Chapter 8: By An Eyelash
Rated PG
XXxx
Clarice sat outside of Dottie's garage, waiting until she quit shaking from both fear and rage. Her arm was becoming severely bruised from where Ripslinger had gripped it in his teeth and she was sure that she had a few bruised ribs as well. That's twice now, she thought angrily as she petted the cat in her lap a bit too harshly, the skin pulling back comically from its face. If he dared to do that one more time, she was going to sneak in there while he was sleeping and rip out his boy parts, but still, despite how angry she was at him she couldn't help but feel horribly sorry for him at the same time.
She thought about what he'd said with a shudder. 'Dusty would make good on that threat he made during our little fight...' Was he just testing her, or did Ripslinger honestly want Dusty to come in there and kill him? The thought left an unsettling feeling in her stomach. That just didn't seem like him. What she would have expected him to do was to use her in some way to get out of the cell, then kill her and anyone else who stood in his way as he escaped, but instead he had ended up letting her go free. Something wasn't right. She stroked the cat more gently in apology and then set it down on the ground before standing up. She had to go tell Dusty about what happened.
The doors to his hangar were open to let in the late spring breeze as he dozed under a pile of blankets. He always seemed to smother himself like that whenever he slept alone. Clarice stepped inside, slightly winded after running all the way there from the garage.
“Dusty...” she pushed on him gently. “Dusty, wake up, something's wrong. Please...”
“Mmwhat?” the crop-duster turned racer mumbled, his voice a bit husky with sleep as he turned toward her.
He yawned, giving Clarice a good look at how his teeth, similar to a humans in the front, turned sharp, pointed, and peg-like toward the back of his jaws. Then he did a double take once he'd noticed her arm and jumped up, blankets falling off of him.
“Clarice! What in the world happened to your arm?” he asked, gently tracing the tip of his nose cone over the ever growing bruises, then his expression darkened when he thought he recognized where they might be from. “Who did this to you?”
“Who do you think? But that's not important right now,” Clarice quickly said, awkwardly pulling her arm away. “There's something wrong with Ripslinger. I think you should go talk to him.”
“Wait, what? Are you saying he did this to you? That's it...” he muttered as he shook the rest of the blankets off of him. “He's had it!”
“No, Dusty- You're not listening to me!” Clarice said frantically, trying to stop him. “There's like something seriously wrong with him. He tried to get me to kill him!
That stopped him.
“He what?” Dusty questioned, his breath suddenly gone.
“He grabbed me. I got too close. He had me pinned against the wall and was saying all this weird stuff and that if I screamed you'd come in and kill him. He said it like he wanted you to do it.”
“Then what happened?” asked Dusty.
“Nothing. He just ended up letting me go.”
Dusty looked stunned for a moment as he thought about what Clarice had just told him.
“Come on,” he said, “This has me really worried now.”
As they headed for the hangar, Dusty asked her about everything that was said and done. She told him, struggling to keep up and narrate everything back to him at the same time. As they approached Ripslinger's hangar, they saw the outside guard, Tommy, idly flipping through a book. He looked up as they came up to him.
“Oh hey, you two. Ready for another argument, I see. Go ahead in, the other guy's out for the moment.”
“Out? You mean Ripslinger was left alone?” Dusty demanded.
“Hey, I'm right here. What's he gonna do anyway? Besides, Mike hasn't been gone too long.”
“How long?” Clarice asked.
“I dunno,” Tommy shrugged.
Dusty swore under his breath as opened the doors to the hangar without knocking and went inside, Clarice a second behind him. Dusty didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't to see Ripslinger laying quietly in his corner.
“Rip?” he hesitantly spoke to the still figure, who's front half was resting on the end of the sleeping mat.
If if weren't for the odd place and position he was in, it seem as if he were asleep.
“You're not sleeping; I know you're not!” Clarice tried.
No response. Clarice watched as Dusty undid the locks on the cell door and slowly crept inside. There was an odd smell in the air; like gasoline and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on.
“Rip?” Dusty called out again, coming a little closer.
The smell kept getting stronger. The anxiety mounted on Dusty's face as he came around to the foot of the sleeping mat, and then he suddenly cried out in shock and horror. The blankets all around him were wet through in fuel and hydraulic fluid, staining them.
“Ah! Oh god, ugh!”
He pulled some of them away to reveal where the damage was, more vital fluids leaking out onto the floor as they were pushed away by the blankets and sheets, so soaked that they couldn't absorb any more. It was suddenly everywhere, all around them. Deep gashes ran the length of the underside of both of Ripslinger's wings. Dusty leaned down on his landing gear beside him, hoping and praying that he wasn't too late. By some miracle he was still alive, but his breathing was so shallow...
“Go get Dottie! Hurry!” Dusty cried out to Clarice, who had been keeping her distance by the door.
“What is it? What's wrong?”
“He's slashed his wings open! Just go!” Dusty tried not to panic.
Clarice ran from the hangar, while the guard just stood there in dumb shock. Quickly, Dusty was taking the soaked sheets and shoving them up into the open wounds on Ripslinger's wings, halting the weak flow.
“Oh, please don't die...”
