Chapter 9: Do-Over
Rated PG
XXxx
It was a few days before Ripslinger was deemed strong enough to leave the confines of Dottie's garage, but he was still incredibly weak from the combination of starvation and fluid loss. Most airplanes almost always look healthy from the outside, which is why they only seem to be prone to suddenly sicken and die within a matter of days, but Ripslinger truly looked in a frightful state. Any mechanic worth their salt knew that girth measurements were a rather inadequate method of determining weight loss in aircraft, you needed a proper scale to catch it early, which made Ripslinger's condition particularly shocking. His flanks had sunken in almost to the point of being able to visualize the bulge of where his fuel tanks were in his fuselage just above and a little further back than the wings.
His body was still assimilating all the new hoses and the massive amount of fluids that had been replaced, and his movements would sutter turn jerky if he maneuvered too quickly, if not sometimes collapse altogether in pain and exhaustion. His flaps also had yet to realize that he had proper fluid pressure back, and hung down, almost limply, from the aft of his wings.
Ripslinger's first day out of confinement had seen Dusty practically glued to him, never letting him out of his sight as he made him tag along with him wherever he went. Ripslinger deliberately refused to look at any of the others; they all tried to remain focused on their day-to-day activities, but were also all monitoring him from the corners of their eyes, and this did not escape his attention. He didn't have to look at them directly to be able to know that they were watching him. It was very tense,
and hardly anybody said a word.
Sleeping arrangements were just as awkward. Dusty was the first to offer up to share his own hangar, even though it wasn't exactly built for two planes, let alone two planes of unequal sizes. Even after initial objections; Ripslinger because he was accustomed to sleeping alone, and Skipper because he didn't want Dusty sleeping alone with Ripslinger, the offer stood, especially after an acidic look from Ripslinger after Dusty threw out the option of him just sleeping back in the old hangar.
Ripslinger situated himself as far away from Dusty as possible, and his engine would emit that infamous hiss-snarl when Dusty tried to cuddle up to him, sending him scooting away hurriedly to his side of the hangar. The first night went without incident, but ironically the next morning had Dusty fighting to get Ripslinger to come out of the hangar.
“Hey, I thought you agreed that you were going to try!”
“I said I'd go along with your little deal, but I refuse to sit quietly and be treated like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know exactly what! You saw them all yesterday, hell, you're doing it too. They all act hesitant around me, and it's not because they feel threatened anymore, but because they're all scared to death that I'm going to fall apart any second. Like I said, I don't want anyone's pity. I will not tolerate being treated like I'm frail just because of these,” he ended, looking toward and gesturing from one wing to the other, the cauterizing marks still fresh.
“Oh, come on Rip, you have to see it from their point of view too. They're just as unsure of how to handle the situation as you.” Ripslinger opened his mouth to object but Dusty beat him to it, “Yes, they all agreed to this that it was the best course of action, but they really don't know how to act toward you.”
“They didn't seem to have a problem with it when I was behind bars.”
“And you're not exactly behaving like you normally do either. Just give it a little bit and things wont seem to awkward and tense. Please?”
“Well how to they want me to act, Dusty?” Ripslinger started to become visibly upset now, “What, do they want me to go back to...”
Ripslinger stopped, unable to speak anymore without the threat of breaking down in tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing as he shrunk into himself a bit. Dusty moved to comfort him, but he shrugged him off weakly and moved away from him.
“No... No, I'm okay, I just...” he tripped over his words, his breath hitching as he fought the tears back. “I'm just really tired and my wings hurt and my tanks feel like they're turning themselves inside out and I just need a breather, okay.”
“Are you hungry?” Dusty asked, perking up at the mention of Ripslinger's tanks, “Do you want another can of CCP?”
“No... Stuff's gross...”
“I know it's gross but it's the safest thing for you to eat right now until your healthy enough for your system to handle burning something more substantial. At least have two of them for me today, okay? And I'll talk to the others.”
“Fine. And when you do I want you to make it explicitly clear that I do not want them to feel sorry for me. I can't take that slag...”
“Okay,” Dusty said, his expression soft and empathetic. “Now, come on, Rip,” he continued as he ducked down and slid his body underneath Ripslinger's chin, making him lift up a little higher on his landing gear, and this time Ripslinger didn't try to push him away. “Let's go.”
The rest of the group seemed to have fewer reservations upon their approach this time, but lunch went on with little conversation. Ripslinger tucked into a can of CCP as promised, sucking down the thick, milk-like substance while fighting down his gag reflex; ironically the consistency was supposed to help weakened patients swallow it down easier so that they don't choke on it. Nobody really knew what to say, the situation was just too new. Afterward, when everybody went to go back to whatever work they had been doing that day, Ripslinger hung back.
“What's up?” Dusty asked, turning back. “Aren't you coming?”
