Chapter 2: Fractured
Rated PG for mild violence
XXxx
Two days had seen Ripslinger in no better or worse condition than he'd been in since he'd first been rescued. Each time they'd allowed him to come out of sedation, he would only regain consciousness for a few minutes, muttering a few incoherent words before he would deteriorate back into full-body tremors. It had been on Skipper's watch on the third day after another attempt reviving him had ended in failure once again. He watched as the last few jerking spasms left his body and Ripslinger succumbed another round of drugs. Now Skipper's spirit was just as tough as his body and for the most part without much sentimentality, but, like most who have experienced pain and hardship, the retired Navy Corsair could still recognize and respect suffering when he saw it.
“How long are we supposed to drag this on for?”
“I don't know, Skipper, what do you want me to do? This is Dusty's thing,” Dottie answered, exasperated. “I have no idea what the Cutters even did to make him this way. If I did, maybe I could fix him, but it's not like we can just walk up to their front door and ask them. This whole situation is just total slag all over.”
Ned and Zed were starting to get close to despair as they lay pressed in against Ripslinger where he lay in the newly refurbished hangar. They had done a really good job of it, especially in reinforcing the walls and adding a locking mechanism to the outside of the doors. That part was at Skipper's insistence, but they had all agreed that he had a point that Ripslinger had a rather unstable, aggressive personality to begin with. What if whatever the Cutters did had left it even more fractured?
It was revealed just how fractured it was when, Clarice, despite all her talk that she wasn't going to have anymore to do with Ripslinger after getting him away from the Cutters, was nervously waiting out her watch. She wasn't sure what came over her. Like the others, she did actually feel sorry for the poor bastard. Maybe she was just tired. They all were. Whatever the reason, she found herself walking right up to the huge plane's nose. She thought there was something different about the way he was sleeping. Like he seemed to be legitimately sleeping as opposed to just heavily sedated, although his expression looked troubled as he breathed softly through his slightly open mouth. Then she noticed that his flaps were no longer twitching.
How long ago had that stopped? Ripslinger suddenly took a short, but deeper breath. She came even closer, laying her hand against the side of his nose. I must be crazy, she thought as she gave it a few firm pats. Ripslinger took another deep breath, his eyes opening for just a split-second before closing again. All of his flaps rose up, and they trembled a bit before lowering back down into their original positions. Clarice had already started to back away, but then his eyes opened again, this time staying open. He seemed only mildly confused, his eyes darting around the hangar as he slowly rose up from the ground.
Clarice was frozen on the spot, too afraid to move. Then he spotted her. Something flickered in his continence that she couldn't read. Recognition? Fear? Ripslinger's demeanor suddenly changed. Now he was the one backing away as he lowered himself down on his landing gear, his eyes narrowing as his flaps extended down in a defensive posture.
Clarice was thrown off guard by this odd behavior. She didn't quite know how to react. So she surprised herself again by walking toward where Ripslinger was getting closer and closer to backing himself into a wall. It was almost comical to think of a plane so big backing away from a tiny thing like herself. When his tail hit the wall, he then started turning his side into it. Then tip of his right wing hit the wall as well and he suddenly lost his balance and fell over. He didn't quite have his coordination back just yet.
“Rip! What's the matter?”
His engine let out a hiss as he stared at her from his position on the floor. Clarice was right before his nose when the beginnings of a rumbling growl could just be heard over the hissing.
“What's wrong?” Clarice asked, reaching out in an attempt to calm him.
Ripslinger lifted up back onto his landing gear. His engine fluttered and revved as he made a mock lunge right for her, pulling himself up just inches before coming into contact. He backed away again and then slowly sank back down to the floor, the small amount of activity evidently tiring him out as he let himself drop at the last moment with a thud and a chuffing of his engine. Clarice had no idea what made her keep pushing her luck as she continued toward Ripslinger, who's harsh fluttering, growling, and hissing had reached ear-splitting levels as he carried on not unlike what you might hear from an angry cobra, if the snake were about 32 feet long.
Suddenly the tables turned as Ripslinger abruptly sprang up from the floor toward her, walking her back away from what he'd apparently deemed was his preferred corner. He was moving too fast for Clarice to get out of his way without him knocking her over, and even though she knew better, instinct overpowered any sense of proper custom in interacting with airplanes and she grabbed onto his prop blades to steady herself as he continued to push her backward.
“Ah! Rip! What are you-”
He had pushed her into the opposite corner, but instead of moving back to his, he sat and held her there. Any movement she made, however slight, Ripslinger had suddenly found the energy and dexterity to mach it and block any escape attempt. But that was all. Didn't make to try and harm her, let alone fire up his engine properly. Just stared down at her through unblinking, cold olive-colored eyes and huffed, snorting through the many exhausts that lined his nose. It was then that she'd remembered the little radio attached to her hip. Clarice slowly brought it to her mouth and pressed the little button on the side.