XXxx
Ripslinger stood in a seemingly endless, blinding sea of white. And he was all alone. He slowly looked around at the barrenness around him. Someone had been singing. That's what woke him up. It was that same stupid song that he had grown to hate in the days after the accident but soon enough forgot. He had told whoever it was to stop it, his voice echoing, and it did, abruptly. And then, for some reason, he suddenly felt guilty.
Then a colossal black shape came rolling up from the depths of whiteness out of the corner of his eye. The P-51 did a double take, and then jumped back and cried out in fear. The creature's sudden appearance was a complete mystery. Why would it appear to him again? Now? After all these years? He didn't believe in ghosts, an afterlife, or anything supernatural. Why was it here? It kept itself just on the outside of his peripheral vision, prowling around like a shark. The feeling of fear and confusion was quickly washed away and replaced with a fleeting rage as he struck out at the creature as it swung passed him a little closer.
“Go away!” he shouted at it, shrinking back into himself and trembling, afraid. “I want nothing to do with you!”
The huge, black thing stopped, leaning down on it's nose gear and turning it's long body slightly to the side as if it were being admonished. It continued to stare at him out of piercing red eyes that glowed with a light that yet gave none.
“You're just like the rest of them!” the checker-marked Mustang continued shakily, “Nothing but lies! You just come flying in like a Bearcat out of hell and save my life only to abandon me again just as quickly!”
The beast continued its pacing, its engines constantly hissing, the noise steadily waxing and waning on whether or not it was moving or still. Hydraulic fluid was sickeningly slicked all over the front of its body and down its sides, just as he remembered it the first night he'd seen it, the red fluid dripping off onto the ground only to be diluted and absorbed into the stainless white of the environment. The horrifying construct had indeed saved him from a certain, cruel death long ago, but only to go on and continue to haunt his dreams from there after. But all those other times, it had never fully shown itself, leaving Ripslinger confused as to whether or not he had really dreamt of it. And never before had it ever spoke since the first time it appeared to him. But it was surely speaking now.
“Come then. I'll take you now. To a place that you fear.”
The creature's voice was like that of water falling into pools in the deep, echoing places of dark caves, and sounded almost distorted. There was an odd, intermittent rattling as it spoke that punctuated the ceaseless hissing of its engines, a bit like how you might imagine a rattlesnake would sound if it could speak.
“What? … What are you saying?” Ripslinger asked, confused.
“You turn away from everyone that would care to help you out of the dark. I shall make you understand.”
And the red eyes stared...
XXxx
The dream slowly faded away, but the haze of white remained. Ripslinger blinked a few times, trying to clear his eyes, and soon realized that the whiteness he was seeing were fluorescent garage lights hanging overhead. Disoriented, he tried to take in his surroundings. No bars. He wasn't in his cell anymore, but he was restrained. He tried to lift up a bit to see what was holding him, but found that he lacked any strength to do so. Had he been drugged again? Then he remembered. What he had done.
A dull, aching throb seemed to flare up in his wings at the thought of his attempted suicide. Attempted. He had failed. He wanted to cry at his helplessness; he didn't even have a choice about his own life anymore. He fought hard against the tears. It had been years. Years, since he'd last cried, and he wasn't about to start now. Ripslinger closed his eyes tightly, trying to fight back the surge of emotion. To distract himself he looked around more at his surroundings. He couldn't sit up, he could barely even raise his nose. But he could turn a bit to see what was on either side of him. There wasn't much to his left. Just a lot of boxes of different sizes, and different parts and tools. With great effort, he turned and looked in the other direction, and what he saw surprised him.
Dusty was asleep, sitting beside him, slouched down into his landing gear. Against the far wall, Dottie was leaning up against Chug, both of them also fast asleep. Skipper sat in the corner, snoring softly while Clarice lay curled up in the crook of his folded wing.
Why? Ripslinger wondered. Why were they all in here? Why were they all sleeping in those horribly uncomfortable positions when they could be asleep in their own hangars? There was no need to watch him, he was far too weak to get himself free. Why here? With him? Puzzled, the green and black plane's eyes turned up to the ceiling, trying to shake the hangovers from his dream. It was just a dream, he desperately thought. Just a dream...
XXxx
“I was wondering when you were going to wake up,” A quiet voice next to him said as Ripslinger returned to consciousness once more.
He didn't remember falling back to sleep. Just the dream. Confused, Ripslinger looked for the speaker. The others that were in the room earlier had all left, leaving only himself and Dusty, who was standing off to the side, facing him.
“This feels familiar,” Ripslinger muttered, testing out his restraints again. At least he hadn't been drugged. “How long?”
“It's been three days now,” Dusty answered. “I actually expected you to wake up sooner.”
Ripslinger refused to look at him. The quiet, unassuming tone that Dusty had was beginning to eat at him. Why wasn't he being lectured? Or hell, told off for what he had done to Clarice? Anything but the silence that hung over them now.
“Well?” Ripslinger started.
“Well what?”
“Don't you have something to say to me?” asked Ripslinger, swallowing hard, his focus never wavering from the ceiling.
“... No. Like you said, I talk to much. It's kind of a bad habit I have whenever I get uncomfortable.”