“In a minute. I would like to have a word with you,” Ripslinger said, turning to look at Clarice, “in private first.”
A wave of unease ran through the group, but Clarice waved them off.
“It's alright, guys, I'll catch up in a sec.”
They eventually moved off, reluctantly, and then human and plane were alone, staring at each other in silence for a moment before Ripslinger spoke.
“Don't take this the wrong way,” he began, flatly, “I know that Dusty's taking it easy on me now, but as time goes on he's going to get pushier about these things, and to save myself the annoyance of him nagging me night and day I would like to apologize if I hurt you.” Clarice was knocked speechless; this was not what she expected him to talk to her about. “And because I know he'll press about this too, I would like to thank you as well for making him come and check on me. You saved my life.”
“... I don't really know what to say, Rip.” Clarice finally managed.
“I don't expect you to say anything. And I already told you not to take it the wrong way.”
“If you insist. But for the record, apology accepted,” Clarice said, smiling softly, “and you're welcome.
XXxx
Ripslinger stood outside in the trees on the outskirts of the airport, leaning heavily against one that he'd picked out as his favorite. He was savoring a rare moment to himself as he closed his eyes, taking in the sun and feeling the wind go through his propeller blades. It was a sensation he'd all but forgotten during his time in the underground bunkers of the Cutters, and more recently when he was kept locked up here in that hangar. Despite the sometimes harsh sun and wind that could leave your plating raw, he was spending an increasing amount of time outside during the last few days.
Things were slowly gaining some equilibrium, he supposed. The others were becoming more relaxed and natural around him, although they still held a certain degree of caution. As well they should, he thought. Perhaps the way things were going was tolerable, although it was certainly not enjoyable. He did not relish living with these people, but he would honor the agreement. If anything just to spite those that thought he couldn't do it.
In reality, though, the real reason that he went along with this facade of coexistence for the moment was that he felt... lost. Until he found direction, until he found his own way again, he would continue to follow along with them. He would anchor himself to them until he was strong enough to fight the tide on his own, as he had been used to, even after Ned and Zed were signed on by his managers, at first to simply serve as companions for him after they had become worried about his increasingly despondent behavior after his first few racing seasons. It had been a little shaky and awkward at first, but the twin Zivkos were quick studies in learning to read Ripsligner's very subtle tells, although not without a fair bit of trial and error. It was a feat that had been accomplished by few planes, to say the least. It had been a pleasant change at first, but it wore off quickly, and while Ned and Zed were affectionate and well-tuned in to his moods and preferences, Ripslinger rarely, if ever, returned any of it.
The sound of a larger plane approaching pulled Ripslinger from his reveries. He didn't turn to see who it was, just waited for the intruder to either join him or leave. He tried to repress a sigh of frustration as whoever it was chose the former.
Skipper rolled up beside him and stopped. He stared at Ripslinger for a long moment, and he stared right back, then looked back out over the shimmering tarmac.
“I thought I might find you here,” Skipper finally said.
“Really? And why were you looking for me?” Ripslinger asked him.
“Ever since this little... deal began, I've been watching you.”
“I've noticed.”
“And while Dusty may have a bit more experience than me in being around you, he's still a little naive.”
“Ain't that the truth...” Ripslinger muttered, his gaze still pointed toward the runway. He's not as blind as you might think, he thought snappishly.
“I've also noticed that he's been getting a bit too relaxed around you. My point is, you're not fooling me, Rip. Nobody changes their ways that easily, I should know.” Ripslinger finally turned to look at him, and they glared at one another. “The others may be getting used to you now, and I'll play along with this little game as long as you do, but just know one thing: the moment you even think about turning on us, your aft is mine. And this time I won't be holding back.”
“Good,” Ripslinger said as he pushed off his tree, grinning slyly, “I wouldn't have it any other way,” he concluded darkly, heading back toward town.
XXxx
Inevitably, the day came when Ripslinger decided to give everyone a heart attack by disappearing. He was simply nowhere to be found and Dusty was in full panic mode at all of the horrible possibilities that could be occurring.
“Well where else could he be? He couldn't have just flown off, he can't move his flaps!” Dusty was fretting.
Clarice watched everybody scurry about with less urgency than the rest of them. Not that she wasn't worried, but she was also sure that he was somewhere obvious that none of them would have thought to check. It was with that thought in mind that Clarice happened to look over at Ripslinger's old hangar on the other side of the runway. Now he really couldn't possibly be in there. But then again, maybe that was the same reason that he could be in there.
Without telling anyone else of her suspicions, she began to walk toward the hangar. It was just as still, quiet, rough-looking as when they had first started using it to house Ripslinger. One of the doors was still open slightly. As Clarice came closer to the hangar, she stepped in something slick and slipped a little. She looked down to find that she'd stepped in a small puddle of a strange, jet-black liquid, the tar-like substance covering her sneaker. As she drew her gaze back up, she spotted more little drips and drops and puddles of the obsidian fluid leading up to the doors of the hangar.
