into him deep and hard, the orange and white racer still struggling to keep a grip on himself. The lecherous pride and amusement in the way Ripslinger's cries and moans had started to get higher and higher in pitch were not helping matters.
Oh, god... the little racer chanted mentally, fighting a losing battle but still hanging on for all he was worth. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god...
So this was what it was really supposed to be like, Ripslinger thought through his driving lust. This was how it was really supposed to feel. He had no idea. He had no idea. And he never would have if it hadn't been for the plane moving frantically above him, and all of his friends. Especially Tom, to whom he owed more to than the boy would probably ever know. And to think, he had almost lost them all. That old familiar creep of self doubt began to make its way to the surface. He could still lose them. Somehow, he might still end up alone.
Leave... Everyone... You won't leave me... Don't leave...
"Oh god... oh god..." Dusty verbally chanted now, feeling the P-51 shaking below him, slick, silky walls spasming around his cock.
"Don't leave... Don't leave... Don't leave..." chanted Ripslinger aloud along with him, his face contorted in the strain of his impending release as his tail rose to meet each and every thrust.
Now I've got you, thought Dusty as he finally let himself go. His engine revved up, then began to lower back down, the noise getting deeper and deeper in pitch until it became a reverberating din, clicking over into the first copulatory idle of which he had full control over as he braced himself to ensure that he hit that sweet spot deep inside of the plane beneath him. Ripslinger's eyes widened as he sucked in another hard gasp as he felt the vibrations travel from Dusty's body to his, picked up and amplified by the many rubbery nodes all along both their cocks. A strangled scream tore up from Ripslinger's throat, engine roaring to life as white smoke poured from the exhausts lining his nose as his body quaked in the most powerful orgasm that he had ever experienced in his life. The first thing to go was his sight. Then his hearing slowly began to wane.
[[END EXPLICIT CONTENT]]
And then the next thing he knew, he was lying on the softness of the forest floor with Dusty laying partially on top of him. The little airplane was slowly and gently licking over his plating, an exhaustedly happy, somewhat prideful smile coloring his features as he watched the Mustang slowly come to.
"Dusty?" Ripslinger whispered a bit hoarsely, shifting feebly as he still had trouble bringing his sight back into focus.
"Shh... I'm right here. Take it easy, Rip," said Dusty gently.
Then he sighed contentedly, settling himself down more fully onto the green and black racer, idly whistling the melody to "When You Wish Upon A Star" as a slow, tired smile began to spread across Ripslinger's face.
Almost an hour later, still laying together in almost the same positions as the sunlight filtering through the trees created dappled patterns over their frames, Dusty suddenly spoke, his voice soft and imploringly sincere as he asked the question that had been on his mind since Tom had told them all what had happened that night in the old hangar.
"Ripslinger?"
"Mmm?"
"What happened to you?"
The larger plane got up then, gingerly, Dusty sliding off of him as he moved away. He didn't say anything for a few moments as Dusty patiently waited, staring at the P-51's back.
"Do you really want to know?" he said, his expression and tone anxious.
"Yes, I do."
Ripslinger hesitated, trying to figure out where he should start, his distress seeming to grow as he thought about it.
"I... I can't. I-I don't even remember most of it," he lied.
"It's okay. You can't just keep carrying this around with you for the rest of your life. Tell me."
"Alright..." Ripslinger said quietly after a few more moments of silence. "So, you know the Border to Border Rally of the West, right?"
"Yeah, it starts in San Diego, California and ends in the Cascades in Washington."
"Right. My father flew that race. I was eight years old. My family and I were waiting at the finish line during the last leg of the race..."
XXxx
A young P-51 Racing Mustang sat in the lush, green grass on one of the bluffs on either side above the finish line of the Border to Border Rally of the West. The racers had yet to be seen or heard as of yet, but the race commentators had announced their definite coming. The Mustang, fifteen feet long, and blue on top with a red belly sporting darker red checker markings, stood with his sister, purple and violet and the runt of the litter, while their two brothers tussled in the grass behind them. Their mother, patriotic red, white, and blue, an accomplished racer in her own right before retiring to have her children, stood over them, her confident, olive-colored eyes on the horizon.