“Dusty.”
“Yeah?” his voice crackled through the little speaker, causing Ripslinger to tilt slightly in confusion.
“I've got good news,” Clarice continued, not taking her eyes off the green and black Mustang in front of her. “Sleeping beauty's up.”
“He is?! When?! I'm on my over!”
“Try to hurry it up will you? He's kind of got me cornered here.”
“Oh, great... Just stay calm, I'll be right there.”
She was calm, in a torpid kind of way. The same way a person who works with large or dangerous animals would be when in the same sort of situation. There's really nothing else you can do. But then it all went straight to hell as soon as the doors to the hangar slid open and Dusty appeared in the doorway.
Ripslinger turned, and his whole demeanor changed as soon as he laid eyes on the orange and white racer. His eyes went wide. He then turned back to Clarice, then back to Dusty, and then something snapped and Ripslinger immediately rushed him.
Clarice watched in horror as Dusty barely had time to start his engine and get his prop going before the P-51 was upon him, but it wasn't long before Dusty, in desperation, had switched to attacking rather than just trying to defend himself. Normally Dusty was reckoned a good fighter, even in fights with opponents much bigger than himself, but this attack was so unprovoked, so savage and haphazard that he'd been taken by surprise. He'd had no time to think of any kind of strategy for Ripslinger's relentless onslaught, and he was quickly becoming overpowered.
Clarice still stood rooted to the spot as the two planes fought, frozen in watching Dusty give up ground as Ripslinger attempted to bring him to the floor, biting anywhere he could get a grip in the process. Then all of a sudden a diluted-looking red fluid began spilling and splattering all over the ground underneath Dusty as he struggled to stay up on his landing gear against Ripslinger's weight. A terrible thought shot through Clarice's mind then, making her tear up. Oh my God... Dusty's gonna die!
“SKIPPER!!!” she shrieked, forgetting about the radio in her panic.
Dusty was eventually thrown to the ground, and once he was down, he did not get back up. Ripslinger advanced across the floor slowly. He paused, as if to gather himself up to charge full-speed into Dusty's prone form and smash him into the wall behind him, but right as he shot forward he was given a tremendous blow directly to the side of his fuselage by a broad, stormy-blue wing and sent nearly back into his own corner.
Ripslinger's engine growled and snarled as he struggled back up onto his landing gear, Skipper taking the time to put himself between Dusty and the deranged Mustang. At the sight of Skipper, Ripslinger became even more infuriated as he recklessly charged the Corsair, managing to sink his teeth into Skipper's wing even as he turned to side-step him like a matador. However, Skipper outweighed him by a tidy two thousand-odd pounds despite being roughly the same size, and in fighting a plane of his strength and courage, this move proved a mistake for Ripslinger. Skipper was just as terrifying in combat on the ground as in the air; completely indifferent to any wounds he received himself as he closed with his adversaries until his bulk overbore and exhausted them. Ripslinger would have done better to keep clear and use his propellers, but in his apparent psychosis any sort of strategy was beyond him and he retained his hold like a dog.
Skipper, snarling with the effort, was able to fling him off. He felt Ripslinger's teeth come ripping out of his wing, and he wasted no time as the checker-marked plane was spun around to use his full body weight to pin the other plane to the floor. He struggled underneath the old war plane, then Skipper snarled through such a frightful noise of his engine that threatened to burst the eardrums of anyone close by. Ripslinger, even in his scrambled mind, was of course cowed and soon stopped his struggling and became numbly placid as Dottie, who had rushed over to the hangar behind Skipper, gave him a hefty dose of tranquilizers. Skipper felt him relax underneath him and moved off, turning to stare at him out of tired, angry eyes.
“I should kill you for this. Consider yourself lucky that your fate is ultimately with Dusty.” Ripslinger gazed blearily up at him, his eyes holding a defiant glint in them as the sedatives took full effect. “At least for now it is...”
“Oh, Dusty...”
Skipper turned, fluids bleeding from his wing, at the sound of Clarice's voice. Dusty still lay on the floor, his eyes closed. They opened and looked up at Skipper weakly as he approached.
“S-Skip...” he whimpered, attempting to rise.
“Hush,” Skipper said, a bit more harsh than he would have liked. “You're gonna be fine. You did good, kid.”
Dusty breathed in a shaking sigh. Later, as Dottie was patching up the half dozen or more bite wounds over various parts of his body, Dusty could only dimly keep replaying the haunting look in Ripslinger's eyes. Of course he'd always thought it of him, but now, seeing it for real in actuality, even though there could be emotion in them, there was nothing really behind them. Like the lights were on but nobody was home. Soulless. By the time Ripslinger awoke again, he found himself surrounded by newly placed steel bars.