Clarice sucked in a quiet breath through her nose, grimacing slightly. Was he having another one of those awful episodes again? She stopped just outside the door. She thought she could hear noises coming from inside. She opened the door further and slipped inside.
The lights inside the hangar had been left off. Clarice peered around, and thought that she could just barely make out the outline of Ripslinger's form from the light shining from outside where she had left the doors open. He had shut himself inside the cage that they had yet to take down. His frame shook uncontrollably as his breaths came out ragged with pain. He seemed unable to stay on or even get to his landing gear. Without thinking or any hesitation Clarice slipped through the bars and into the cage with him.
“Rip?” she called out to him softly.
Ripslinger rose up from the ground as his engine began to growl roughly, its bass reminiscent of a tiger. He turns, giving Clarice a glare that told her that he still had some semblance of lucidity within him, which she took as her cue to try again.
“Rip? Are you okay?”
Her words almost seem to hit him like a physical blow as another wave of pain popped and snapped through his body. He sank back down to the floor, trembling as Clarice started moving toward him. He shrank back at her approach.
“Don't touch me...” he ground out, his voice seeming to come through his engine as the time he'd trapped Dottie in the cage with him, making it sound grotesque and unnatural. “Leave me alone...”
“No, I'm not going away!” Clarice protested stubbornly. “I'm not leaving you in here like this by yourself!”
With great effort, Ripslinger lifted his body up again, his jaws dripping with the same viscous, black fluid that Clarice had stepped in earlier as he spoke.
“You'll never learn your lesson until I've killed you... You'll be the death of me yet, girl...”
“Please...” Clarice pressed, going even closer. “It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you.”
“It's not me you should be worried about...”
“Rip, please!”
Clarice had but to just barely close her hand on the tip of Ripslinger's wing to hear a snarl explode from his engine as he abruptly swung around and charged. Clarice ran from the cage as he clumsily chased her, stumbling on his landing gear before crashing into the bars, unable to stop himself.
He slid down, miserably riding out the rest episode, struggling desperately to keep his mind present even as his body quaked and jerked in agony.
XXxx
The next day, Ripslinger once again finds himself in the shop with Dottie running a check up on him. Despite his disgust of it, the CCP seemed to be doing some good, as he'd put on a few pounds but would have to stay on it for a little while longer yet. His flaps however, were still healing at an unusually slow rate as Dottie tested them by pinching here and there with a pair of pliers, only receiving a low-level response and Ripslinger reporting mild discomfort and pressure.
“Are you sure,” she asked, “I'm squeezing these really hard, and that's all you can feel?”
“Yes, that's what I just said!” Ripslinger replied, getting snappy in his embarrassment at how useless he felt.
He lay outside, now, in the cool, evening grass, half-dozing and half watching the activities of the rest of the group as they enjoyed the evening as well. His focus was currently on Dusty and Chug as they messed around in front of Skipper's hangar. They had Metallica's Justice for All album going in the background and Dusty had found Skipper's leather helmet and had put it on, telling Chug to go find something to throw at him. He found a wooden chuck and was poised with it as Dusty readied himself.
“Wait, hang on... Okay I'm ready.”
Dusty shut his eyes tight as Chug tossed the chuck at his canopy where it went clunking harmlessly off of it and onto the ground as they both laughed.
“Okay, okay, now this time throw it harder.”
They stopped for a moment to appreciate the music before continuing their game, nodding along until the breakdown for “One” started and then Dusty started dancing around in a cute, happy, completely unfitting way, making Chug laugh.
Ripslinger watched, one of his propellers flicking in humor as a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth for just an instant before disappearing. His eyes were about to close again when something shiny and gold floated across his vision. A Cartier butterfly was making to alight atop the end of one of his prop blades. It landed, it's delicate wings encrusted with so many tiny jewels twinkling in the failing sunlight. Then it evidently remembered that it had somewhere to be and lifted off again.
The free-spirited sight of his winged friend began to anger Ripslinger. Why was it able to live such a free, careless life and not he? The rage flared within his belly as the butterfly fluttered to an fro, courting and dancing among the tussocks of grass and little wildflowers, always flitting back to encourage Ripslinger, but his state of mind was not that of the butterfly's.
“Go away!” he snarled at the butterfly, who seemed to not hear him. “I don't want your taunts and teases anymore! Leave me!”
His malnourishment and fatigue humiliated him to no end, but even after Ripslinger had started eating properly again, to rediscover at least some of the energy that he'd lost, he was not himself. There was something about him that still hesitated, that held back, that hedged his bets. Now, he did not quite know who he was or what he was supposed to do. Like he'd been taken apart and put back together wrong. He felt like he would never stop being tired. Summer on Propwash Junction was in it's prime, but Ripslinger was not.