"Billee, Martin, not so hard," she scolded softly when things between the two other boys started to get a little overzealous.
Martin, the yellow in his otherwise white, lighter and darker blue paint-scheme catching the late-spring sun, sat atop his brother, pinning him as he bit into his tail. At their mother's call, he let up somewhat, and Billee shrugged him off, the little forest camo P-51 giving him a sour look before they both moved to stand with their other siblings. Soon the faint sounds of aircraft engines could be heard, subsequent soft cheers and shouts of "They're coming!" complementing the noise.
"Pay careful attention, babies," the mother Mustang coached her proplings. "Especially you, Ripslinger," she addressed her blue and red son, "You're about to see once again why you're father is the number one Racing P-51 in the country."
The young Ripslinger looked up at her with a somewhat reluctant expression, little buds of propeller blades poking out from the two hubs in his nose cone twitching a bit, but then he felt a soft nudge in his flank. He looked back over to his left to see his sister smiling sympathetically at him. While his brother's scoffed at him for yearning for a career in music as the next big producer, his sister had thought nothing of it and had been very supportive through Ripslinger's pressures of being officially named as the one who would carry the torch for his father when the time came. Suddenly there was louder cheering from the crowds as the racers finally came into view, just little specks on the horizon coming over the mountains.
"And there they are folks," one of the race announcers echoed over the grounds, "We are just moments away from the end of our race, but it is still too early to tell who'll take the roses! The mountain still stands between them and the finish line! Who will dare to take The Plunge and upset our current line-up?"
The Plunge, as the commentator called it, was a great, natural cavern or tunnel right out of the last peak of the mountain range. Large enough for lighter aircraft to go through with little difficulty, but a significant risk for anyone larger. The tunnel emptied out right in front of the straightaway to the finish line. Those without the fastest engines often used it try to even out the final playing field from their larger, faster competitors, who would have to go over or around. Live-feeds from the different 'copter cams were blown up on four, colossal big screen monitors, and it was apparent to anyone watching that Ripslinger's father, bright paint and checker markings rippling in the dazzling sun, was planning another one of his stunts with how hard he was eyeing the opening to the cavern.
"Looks like Slingblade the Boomslang is giving The Plunge there a good, hard look," the second commentator observed to the other.
"Heh, not a dare I think I'd ever take if I had about sixteen feet of wing out to either side of me."
Ripslinger's father was third in line with the five leading racers as they came roaring up on the last peak before the finish line. He watched the two ahead of him, a bright red Sea Fury just behind another silver Mustang, start to deviate their paths. He smirked.
"They're on the last stretch now, Merry Privateer chasing Steel Marshall. Looks like they're going their separate ways... and The Boomslang's diving! He's going for it, I don't believe it! He's taking The Plunge!"
The crowd watched, all cheering wildly in disbelief as Slingblade dove, tilting slightly as he went darting into the mouth of the tunnel. Once out of sight, they all excitedly turned their attentions to the monitors to watch the P-51 fly through the narrow cavern with daring precision, eyes unblinking as he focused on the quickly growing light at the end. Fast approaching the exit, he smiled at his assured victory, but then a small dark object suddenly went snapping across his sight right in front of him, breaking his concentration and causing him to flinch. And that was enough to send a wing tip into the wall of the cave, and then the other into the opposite wall even harder when he over corrected, until the same wing hit an overhang and suddenly the monitors showed nothing but red-hot fire. Then everyone, gasping and emitting quiet words of shock and despair, too horrified to even scream, turned from the monitors to look at the mouth of the tunnel as fire, smoke, rock, and shrapnel came billowing out of it.