“Hmm.”
“You, however, are the complete opposite. You fold in on yourself when you're hurting and refuse to let anyone help.”
“And I suppose that's also a bad thing?”
“No. It's just really sad. Although I'm one to talk I guess...”
“Look,” said Ripslinger, starting to get angry. “Quit talking to me like I'm going to break. Yell at me like I know you want to. Swear at me! Just anything but this. I don't want yours or anyone else's pity. I was happier when you all hated me...”
“Happier? Ripslinger, being hated never brought anyone happiness. Maybe some kind of vindictive pleasure but not happiness.”
“And what would you know...” Ripslinger snapped at him before he was interrupted.
“I'd say I know plenty about it. I don't think I've ever really been hated, but I got a lot of flak for entering the Wings Around the Globe rally. Maybe they were right too. I was crazy; I had no experience, hardly the training or specs that anyone else racing had.”
“Hmph.”
“But I kept on anyway, and I'm glad of it too.”
“So now you're going to lecture me on what I tried to do. That suicide isn't the answer? How I should hope and always strive for a better tomorrow or whatever?”
“Not if you don't want me to. Just please tell me one thing Rip... Why?”
“Why not, Dusty?! I have nothing to live for, so why not? Why...” he trailed off, turning away.
Dusty was quiet a moment before continuing.
“And if you had something worth living for, what would it be?”
“I... I... I don't know, Dusty, what does it matter anyway?! I don't care,” His voice was getting thick with emotion as once again he could think of nothing.
“You know, Clarice told me all about what you told her. About the cutters and everything.”
“Should have minded her own business...”
“Well if she hadn't, you wouldn't be here right now. After what happened she came to me. I saw what you did to her and I tried to be angry and she wouldn't let me.”
“What?”
“She put her little foot down and demanded that I go check up on you. She was really concerned for you.”
“I don't care... She should have left me alone. She shouldn't have pretended... Not like... I... I... J-just let me go! Let me go now!” Ripslinger cried out as he struggled weakly against the restraints, furiously embarrassed by the tears now streaming freely from his eyes. “Just let me go... Let me go...” he sobbed out, turning as far as he could away from Dusty, trying in vain to hide his face from him.
Then he turned back in surprise when he felt his restraints being undone. Freed, he tried to sit up a little higher, only to have his wings scream at him for being so suddenly put under pressure. Dusty moved forward to help support him. Ripslinger tried once again to stop the offending tears from falling, but that only seemed to cause more to fall. And more. And more until he finally gave up and wept openly, no longer caring about how long it had been or that he had company in this pitiable state. What dignity did he have left? He could do this now. He could cry.
Having Dusty embrace into him a little tighter only made him cry harder, and the occasional splash of wetness against the left side of his face and wing told him that Dusty was crying as well. Only he was crying silently in contrast to Ripslinger's pained sobs. Some time later, he didn't know how long, he had finally calmed down to where the tears had eased up and his breathing contained only the occasional hitch. Dusty had still not let go of him, and Ripslinger did not try to force him away.
“Rip?” Dusty asked hesitantly once he was sure that he was truly finished.
“What?”
“I've been thinking of something,” Dusty began. “I want you to please hear me out. I don't expect an answer from you right away, but will you please at least think about it?”
“What is it?” asked Ripslinger, staring miserably down on the floor.
“One year. One year is all I'm asking of you. If I let you out of that cell and you stay with us for one year, I'll let you go free,” Dusty finished, pulling away from him.
“What do you mean?”
“Just stay with us. See what the “slow life” is like. It's really not that bad, actually. Really try to get used to being around and interacting with people. We'll be right here to help you with those fits you have sometimes; you won't be going this alone. Do that, and I'll let you go and never lock you up again. You'll be free to do whatever you want. I won't go hunting you down; nothing. But you have to try for me, please? You're a lot more patient than I am; how bad can one year be? Hmm?”
“And how do you know I won't just try to escape again the first chance I get? Or kill you all?”
“Because, you may not believe this, but I do have faith in you. And if you do try to get away, I guess the deal would be broken and then I would have to hunt you down.”
“Not if I killed you,” Ripslinger sniffed.
“... Well, if you do kill me, I have just one that I'll beg of you.”
“And what's that?”
“Just leave the others alone. Please?”
“... Just one year?”
“Yes. Just one.”
“... Why? Why take the risk? For all you know I could kill them all and then leave you alone to die of misery. Why would you take that kind of risk for me? All I've ever shown you has been hatred... Cruelty... Why do you care?”
“I can't really give you a reason. All I can tell you is that I do. And the others; they're willing too. Everything's already been decided. For their own safety I tried to push them away, but they refuse. If anything that should prove to you that they care too.”
“Why?”
“Maybe you should ask them that.”
“No... You people don't make any sense to me. It wouldn't matter how hard I tried, I'll never understand you all...” Ripslinger sighed deeply, staring down at the floor again.
“Well, like I said, you don't have to answer right away. Just please...”
So this was it. He had nothing to live for. He was nothing now. He had nothing to gain, nothing to lose.
“... Why the hell not?”