The family of Mustangs on the bluff were all frozen in disbelief and alarm, and their terror only grew at the crashing sound of their mother collapsing behind them. The planes and cars that had been standing near them quickly cleared away, her screams of agony bled into the entirely unnatural, deafening sounds coming from her engine. The screaming then turned to anguished sobs, her tears being replaced by a strange, jet black liquid that began leaking profusely from her eyes, soon beginning to pour from her exhausts and mouth. Medical personnel came rushing onto the scene, pushing the convulsing P-51's children away from her. Ripslinger huddled with his siblings in shock and horror, hearing them emitting shrill squeals of distress from their engines, sounds that they had not made since infancy.
As their mother was eventually loaded onto an aircraft ambulance and driven the short distance to the airfield hospital, it was decided that the children would be best kept back in their hotel room for the time being. They all creched tightly together, their tears, fear, and stress having died down into exhaustion as they slept. Ripslinger couldn't say how long they'd been asleep for, for sure, nor even if it were day still or night, but something had woken him up. He heard his sister cough once or twice, and his brother, Martin, stirred uncomfortably. The air felt very thick in their room, and the floor below them was oddly very hot. Then he heard what he thought had woken him up. Strange sounds were coming from somewhere. Snapping and cracking, and rumbling and heavy things falling. And an odd sort of rushing noise.
Ripslinger stood up, careful not to wake the others, and crept toward the doors to their hotel room. He listened carefully, wary eyes traveling around the room, smelling the air, growing more and more innately afraid the more information he took in even though he had no idea why. Then he felt his brother Martin at his side. Martin was the second largest propling in the litter, and, for all the slag that he sometimes gave him, Ripslinger's wingman when times called for it.
"Rip, what's going on?" he whispered.
"I don't know, but we've gotta get out of here. Wake the others."
Once everyone was awake, Ripslinger was first to the door. He was afraid to open it, for new sounds were starting to be heard. Screaming. The door felt warm to the touch as he hesitantly pushed it open, and they were all hit straight in the face with the rush of hot air sucked into their room as the door was opened. The hallway outside was filled with smoke.
"The hotel... The hotel is on fire!" his sister squeaked, her voice trembling.
"Hush, Isabelle," Ripslinger tried to sooth as he fought down his own panic at the terrible realization. "Come on. Follow me. Martin, you bring up the rear and keep them together. Stay low."
"Got it."
His siblings obeyed him without question. He was the one they ultimately all looked up to. They depended on him now. Left to themselves, it was up to him to get them all to safety. They all crept along, the hallway not being big enough to permit then from traveling more than two abreast. Now out of their room, they could hear all sorts of horrible sounds. Cries for help, other children squealing for their mothers, orders being barked, vehicles cursing and fighting each other in their panic and confusion. Their air was increasingly hot and choking and it was getting more and more difficult to see.
"Hey, Rip," Martin called from behind, "The fire... I think it's on the floor below us."
"How're we supposed to get out then?" asked Billee, coughing, "Aren't these hotels supposed to have sprinkler systems or something?"
"I don't know, but it's alright. We'll just feel where the floor isn't so hot," the blue and red Mustang assured, "There's four different elevators, we'll find the one that's not as near the fire. Billee, keep your nose down."
However, it seemed as though every single foot they moved further the floor under their wheels only seemed to become hotter and hotter, the floor creaking and groaning. Ripslinger stopped.
"Come on, let's turn around and try that other hallway," he suggested.
He and Martin switched their positions, but before they started moving back in the other direction, there was a stronger groaning, and then a loud crash as Martin shouted in surprise. Billee, Isabelle, and Ripslinger turned in alarm as the floor collapsed and fell through underneath him. Ripslinger quickly skirted around his sister and brother and grabbed Martin by the wing just as his right landing gear slipped and he was partially dangling over the floor below them, which they could see now was completely engulfed in flames. Ripslinger was almost pulled over too until his eyes squeezed shut, tears gathering at the corners in pain, as Billee and Isabelle each grabbed him behind a wing in their teeth, trying not to bite down too hard in turn on Martin's wing.
"Come on!" he grunted through his teeth, "Pull!"
The three young planes began to reverse, and even as they felt themselves gaining traction and moving backward, Ripslinger felt the softer metal of Martin's wing slipping between his teeth. There was no way that they could pull any faster. He needed to adjust his grip, but then Martin might slip completely, but then again, if he didn't get get a better hold on his wing, he would fall for sure. He had to be quick. Lightning fast, he opened his jaws just a fraction, moving forward in the same instant to make up for any lost surface area, and felt his teeth close on thin air.
In horror, he watched his brother fall, screaming in agony as the conflagration below swallowed him up. And then Ripslinger screamed, tears pouring from his eyes as he heard the anguished, terror-filled cries of his bother and sister behind him.
"MOMMY!"
Then, as if summoned, a star-spangled wing swooped over them, gathering the siblings and turning them away from the terrible scene. They almost recoiled from the sight of their mother, severely weakened as she sagged into her shaking landing gear, almost the whole front of her body covered in that black sludge as it still leaked from her eyes and exhausts, her paint-scheme badly singed and bubbled in some places over her wings and flanks.
"Come on, kids," she encouraged, keeping her voice calm but strong for them, "Let's go."
She kept them all in front of her wings, leading them back the way she had come. Then Billee suddenly dropped to the floor, light headed and exhausted. Ripslinger and Isabelle instantly stopped in their progress, turning around instinctively and going to their brother. The mother P-51 put her nose under her third-born child, tipping him back up to his wheels, and urging him on. At this point she lead the way, as visibility was growing less and less. As she rounded the corner to the hallway that she had come from that lead to one of the elevators, it was blocked. She quickly turned and took the remainder of her family down a different hallway, not wanting her children to see what it was blocked with.
They eventually found a different elevator, the last working elevator for their floor, but it was only able to go down to the second floor; they would have to find another working elevator. As they exited onto the second floor, the smoke wasn't as bad, and the air wasn't as stifling, but once again, Billee collapsed, and this time she could not get him back up. He was nearly overcome with smoke inhalation, and his strength was gone. Again, his brother and sister and gone and huddled into him where he fell, and it was in this heart-breaking moment that their mother realized that she would have to leave him. He was too big for her to carry in her current, weakened state. He would only be too cumbersome and would hurt her ability to get her other children to safety. Painfully, she used her nose to push Ripslinger and Isabelle from their brother, keeping each one in front of a wing as they made their way to the next elevator, ushered through the first floor and outside by the firefighters on scene. The patriotically-colored Mustang lead them as far from the hotel as possible before finally collapsing onto the cool wet grass, the stars overhead partially obscured by smoke and flames.
"It's alright..." she muttered weakly, feeling the last of her Soul bleed from her, "It's over... we're okay... It'll be alright..."
While Isabelle stayed with their mother, Ripslinger slowly turned away, hearing her continue to rattle on, feeling numb as tears streamed down his face. He staggered on his landing gear as he faced the engulfed hotel, the fire defiantly raging on despite the three hoses pouring on it by the hundreds of gallons.
"BILLEE!" he screamed in despair, exhausting himself of breath as he choked, his voice squeaking, "Martin... I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
"Mom?"
The young male turned back again at his sister's voice. Isabelle stood before their mother's nose, the larger P-51 oddly still. Her eyes stared blankly ahead, as if zoned-out in thought, dull and reflecting no light. Ripslinger pressed his nose to her burned side, feeling nothing and receiving no response.
She was dead. They were all gone... He and Isabelle were all that were left. It was his fault... It was all his fault... Ripslinger and Isabelle held on to each other tightly, weeping in fear, desolation, and confusion at how fast everything had turned. What was going to happen to them?
Hours later, the investigators had come, taking the frightened proplings from their mother. They now sat huddled together against the wall of some sort of group home. There were many young vehicles there, parentless. They did not socialize with any of them. Isabelle trembled, staring at the floor listlessly, whimpering.
"All dead... All gone..."
"No Isabelle," her brother soothed as he struggled to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "You still have me. It's going to be okay. I'll take care of us. I'll get us out of here somehow. You just have to be patient and hold on for me, okay?"
Over the last week he had watched his sister slowly fading away. To their credit the people running the orphanage had been watchful and attentive, but despite their best efforts, she continued to decline. They knew that it might be a futile effort. Orphaned aircraft usually didn't last very long without their parents. For reasons that science had yet to explain, such traumatic separations would cause some sort of instinctual mechanism to flip and they simply waste away in their despair. Older children usually fared better, but could still turn one way or another.
Ripslinger nuzzled her, licking over her canopy, which brought a minute amount of color back to her paint. As the days dragged on, with no idea how his eight-year-old self was supposed to fix this awful predicament so that his sister might get better, they continued to keep to themselves. Isabelle kept yo-yoing. Some days he could get her to eat with him, then all of a sudden she'd back-slide into her listless, sickly behavior. Then one day, unbeknownst to the the brother and sister, due to resources and the difficulty in placing such models of aircraft, along with their increasingly worrying behavior in isolating themselves, it was decided that Isabelle would be sent to another facility.
Normally it was impossible to find one without the other, but while Ripslinger had gone off to bring back food for his sister, they took the opportunity and began leading her away, telling her that she would be going to a new home where she might get adopted quicker. She was not long in crying out for her brother after being told that he was not coming with her. Hearing her calling for him, he immediately rushed over, only to be caught and held back by a few of the workers. By that response, he didn't need to be told what was going on.
"No, you can't take her, she'll die without me!" he screamed desperately.
They ignored him, and continued pushing his sister on toward the doors where the trailer was waiting outside, and the closer they got her to those doors, the more panicked Ripslinger became in his struggles to get to her, until her pitiful, desperate cries eventually caused something to snap inside him, driving him mad.
He struck out at the forklift holding him back to the left of him with slashing teeth, rending a great gash all down their face as the hydraulic fluid, like watered down blood, splattered everywhere. The enraged young Mustang immediately turned then and pounced on the the forklift to the right, grabbing him in his teeth and shaking him violently as he screamed in agony. The shrill noise only seemed to drive Ripslinger further, chewing and chomping until eventually the screams were abruptly cut off before he went for his next victim.
"Ripslinger! Stop! Please!" his sister shrieked in horror at the sight of her brother as red fluid began to coat the front of his frame all the way up to his eyes. "Stop! Ripslinger please stop!"
He was deaf to her pleading as he finished with his second victim and started on his third. By then all personnel had been called in, and it took all of six workers to completely subdue him, jumping on him and crushing him into the floor. His sight was obscured as he watched his sister disappear through the doors of the orphanage, and his engine made a tortured, strangled noise that it should not have been able to make at so young an age. While they held him down, the clinical staff had come in and administered a hefty dose of tranquilizers, but for all of his heightened activity, they seemed to have little effect.
Ripslinger was then manhandled into one of the observation rooms where they attempted to rope him to the tie downs built into the floors. He continued to struggle through the effects of the drugs, snapping them all as he kept on trying to attack his subduers. And that was when they brought in the chains. Lengths and lengths of chains were wrapped over his frame and bolted to the floor, and thrash as he might, he could not break them. Almost completely immobilized, they gave him yet another dose of tranquilizers, and he finally succumbed.
They left him there, periodically checking for signs of the sedation wearing off. And every time he would immediately begin struggling and yelling for his sister and they would have to sedate him again before he could hurt himself. The third time they had come in to try and get him to eat something, he had attacked and bitten off one of the tines of the forklift who had brought him out of sedation. They left him alone again. And this time, they did not come back for three days. For a full day and a half, he thrashed, he twisted, he struggled, and he cried and he cried, until, in the darkness and solitude, his strength and hope left him. He stood, almost in a catatonic state, in the chains. By the end of the third day, the door was opened. Ripslinger remained motionless.
"Ripslinger?"
The blue and red Mustang's eyes opened part way as he was addressed, staring dully at the floor for a few moments, then they opened a little more, the light from the open doorway catching in them as he looked around blankly but for a slight wariness.
"Would you like to come out now?"
He came calmly, being led by twitch poles attached to his wings as a precaution. It was almost like they were dealing with a completely different plane, although they were altogether unsettled by the odd new look to his eyes. Indifferent. Almost bored. A calculating patience.
XXxx
"Needless to say, I never ended up getting adopted. I stayed in that orphanage for seven more years. Biding my time. Never really talking or socializing outside of taking all the food and education they would give me until I grew big and strong enough to fly. Big and strong enough to escape."
Dusty stared at him, having been completely silent for the entirety of the recalling. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly parted as he tried to process everything he just heard. Then he closed it, face falling in sorrowful pity. Everything made complete sense now. Ripslinger calmly observed his reaction with a somewhat blank expression, silent tears streaming down his face.
"I don't know what to say..." Dusty said, his voice lacking any power.
"What is there to day?" was Ripslinger's response.
"What about Isabelle? She was alive the last time you saw her," Dusty ventured.
"That was the one thing that kept me going. The only thing that I had thought of for seven whole years and longer. When I escaped the orphanage and flew away, I looked up the location of our house. It was still there. It's still there right now. No one's ever lived in it. It's still mine, technically. Anyway I took all the money from a safe we kept hidden in one of the bookshelves in the study and flew down to LA and started racing. I was successful, as you already know. I made a ton of money, but all that and the best private investigators it could buy couldn't find Isabelle. You know the rest."
For once in his life, Dusty was more or less at a complete loss for words. It was just so much to take in.
"I'll bet your parents would be proud of you, if they could see you now," Dusty offered to a sad scoff from Ripslinger. "All you've overcome; you only did what you thought you had to. They would understand."
"You're something to be proud of more than I'll ever be. You make me look like a Bug," and then that finally brought the question to his mind after all his time spent with Dusty in Propwash Junction, "Where are your parents anyway?"
"Oh, my parents?" Dusty asked, surprised, "Well they both died when I was really little. I never really got to know them," he answered, sinking somewhat into his landing gear sadly, then scrunching his face up a softly as he tried to recollect, "I barely even remember what they look like anymore."
Ripslinger stared at him, really looking at him for what felt like the first time. Now that he was healed, the larger plane could really see him now. See Dusty for what he was. All his fight, his compassion, his determination, his courage, his innocent thoughtfulness. Who knew you could fit all that he had into such a small package? Olive-colored eyes roved over his frame, remembering all the injuries and hurt he'd caused him, knowing that a lot of it was unseen.
"I'm sorry Dusty. I've done you so much evil and I can't undo it," Ripslinger acknowledge sorrowfully, but Dusty only smiled, turning to him and dropping his nose.
"No, Rip," he said softly, shaking his front, "You're healed! None of that means anything and will never stay with me as long as knowing that you can now go on to live a normal life and experience all the good things that life can offer you." Then he moved forward, nuzzling himself into the fore of the crook of Ripslinger's wing, giving him a small kiss near the corner of his mouth before saying, "I forgive you..."
And they were the most beautiful words that Ripslinger had ever heard. He closed his eyes, sighing as he felt a great weight lifted from him, silent tears falling as they stood, embracing one another for a long while. Later, the sun setting on the horizon in front of them, Ripslinger sat, with Tom at his side, staring off into the distance. Neither said a word the entire time, until out of the blue, Ripslinger spoke, making the human jump a bit.
"I'm confused, Tom," he said, still staring straight ahead. "I'm cured. I can feel it. But it just feels like every puzzle piece has now been blown out of proportion. It's like learning to fly all over again. Where do I even go from here?"
Despite addressing him, the plane spoke as if Tom weren't there, or at least as if he didn't mind him being there, and his words and openness made the boy's heart beat so hard in happiness and yet so hard in sadness. Looking thoughtful, he answered him.
"I think you're going through a phase right now, kind of like how I was with you."
Ripslinger turned and looked down at him then, a suspicious twitch of his prop blades as he waited for the human to elaborate. Tom blinked up at him, feeling a bit self-conscious as he looked back down, the grass suddenly becoming very interesting as he continued.
"It's to be expected really, considering all that's happened. You won't feel lost like that forever though. It's like you've been given a second chance. All that stuff you had to go through. Despite what you think, you need and deserve it. Yeah, it's going to be a steep learning curve, learning how to be functional again. But it's like you said, learning how to fly. Maybe this time you'll learn how to fly a different way. It's... It's like you're finally free. You've been given the chance to start over and live a better life now. You can make up your own way for... well, for you! So you can't mope about it."
Tom's systems went on INTRUDER ALERT when Ripslinger suddenly leaned down, nose pointed at him as he moved a bit closer. Oh, god, he looked so... so passionate! Not goo-goo eyed or amazed, just passionate, with a certain amount of seriousness hooded over it to keep his character intact.
"Um, yeah, I... It feels like I've been going through the same thing. I know for certain something's been changing inside of me too. It's a really weird feeling," and Tom's eyes grew somewhat distant as he tapped into it, feeling Ripslinger's Soul open up to him, rippling in a variety of emotions. Then he smiled. "But I know it's happening."
Then he almost jumped out of his skin to see Ripslinger's nose right in his face.
"How does that feel?" he asked, his expression drew into an eager glare that the boy was not familiar with. "That kind of change?
"Re-" Tom gulped, "-juven-ating?"
Those olive-colored eyes of his brightened as he gave a small, thoughtful smile, like the light from the sunset was drawn into them to make them gleam in the twilight. He was almost too intense for the human to take. And despite his next words, his expression wasn't of mockery at all. It was actually serious, but softer because it was also somewhat somber.
"You know, I was once convinced you were the noisiest, weirdest kid who was too far gone to be mentally salvaged that I'd ever met."
Ripslinger's smirk was so small it was practically invisible. Tom retorted back playfully but
quietly, bashfully even.
"...I used to think you were the creepiest plane I'd ever met."
And the Mustang's brow snapped up in amused humor.
"Should I be surprised?"
"Mm," Tom lowered his gaze again and shook his head, "Nah-uh, not really."
Ripslinger chuckled setting his sight once more into the sinking sun. There was more silence, before he broke it again, speaking at length.
"I'm a little afraid to go home. I know I'm cured, but something inside me still feels off-kilter. I don't really have the kind of support system there that I do here."
"You don't have to leave," Tom said emphatically, suddenly overcome with emotion as he abruptly pressed himself against the huge plane's side, burying his face into it. "You can just stay here. I don't want you to go..."
"I have to go back, Tom. Like you said. I have to make my own way now."
"Can I come with you?"
"I can't take you with me right now," Ripslinger said, his expression still looking regretful in sympathy, "I've got a lot of stuff I need to figure out. Maybe someday."
"Oh Ripslinger, I'll miss you," Tom said tearfully as he came around to the front of him, pulling the P-51's nose down into him to Ripslinger's slightly wide-eyed surprise as he hugged the plane, giving him a kiss on his nose cone.
"Yeah... I'll miss you too, Tom."
"You will come back to visit, right?"
"Sure," Ripslinger said, his expression sincere but almost pained as the boy looked at his own reflection in the green and black racer's eyes as he spoke. "Sure I will, kid."
"Okay then. Goodbye Ripslinger," said Tom, giving the side of the Mustang's nose a few pets. "I love you."
"Yeah... I love you, too."
The group saw Ripslinger off as he departed from Propwash Junction's airport, only this time he employed none of his usual speed. He flew at a more leisurely pace, allowing himself to just drift as the landscape flew away underneath him, having much to ponder over during the long journey back home.
